by Rod Rayborne
And so in a period of days, a savage sort of peace, wrought of terror, descended on the country.
Chapter Fifty Six
P ops awoke late the following morning, glancing at the diffused light coming through his tattered curtains. They hung there just as they had for the last thirty-eight years since Miriam had fashioned them. Mostly faded and threadbare, they still retained some of the fanciful pattern she had chosen them all those long years ago.
It wasn't the curtains though or the light coming through them that stood Pops hair up along the back of his neck. Rather, it was his sense that something wasn't right. He lay quietly, listening to the old house creak and groan, still settling under its own weight. He knew it would continue to settle until one day it would be indistinguishable from the rest of its natural surroundings. But that day would come long after he had passed away. For now, the ticking was comforting to Pops.
"Derek?" he called out. He sat up, swinging his tired legs over the edge of the bed. He squinted, reaching for his cane. He called again, raising his voice. Still there was no answering reply. He stood up unsteadily. His veins were hurting him this morning. He bent and rubbed the back of each calf, then stood and walked to the door.
Opening it, he paused and listened. Perhaps they were outside already, fooling around again as they had the night before. He had seen them go and come back, clean from head to toe. There was no way a young couple still in love would pass an opportunity to enjoy their free time alone bathing in a river by chatting about the weather. But even if he hadn't known the nature of people in love, he had seen their faces when they came back, the quiet smiles between them. He remembered when he Miriam shared those same private moments in the same creek when they too were young decades earlier. He was glad the creek could still be put to good use.
"Derek?" he called out again, more tentatively.
A smell descended the staircase, lingering at the bottom, meandering towards the front entryway. Pops turned towards the stairs, a sudden fear leaping in his throat. Then switching his cane to his left hand, he pulled himself up the stairs with the railing. Plying each step one purpled foot slowly followed by the other, it took him ten minutes to reach the landing on top. It had been a dozen years at least since he had last climbed them.
Derek and Suzy were surprised by the condition of the upstairs part of the house when they'd first arrived, it's general unkemptness, mustiness, cobwebs. It was only a matter of hours to put everything to rights though. Suzy was a self-described 'neat freak', thus Pops growing alarm.
When he reached the head of the stairs, even his aged nose was able to center the aroma. Vomit fifteen feet away, just off from the bathroom door. Another odor came stronger. Bile, coming from the bedroom Derek and Suzy occupied. He made his way to the room, stopping just short of the doorway.
"Derek? Suzy?" he said again. There was no answering reply. He hesitated a moment longer and then took one more step, peering around the doorway. There he saw Derek laying alongside Suzy, wrapped in the old man's bathrobe he'd lent him during their stay. Suzy was covered by the blanket, Derek's left arm around her. If not for the smell and the puddles around their faces, they would have appeared sound asleep.
Pops turned and made his way back to the stairs, descending them as slowly as he had gone up. When he reached the foot of the stairs, he turned towards the kitchen and pulled the twenty-pound bag of dog food out from the spot where it sat wedged between the refrigerator and the stove. Dragging it behind him, he ambled to the front door, opened it and pushing the screen door aside, tugged the food out onto the porch. Eventually he got it down the stairs and into the yard. He ripped the bag open then and left it there. Cane in hand, he moved slowly to the shed around the back. It took him an hour to get there and another to get back. Then he climbed the stairs once again.
Blue, his dog, looked up from the his place at the rocking chair where he waited for the old man every morning, his tail thumping on the wood porch.
"Blue, get down there and get yourself some grub," Pops said, pointing out into the yard. When the dog failed to respond, he nudged him with his foot. "C'mon boy, go get your breakfast." He pushed him again, more forcefully.
Blue got up slowly, his arthritis discouraging quick movement just as it did with the old man. Pops stood and watched the dog slowly descend the stairs, one step at a time, his mangy tail wagging tiredly behind him.
"We're just a couple of old timers, ain't we Blue?" Blue, deaf for the last year, didn't respond. Pops watched him settle down next to his bag of food and begin to munch. Then he turned and walked back towards the front door, his cane tapping hollowly across the old wood. He pulled open the screen door once again and walked indoors. He ached his way to the bottom bedroom and stopped, tears welling in his eyes. Walking to the dresser, he took the tiny pewter frame in his hand, looking at the black and white photo of Miriam. She was smiling shyly like she always did, young and vivacious. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen, he had told her over the years. And in many ways it was true. Certainly he had never loved a woman more than he had loved her, though he had known a few from his fishing days. The kind who hung around saloons when they knew the men would be back with their catches, the day's pay burning a hole in their pockets. He had thought he loved a few of them then but after he met Miriam he realized that he never had.
Sliding the frame into his robe pocket, he upended the can, pouring it across the bed. He backed out of the room making a trail that followed him around the house, ending at the front door. Then he set the can down and took the pipe from his robe pocket. He filled the bowl with the blueberry tobacco, tamped it down and reached for his matches. Lighting the pipe, he tossed the match away from him into the gasoline. Immediately it whooshed upwards, green and yellow flames running along both sides of the trail.
The old man turned then and walked out the door, closing it behind him. The screen banged shut and he looked to see Blue again in his favorite place next to the rocking chair.
