Careful Measurements

by Layne D. Hansen

  “Jennifer?”

  He could see this tiny shape in the corner, trying to hide from him. Patton decided he couldn’t blame her. He’d just made a horrible racket. Well, if it was Jennifer, she was alive. He could see the shape quivering with cold or fright or something else, he didn’t know.

  “Jennifer, is that you?”

  No response.

  “Jennifer, it’s me. It’s Patton.”

  No guard or interrogator would have called her by her first name. Prisoners only went by their last names or inmate number. Plus it was such a kind, soft, meek voice. It had been such a long since she’d heard his voice but the figure said his name was Patton. Would someone lie and say they were Patton Larsen, the most wanted man in the community? No. At least not likely. She hadn’t eaten for almost two days and she was sick and dehydrated. Maybe her eyes and ears were playing tricks.

  He said it again and her brain was starting to clear itself.

  “It’s me. It’s Patton,” he said again.

  She lowered the blanket to her waist and rose to an elbow. With another painful effort she pushed herself to the edge of the bed. She paused and then stood, limping across the cold wooden floor towards the figure in the doorway.

  As she got closer to the entryway, she could see that it was indeed her husband.

  He rushed to her as she collapsed. She fell and hit her hip on the rough wooden floor, but he caught her head and her shoulder. Instead of picking her up, he laid her head softly on the floor and looked at her. Greasy, dirty, sweaty hair matted down to her forehead. Her face was covered with dust and sweat and grease. It all oozed together to create a paste that made her face shiny. Her eyes were vacant but they were her eyes. It was her. She was alive.

  Her trembling right hand came up slowly. She touched his face and stroked it gently.

  “Patton,” she said weakly and he burst into a fit of sobs. He leaned over her, cautious not to put his weight on her, but close enough to wrap his arms around her. His sobs continued.

  “Shhh,” she said, stroking his face. “It’s all over,” she said again and he looked at her, dripping tears onto her face. She smiled and almost giggled as she wiped them away. “I’ve dreamt of this. I never gave up hope,” she croaked.

  He leaned down and held her again. He felt the underside of her ribs and spine. She felt very thin.

  “You’re alive!” he said, accidentally crushing her. She winced and he apologized.

  “Yeah,” she said, stroking a lock of hair off of his forehead. “I wouldn’t let those bastards kill me even though they tried.”

  Patton had enough of being in the dark, dusty shed. He picked her up and carried her to the front of the building where all of the other surviving prisoners were being staged. Patton could see a few shapes on the floor, their faces covered with white cotton sheets.

  “I’m going to set you down in a chair, Honey,” he said to her softly. He set her down in a padded office chair. He grabbed her face in his and looked at her, still not believing it was her. Here. Alive.

  Patton knelt down by his wife and tried to get her to drink as much water as possible. The first ambulance arrived just over a half hour later. A steady stream of civilian vehicles began crawling up the hill. Despite her protests, Patton helped load his wife into one of the ambulances and climbed into the back to make the ride with her to the hospital.

  “Are you comfortable?” he asked her as an EMT started an IV in her left wrist.

  She nodded and laid her head back on the pillow.

  “We’re going to get you patched up,” Patton said, lovingly patting her right hand. “We’re going to get you home and make you all better.”

  She nodded again and before she could respond, she fell asleep. Patton smiled and kissed her forehead. When he pulled away he noticed the tears that had fallen on her face. He wiped them away and then wiped them off of his own face.

  He looked at her again and then looked up, through the roof of the ambulance and up into the heavens.

  “Thank you God. Thank you.”

  CHAPTER 35

  It was an angry Michael Varner who faced the congressional committee in their hearing room. Patton, watching on C-SPAN, had never seen the man like this. He was aggressive and animated. He met the members’ questions with sneers, often scoffing and sighing audibly. He was there to call these people out for what he considered to be their dereliction of duty. Granted, his company had been commissioned to operate the experiment in Blue Creek, but he had no authority to enforce any laws.

  “Why didn’t you contact the Senator in question when things began to turn bad?” asked one particularly smarmy Democrat member from Oregon.

  “Again Congressman, I did. Many times. I have submitted my email inquiries and phone records. My question to you is what was he willing to do?”

  The politician looked to his left and right, looking for help.

  “I can’t speak for that particular senator, Sir,” he replied, trying to maintain his composure. “He was in the Senate. I’m in the House.”

  “Well Congressman, you asked me the question. I’m just telling you what happened from my perspective and that’s nothing. Once the experiment started we were left to our own devices. I had agents inside the experiment to monitor what was going on and if things were getting dangerous. I contacted the Senator when a family was murdered during the first summer. I was encouraged the call local law enforcement but they claimed, rightfully, that they had no jurisdiction,” Varner said, his voice rising in anger as he spoke.

  Patton turned off the TV at that point. He’d lived it. He didn’t want to relive it. He was just glad to see Michael Varner taking it to the people that nobody was blaming for the debacle in Blue Creek. Varner had also hit the lecture circuit and the cable news shows, trying to bring publicity to the fact that several people had been murdered by a government they themselves established. His other objective was to illustrate the damage that scientists can do if they’re left to their own devices and with more concern for data than for people.

