The Spirit of Resistance

by Michael J. Scott

  He closed his eyes, covered his face with his hands, and swore.

  ***

  “I don’t believe this,” Jerry muttered.

  We lay on our sleeping bags in his bedroom. Jerry was on his bunk, staring at the ceiling. A pale glow from the streetlight outside wrought abstract patterns on the walls.

  “What’d you expect?” said Grant.

  “It’s not like your Mom and Dad are dead, you know,” agreed Martin. “They probably still have sex with each other.”

  “Don’t talk about that!” shot Jerry.

  “This once, I gotta agree with the man,” I intoned. “I don’t want that image in my head.”

  “I’m just saying you oughtn’t be shocked.”

  “Why didn’t they say anything?”

  Martin rolled his head over and looked at him. “Like they said, they didn’t want to push you. Left all the heavy lifting for us.”

  “‘Nuff with the fat jokes,” Jerry said.

  “I ain’t making fat jokes. Not saying you can’t lose a few pounds, either, but that’s not the point. Point is, you shoulda left home a long time ago. I think your Mom and Dad made it too easy for you. Too comfortable. You needed a good kick in the backside.”

  “Thanks for the parenting advice. I’ll be sure and pass it on to them.”

  “Play nice,” growled Grant. After a moment he said, “There’s something else you need to do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You need to create a history. You told your Mom and Dad you’ve been thinking about college for a couple of weeks now, right? Is that just a line, or have you actually been looking?”

  “I dunno. A line, I guess.”

  “So you don’t have any brochures or websites you’ve been looking at. Your Mom or Dad asks more questions, like what colleges you been looking at, you won’t have an answer, will you?”

  After a moment he mumbled, “Guess not.”

  “That could be a problem. You comfortable with the internet?”

  “Yeah, I know how to use the internet. You want me to look up the websites, right?”

  “Yep. But before you do, I want you to change the date on your computer. Set it back a week or two—just not during our Adirondack trip—then do your surfing. Once you’re done, reset it to the right date. That’ll create a believable history in your web browser.”

  “Why?”

  “Covers your tracks, that’s why.”

  “Yeah, but why go through all that trouble?”

  “‘Cause when everything hits the fan, you want to protect those you love. You told your parents you’re checking out colleges. Right now, all they got is your word on it, and all the Feds will have is their word on that. You create a history; Feds will believe them and leave them alone.”

  “Yeah, but why would the Feds—oh my God.”

  “Wondered if you’d thought of that.”

  There was a long silence. The shadows deepened on the walls. Outside, the snow had begun falling again. Thick clumps brushed the windowpane and veiled the pallid glow of the streetlight, entombing us in a wintry cocoon.

  Jerry broke the stillness. “What’s gonna happen after we do this?”

  Martin took a breath. “Well, things go as expected, the government will declare martial law, suspend civil liberties, and try to root out the vast rightwing conspiracy that liberals keep mistaking the American people for. That’ll spark the resistance.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant.”

  “You mean about us? Three possibilities. One, they catch us and kill us on the spot. Two, they catch us right away, put us on trial then kill us. Or three, we escape. Until they catch us, put us on trial, and kill us.”

  “Naw, I figured that,” he said.

  I frowned. It felt surreal to hear them talk about our deaths so glibly.

  Jerry went on. “I’m talking about what happens to my Mom and Dad.”

  “Once they identify us,” said Grant, “the government will dispatch a team of Federal agents to investigate. Your Mom and Dad will be brought in for questioning. Computers will be seized so the forensics can be analyzed. All connections and associations will be explored. Basically, they’ll autopsy your life. They’ll be looking for every single connection, hoping to nail down whatever network they think is at work so they can nab all the co-conspirators. It’ll take a couple of weeks at least. Maybe longer. Meanwhile, the media will begin their own anal exam. They’ll interview your old teachers, fellow students, ex-girlfriends, church members. Camera crews will be parked outside your house for awhile, hoping to get your parents’ reaction on T.V. Someone will probably offer them a book deal. They should take it. It’ll make up for a lot.”

