by Ma West
“Seriously, keep things very relaxed. If, if, IF you sense any—and I mean ANY—fog, you go to the bathroom and call me. Do you understand?”
She understood, and understood it was important too. Why couldn’t he just understand that it was important to her as well and that she wasn’t going to do anything to screw it up? This conversation was starting to bother her. She looked forward and sat still.
“Young lady, do you understand?” This time, Father waited for an answer. He looked at her. “Sasha, do you understand?”
Again she stood still, motionless. She didn’t mean to start out this way, but she figured humor was the best choice for this occasion, and she waited for the right tone in his questioning.
“Sasha, Sasha, what happened? Is it happening now?”
That was the tone, so she slowly turned her head toward Father, stared blankly, and yelled, “Boo.”
Chapter 5
Family and Fog
His heart sank a little when he saw the phone number. It would be Major Brandett. “Yes, Major, this is Drexter.” He tried to sound normal as his mind searched for what could be the matter. It was much too early for a program decision, unless it was to be terminated.
“Major, yes, hello, where are you?”
“Yes, sir, you see, I filled out the leave statements. I put them on Lorine’s desk.”
“I don’t have time, Major, to go looking for some damn piece of paper. Just tell me where the hell you are!”
“Manhattan, sir, the Synied building, military research lab.” He had always found it difficult to develop a rapport with the major. They had a history, in fact. Drexter had been promoted to major before Brandett. Brandett had maintained that grudge despite having had much more second-half career success than Drexter. Even after losing his rank, the major still held it against him.
“What the hell are you doing there?” The major waited just long enough to make him think he wanted a response. “Well it doesn’t matter. Out of the way is where I need you. The president has made some considerable moves, and we are prepping for something big. Can’t tell you what because I don’t know. What I do know is that we are expecting domestic deployment, which means to us that Project Sasha will not be deployable. Again, your mission is to keep her under control and out of the way. Now give me a real assessment, no politicking. I’m going to need all the manpower and officers I can get. Can Project Sasha be left unattended and still be controlled?”
This was a new tone for the major. Drexter scanned it for traps. Then, deciding that it was a genuine request, he gave it a genuine answer. “For how long a time frame, sir? If we are talking hours, then yes, I would say this location can be made to accommodate those conditions safely. But there is a time limit on that, sir. This young girl has many PTSD triggers, and sooner or later, she will run across one. She does not yet have the proper internal controls to manipulate the fog.”
“How far out are you? I need you here and her out there, tucked away. Make it happen.”
“Yes, sir, it’s a few hours’ commute, so I can’t give you an exact ETA, but I will report to your office. Is this about the project, sir?”
“Negative, uniform of the day is dress alphas. Make sure you look sharp. General Jones will be on deck, so for God’s sake, don’t do anything to embarrass me. Oh, and hurry the hell up!”
Had Sasha been able to view herself from outside, even she would have to concede the remarkable emotional transformation that had just occurred. He was going to leave. It was a routine they had been through a hundred times a year. First the phone calls and then the scramble to organize and assemble gear, and as she called it, the question checklist. Do you have contact phone numbers? Money for dinner? Homework done? Truth is, he never even really listened to the answers, only covering his bases so she had one less excuse. It was never really about her, always giving orders, always being the good soldier. Sometimes she wished he wasn’t such a good soldier. Then, that way, he could abandon her just as she’d always expected.
She and Emilia sat on the couch. She was unaware of how much her body language had changed since the phone call. Hardly a word had been spoken until she started the “called into work” speech for Emilia. “Watch this,” Sasha said. “Now, Sasha, I know we have been through this routine so many times before, so think of it as something I need from you more than something you need to have done.” Her arms and legs were crossed now, and her top leg began a nervous bounce.
Daddy entered the room, came over, and sat down next to the girls. His hurried and frantic pace had now been intentionally slowed. Daddy shifted his weight and extremities in an attempt to look like he wanted to be comfortable. Then, after a long breath, he verbatim quoted Sasha’s imitation: “Now, Sasha, I know we have been through this routine so many times before, so think of it as something I need from you more than something you need to have done.”