  “Why were they granted permission in the first place?” he’d been asked more than once.

  “That’s a good question. How did they?” Varner answered rhetorically. “These people flash their degrees and get all these taxpayer grants, but when it comes time to be held accountable they either run for cover or hide behind the virtue of being a scientist.”

  “But you had no problem in taking their money did you?” asked one particularly annoying liberal host, playing devil’s advocate.

  “I did take their money after being assured everything was on the up and up. They also assured me that there were safeguards in place if things got out of hand. Unfortunately the federal government – the same entity that gave all the grants in the first place – dropped the ball when it came time to protect the people. They lied to me and they lied to the people of Blue Creek.”

  Ironically it was the federal government that stepped in and helped the citizens of Blue Creek transition out of the experiment and back to regular citizenship in the United States. For a time, the community was treated like an Indian reservation. Eventually, the community was ceded back to Utah and Idaho, becoming just a regular border town. Thousands of experiment subjects left the area and returned home. Not only did they not have to pay a penalty, they were able to keep the money they were given to participate. Several other thousands stayed, though, and were joined other Americans from all over the country. Blue Creek had become famous—not just for what had taken place there, but because of its newness and its beauty. Eventually the town reached its previous population and even grew beyond that.

  Patton’s tires skidded a little as he came to a stop at the curb. He looked up at the house and then back down the folded hands in his lap. This was something he’d both dreamed of and dreaded for a long time. Still, he felt like he owed it to him. He took a d
eep breath and pulled the door handle and swung the door open. His left foot landed in some slush left over from the last snowstorm. His right foot splashed in a small puddle. He walked around the back of the truck and saw something that enraged him. In the front yard was a large black sign, hung from two, sturdy looking wooden posts, standing maybe four feet high. The sign read “Home of Mike Wilson, Resistance Leader and Traitor”.

  Patton swore under his breath, walked to the bed of his truck, and opened the toolbox. He rooted around and came out with a large sledge hammer. He strode over to where the sign stood, the hammer slung over his shoulder.

  “This is for you, Buddy,” he said, bringing the hammer down to waist level.

  He swore with every stroke, first breaking the sign itself and then taking down the two posts that had held it up. By the time he was done, the sign was in dozens of pieces and Patton was kneeling down in the water-soaked grass, sobbing and thinking about that horrible day his friend had been murdered in front of a live TV audience.

  After a few moments he collected himself and staggered to his feet, using the hammer to stand. With his rage subsiding, Patton looked at the mess he’d made. For someone who’d won the war, he didn’t feel like a victor. Maybe that was why so many of his friends from Delta, after returning from a mission or a tour, felt like there was nothing at home for them. He wiped his eyes. It would do no good for someone to drive by and see him in this condition. He was supposed to be a hero—the great liberator of Blue Creek.

  He walked up the three concrete steps and paused. Images of Mike intermixed with images of his death and now this. The bastards had turned it into some kind of museum—a warning to those who wanted to escape the oppressed city. A sense of victory came over Patton. He had won. People were free. Jennifer was at home. He looked up at the sky again, took another deep breath, and opened the door and walked into the house. The place was tidy, but dusty. He walked into the large, open living area where Mike hosted his many parties. Warm memories washed over him. He could almost see his old friends and hear their laughter at one of Mike’s many anecdotes.

  Patton then made his way over to Frank and Shontae’s house. A similar sentimental feeling came over him. However, the Norton home had a different feeling. It was here that they held their more formal, intimate dinners. There was wine, not beer and liquor. There was conversation and quiet laughter, not the loud reverie they experience in Mike Wilson’s home.

  Patton entered the house, dreading the pain he might feel. He noticed that everything of value had been stolen, whether pawned by the new owners or looted by punks. He walked into the living room. It was here that they’d all spent their first Christmas and New Year’s together. He walked out of the house onto their porch through the glass sliding door. The decking was well worn by the weather. Some of the boards were broken and some were missing. The railing leading down into the back yard and Shontae’s garden was also missing.

  Patton cried at this sight. For some reason this had been the worst part for him. So many summer nights had been spent out here on this porch. So many card games, laughs, and good times. Patton felt the impulse to leave. He couldn’t stand to be there anymore. The good memories were washed away by the bad, knowing the cause of those memories – those wonderful friends – were now gone. Patton made his way through a side gate, through the side yard and then to his truck, hanging his head in sorrow the entire way.

  As Patton drove home he thought of everyone who’d made an impact on his life in Blue Creek. The outcomes were astonishing. Mike, Shontae, and Frank were all dead, as were Charlie Henry, Anna Radinski, and David Asher. Tom Perry, who Patton had bought the fishing shop from, went back home to be with his kids and grandkids.