  “Great,” he muttered.

  “There’ll be threats on their life. Parents’ will have to change their phone number. Maybe get police protection. Your Dad’s a known gun owner. He’ll probably be safe when it comes to vandalism, though don’t be surprised if someone doesn’t make a half-hearted attempt.

  “Once the war starts the pressure will break. Your Mom and Dad will get swept up in the action like everyone else. They survive, they’ll be there to help rebuild. Put our country back right. And once everyone realizes how much good came from it all, and how their son helped rescue this country from tyranny, they’ll be honored for having raised such a fine, patriotic young man. Or something like that.”

  “Wow. You’re full of crap.”

  Grant chuckled. “We’ll see.”

  “Guess they ain’t going to Florida are they? Or Cabo.”

  “Not likely.”

  Jerry swore. “Wished I’d have known. I’d have left a lot sooner so they could have it.”

  “All things work out for good, Jerry. Now get some sleep.”

  “Whatever.”

  ***

  Grant left the next day for a rally at the campground, leaving us the rest of the week to ponder his take on our end of days. I had to agree. His grim assessment felt dismally accurate, and did little to lighten our mood.

  That weekend we packed up our stuff and made ready for the trip. It was a lot easier for Martin and me, since we had so little left as it was, but Jerry took his time figuring out what he wanted to keep and what he should just leave behind. Martin had to remind him more than once that he was supposed to be packing for a two-week trip to check out colleges and not to bring anything that didn’t fit with his cover story. Honestly, I couldn’t figure out why he wanted to hang on to anything at all. It’s not like we were gonna need it where we were headed.

  Grant showed up a little before noon Sunday morning, and less than an hour later, we were loaded up and on the road. We grabbed Route 104 over the Bay Bridge, heading for 590 south around the city. As we passed over the still frozen bay, dotted with ice fishing tents and cutting a white swath up to the blue green waters of Lake Ontario to the north, I couldn’t help but think that I’d never see it again. Then we crossed the bridge, and it was gone.

  Thirty-One

  The drive south was agonizingly slow. It took us two hours to get to the Pennsylvania border, passing by endless hills of farmland blanketed by snow, and the occasional outpost of civilization pretending to be a town. The hills steepened into mountains broken by broad valleys. Narrow threads of concrete and asphalt stitched the state together, a patchwork of roads winding nowhere through the massive rock of the Appalachians.

  These mountains used to mark the western edge of the thirteen colonies, a geological barrier soon breached by our ambitious forebears. With the British surrender at Yorktown and the end of the Revolutionary War, the treaties the native tribes had made with the crown no longer impeded the American citizenry. Most of the Indian tribes found themselves on the wrong side of history and never recovered from their error. It wasn’t long thereafter that America’s westward expansion began in earnest, and Lewis and Clark blazed a trail toward manifest destiny.

  That was all but forgotten now. We plowed through those mountains withou
t so much as a passing word to the history they’d seen—the battles fought there from the French and Indian War through the American Revolution to the Civil War. The country’d seen her share of suffering—and for her sins would see it again soon, if we had our way.

  We followed the winding course of the Susquehanna River, stopping for gas outside of Harrisburg. Beneath a neon glow, the gas station offered us an assortment of over-priced junk food, magazines, maps, a wide selection of gourmet coffees, and free WI-FI.

  “Look at that,” I muttered, indicating a miniature Statue of Liberty saluting us from atop an old bridge abutment in the middle of the river. The others turned to stare.

  “Huh,” Martin snorted. He dropped his voice into an imitation of a local. “What do you’uns need to go to New York City fer? We got yer stature a liberty right here.”

  “They really say ‘you’uns’ down here?” Jerry asked.

  Grant nodded. “Yessir. Had me a Major who talked that way. He’d always say, ‘You’uns go on out there and catch them Hajjis, now.”

  Jerry broke in, “I’m getting some snackage. Anyone coming?”

  “That was Major Marks, wasn’t it?” said Martin. Jerry studied both of them and realized they were ignoring him. He looked to me, but I shook my head. He turned and shuffled into the convenience store.

