Late-K Lunacy

by Ted Bernard

  16

  Katherine weaved her way around the tents and yurts to the Weary Hall bathroom. A campus cop sat at the door, her chin bobbing on her chest. When Katherine cleared her throat, she jerked awake. She rose to attention. Lisa Van Sickle hated the night shift and she was in no mood for chitchat. She unlocked the door. Once inside, Katherine quick-dialed Stefan. It was after 10:00 PM. It seemed like days since she had pulled herself away from his body in their warm bed that morning.

  He picked up the phone. Worried that the police officer might come looking, Katherine bypassed small talk and breathlessly synopsized the day, her words cascading over a precipice to rocky shoals below. He interrupted. What about you, he asked. And do you know whether the governor will deploy the National Guard? Katherine said she was okay. She had no idea about the National Guard. Flintwinch has refused to negotiate. Dr. Tulkinghorn thinks he can open lines of communication. If not, we will take the Gruppo information to Flintwinch soon. Stefan said he wished he could be there to help. She asked if she could call again, especially as dawn approaches. Of course. What about the storm?

  “Apparently, we’ll be at the southern edge of it,” he replied.

  “I’ve got an incoming call. Good bye my love.” She hurried out to the quad. It was Redlaw.

  She found Em on the phone with Astrid. Em began relaying the conversation to Katherine in whispers, bit by bit: “Mr. Katavanakis beg for one hour. Astrid say she let guard down. She is sorry. She fell asleep. She not disable GPS in her laptop. She say Mr. Katavanakis has What? home-din her computer.”

  Katherine interrupted. “Hold it!” She grabbed Em’s phone without apology. “Astrid, any indication from Katavanakis that troops are on their way now?”

  Astrid replied, “No nothing like that.” Katherine handed the phone back to Em. She continued to relay the conversation. “She say Katavanakis promise he will send proposal to take care of everything. She ask, does that mean shutting down Blackwood drilling. He say, yeah.”

  “Don’t trust that Guido,” Em added.

  “Astrid,” Katherine said as she grabbed the phone back. “I just talked to Redlaw. Beth Samuels is in Stiggins with Flintwinch. She told Redlaw that some kind of swat team is being deployed by helicopters to take us out tonight.”

  “Holy crap, if they’re aiming at my GPS, I’d better scram with my laptop,” Astrid said.

  “No kidding.” Katherine’s brain scrolled through a tactical menu. “Look Astrid, get going right away with your computer. Go across Southwell toward the river. Find some cover. Hang there until you hear helicopters descending. Shut down your computer and run like hell toward the dorms. Hide there. Call or text me immediately.”

  “I’m on my way,” Astrid replied.

  Em asked Katherine whether they should order evacuation. Katherine said she needed more information. She realized it was almost time to make the decision. Em crossed to Katherine and gathered her in her arms. “So, my dear Katherine, long journey to save Blackwood, c’est fini?”

  “Chissà se riusciremo a convincerli.” Katherine whispered, unaware at first, in the warmth of Em’s embrace, she’d lapsed into Italian. After some moments, she said, “Yes, maybe. Maybe it’s all been futile — a waste.”

  “Non, non,” Em replied. “For Katherine and Em, le début d’une longue amitié.”

  17

  Nick heard the thrashing of helicopter blades. He ran across the hall. He saw a single helicopter descending, its landing lights illuminating the parking lot. Transfixed at the sight, he watched, as though seeing action on the big screen. He saw the hatch open. He saw a civilian emerge. In a puddle of light, he saw ten helmeted and masked commandos in camo, carrying A-15 rifles, following the civilian. Nick snapped back to reality. They had but precious moments. He dashed back to the CNRD office, yelling absurdities. “Late-K alert! Blackhawk down. Ten camo dudes. Assault weapons. Hannah, who are these guys?”

  “No freaking clue,” I replied. “Only that they were sent by the governor to stifle the occupation.”

  “Who cares?” Zachary blurted. “Let’s go. We gotta warn the others.”

  We rushed out of the office down the hallway. Behind us, we could hear heavy footfalls coming up the south stairway. The bastards were marking cadence in a foreign tongue.

  Ahead of the commandos, the man in civvies dashed toward the open office door. He peered into the CNRD office and then down the corridor. At the far end, he saw me — a curiously out-of-place little tramp in high heels followed by five students. We quickly disappeared down the north stairway. Nick, protecting the rear flank, looked back and recognized him. “Guido!” he shouted.

