“It’s been hard down there,” Sam said, “but not as hard as it’s been some other places, from what I’ve heard.” He pulled a cigarette from out of a pack of Marlboros, and as he did he looked at the pack with wistful affection. He lit the cigarette with a Zippo and continued. “We’ve had a few groups come through who’d trekked up through the National Forest from the south, but not many. It’s really rough country out there, so we haven’t had to deal with too many folks. We’ve had our share though, and some troublemakers among ’em, too. But folks up here generally know how to deal with troublemakers.” As he said this, he nodded his head toward the burned-out truck down on the long private road.
“Y’all makin’ out all right?” Goffrey asked. “You have enough food and supplies put by?”
“We’re doing okay,” Sam replied. “We’ll be hungry come spring, but we’re already growing some greens and things in a greenhouse, and we’ve built seven or eight hot and cold frames so we can start more winter veggies. Game’s been sufficient, but not abundant. Rabbits are all but gone, but now we can shoot the elk because the game wardens aren’t there to stop us. The best thing we’ve had,” he said, smiling, “is know-how. All those years of practice and planning have paid off. Bad news is that we’re feeding about seven other families now, folks who didn’t have the know-how or the planning and practice. We’re training ’em though, and it’s good to have more fingers on triggers and boots on shovels, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, we know,” Rob said, laughing. “These ten-hour shifts are really getting to me.”
“Any news from Taos?” Goffrey asked.
Sam looked up at Goffrey and took a long draw from his cigarette, leaned back, and blew the smoke upward into the cool morning air. “Most of it ain’t good.”
“What gives?”
“According to the stories, in the beginning it was real bad. Trouble didn’t come from the locals so much, but from the people flooding up from the south, from Albuquerque and up and down I-25. Same ol’ business as was on the news. Riots, looting, mayhem. So some vigilantes set up shop. They’d had a belly full of it, and they were joined by the cops from the reservation who were hoping to stop the troubles at their doorstep. They cleaned things up for a little while. Then… then, the word is, the drug gangs moved in. Narco-mafia from way from down south and out west. Was a few weeks of street-to-street battles, and then the biggest gang—supposedly they came over from L.A.—they took over, and now they’re running the town.”
Phillip looked at Sam and frowned. “That can’t be good for the civilians left in Taos, if there are any.”
“No. You’re right,” Sam replied. “Now, everything I’m tellin’ ya is hearsay. It’s gossip. It’s good gossip, based on who I got it from, but I ain’t verified it myself, you know.”
Phillip turned and stared down into the valley. “This means more folks might be heading this way.”
Goffrey, his friend who in every way ought to be his philosophical opposite, clapped his hand on Phillip’s shoulder. “It doesn’t look like most of the world is going to give peace a chance.”
Phillip—the warrior—turned to Goffrey with a tear in his eye.
“I think you’re right, Mr. Byrd.” He kicked a melting chunk of icicle off the deck and watched it puncture and bury itself in the drifted snow. “I think you’re completely right.”
* * *
Breaking up the team was a thoroughly gut-wrenching affair. Never in his life had Phillip been so sad to say goodbye to a friend. The four of them stood at the top of Goffrey’s private drive, the three horses saddled and loaded for a journey. Three men were leaving, but one was not.
“You sure you won’t go with us?” Phillip said.
Goffrey shook his head, bent over, and picked up a small handful of loose snow and weakly threw it at Phillip. The soft snowball bounced harmlessly off of Phillip’s arm. Goffrey wasn’t trying to start another snowball fight. It was just an attempt to show affection and nostalgia… to bring back memories of the time before the end came.
“I’m sure, Phillip,” Goffrey said. “Besides, Sam and his bunch are heading up here as we speak. With his crowd joining me, we’ll have more good men and women, and I think we can hold this place thanks to everything you taught me.”
Phillip smiled at his new friend. “I’m glad Sam’s coming up.”
Goffrey nodded. “We’ll do fine.”
Phillip, Nigel and Rob shook hands with Goffrey before deciding that a handshake wasn’t good enough. One at a time the men embraced the trembling artist, and Phillip kissed the man on both cheeks.
“We thank you for your hospitality, Goffrey. May God keep you and protect you until we meet again,” Phillip said. He had tears in both eyes as he broke from the hug.
Goffrey looked down at his boots and shuffled his feet. Unsure of himself. Part of him wanted to break and run down to Texas with Phillip. A larger part of him wanted to hold this place and declare to the world that some things are simply not destined to fall into the hands of the lawless. “You all keep your heads up and your powder dry.”
“Change your politics,” Phillip said with a smile.
Goffrey looked Phillip in the eye. “I don’t have any left. Except this place. This place is my politics.”
“I think we’re finally on the same page.”
The three men mounted up and turned to face down the mountain.
As the horses began to move down the drive, breaking the snow with their hooves, Goffrey raised his hands and shouted after his friends…
“Give peace a chance!” His voice echoed down the valley.
“Give peace a chance!” the three riders shouted back, as each lifted a fist in solidarity.