Emilia let out a little snicker. Its meaning registered with Daddy. “Fine, fine, I get it, you know the routine. Listen, I don’t know what’s up, but I can tell you it’s not about the program, so you can relax. I will leave money with the guards upstairs, for them to order you two dinner. Emilia, I contacted your program director, and he wants you to stay here as well. We trust you guys to keep each other in line. Don’t let us down. Sounds like we will be busy, so all scheduled activities for tomorrow are now TBD. Report in to me when you have awoken in the morning.” He moved in as if he was going to give Sasha a hug. Then he stopped and left the room.
Sasha sat still for a moment and then looked at Emilia. “Let’s get drunk tonight.” Then they both smiled and laughed.
Drexter hated it when the major called him in like this, mostly because he knew that the major hated him. He was able to keep a healthy distance most of the time, but when certain events came up, whether it was a drill, parade, or VIP guest, he was forced to participate in the chain-of-command games.
Early in his career, he didn’t mind it so much. In fact, he remembered being a young lieutenant, staying up late and reviewing invoices so that he could report a savings at the budget meeting. Those times and his zeal for the job had gone long ago. Now the thought of being an armory officer, a safety officer, or whatever other crappy assignment just annoyed him.
He paused before starting the engine and looked around the parking garage. He had parked in a dark corner, far back in the underground garage, right next to the air vent. He looked carefully for any cameras. Then he reached under the seat, unbuttoned a secret compartment, and brought out a small box and opened it. Inside was his oldest companion, his most reliable shoulder to cry on, and his getaway from it all.
Storage and procurement were always a problem. Buying in quantity meant storage, while frequent trips meant more opportunities for discovery. He had, on several occasions, considered requesting a transfer to Fort Lewis, where it was at least legal in the civilian world. However, coming up with a legitimate context proved too difficult, and for all the difficulties associated with the major, he was at least a supporter of the project. At one time, he even considered experimenting with it on Sasha, hoping to help her with the fog. But he could picture the meeting now, as he stood there arguing for a dopey drug to help a patient with a foggy condition. They would laugh him out of the room. So for now, it was just his little secret and his little buddy. The major and his parade could wait another hour. Besides, this was his leave day anyway.
He leaned the seat back and held that precious smoke deep inside his lungs. He slowly exhaled through his nose, feeling it roll to the front of his mind as he got himself into complete relaxation and let his mind wander. It passed back and forth between real and imaginary, past and present. Still, his thoughts traced back to her over and over again. Those legs, those beautiful legs gave him needs. He knew he should try to purge them from his mind, yet even with the smoking, they always came back to her. He inhaled again, keeping the smoke in the vehicle. There would be plenty of time to air out on the drive to base. He turned the
radio on, hoping for a distraction. After several minutes, he knew there would be only one way.
He searched the area. Finding it deserted, he unzipped his pants and satisfied his needs.
His body finally reached full relaxation after climax, and he lay motionless, enjoying his moment to himself. The slamming of a door startled him, and he checked his mirrors. It was one of the bunker guards, a young guy, private security. He never trusted private security. They always proved either incompetent, dirty, or just plain violent. He tracked the man as he got into a small, black truck, started it, and sped out of the parking garage with urgency.
Propelled by fatherly intuition, Drexter followed the vehicle. Judging from the manner in which he drove his vehicle, this guy was aggressive and disrespectful. The vehicle pulled into a newly opened meter, and the guard jumped out and walked with purpose down the street. Drexter wasn’t able to pull over till halfway down the block, yet he was able to get a glimpse of the guard going into a storefront about halfway back.
Walking back to the approximate area, he was able to narrow it down to two storefronts. One was a pizza joint, and the other opened into a small strip mall located on the ground floor of the high-rise. He scanned the immediate area inside the food court but failed to spot the guard. Surveying the stores, he found mostly fast food, a Walgreens, a temporary tax store, and a liquor store.
