by Jones, K. J.
“That’s dumb,” said Nia.
“So very mature,” commented Stanton. He tried to clean up their mess.
“What a spaz,” said Emily.
“Oh, she said something politically incorrect,” said Ben.
Half the group applauded.
Peter’s smile beamed as he watched the raucous group. Their group, their tribe, had settled in as family.
Phebe smiled at him. He was happy. Contented. She liked seeing it on his face. In his eyes.
But his smile dropped.
Her brow scowled. “What?”
Ben and Mazy, too, stopped and looked to be listing to something.
“Am I hearing choppers?” Brandon asked.
Chris took a shift in the sniper attic. Probably to be alone for a while after all the family connections yesterday.
His voice crackled through the radio. “I got a motherfucking Little Bird checking us out. The sky filling with fucking birds!”
They looked at each other as if each questioning their sanity.
“Military’s here again,” said Ben.
They burst into motion. Everyone headed to the piazza.
There it was.
A small, black MH-6 Little Bird. It’s rotor blades loud. Plants pushed flat in the downdraft. Chickens ran for their lives. Rats scurried under the double-gate to escape the alien sounds.
A man leaned out the open door overhead and aimed a black device that looked like a handheld camera. He moved it up and down the house, then swirled his finger for the helicopter to turn.
“He’s thermal scanning,” said Ben. “He knows how many people are here.”
“Going to the third floor to get a better look.”
“I’ll go with you.”
Ben followed Peter. Phebe hurried to catch up.
The third-floor piazza showed the full extent of the invasion.
“Those are Chinooks.” Peter pointed at the tandem-rotor blade helicopter for Phebe.
“They’re bringing in Hummers,” said Ben.
Armored, tan Hummers hung by cables as they flew further north.
“This is bad,” Peter muttered.
Tyler ran out to them. “Are they gonna kill us?”
Phebe pulled the kid close to her.
“Don’t know,” answered Peter.
Chris’s voice on the handheld, “Chinooks are landing in the park across the street. Y’all, this ain’t good.”
A moment passed.
A stranger’s voice came through the radio, “This is the United States Army Air National Guard. By Congressional Order, we are to evacuate all survivors in the area. We know your locations. Stay where are you. Disarm yourselves and await contact. Over.”
“What does he mean evacuate us?” Tyler looked up at Peter.
“They’re gonna make us leave here.”
“No. We can’t leave. This is our territory.”
“I know.” Peter placed his hand on Tyler’s shoulder.
“But we ain’t the United States no more. I don’t wanna be part of the United States. They killed people. I don’t like them.”
“But, Ty, you gotta obey what they say.”
Peter bowed his head to look into the kid’s eyes.
“Promise me, you’ll obey their orders.” He feared what Tyler could get himself into if he didn’t behave.
“But why?”
“Because I do not want you hurt or something bad happening to you that separates us. Okay? You do what they say. They’re gonna want you to disarm. To put down your riffle.”
“No!”
“Tyler, please. For me and for Phebe. You’ll get Phebe upset if you don’t obey them.”
A glance to her to see if she objected to him throwing her under the emotional bus. It was an old Catholic guilt tactic.
Her face was blank. Wide-eyed. She was scared.
She hadn’t been scared in a long time, Zone-time reckoning wise.
“For us, Ty.”
The boy scowled hard. His mouth turned into a pout. The riffle was both his security blanket and his power. To lose it would be devastating.
Peter wished this was a dream. Another bad dream. He glanced out to the street to check if it was. Maybe, some possibility this was not happening. But the ghosts were not out there. What Tyler dubbed Sim Dead People wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be a dream then.
He looked over at Ben. Hard faced. A deep frown. For a split second, Ben’s face reminded him of Sitting Bull. Lakota warrior of the past who faced something overwhelming for his people and held deep-seated pain in his eyes.
Chris’s voice, “There a bunch of assholes crossing the street towards us. Full MOPPs. Gas masks and all. Hope they sweating their balls off.”
Tyler blew out a defeated breath. “Fine, if I gotta. For y’all. I promise.”
He lowered the riffle strap. Held the riffle in his hands. Skull count of his kills etched on the butt. Another sigh and he put the riffle down on the floor.
“Good man.” Ben patted Tyler on the other shoulder.
The male comradery surrounding the disarming act was important for the kid.
“But Crazy Horse didn’t surrender like this,” Tyler said.
“How do you know that?” Peter asked.
Phebe kept staring off to the street, now scowling and frowning. Her hands held her abdomen.
“We’ve been talking,” Ben said.
“Did Crazy Horse?” demanded Tyler.
“No, you’re right. But not in this. Crazy Horse was a warrior and a leader. He’d weigh the odds. The odds are heavily against us. He wouldn’t rashly throw away his people like it would be if we resisted right now.”
“But I don’t wanna be United States.”
Peter said, “Let’s hope they don’t put us on a reservation.”
Ben laughed. He didn’t mean to laugh. It erupted out. “Gonna fucking suck if history repeats here.”
The possibility of some kind of reservation was high. A refugee camp. Something that kept them separate, unfree, and powerless. To grow up in one and now go to another, which would probably be worse than the one he came from, would be really wrong. Too wrong for Ben to get his head around.
