The Mother Warrior

by Marilyn Donnellan

  “Okay, you’re forgiven. Let’s eat, but then we must talk about your so called ‘division of duties’.”

  “Agreed,” he replied sheepishly.

  The past twelve years had been an adjustment for both. They married on board a Canadian submarine, in an old-fashioned ceremony. Americans went through bonding ceremonies, rather than marriage ceremonies, so their celebration was unique. After the ceremony, they spent three fruitless years in Toronto trying to convince the Canadians to come to the aid of the rebels in defeating Emperor Priest, before they finally gave up and returned to the rebel fight.

  After they helped patch up rebel survivors of the massacre in Missouri, they returned with the remnants of the rebel army to Mexico City. General Veracruz asked them to remain and take positions with the rebels: Marco as chief communications officer and Allison as head of the medical corps. After a few years, Allison trained enough personnel to be able to turn the corps over to them. She wanted to go back to what she loved most: research.

  There was a dire need for medicine, especially antibiotics, not only for rebel soldiers but also for citizens. No medicines were making it in through the black-market smuggling effort. Somehow, they needed to figure out a way to make their own.

  Papa Marco and Maria, Marco’s parents, lived in Tegucigalpa, almost 1,180 miles south of Mexico City. He set up several factories for the manufacturing of weapons for the rebels. She hoped he would be willing to help set up drug development and research facilities.

  Marco and Allison took a trip to see his parents and to discuss it. Papa Marco agreed to finance the needed facility in Tegucigalpa. It was more convenient for Allison to be close by to oversee it. They moved to Tegucigalpa.

  Marco made periodic trips by train to Mexico City to assist with rebel communications. Fortunately, Dr. Herbert Schneider developed some unique pods making communication easy directly with his team in Mexico City from an office not far from their apartment.

  Five years ago, the first batches of penicillin and antibiotics were mass produced and made available at minimal cost to citizens. It was making a huge difference in the mortality rate, especially in refugee camps where disease spread rapidly.

  Almost three years ago, Marco and Allison were thrilled to find out she was pregnant. She had not had annual pregnancy-prevention shots for years. When she could not seem to get pregnant they decided it was not meant to be, so the unexpected news was a big surprise. Because Allison had no living family, she did not know if there were twins on her side of the family, and there were none on Marco’s side. As a result, the twins were an even bigger surprise.

  Allison would never forget the shocked but awestruck look on Marco’s face as he stood in the delivery room of the hospital after the births. He had a tightly swaddled crying baby in each arm. Then his grin started to stretch from ear to ear and tears glistened in his eyes as he softly asked her, “We are doubly blessed, aren’t we sweetheart?”

  Normally, Marco was never at a loss for words, but that was all he could say, at least not until later when she heard him running down the maternity ward, yelling, “I’m a father twice!”

  The twins had certainly changed their lives, but all for the good. Papa Marco and Maria were incredible grandparents. They loved it when the grandchildren were left in their care. They showered them with love and toys.

  The twins, who were very different from each other, had rapidly expanding vocabularies. Marcus was quiet and shy, unlike his father, with the blond hair of his mother. Annette was outgoing and energetic, like her father, and had his dark, Italian hair. Marcus was the follower; his sister the leader. She was always getting the two of them into trouble since she had no fear of anything and could always convince Marcus what she wanted to do was necessary. As they began to talk, Grandpa Marco was “Pop-Pop” and Grandma Maria, “Gee-Gee.”

  Now, with the twins in bed for the night, the couple could enjoy the rare quiet dinner together, even deciding to open a bottle of wine, Marco reached over and took Allison’s hand.

  “I’m so sorry, honey,” he said softly. “I guess I’ve not been as helpful lately as I could have been.”

  “It’s okay, sweetie,” Allison replied, as she squeezed his hand. “And I’m sorry I jumped down your throat when you got home. I guess I was just exhausted. This was exactly what I needed. Thanks.”

  And then Marco’s pod squealed.

  “I hate the sound of that thing,” Allison grumbled.