In the distance, a hawk circled in the sky, unconcerned with the declarations and mantras of men.
A Word From Michael Bunker
Being a lifelong Russophile means that my stories usually have a decidedly Russian flavor to them. Most of my readers have come to know this, and even if maybe they don’t prefer it, at least they expect it. In most Russian short stories, the point of the thing is more subtle than it is in American literature. Americans generally want action or mystery happening right here and right now. Don’t get me wrong, there is action in Russian short stories too, but often it is happening around the story. There are bombs going off and people may be dying, but those things are happening over there, and we see their effects on our characters in a more indirect way. The action is often the frame, and not the picture itself.
“REDOUBT” is a short story set in the same universe as my apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic stories WICK and The Last Pilgrims. WICK tells the story of the apocalyptic collapse of modern society as it took place in the American Northeast. The Last Pilgrims takes up the story of that collapse twenty years later, and is set mainly in Texas and New Mexico. “REDOUBT” parallels WICK in that it takes place at the beginning of the collapse, but it deals primarily with characters who figure in The Last Pilgrims.
After writing two long novels in this universe, I wanted “REDOUBT” to shine a more direct light on the human interactions that happen when the world goes south. Some people might say, “But nothing happens.” I hope they don’t say that, but if they do, then to them I say, "Happening is overrated."
I want to thank David Gatewood, Brian Spangler, Susan May, and all of the other wonderful authors for allowing me to participate in this anthology. I'd also like specifically thank Jason Gurley for recommending me to such a talented group of people in the first place. I am humbled and happy to be included in this work.
Chapter 01: Memories
Kareem woke to the sound of coffee dripping from his brand new De’Longhi coffee machine. With each drip, the aroma swelled in his tiny apartment. For a moment, he just lay there savoring the smell, enjoying the absence of an alarm clock. Instead of the jarring sound of a fake car horn or faux-African drums or even a rock song shuffled from his smartphone, he woke to what at first sou
nded like rain falling gently on the windowsill. The soft hiss of steam reminded him not to drift back to sleep.
Kareem opened his eyes and stretched, sitting up on the side of the bed. The clock read 7:20.
Another day, another dollar. Living for the weekend. Huh, he thought, these were clichés, but somehow they defined his life. What day was it? Wednesday or Thursday? Damn, he thought, picking up his phone and checking the date. It was Tuesday.
“Thank God it’s not Monday,” he mumbled to himself, vaguely aware he’d butchered yet another cliché in his drowsy state.
Kareem got to his feet and staggered, reaching out for the dresser to steady himself. He felt dizzy, almost to the point of nausea. For a moment, he held himself there, holding himself still while the world swung around him.
“Oh,” he moaned, feeling like he’d been kicked in the head. “I’ve got to lay off the hard stuff.”
His mind was cloudy, hazy. He had no recollection of drinking alcohol the night before, but he must have been on liquor. Beer wouldn’t do this to him. Wine would leave him slightly dehydrated and a little dusty. Only whiskey knocked him around this bad. That was the worst thing about getting blind drunk, he decided: not really knowing the next morning whether it was worth the thumping headache or not.
“Ha,” he said to his empty one-room apartment, smelling the fresh coffee wafting through the air.
He poured himself a cup of black coffee and then thought better of it, adding some artificial sweetener and a drop of cream. Steam rose from the cup. He inhaled, savoring the rich smell. Closing his eyes, he sipped at the coffee, feeling better already.
In the back of his mind, Kareem remembered something, something about yesterday. Damn, he thought. There was something he was supposed to do today, something he should have written down. It was important, he knew that much at least, but what it was escaped him. Maybe a hot shower would distract him and that memory would return naturally.
Kareem walked around the bed toward the bathroom. It was autumn. It would take a couple of minutes before the frigid New York water became warm enough for a shower, so he figured he’d catch up on the news about the terrorist attacks crippling the country. With the flick of a button on the TV remote, his television started talking to him. A commercial for shaving cream came up on the screen. Rubbing the stubble on his chin, Kareem ignored the ad and wandered into the bathroom.
He glanced casually in the mirror in the cramped bathroom with its chipped tiles and moldy corners. A stranger stared back at him. It took Kareem a moment to recognize himself. Blood soaked through a bandage wrapped around his head. Numerous tiny cuts and scratches stretched across his face, all running from lower left to upper right. His eyes were puffy, as though he were suffering from allergies.
“What the...”
A packet of painkillers sat on the sink below the mirror. The label on the side had his name typed out, but he didn’t remember getting them. He didn’t remember anything that had happened yesterday.
“How in the hell?” he said absentmindedly, slowly unraveling the turban-like bandage. The side of his head had been shaved. Stitches ran from his temple to behind his ear. Gently, he touched at the wound, trying to get a good look at the cut in the mirror. Had he been in some kind of accident? Perhaps he had amnesia, or was still in shock and was subconsciously blocking out painful memories. As a paramedic, Kareem understood that was possible. Car crash, he wondered? No, he thought, hit-and-run. The lines on his face were consistent with road rash.