Frustrated and unsure of himself, he returned to the vehicle. Was he just being paranoid? Weed had done that to him before. Synied was a reputable contractor, he told himself, and driving like a jerk doesn’t make one a jerk. He took a deep breath, realized he was in uniform and might smell like marijuana, started the vehicle, and began his drive to base.
Her head was beginning to spin and her stomach starting to squeeze. It was not Sasha’s first time getting drunk. In the military, there was never a shortage of boys looking to get some girls alcohol in the hopes of gaining some physical access via mental deficiency.
She took another sip and sat close to her friend Emilia. Strange feelings overcame her when she looked at her friend. She tried to fight off the impulses, but Emilia would shift or move and a piece of skin would be exposed. Sasha wanted to kiss the parts of her friend, the parts she knew she shouldn’t or couldn’t.
The girls broke out in a burst of laughter after Emilia finished a story about growing up. They shared so much in common, Sasha thought. When Emilia would talk about the isolation, the wonder of the outside, and even what she hoped for her future, it felt like they were in lockstep. Emilia was a girl who understood her like nobody before ever had. Emilia was a girl she wanted to be around.
The elevator into the facility chimed, indicating that someone was on their way down. Two young men, one of whom had been the procurer of the alcohol, stepped out wobbly and yelled, “Where the party at?”
His presence in the room greatly annoyed Sasha, her body tensing up as the two men arrived.
“See, here the girls I was tellin’ you about, my man. Told you they hot. I want the black one.” The smell of heavy drink filled Sasha’s nostrils as the two men sat down on the couch. The one who sat next to Emilia put his arm around her. Anger started to fill Sasha, but she focused, keeping the fog at bay.
“Thanks, fellas, but we are looking forward to a girls-only night, thanks.” Emilia tried to remove the man’s arm from around her.
“Well it wouldn’t be a party without us, now. Don’t worry, we’ll make you feel real nice,” the man sitting next to Sasha said as he put his hand on her leg. She closed her eyes and went to her happy place and fought off the fog.
Emilia struggled with the guard next to her as he moved in closer and closer. He sat down on her lap, preventing her from standing. “Now, girl, don’t be like that. This will be a good time, a really good time, with that body of yours.”
“That’s right, asshole, my body, not yours!” Emilia yelled at him, trying with all her might to get him off.
“Now knock it off. Your black bitch friend knows what to do. Just sit there and enjoy it like the slut you are.”
The man sitting next to Sasha aggressively moved his hand upward. There was no way to hold back the fog anymore. Her arm reached out with lightning speed, grabbed her assailant by the neck, and squeezed. The man pulled his arms back, desperately trying to break her grasp. Sasha spun over his lap, grabbed him by a shoulder pressure point, adjusted her free arm around his neck, and squeezed even harder. The second man lunged off of Emilia, taking the three people to the floor. Sasha landed hard on her back and released her grip. The two men were now on top of her, wrestling her, fighting for control. Emilia screamed.
The fog prevented Sasha from seeing anything other than the danger. In some ways, it acted like a guide focusing her attention. The fog would clear to her left, and she would roll there, dodging a blow. The fog turned red and guided her anger as she attacked. There was no conscious thought of action or reaction—it was follow or fail. The fog commanded total obedience, for its control was safety, its hazy embrace was comforting, and in the worst of times, it was a gift from above.
Slowly, the fog lifted. Emilia’s screams echoed through it. Sasha listened again, listened hard. Emilia’s voice was out there somewhere, and she had to help her, she just had to. “Stop, please stop,” came Emilia’s voice. What were those men doing to her? Sasha had to find her, but the harder she looked, the denser the fog got.