  “You and me both. How about I just ignore it,” he asked as he started to just turn it off.

  “No, you can’t do that. It might be something important.”

  Marco pushed the speaker button. “Marco, here.”

  “Marco, It’s Juan. Is Allison there?”

  “Yes, sir, she’s listening.”

  “What can I do for you, Juan?”

  “Brogan’s been found, but she’s in bad shape. She needs your help.”

  Marco and Allison looked at each other in shock. “Where is she, Juan?”

  “She somehow made it to Cosala. It appears she walked most of the way from Van Horn, after escaping from a slave camp in Mississippi. How she got to Van Horn from there, I haven’t a clue. Stephen arrived this morning and said she walked into camp several days ago, her feet looking like raw meat and with one ankle broken.

  “The next morning, when her daughter Emily woke up, she found Brogan with a high fever and delirious. They brought the nurse in from the village, but without antibiotics, apparently there is nothing she can do. Stephen says Brogan is so thin she has no reserves. He thinks she is dying.”

  He took a deep breath. “Look, I know it’s an inconvenience and a long trip, but I also know Marco’s dad has access to a chopper. Maybe he would be willing to helicopter you in to Cosala. What do you think?”

  Allison didn’t even hesitate. “Absolutely, Juan. I’ll talk to Papa Marco as soon as you and I are done talking. I’m not sure if we can fly at night, but I’ll head to Cosala as soon as I can.”

  “Thanks, Allison. Let me know if you need anything. And, please, let me know as soon as you can how she is doing.”

  “Will do, Juan.”

  Marco and Allison looked at each other after she ended the call, hesitating for just a moment as they figured out what to do next. Fortunately, their apartment was only a block away from Papa Marco and Maria’s hacienda.

  “Honey, why don’t you put together whatever you need?” Marco said firmly. “I’ll run over to Papa’s house and ask about the chopper and come right back.”

  “Good idea.”

  As he started to leave, she put her hand on his arm. “Are you okay taking care of the twins if I go?”

  “Absolutely,” he responded with a mischievous grin. “It will give us lots of time to get in trouble.”

  Allison grabbed him in a tight hug before pushing him out the door. Sometimes he drove her crazy, but she loved him dearly and knew, despite his joking, he was a great father and would give his life for her and the children.

  She grabbed her medical bag, which she always kept by the front door, looking through it to make sure she had everything she would need, including penicillin and a range of antibiotics. She decided to change into clean scrubs, in case they would be leaving tonight. It would be great to see Brogan. She just hoped she got to her in time to save her life. Her exhaustion was gone for the moment.

  Chapter Seven

  Unthinkable Solutions

  It had been almost a year since Grimes and Hawthorne made themselves queen and king of the American Empire. After a subdued but nationally broadcast stately funeral for the still slightly-frozen emperor, the regents played it safe and did not make many changes in governance of the country for the first year.

  One of the first things they did was repair the glass pyramid to make it their headquarters. The cost was prohibitive, but since they had unlimited access to the country’s treasury and no parliament to deal with, they could spend money without thought of the impa
ct on citizens. Tax rates on those who had jobs were exorbitant, but it provided the rulers with a seemingly endless supply of funds.

  The queen put together a network of spies to keep her informed on what citizens across all four provinces were talking about in the few remaining marketplaces and coffee shops dotting the major metropolitan cities.

  King Jamil was impressed at Queen Jacqueline’s shrewd intelligence gauging the citizens’ mood when she came up with her next great idea.

  The couple had just finished having breakfast in what had been the first Prime Minister Altero’s living quarters on the top floor of the pyramid. Although remodeled, the décor with plush white carpet and furniture remained the same.

  Jacqueline laid down the napkin she primly used to dab her full, cruel lips after drinking from the flute of mimosa. Without preamble, she said, “We are going to have to do something to placate the citizens or we are apt to have riots before too long.”