Banging on the faux door downstairs.
“What do I do?” Jayce asked.
“Open it,” said Mazy.
Peter took up the radio. “Chris, come down here. It’s over.”
“On my way.”
The faux door opened.
Muffled voices through gas masks yelled, “Hands where we can see ‘em. Put down all weapons. Get on your knees.”
“Crap.” Phebe leaned over the railing and watched. “This already sucks.”
Chris dragged his shoe heels across the hard wood floor as he walked towards the windows behind them. “We gonna go down?”
“Put my riffle down, big man,” said Ben.
“I’ll lean it up over here.”
“Let’s make ‘em come to us,” said Peter. “Work for their pay.”
More men filed through the faux door. The house itself was invaded. They could hear “Clear” being yelled. Heavy boot footsteps on floorboards. It grew louder with every floor they checked.
Down below on the overgrown lawn, the rest of the group was down on their knees. Fingers interlaced behind their heads. Even Nia.
The chickens ran off to the back. The rooster made his random cock-a-doodle-doo, which he did all day, sometimes at night, too, whenever he felt like doing it. But no word from Big Moe. Too many new people. Too much sudden human activity for wildlife to feel comfortable. Too many manmade machines.
Military boats entered the harbor. Soon, they visually disappeared from the third-floor piazza, as they moved towards the marina.
The soldiers made it the third floor.
“Here we go, y’all.”
“Show your hands. Down on your knees.”
They obeyed.
A soldier used his boot to slide Tyler’s riffle away from them.
“Fingers interlaced behind your heads.”
They all looked the same in their protective gear, faces hidden by gas masks. Different heights were the only discernable differences between the soldiers.
“Face down on the floor.”
They went down.
The search began. Gloved hand patting their bodies in the search for weapons. They took numerous small weapons off of Chris and Tyler. Various knives. Chris had a small-caliber handgun strapped to his calf. All of these went into bags.
They took the SASS riffle that leaned in a corner.
Zip ties came out.
“Oh, c’mon. On a woman and child, too?” Chris shook his head, now on his knees with his hands Zip tied behind his back.
“Just took weapons off the kid,” one of them said.
“This isn’t our first rodeo in the Zone,” said another. “Everyone seems to be armed and dangerous. Women and children, too.”
They were made to stand, then pushed towards the stairs.
“She’s pregnant,” Peter said. “Don’t let her fall.”
“We got her.” The soldier grasped Phebe’s upper arm.
Another muttered to his comrades, “They’re always pregnant. Always armed and pregnant.”
Apparently, it was the phenomena of the Zone.
Down two flights of spiral stairs in the awkward position of soldiers beside them and no hands to use for balance. Onto the ground floor, they were marched outside to join the others kneeling on the grass.
Everyone’s faces looked like refugees. Unhappy. Glaring. Despondent.
Soldiers collected weapons out of the china cabinet. Duffel bags filled with them. A feeling of being violated.
“What if they’re not legit?” whispered Emily. “What if they’re looting us?”
“I dunno,” whispered Mazy.
On the other side of Emily, Brandon whispered, “Then we get badly looted. Hope they don’t execute us in the end.”
Emily sighed loud.
“Where’s Eric?” Mullen whispered.
“Aw, shit,” responded Mazy. “I don’t know.”
“He’s not upstairs,” Phebe whispered over her shoulder to them.
“Jay, where’s Eric?” Brandon asked.
“The yacht.”
“Crap.”
Tyler squirmed against the position and bindings. “How long they gonna keep us this way?”
“Just stay frosty,” said Ben.
“Not comfortable.”
“I know, brother.”
He hoped to make the kid more stoic by calling him brother. To remind him he was a warrior and in with the grown-up warriors.
It worked for a little while.
Nia plopped her butt on her feet. “I can’t do this anymore. It hurts.”
“Shh,” Emily chastised.
“No. I don’t care if they hear me. This is wrong.”
Soldiers guarded them while the others searched and looted the house.
One said through his mask, “What is wrong with you people? You’re being rescued. Don’t you want to get out of this?”
She glared up at him. Fire in her dark brown eyes. “We were doing just fine, mister. Y’all military have done nothing but try to kill us. My daddy was a retired First Sergeant of the Seventy-fifth Regiment Rangers. But y’all lost my respect.”
“Sorry to hear that, young lady. We are just obeying orders.”
“That defense did not work at Nuremburg.”
“Whatever, kid.” He stepped away from her.
The soldiers stiffened as another man came forward. The body language said this was a superior.
“Two things,” the man said down to the group. “One. Are you responsible for the tripwires with attached bombs and booby traps?”
“Yes,” Peter answered. “In this area, yes.”
“You got a map of them?”
“Yes.”
“Get up and show me.”
Peter tried to get up without the usage of his hands. The bad leg wouldn’t permit a straight lift up. The effort without result was humiliating for him.
“I’ll show you.” Ben stood up.
Peter nodded thanks to him.
They did not cut Ben’s ties, though, as he was escorted inside.