  In contrast to the pain, Bao decided to stay. Not only that, his friend and fellow spy Lindsay, got married and were living together in her house. Later on, as many people from around the country started to move to Blue Creek, Wildcat called Patton and asked how much Jennifer’s house would cost. Like he had with Mike and Frank, Patton and his friends often got together for parties. Patton even bought a little house for his mother, who would live in Blue Creek for most of the year and return to California during the winter.

  It took a while for Jennifer to become Jennifer again. She’d been traumatized by her experience and she finally understood her husband, who had been through some terrible experiences himself. Their relationship was difficult at times, mostly because she sometimes had to distance herself emotionally from him. She often preferred to read out on the balcony and look over the lake to the mountains on the far side of the valley. However, there were other times that they went on long drives, just taking in their surroundings.

  Eventually things got back to normal. Spending time with their new friends helped that, but as the saying went, “time heals all wounds.” One day, as winter was beginning to give way to spring, Jennifer brought a cup of tea to Patton, who was reading on the balcony. It had been a beautiful day, but it had begun to rain.

  “It’s beautiful isn’t it,” she said, gazing at the rain like an awed child.

  He looked at her and was suddenly overcome with love.

  She returned his gaze. He looked at her for a moment then looked back out at the lake, which was being roiled by the storm. His smile suddenly faded and he had to turn away from her.

  “What?” she said, concerned with his sudden change of mood.

  Through teary eyes and a choked voice he said “One night … this was after Frank got killed … I was up in the mountains and it was raining like this. I mean, it was pouring.”

  He looked at her and she gestured for him to continue.

  He cleared his throat.

  “And I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know where you were. I didn’t even know if you were alive.” He trailed off, not wanting to finish his thought. He knew at some point, though, he’d have to tell her the worst of what he’d gone through and this was the worst of it.

  “Anyway, I’m up on the mountain freezing my ass off. I didn’t have any shelter I just sat there on a rock letting the rain soak me. And I was thinking of you and Frank and Mike and Mary and the kids and I looked down at my .45 and thought how much easier it would be to just … you know,” he said, sounding ashamed.

  She looked at him, disbelievingly, tears pouring down her face.

  “I can’t believe you thought about doing that,” she said softly.

  He looked at her, not knowing what she meant.

  “I mean I can’t believe that you thought about doing that.”

  He nodded in understanding.

  “Anyway,” she said, goading him into continuing his story.

  “I thought about you. I mean, I had no idea what they were doing to you. I had no idea if you were alive or if you were in prison or what.”

  She looked out towards the lake, a grim expression on her face.

  “When was that?” she asked.

  “October. Last fall.”

  She sat and thought about it. Time had passed in such fits and starts it was hard to keep track of where she had been during a certain time. There weren’t many moments to associate events with.

  “I was in prison. Sometimes they had me inside. Sometimes they had me outside in that shed.”

  He walked to her and clasped her hand.

  “So you almost ended it all?” She shook her head. She almost didn’t believe him but he was so serious about it she couldn’t doubt him.

  “Yes. But the rain stopped. I found a cave. I was able to get a fire going. I was warm. My stomach was full. I had a good rifle with plenty of ammo. I wasn’t happy, but I was …”

  “Alive and free?”

  “Yeah. I knew I had to do something. I couldn’t stop thinking about that day you never came home. The day they killed Mike and Frank. I decided that night I was going to either put an end to this or die trying.”


  She shook her head, unable to believe everything he went through. One man. Thousands of people now living free.

  “So the question is why did you do it? Why not just run away? Why not go off and start a new life somewhere?”

  He turned and looked at the rain again. It was coming down in sheets. Small puddles were forming all over the driveway.

  “Because,” he said, shrugging. “What is life if you can’t live free? Make your own decisions? How could I live when I knew you probably wouldn’t live much longer?”

  She had no answer for that. She squeezed his hand. He looked down at her. She looked up at him and smiled sadly.

  “Well,” she said, gazing out towards the water, “I’m glad you chose to keep going. I can’t imagine being a single mom.”

  It took a moment for her words to take their full meaning. He stood and grabbed her, squeezing her hard enough to hurt.

  “Really?”

  “Yes! Yes! I just found out today!”

  Their tears mingled as they held each other. Their embrace continued and they stood in their moment of happiness until they were too tired to stand anymore. Eventually they were sitting on the balcony in separate chairs, holding hands across the space between them.

  “Honey?”

  “Yes Patton?”

  “What do you think of the name Chevelle?”

  Jennifer looked at him, smiling, her face crinkling up in that way he thought was so cute.

  “Chevelle? What kind of name is that?”

  Patton looked at her and smiling said, “the best, Honey. The best.” He paused and then said, “What do you want to do this afternoon?”

  “I dunno,” she replied, looking out over the lake. “I hadn’t really thought about it. How about we just sit here for a while?”

  About the Author

  Layne is named after his father’s best friend Bob Layne, who was killed in Vietnam. He is a veteran of the United States Army, joining shortly after 9/11. He holds degrees in political science and has avidly followed American and world politics since the 2000 election. His writing has been featured at AmericanThinker.com. Layne loves baseball, reading, writing, and spending time with his family. He is married, a father of four, and hails from Ogden, Utah.