  Katavanakis barked orders in Greek. Their weapons at the ready, the commandos charged after us. Katavanakis entered the office, heard muffled sounds in the closet. He tugged out Dr. Truman Tulkinghorn, unbound him, and shouted, “You asshole! How could you have possibly fucked up?”

  “Where the hell were you?” Tulkinghorn screamed back. “You promised to be here an hour ago. I couldn’t delay them. They overwhelmed me.”

  “Ah well. We’ll get them. Here, drink some water.”

  “When you grab those students, let me have at their sorry asses,” Tulkinghorn said. “They humiliated me. What were Redlaw and that bitch Flintwinch thinking, letting them take over this place?”

  “Look, Dr. Tulkinghorn, I have no idea. My need is to get out of here as soon as we finish our business. You just rest here and recover. I’ll be back for you shortly.”

  ~

  Astrid sat in the middle of the footbridge, dangling her legs ten feet above the Shawnee River. The bridge connected Southwell Quad with the Seabeare Nature Reserve, a legacy of the great Ohio naturalist and late GUO zoology professor, Henry Seabeare. The sky was coal black, the winds wailing at fifty knots. It struck her as an exhilarating night: nature in her wildest unbridled form. In less crazy times, she might have unbridled herself to allow her unclothed body to writhe in this powerful scene. But not now.

  With agility drawing on thousands of hours at the computer, she feverishly dumped everything from her laptop’s memory and registry onto a thumb drive less than half the length of her pinky. When her computer had been cleansed, she removed the storage device and thrust her hand up under her blouse. Dammit! I should have worn a bra. Wait. Do I own a bra? Instead she carefully stuffed the thumb drive into a knitted Nepalese dangly little bag at her waist, the one with her peace pipe and patchouli oil.

  She heard the thump of rotors in the distance: helicopters flying in formation down the Shawnee River Valley. In minutes, just as she expected, they were honing in on her. She deliberately left her computer on the bridge and ran toward Strickland Hall and the safety of Abby’s room. But first, she skittered under a row of privet bushes near the dorms to eye-witness the invasion. She grabbed her phone, went to her encrypted app. She texted Katherine.

  18

  SPEAKING TRUTH

  TO WEATHER AND CLIMATE

  Occasional Musings

  Burton P. Zielinski, Professor,

  Gilligan University of Ohio

  WARNING to Gilligan students occupying several sites outdoors. ABANDON sites immediately. GO INDOORS.

  Domenica Gains Strength as Derecho

  Posted November 4 at 00:02 by zielinski@gilligan.edu

  This updates my post of six hours ago. As I suspected, the first major storm of the winter is a doozey. In the past few hours, as it has progressed eastward from the Canadian prairies, it has taken the bow echo shape of a derecho. The storm has been named Domenica. The National Weather Service Storm Prediction Center predicts that Domenica will bring us severe thunderstorms with damaging straight-line winds and possible tornadoes.

  Both vertically and at the surface, the storm looks much like the derecho of last June 29-30, which left southern Ohio without power for several days. It also caused some 25-30 storm-related deaths (none in our region) and may have spawned a couple of tornadoes. In the past few hours the cente
r of tonight’s storm has swung southeastward. My check of the charts less than half an hour ago reveals that southern Ohio now appears to be squarely in its path, as well as the Alberta clipper following it. The major computer models are coming into agreement as the storm has traveled from Manitoba through Minneapolis, Chicago and Milwaukee leaving wrack and ruin and heavy snow.

  We can expect winds to strengthen in the next 2-3 hours. Severe thunderstorms will make their way here within the hour bearing damaging winds gusting into the 69-79 knot (80-90 mph) range. By dawn temperatures will have dropped from the present 60 degrees F (15 C) to the low 30sF (0C). The trend throughout tomorrow will be non-diurnal, meaning down, down, down. By early morning the day after tomorrow, the high will be about 5F (-15C) and at sunrise on November 6, we can expect -10F (-23C). By that evening, when the storm subsides, we could have more than 3 feet (91 cm) of snow on the ground.

  19

  Helen Flintwinch

  “Who are these guys? What are we supposed to do?” Chief Annie Barnhill screams into her phone. She sounds like she is beginning to doubt my sanity. No wonder.

  “Ohio Rapid Response Force. Lay low 'til I tell you otherwise.”

  “Lay low?? Are they here to clear the quad?”

  “Yes.”

  “They may find the place empty.”

  “At last some irony,” I reply.