  “Yep,” Grant was saying, “Marks was a big Penn State guy. He’d have looked at a statue like that and said, ‘See, I done told you we Penn Staters are freedom lovers. That’s why we got the Liberty Bell.’”

  Martin chuckled. “I remember that. He was always going on about the Liberty Bell.”

  “Yeah. He was a good man.”

  They fell quiet, their eyes distant. “What happened to him?” I blurted. Their eyes took my measure, and I realized how little I had in common with their shared experiences.

  “Killed in action,” Martin said. “He was in the second vehicle in a convoy. Hajjis took them out with an RPG.”

  I swallowed. “Killed instantly?”

  He pursed his lips, glancing at Grant. Then he shook his head. “Might as well have been,” he said. “Burns covered ninety percent of his body. He lived for two days. Never regained consciousness.”

  I swore.

  Martin tapped the roof of the truck. “I’ll get us some coffees,” he said to Grant.

  “Check on Jerry. Make sure that boy ain’t getting all sugared up. I don’t need him chatting his head off for the next four hours.”

  He looked at me and grinned at his own joke. I turned around and studied the statue in the water. The Lady looked forlorn and bereft, dwarfed as she was by the mountains expanding around her. I wondered whether any poor huddled masses would find shelter beneath her tiny flame.

  ***

  After Harrisburg, we parted ways with the river. Contrary to Grant’s concern, Jerry remained silent most of the way. Finally, Grant popped open the glove box and handed back a stack of pamphlets and brochures.

  “Here, Jerry,” he said. “Take a look through these.”

  Jerry tore himself from the window he’d been studying for the past hour and looked at the brochures. “What’s this?” he muttered.

  “College brochures. These are some of the schools ‘round D.C. See if’n you can’t find something that sparks your interest.”

  He thumbed through the brochures. “Potomac College, Nyack College, Howard University, Everest College, Westwood College... Dudley Beauty College?”

  Grant shrugged. “Didn’t know what you were in to.”

  “Holy Redeemer College?”

  “Like I said.”

  “Great. So either I’m a pastor or a beautician.”

  “There’s business stuff in there. Just pick one.”

  “I think you should do the beauty school,” I offered. “I mean, hell, Martin could use a makeover. Can’t do much for Grant, but you could try.”

  Martin glanced over the seat. “Gonna make me pretty, Jerry?”

  He slapped at him with the brochures. “Shut up.”

  “Seriously,” said Grant. “You need to pick one.”

  “Why? It’s not like I’m really going.”

  “It’s part of your cover story. You need to make this as real as possible.”

  He sighed and glanced again at the pamphlets, then turned back to the window. “Don’t suppose there’s a cooking school down there.”

  “Might be,” I said.

  “Will you pick a damn school already?” Grant glared in the mirror. “Do one of the business ones. Your background running your Daddy’s shop will fit you in real good.”

  Jerry shuffled the brochures and pulled one out, holding it up for Grant to see. “Happy now?”

  “Good ‘nuff. We’ll take a spin over there later in the week and you can fill out an application.”

  “Aren’t you taking this a little far?” I said.

  “We do everything as though we’re just carrying on normal lives. Nothing unusual. Nothing that stands out. Secret service is already on high alert ‘cause of the inauguration, and the local cops are just as paranoid. We get stopped for any reason and they want to know why four New Yorkers are spending so much time in a motel room in D.C.? We better have an airtight story.”

  “Yeah, but there’s got to be like a million people descending on this city.”

  “Plus another 5.3 million in the Washington metro.”

  “So won’t we disappear into the crowd? Like a needle in a haystack?”

  “Undoubtedly. But we’re also dealing with the best needle-in-the-haystack finders in the world. We’re not going to succeed in this mission by taking chances or underestimating the obstacles. Clear?”

  I said nothing, and turned to stare out the window. In front of us, route 83 carved a rugged path through the rolling hills until the Maryland flag heralded our passage across the Mason-Dixon line.