“Sasha, please stop. Sasha what are you doing? Please stop, Sasha.” Emilia’s voice was filled with sobs. She was asking Sasha to stop? Sasha didn’t know what she was doing, so how could she stop? The fog near her feet began to clear as she focused on the sounds. A body lay at her feet, a man’s body. Blood covered the man’s face as he lay motionless except for a gentle bounce in his chest. His nose was off to the side and was making a hissing sound with each breath.
Sasha took several deep breaths, pushing the fog out farther with each one. The man who lay at her feet was the man who had brought the alcohol. His buddy, who was also much bloodied, grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to the elevator. He sat there cowering as he waited for the ding and an open door to safety.
Sasha looked back now at Emilia, her face filled with horror. Sasha feared the worst, but Emilia’s clothes had barely been ruffled. Sasha walked over and hugged Emilia. She didn’t return the hug, instead keeping her arms in tight to her torso as tears streamed onto Sasha’s chest. Sasha looked down at her hands as she held Emilia, and guilt suddenly overcame her. She had just gotten blood on Emilia’s beautiful clothes.
Chapter 6
Hashmore
Where the hell was the mayor? A nice, relaxing second career, he’d said, a desk job, a nine-to-five. This was the final straw. It was time resign. Well, after the current crisis was over, then Hashmore would resign.
Where the fuck was the mayor? “Fuck” was probably more appropriate as a verb, concerning where the mayor really was. Politics had never been on Hashmore’s radar, but after his partner from the force and best friend had actually won a damn election, how could he turn him down? His friend was a different man back then—a man of character, loyalty. Now he was just another politician swimming in the forbidden fruits of power.
Of all the worst times to be a no show, this was top of the damn list. Albany wasn’t in a waiting mood, and apparently the feds were breathing down their necks too. Whatever the hell it was, it was about to become his problem, alone.
In all honesty, it was the control room that sealed the deal. This place was unbelievable. Sheltered in the deepest basement, wired to the highest point, not only was it super futuristic in appearance, but it was also top of the line. Installed, funded, and hidden, all after the September attacks. This room could monitor any public location on the island. It could track up to five thousand individuals or vehicles simultaneously. Image recognition, filters for infrared, X-ray radio and communication-interception equipment, city-management interfaces—it all gave him a strong sense of connection to an avenu
e of influence. Hell, there were even four small flower gardens surrounding the conference table in the middle. This was a cool room, and it even had an attached dormitory and kitchen.
Being a Christian man, Hashmore would never outwardly admit that it was the power the room brought that was the real allure. The power to enforce God’s justice, that’s what he told himself, and that’s what was true. He’d spent a career tracking down and bearing down on the devil’s henchmen, protecting society. Now, however, he had a different responsibility, and it was a much greater responsibility than simply handing out God’s vengeance. It was time to retire.
He looked down at the blinking lights. Every line was waiting, waiting for the man in charge. He thought about where some of the mayor’s favorite romantic hideaways were. Damn him, this was not a relaxing second career! He looked at his watch—ten seconds, he would give it, and pray for ten more seconds. The time passed. He took a deep breath and pushed the button on the intercom. “This is Hashmore, city emergency manager, and I will be handling things here on our end.”
Four words into the briefing and he was already regretting not quitting before this assignment. Four words that shook him, four words only whispered in private contingency-planning meetings had now slammed their way into the forefront of the world. “Prepare for martial law” was the order of the day. The president himself was scheduling a press event to announce it.
Where the hell was the mayor? The question bothered him because now, instead of focusing on the most important task at hand, he had to do political things. Damn, this was why Hashmore didn’t want a public-office job. Speed of execution was of some importance. He felt a surge of power click his mind into gear. He liked to refer to it as an alacrity shot, a chemical cocktail for the brain, made up of adrenaline, testosterone, and epinephrine—like rats in an experiment, every emergency responder gets it trained in the brain to take the shot when the tones drop. He would have to tamp that down, however, if he was to adequately substitute for the mayor. The mayor—where the hell was that cheating, lazy, lying bastard?