  “Deny, deny, deny, Helen. You did not call in the Stasi. They did. Believe me, this is all about Katavanakis.” Beth would say no more.

  Stefan Friemanis

  I press hard against the wind and driving rain, my waterproof parka offering scant protection, my jeans and hiking boots sodden. On my midnight mission, skirting Centennial Quad on East Clayborne, my head down, I aim toward McWhorter. At the statue, I look up at Denis Pádraig Gilligan, stalwart against the stormy night. Lowering my gaze, I behold a silent stream of soggy occupiers, each laden with belongings, like so many refugees, streaming toward Richfield Avenue. Katherine. Where is she?

  Entering McWhorter, I turn left and climb the north stairs. I need to quickly collect my books and papers, my computer. Heading down the third-floor hallway, I notice the open CNRD office door, lights on, furniture upended, a wastebasket tipped, its contents scattered. What happened here? I proceed cautiously. My God! Partly under Greta’s desk, spread-eagled on the floor, lies Dr. Tulkinghorn, lifeless as lint. I kneel, place my ear to my boss’ face. Shallow breath on my cheek. Check the pulse! Weak but steady. The man’s alive. I prop him up, brace him against my body.

  “Dr. T. Dr. T.! Can you hear me?”

  A groggy response. “Bugger must have slipped one to me.”

  “Who? Slipped what?”

  “Bastard double-crosser. Gotta get out of here fast.” Tulkinghorn, making no sense, begins to shiver uncontrollably. His head lolls across his chest, at the corner of his mouth, a rivulet of foam.

  I suspect a heart attack.

  “Good grief, you’re stone cold.” I find a coat and scarf, wrap him, ease his head onto a pillow from Greta’s office chair. He conks out. I dash across the office to boil water, make tea, add honey, then return to Dr. T. I gently slap him awake, help him sip.

  His gaze steadies. He tries to focus on my face, blinking, blinking. He mumbles, “Friemanis, you’re a better man than I gave you credit for.”

  “Thank you.”

  At that, Rumi comes out of nowhere. Friend: Here … a bowl to drink from, health coming back to the patient … Soul sinks into existence everywhere.

  Dr. T. breaks the spell, insisting, “I’m good now. Really, I gotta get out of here.”

  “Sir, I think you are too weak to go anywhere. I’ll call for help.”

  “Nah, I’m okay.” He tries to rise, bracing himself on my shoulders. I help him but he topples again.

  I pull out my phone and dial 911.

  Hannah McGibbon

  In thundering wind, spectacular lightning bolts sluicing a slime-green, bruise-yellow, black and blue sky, raindrops the size of cupcakes, we run a circuitous course toward sanctuary. Terrifying noises fill the space between claps, add dread to the frightful night. Sirens north and south, a clock chiming midnight. Humming engines somewhere. A drum cadence or is it the thrum of blood pulsing my ears? Our own footfalls, our breathless pace?

  Left and left, Nick shouts. Gun shots. Overtaking Nick, barefooted, my spikes long gone, I rocket through Sweat City Alley. No time for looking both ways, I splash and slither across Federal, dodge an ambulance at full tilt. My feet are bruised and bleeding, my nerves in full omega. This is it. I have puzzles to resolve, words to spill, insecurities to keep at bay, no time. Up these steps, no those steps, I scream. Four follow. Where’s Jason? No one has breath to answer. More shots, blood curdling shrieks, more sirens. I attack the stairs, race upward, three flights. I shake my head in disbelief, denying my heart-throbbing intuition. I sense the cliff crumbling beneath my feet. I swallow bile, dash down the hallway banging randomly on doors.

  Sean opens one. He pulls me inside. The others tumble behind. Todd is at the window, scanning Federal and Jefferson. Who was chasing you — those soldiers? Who got shot, lying in a pool of blood? Down there. My pent-up stress spills out rudely. I run to the window. MOTHER OF GOD! Call Katherine, you idiot. Call Katherine!

  20

  We had escaped the worst of Domenica’s and ORRF’s fury. Or had we? A man lay on the street in a pool of blood. We collapsed in sorrow and shock. Our presumptions of how we might have stemmed the progression of Late-K had been crushed. As though dead ourselves, no one spoke. Wordlessly, Todd and Sean came round with coffee. José finally broke the silence.

  “Katherine tol' Todd she’s already launched Plan B. Which means I gotta go. I know our Aussie mate jus' got shot, God help him! But the only way we’re gonna feel vindicated rather than trapped in omega is if we can pull off the plan. And, not to be too cocky, that ain’t gonna happen if I mope 'round here feeling sorry for myself and obsessing about what jus' happened down there.”