  “What do you mean?” Jamil asked in alarm. “Why haven’t you said something before now? It’s your job to keep me informed. I’m in charge of the military and I can’t do anything to prepare if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”

  “Don’t get your rippers in a snit, kingee,” Jacqueline replied with a wicked smile. “I wanted to be sure of my information before I said anything.

  “My network of spies is telling me there are two major issues we need to address. First, it is true more and more of our ungrateful and grumbling citizens are starving. Secondly, the Book Liberators are continuing to be a nuisance, harassing our marines wherever they can find them.”

  “So, queenie,” Jamil said sarcastically, “what do you suggest.”

  “If you remember, before the emperor had the surgery, he told you Dr. Argus Delis was developing sarin gas bombs to use to destroy the rebels.”

  “Yes, I remember. It didn’t go anywhere because Dr. Delis couldn’t figure out how to make the gas stable enough to carry it all the way to Mexico City to be effective in bombing their headquarters.”

  “Now you have your thinking cap on, I’ll come back to that in a minute. But first, let’s talk about the easiest problem to solve: the starving citizens.”

  She picked up a rare orange, peeled it with long fingernails painted blood red and calmly sucked on the segments as she talked.

  “What do you mean, the easiest problem? How in the world do you plan on feeding over a hundred million people scattered across four provinces? Especially when food production in the Chicago Province has practically stopped, energy production is at a standstill, and the network of rail transportation across the provinces is in such terrible shape.”

  Her slow response made Jamil want to leap across the table and choke her, but he knew how much she loved it when he got rough, so he clenched his teeth and kept his tongue.

  “Do you remember the emperor one time bragging about a food storage depot, hidden underground outside Chicago City?”

  “Yeah. But I thought he was blowing smoke. Why? Did you find it?”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” she said with a lazy smile.

  Jamil had enough. He leaned across the table and grabbed her by the throat and squeezed.

  “Talk or I’ll make you regret it. Now.”

  When her eyes began to glaze, whether from pain or pleasure he did not know, she imperceptibly nodded her head and he released his grip. Again, that cruel smile. He knew at that moment someday one of them would have to die, and it for sure wasn’t going to be him.

  “Such impatience. Yes, my little spies found it. It is located north of Chicago City. It is underground in the old Naval Station Great Lakes. Apparently, it was used by the Italian Mafia to hide black market produce. It was abandoned after the Book Liberators’ massacre in Missouri, but it has been electronically maintained for the past decade and contains millions of tons of freeze-dried produce and protein.

  “If we set up feeding sites for the starving citizens, they will love us. At the same time, we can blame the energy and transportation problems on the Book Liberator rebels. Anything goes wrong, we just blame the rebels.”

  Jamil was stunned at the pure ingeniousness of the plan. He sat back in his chair and started to smile.

  “I think it just might work. How about you focus your wicked brain on putting the plan in place and I’ll see if I can find Dr. Delis and try to get the sarin gas production up and running again. That ought to take care of the second problem: those pesky Book Liberator rebels.”

  Chapter Eight

  The Nightmares Return

  Why am I so thirsty...But I thought I escaped from the slave camp? No! Don’t hurt me! Please, I’ll be good… I’m so cold. Bryan don’t leave me! Why won’t you give me a blanket? It is so dark in here... I did not mean to kill you. I’m sorry…Run, Allison! You’ll pay for what you did to my Bryan! It is so hot! Don’t hurt my Emily! Please, don’t rape me again… I’ll kill you if you touch my mother!”

  Emily sat beside her mother, helpless, listening to her delirious ravings. Sometimes she could understand what she was saying, but most of the time what she said was murmured or incoherent. She reached over and removed the cloth on her forehead, rinsing it out with fresh water before returning it. In a few minutes, it would be dry from the heat radiating off her mother’s feverish body. She’d been like this for three days. Sometimes Frank or Emily could dribble some water into her mouth, forcing her to swallow. The nurse told them if the fever didn’t break soon, she wouldn’t survive.

  The morning after Brogan arrived, Emily awakened to a terrible scene. Her mother was tossing and turning, heat radiating off her body. She was burning up from a high fever. Herman was dead at her feet. Apparently, he waited until Brogan came home before deciding it was time to die. Emily screamed for her grandfathers to come and help.