  We followed the 695 interchange westward around Baltimore, now dodging much heavier traffic on the eight-lane divided highway before connecting into Route 95. This final leg led us almost, but not quite, into the heart of the broken diamond that was our nation’s capitol.

  Grant pulled off the beltway onto Connecticut Ave, heading into the city. We drove through the idyllic neighborhoods of Chevy Chase up to the circle, at which point the private homes gave way to red brick shops, banks, and restaurants with broad, tree-lined sidewalks. Soon four and five story apartment buildings graced either side, with grassy lawns and fabric awnings over their front entrances.

  In the forty-four hundred block Grant turned off into a six-story hotel, and slid into a parking garage next to a restaurant with an outside seating area. He parked in an available space and turned off the engine, then peered over the seats at us and said, “Well Cherries, welcome to Washington, D.C.”

  Thirty-Two

  The room Grant booked for us held two double beds over russet brown carpeting, with walls painted cream and primrose yellow. Matching Shaker end tables held wrought iron lamps and separate clocks by the beds. Across the room, a 42-inch plasma screen television invited our eyes.

  “Damn,” said Jerry. “Shouldda brought my X-box.”

  We dragged our luggage into the room, relieved to be out of the car. Seven hours on the road left us stiff, hungry, and tired. I collapsed onto the bed, feeling the cool sheets press against the nape of my neck.

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” said Grant.

  “Why not?”

  “We got work to do.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Jerry.

  “Naw, he’s right,” said Martin, laying back beside me on the bed. “We’ve got to scope out the city, get familiar with the routes in and around our respective nests, identify and familiarize ourselves with our fallback positions, and drill each other on our new identities.”

  “Nests?” said Jerry.

  “Snipers’ nests.”

  “Oh.”

  “You wanna do that tonight?” I gaped.

  “ID’s firs
t,” said Grant. “Y’all are on second shift tomorrow. That’ll give us the morning to scope out the city and pick out our fallbacks.”

  “What do you mean by ‘fallback’?” I asked.

  Martin smiled at me, propped on his elbow. “In case we get made. Someone figures out our ID’s are faked, or our stories ain’t straight—even if security’s too tight—we got to have a position to fall back to, where we can still carry out the op.”

  “What are the odds of that?”

  “What difference does it make? Million ways an op like this goes bad. You build in contingencies for your contingencies, and be as prepared as you can be. You can’t do anymore than that.”

  “You can do one thing,” said Jerry.

  Grant furrowed his brow. “What’s that?”

  “Eat first.”

  Grant chuckled. Martin said, “I’m down with that. You guys want pizza?”

  I snorted. “Steak.”

  Their eyes lit up. “Listen to your brother, Marty,” said Jerry. “That’s man food.”

  “That’ll do,” he agreed, sliding off the bed. Our stomachs rumbling, we left the room.

  ***

  We found a steak house down the street and snagged dinner, not really conversing much over the meat and potatoes. Afterward, we sipped Sam Adams Lager and quizzed each other about our identities. Outside, the snow began falling, as though we’d brought the bad weather down with us from the north.

  Grant pressed us mercilessly on the remotest details of our fake I.D.’s, so much so that it began to feel like an interrogation. Every time one of us would make a mistake, he’d zero in on it, pushing away at the contradiction until we either found a way out or broke down. I could tell Jerry was having a hard time with it. It wasn’t easy for any of us, but something in Jerry’s eyes told me how close he was to telling Grant to go screw himself. I couldn’t blame him. I was ready to do the same myself.

  Finally, after two hours of relentless drilling, Grant called it a night, warning us we’d pick it all up again in the morning. We walked back to the hotel in the snow, and at the front entrance, I stopped while the others turned to go in.

  Martin paused, his eyes quizzical. “You coming?”

  I shook my head. “Naw. Not yet. Think I’ll take a walk.”

  “Why?”

  I shrugged. “Clear my head. Get some of the road kinks out.”

  “You want some company?”

  “No.” I smiled and started away, leaving him to explain to Grant and Jerry where I was headed.