  “That’s the truth. So get your ass over to the Theatre Department,” Sean advised. The rest of us rose to our feet and drifted seamlessly into a hug so full of raw pathos and brutal remorse, we could but blubber.

  “Let’s do this for Jason,” I cried.

  ~

  Em and Katherine raced to the loading dock of The Beasley Concourse, the university’s basketball palace. They banged on the doors. Ricardo Perini, the Westbrooke Quad Facilities Maintenance night supervisor, a lover of forests and the outdoors, a local boy from Bartholomew County, opened the door. “Moving indoors are we?” he smiled.

  “Yes, Rico, before you can say Morse Valley Energy, we’re going to fill this place.”

  He led them to a huge electrical panel. “Here, let’s shed some light on things.”

  Through a tunnel leading from the locker rooms to the basketball court, they walked out onto the floor. Gazing up and turning around in the gleaming arena, they saw twelve thousand seats and on the court another few hundred, along with a stage and sound system at one end, theatrical lighting at the other.

  “Wonderful!” Katherine said. “At last, we are going to have some fun.”

  “Incroyable!” added Em.

  The waterlogged occupiers began to file in. They were followed by a steady stream from the residence halls and the apartment and condo complexes, faculty and staff. Townspeople too. By 2:00 AM, despite the raging storm, the building was packed. Social media never rest! The lights flickered. Nobody panicked. They had found safe harbor in a fierce storm.

  “Don’t worry, Katherine,” Rico assured her. “If we lose power, the system flips to back-up generators.”

  José arrived with three dozen of his best friends — the cast of Hair, a twenty-piece orchestra, stage hands and directors, lighting people. They donned their costumes and organized themselves in the corridors beneath the stands. By 3:00 AM, the orchestra moved onto the floor and struck up. The crowd stood and wildly applauded and chanted,
“Blackwood, Blackwood!”

  With Astrid, Zachary, Julianna, Sean and Todd, I stood at the back of the second concourse. Nick, Em, Katherine and Frank found seats several rows from us. Halfway around the arena, I saw Stefan, with his colleagues, Sophie and Marilyn. I found myself totally dazzled by this improbable scene: a late-sixties production, subtitled “An American Tribal Love-Rock Musical,” about our grandparents’ generation (the rebellious bastards!) with its provocative music and choreography, its advocacy of sexual freedom, gender equality, pacifism, interracial equity, and environmentalism. That this extravaganza had become the capstone of the Blackwood resistance was beyond bizarre. But here we were, rocking The Beasley, José on center stage dancing his heart out, bringing down the house time after time, as though the Age of Aquariusxviii had arisen from the ashes, from omega, and rushed the whole lot of us from alpha to r, resurrection — in a matter of minutes. Here was a window on a world we might embrace after our nightmare of storm troopers and the storm of the century. The timeless themes, the unfulfilled dreams.

  When the moon is in the seventh house

  And Jupiter aligns with Mars

  Then peace will guide the planets

  And love will steer the stars

  This is the dawning of the age of Aquarius

  The age of Aquarius, Aquarius, Aquarius

  Harmony and understanding

  Sympathy and trust abounding

  No more falsehoods or derisions

  Golden living dreams of visions

  Mystic crystal revelation

  And the mind’s true liberation

  Aquarius, Aquarius

  Let the sunshine in!

  Let the sunshine in!

  Let the sunshine in!

  And then, a miracle no one could have predicted. Around 1:30, on orders from the acting president, the Gilligan campus police surrounded The Beasley Concourse. Chief Barnhill ordered them to thwart the commandoes of ORRF. As it happened, their presence was moot. ORRF had long since cut their losses and abandoned town in a confiscated bus, leaving their helicopters behind. (Incontrovertible evidence of their invasion.) A little after 3:00, Helen Flintwinch and Annie Barnhill quietly slipped into the building. Ricardo Perini escorted them to a vantage point high above the stage. They looked down upon a scene of unbridled joy — the music familiar to Flintwinch but not to Annie, the choreography, the long-haired hippies, the colorful skimpy costumes, the multicultural cast, and all of us boogying in the aisles, the bliss of a campaign that had outwitted and outmaneuvered them to this very hour: all of this, a scene to stir a cynical heart. Neither the two middle-aged women nor any of us millennials had a clue as to whether Blackwood Forest would be spared. For now, it mattered little. It was enough to know that our movement had survived and that the university would never be the same.