"Go on, you old dog. Get! Get back out there!" He threw his arms up and lost his balance, his cane clattering to the porch. He pushed himself up, found his pipe and dragged himself to the rocking chair. Pulling himself into it, he turned again towards Blue.
"You heard me you old good for nothing? I told you to get out of here. He kicked out at Blue. The dog looked up at him and thumped his threadbare tail once again. Then the old man leaned forward and patted the dog's head sadly. Tears welled in his eyes as before.
"I love you, you ornery old mutt."
He sat back then and puffed on his pipe, looking out to sea.
Chapter Fifty Seven
B rooks stared at McCann, his face hardening, purpling.
"But…but," he sputtered.
"I'm sorry, Will. I can't explain it any other way. Nothing else makes sense." McCann looked at his friend with resignation.
"There has to be another explanation."
Footsteps echoed in the hall outside, approaching the door. Then the sound of the lock being turned. The door opened and four soldiers carrying handguns entered. They parted and Lowry entered behind them.
"Ah, I trust your stay with us has been satisfactory?"
Both Brooks and McCann stood to rush him. Immediately the soldiers brought up their weapons. It was then that McCann realized that he didn't recognize any of them.
"You filthy-" A right cross dropped Brooks.
McCann jumped at Lowry then. Two of the soldiers grabbed him by his arms and yanked him back. He spit then, making ground zero Lowry's left eye. One of the soldiers hit him in the gut and McCann, himself a big man, bent over holding his stomach.
Lowry pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the spittle from his face.
"I'm glad you did that McCann. It just proves my theory about the kind of men who've been calling the shots around here. But things are going to be different now. Now it's time for real men to stand up and seize the reins in this half assed, chicken shit country
you've made. We're taking the world by storm gentlemen and we don't need cowards like you."
Lowry turned towards the soldiers and nodded for them to back out of the room. They pushed McCann backwards towards a prone Brooks.
"Make your peace, both of you."
Chapter Fifty Eight
M ika sat in a chair next to the bed where the stranger was laying, still unconscious, a blood spotted white rag wrapped around his neck. They'd done everything they could think to do for him but so far nothing seemed to be helping. He had been unresponsive since they brought him back from the empty storeroom toward which he was plunging when they heard the shots from the lone man behind him. The running man had fallen into the arms of Rusty, already unconscious, blood spurting from a wound in his neck.
They dragged him to a small back room, James carrying one arm while applying pressure to the man's wound as best he could and Cyrus the other while Deenie engaged the oncoming man in a firefight at the door, sending him scurrying for cover. She slammed the metal door shut, hearing a spray of bullets peppering the heavy metal as she did.
Then Mika exhorting her to hurry and she turned and sprang towards the floor lift they'd found days before in their reconnaissance of the surrounding neighborhood. It looked like a loading bay to bring in store merchandise from outside the building. There they lifted the man onto a piece of board and jogged with him back the way they had come when they'd first heard the shooting.
Now Mika looked at the stranger despondently, a bowl of soup in her hands slowly growing cold. The man would die if he didn't get some nourishment into him soon, she knew. They had antibiotics but no syringes, no IV bottles, no way to deliver them safely to an unconscious man. There was nothing for it except to wait on him as long as it took until he finally awakened.
Mika took a spoonful of the soup and put it to the man's lips but there was no reaction. She sipped it herself then. No point in letting it go to waste, she thought. The door to the room opened and Rusty walked in. Mika looked up from the bowl and nodded at him.
"Nothing, huh?" Rusty asked standing just inside the door.
Mika shook her head. "His heartbeat is weak, breathing shallow. He may make it but I wouldn't put money on it. Not that money matters anymore."
"Doing what we can."
Rusty walked over to the nightstand and picked up the torn bit of white paper the man had had in his shirt pocket. It was the only thing they'd found on him.
On it was written a single word, hastily scrawled, 'aLoFT'. Rusty looked at the man's purpled face. "That's it. No other I.D. Just 'aloft'. What's that supposed to mean?"
"Maybe he was a pilot or something."
"Sounds like an acronym for some cryptic government organization."
"Maybe he knew too much," Mika offered, noncommittally.
"Knew what?" Rusty asked.
"Well if I knew that, I wouldn't be safe either, would I?"
"You trying to be funny?" Rusty asked with a sidelong glance at Mika.
"I wouldn't think of it," she retorted ruefully.
"Uh huh," Rusty said with a sour look on his face.
The front door banged open just then. Rusty and Mika looked at each other, then grasping their rifles, ran out of the room and towards the stairs. Looking down from the second floor, they saw Conrad standing breathlessly looking up at them. Then James and Cyrus ran into the room from outside staring at Conrad.
Rusty took the steps two at a time. Behind him came Mika.
"What the fu... Where's Deenie?" Rusty demanded.
"We were ambushed by soldiers! Over on the southwest section. By the tire store."
"What were you doing there? I told Deenie I wanted you to recon the 1600 block. Where is she?"
"I know what you said but she has a mind of her own. Said there were supplies over there that she wanted. Said you all didn't know about them. I think she was planning to skip out on us with something she was hiding for herself. Asked me to come along. I tried to talk her out of it but she wouldn't listen.