“Two,” the superior continued. “We are searching for a felon hacker. Seems we found him.”
“Whoa,” said Peter. “No, no, no. That’s Eric. He’s not the black hat.”
“Explain. He sure seems like the hacker.”
“He is a hacker, but not the hacker. She died. There’s a journal on the yacht, purple cover, tells what happened to her. We buried her in the old cemetery.”
Stanton stiffed and whispered, “With Robert and Manual.”
Ignoring him, Peter continued, understanding the consequences to Eric if they did not believe him. “We located the yacht up the Ashley River. We had to fight to get it here. There’s still traces of blood on board. Eric has severe PTSD. Thinks we’re ghosts and shit. But he’s genius and got into the hacker’s system. We were able to call home via what he did. Check the yacht out. You’ll see the battle damage.”
“How do we know it’s damage caused by what you say?”
“Well, I don’t know. You can dig her up and have forensics compare with photos and stuff. My wife did. She was a forensic anthropology doctoral candidate.” He needed credibility. It was time for the credentials. “I am medical discharge Seventy-fifth Regiment Ranger. I served with this young lady’s father in Iraq.”
Chris knew how military liked, and usually trusted, other military. “He’s highly decorated. The Service Cross. Sullivan here is a hero.”
The soldiers looked at Peter for a moment. No way to see their facial expressions through the over-doing-it gas masks.
Fear for Eric. He wouldn’t be able to handle interrogation. “The young man, the young Asian American man, he’s severely PTSD. He thinks my wife is a ghost that visits him. Tries to give her Chinese ghost gifts. He’s been through the wringer. Lost his whole family. He needs a psych professional. He’s on medication. Ah … the psych kind.”
“Psychotropic medication,” Phebe filled in for Peter’s blanking brain.
“Yeah. He freaks out when things are too much.”
But the man who seemed in charge did nothing. No radioing to somebody else.
Peter’s stomach went acid as he worried for Eric. He knew what interrogation was like, and he was not at all clear on their legal status. Were they Americans entitled to Constitutional rights, or martial law no status, or worse?
Emily asked, “What happens now to us?”
The man did not respond.
“Excuse me. I’m talking to you.”
“Em,” Brandon whispered.
“No. I am an American. I have Constitutional rights.”
“Actually,” the man said. “They are suspended.”
“Excuse me?”
“Oy vey,” Peter muttered.
Emily’s New Yorker rose.
“You have no Constitutional rights under martial law, ma’am.”
“You gotta be kidding me. So, are you looting us?”
“Em,” Brandon said through gritted teeth. “Shut up.”
“No. This is wrong. We have been through a nightmare. We finally get things going for us and you people show up? You’re taking our weapons and apparently everything else we have managed to acquire. What the hell? We cannot survive with you taking all of our stuff.”
“You are being removed from this location, ma’am. You are going to a military base.”
“Which one?” asked Chris.
“Fort Jackson.”
“By Columbia?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ah.” He shot a look to those beside him. “Just outta curiosity, did JCS order this?”
Joint Chiefs of Staff.
“No, sir. Congress did.”
“Ah. Okay.” He seemed compliant and satisfied, but internally a volcan
o raged.
“Civvies,” Ben whispered.
“Yup,” Chris whispered back.
Was that better or worse than the military being in charge?
Since the military tried to kill them, per the dictation of numbers on paper, civilian government apparently wasn’t going to do the same. That was a positive. But did that mean it would be a good, helpful thing or just a new and different level of shit?
“Will we be going home?” Phebe asked.
“You’ll be processed at the base. For those that have homes outside of the east coast, there’s a good chance you’ll be going home, ma’am.” His tone said he thought this a happy thing.
She inhaled deeply. That wasn’t the best answer for her, since her home was on the east coast. Don’t think, she told her brain. It wanted to race through various scenarios. Keep in the moment.
Her body ached from the position. She rolled her neck and tried to raise her shoulders. Things were beginning to cramp up from kneeling so long and arms pinned behind the back.
“I’m starting to hurt here, sir. Can we at least sit down please?”
“Sit on your feet, okay. This’ll be over soon, ma'am.”
Ben and his escort returned. The latter handed a street map to his superior.
They waited.
“Hurry up and wait,” Peter whispered. “So missed that about the Army.”
To sit on feet only relieved the knees. The feet began to hurt.
Finally, the man in charge said, “Cut them free.” A louder voice, “All of you, go inside. Pack one bag each. No weapons of any kind. Your bags will be searched. Bring any documentation such as identification with you. Bring any vital medications with you. You will be supplied with clothes, toiletries, bedding, and of course food at the base.”
The soldiers cut the Zip ties.
Everyone stood and stretched to get the circulation going again.
Karen said, “My father is at another camp.”
“My mom, too,” added Nia.
“You will be reunited at the base. Everyone’s going to the same place. Please, move along.”
They filed inside.
“Hate the United States,” Tyler grumbled. “What about my bow?”
“No,” said Chris. “That a weapon.”
“But Ben made it for me. It’s a gift.”
“I can’t do anything about it, Ty. You think I’m happy about all this?”
“Why can’t we shoot ‘em?”