  Herman had been Emily’s companion since she was born. Although bereft at his death, grief was tempered by her concern for her mother. She would properly grieve for her childhood companion when her mother was well.

  Frank sent Mateo to get the village nurse while he and Stephen carefully and gently removed and buried Herman’s body near the stream where he loved to sit and watch Emily play in the water.

  The nurse, a native of Cosala and trained in Mazatlán, brusquely pushed her way into the hut. But her mannerism with Brogan was gentle. She examined her carefully, also checking her feet.

  “Without antibiotics, there isn’t much I can do,” the nurse told them.

  “You are right, her ankle is broken. The medicinal bath for her feet was the right thing to do. But apparently, due to her weakened condition, she picked up a virus somewhere.”

  She looked at Frank, who had stayed in the hut during the examination. “How did she get so emaciated?”

  “We haven’t had time to hear the whole story,” Frank explained. “My daughter just arrived last night. She was in terrible shape and mentioned something about a slave camp. But that’s all we know. We helped her to get cleaned up and then put her to bed. She was exhausted but none of us realized she was sick, too.”

  “Unfortunately, there isn’t much we can do for her, especially given her weakened condition. I have no antibiotics. Keep trying to force liquids down her and keep her comfortable. Put cold compresses on her and start praying.” She sadly shook her head, put a splint on Brogan’s ankle, and left abruptly.

  Stephen overheard the conversation. Out of Emily’s hearing, he told Frank he was heading for Mexico City. “I’m going to see if I can get ahold of some antibiotics. Maybe try and get Allison to come, too. I refuse to let Brogan die now. Not after we have all waited so long for her to come home. Agreed?”

  There was no disagreement and he left on the next train. Fortunately, there was good train service most of the way to Mexico City, so the 1,100-mile trip was made in one day.

  A solar lamp sat on a small table next to the cot where Brogan lay. She seemed calmer if there was light in the room. While Emily sat helplessly by her mother’s side
, she started reading her mother’s journals. The more she read, the more she understood, and the more horrified she became at all the terrible things her mother so matter of factly wrote about.

  She read for the first time about how her father died in the grenade explosion caused by the traitor Sandra Bernhardt and the terrible torture and rapes her mother endured in the emperor’s prison in Boston, all happening after she was born.

  Before she read any further, Emily sat back for a moment and considered the impact this must have had on her mother, still a young woman, not much older than she was now. Even if there was a one-child rule, to know she could never have any more children because of the hysterectomy she had to have due to the vicious rapes would undoubtedly be extremely difficult to bear emotionally.

  She reached over and replaced the cool compress on her mother’s forehead. “Oh, mother,” Emily said tearfully, “How you were able to survive even a fraction of this tells me what an absolutely incredibly strong woman you are. I don’t know if you can hear me or not, but I want you to know, I want to be just like you. If I can be even half the woman of strength, courage and faith you are, I will feel like I have achieved something. I am so very proud of you. I am proud to be your daughter.”

  Emily leaned over and gently kissed her mother’s fevered brow. She replaced the compress. She pulled out another journal and kept reading, steeling herself for what she was sure might be even more difficult realities to read. Because her mother was gone most of her life, Emily needed this time and these journals to understand the woman who birthed her, who she now knew to be an unusual and extraordinary woman; the woman everyone else knew as the White Warrior.

  For three days, she hardly moved from her mother’s side, forcing water down her throat, and carefully bathing her increasingly emaciated body with cool water. She left only to take care of her own needs. Mateo or Frank would take her place when she left for those short periods.

  She talked to Brogan when she wasn’t reading the journals, telling her about her life, her friends, her hopes and her dreams. Unbeknownst to her, Frank often stood quietly at the door of the hut, listening to Emily speak to her mother, knowing the young girl was maturing quickly as she cared for her. He was confident it was the sound of Emily’s voice keeping Brogan alive. He silently prayed for both.