"That's when the soldiers came running out of the building. They must have heard us talking. I shot at them trying to defend her but there were too many of them. I think she knew them. Friends or something. I think she was planning to betray us. We should get out of here now. Get as far away as we can before it's too late."
"Bull SHIT!" Cyrus shouted, the pocks in his face growing pink. "I've known Deenie for eight years. She would never do that! Where is she, you soon of a bitch, Conrad? You better tell me now or…"
"I told you where we were! By the tire store. And she went off with the army. That's why I ran. She's probably fixing to come back with a company any minute now. What are we waiting for?"
"I agree with Cyrus." It was Mika. "We all know Deenie. She wouldn't run out on us. Where is she Conrad? Where did you leave her body?"
Conrad jumped back, automatically reaching for his rifle, forgetting he'd ditched the bloodied weapon beneath a shrub at the house where they had been stationed.
"What are you doing? You're gonna take her side of this, a dike instead of an experienced expert? What kind of idiots are you?"
Cyrus leaped at Conrad then, knocking him to the ground. Conrad threw up his arms, blocking his face from Cyrus's blows.
"I told you! I told you!" he wailed. "I don't know where she is. She went off with them. I told you."
Cyrus stood up and pulled Conrad to his feet.
"Show us where you were Conrad. Take us there. I want to see for myself."
"She's not there anymore! How many times do I have to tell you? She could be miles away."
"I thought you said she's leading soldiers to us right now. Which is it? Make up your mind."
Cyrus turned to Rusty, grasping a cowering Conrad by the back of his shirt collar.
"We're going out there and find Deenie," he said, an iron look in his eyes.
"You're not going alone," Rusty responded, already reaching for his rifle where it leaned against the door. "I'm going with you. Help keep an eye on this guy. If he did anything to Deenie, it's my responsibility. I was the one who said he could stay."
"If he did anything to her, it'll be his skin, not yours. He'd better hope we find her. Alive." Cyrus pushed Conrad out the door, followed by Aaron. Rusty turned to Arturo and Floyd.
"You two head over to the tire store. See if you can find anything. Me and Cyrus are going to the 1600 block with Conrad. Whether we find her or not, we'll all meet back here by sunset, decide what to do then. Be careful. Conrad's right about one thing at least. There are soldiers around. Don't get seen or more of us might turn up missing. Mika, you and Nate hold down the fort here."
Mika started to protest but Rusty shook his head.
"I need you here. If we're not back by evening, we were seen and were either captured or hiding. Either way, we can't get back. You need to get the hell out."
Mika stared at Rusty. "We're not leaving without you. No way."
"We're not coming back without Deenie, dead or alive. If we're not back by tonight, we're not coming back at all. You understand?"
Mika looked at him hard.
"I got it, Rusty. Watch yourself around that SOB."
"I'll do better than that. If he did anything, I'll personally put a bullet between his ears myself. That's a promise."
Mika squeezed his arm and he turned and walked out into the yard.
Chapter Fifty Nine
O wen stormed around a large room in the National Guard Armory that he had converted into an office, his fists, like his teeth, clenched in rage. A few of his most trusted officers and advisors were ranged around the room waiting for his orders. His fury precluded interruption by any but the most daring of souls. They had seen what he could do when he was in a rage. Best to keep ones mouth closed than to voice an opinion that could result in a public whipping or worse.
Owen, as well as the other 'governors', had been given enormous latitude by President Lowry to take whatever measures they thought necessa
ry to secure the republic from all threats both foreign and domestic, a charge he accepted with all seriousness. He re-instituted forms of punishment deemed cruel and unusual not a week earlier. His reasons for doing so had less to do with maintaining civility and the rule of law and more with instilling fear in both his army and the public at large.
It was working. In areas where he had taken control back from angry civilians, violence had dwindled to less than two events a day. And these came more in the form of domestic disputes than organized protests. Public hangings and group executions via firing squads had a way of quelling dissent like no other.
Still, even though individual incidents were decreasing, hatred was rising exponentially. And when something untoward did occur, it came out of seemingly nowhere, deadly and sophisticated. As the body count among his soldiers slipped upward, Owen's rage was tied with it. He had not anticipated the level of blowback they were getting from the civilian population. No one had. The defiance of his legally appointed authority by an ungrateful populace was especially galling. It had to stop and fast. Hell be damned!
Now Owen was reacting to the latest outrage wherein six more of his troops had been put down by sniper fire coming from three directions at once. The assailant's has gotten away while his troop strength had fallen by another half dozen. It was having an effect on enlistments as well. Worse still, more soldiers were refusing to fire on civilians. One had even taken his own life rather than do so. If he didn't do something quick, he'd have a general mutiny on his hands.
"I need this rebellion rooted out now, yesterday. It's gotten out of hand. It's Colonel Beckman's doing. This guy has been harrying us since day one. Inciting the people to rise up. Why haven't we found him? We're the goddamned Army for God's sake! How are we losing to a bunch of .22 toting, gun rights, red necked asswipes and their lone wolf leader? What the living Hell's going on?"