The TV blared in the background. Kareem turned on the shower and wandered back into his tiny apartment, struggling to recall any memories from yesterday. He had no idea how he’d been injured. He’d clearly been to the hospital. The label on the painkillers noted they’d been issued by the pharmacy at the Downtown Emergency Department in Lower Manhattan. In some ways, that made sense. That’s where his ambulance was stationed, but how had he gotten home? Getting back to the Upper East Side was a pain in the ass on public transport. Someone had to have dropped him off, but he had no recollection of any of it.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he flicked through the TV channels until he picked up the news.
“...while later today,” a pretty young newscaster began, “President Addison will speak at the social justice reform program in Manhattan.”
The president faced the camera. At first, Kareem assumed he was speaking from somewhere in Washington, D.C. He could have been in the White House, Kareem speculated, but the walls behind him were covered in photographs.
In his groggy state it took Kareem a moment to realize that the president was standing in front of a memorial wall, the kind hastily erected in the aftermath of some tragedy. As the camera panned, taking in a scene of devastation beyond the makeshift wall, Kareem recognized the intersection. The windows in the buildings had been shattered, but it was the corner of State and Pearl; he was sure of it. He used to get coffee from there. President Addison had to be in New York.
“We will not be intimidated by cowards,” the president began. “We will find those responsible for the attack on Battery Park and we will bring them to justice.”
Battery Park. Yes, he remembered picking up a middle-aged man from Battery Park a couple of days ago. Or was it a week ago? The poor man had had a heart attack while walking to work. Kareem and his partner had saved the man’s life.
This was the second attack Kareem had heard of in New York, after the bombing of the museum. Prior to that, there had been bombings in Los Angeles, Seattle and Chicago, but only ever one attack in each city. Hearing of a second attack in New York caused the hair on the back of Kareem’s arms to stand on end.
“We will not have our way of life changed by extremists. We will not bow to their hatred of freedom.”
The president kept talking, but the volume dropped as the reporter spoke over top of him.
“President Addison has vowed to keep to his schedule in New York, speaking at the civil rights conference before touring the hospitals that are treating those injured at Battery Park. Police are asking anyone in the area who may have seen one of these two men to come forward to help with the investigation.”
Some sketch artist had constructed two computer-generated mug shots. On the screen, both men looked sullen and morose. They appeared to be in their mid-twenties, and had the classic Arab look, with short-cropped dark hair and sharp jawlines, but really they could have been from any southern European country. Those dark bushy eyebrows could just as easily have originated in Greece or Spain as in Saudi Arabia, Kareem noted. Tweak a few of those features a little more and it could have been a sketch of either him or his brother.
“What about the bomb at the museum?” Kareem asked the TV. Living less than four blocks from the first blast, Kareem wanted to know if the police or the FBI, or whoever was in charge, had any leads. Were the blasts related? Were they coincidental? Could it be a copycat was at work? Not surprisingly, the TV reporter didn’t respond to his question.
“The stock market is in free-fall,” the anchor said. “Wall Street is in turmoil following the attack on Battery Park, with the SEC calling for the suspension of future put options as billions in losses pour into what the Fed is calling an economic black hole.”
Steam swirled within the shower.
As tempting as it was to sit there and watch the TV, mesmerized by the regurgitated news, Kareem felt he had to get clean. He’d have to avoid getting his hair wet, but his weary body cried out to soak beneath the warm jets of water. Anyway, he knew the networks would run these stories to death, although death probably wasn’t the appropriate term, given the gory subject matter. Anything he missed would be replayed over and over again throughout the day. Eventually, there would be something about the attack on the museum.
The shower felt wonderful. Kareem stood there beneath the streaming jets for almost half an hour, soaking his body, relishing how the tension washed out of his muscles. There were bruises on his arms and chest, but his legs we
re fine.
After he got out of the shower, Kareem gently sponged the wound on his head, cleaning away the blood. He dressed, shaved and brushed his teeth. He was a little strange in that regard. He’d brush his teeth before he had breakfast, even though that habit caused his Cap’n Crunch to taste of mint afterward.
His coffee was cold so he dumped it out and poured another fresh cup from his coffee machine. The TV was still cycling through news stories about the string of terrorist attacks that had rocked the country. The clip of President Addison repeated. His defiance seemed even more impressive the second time around.
“Come on,” Kareem said to himself. “What about Manhattan? What about Central Park? Is it safe to go out?”
Is it safe, he repeated mentally to himself. Terrorist attacks were sensational, but he knew more people would die on the roads that one day than had died in any of the attacks. Probably several times more, and yet he understood society had accepted road accidents as normal. Fatalities from car accidents were nothing compared to a terrorist attack, or so the news told him. Huh, he thought, realizing he was in more danger from his gas stove or while crossing the street than he ever was from a terrorist. And given his injuries, he’d apparently come close to dying while jaywalking or something.
How many had died in the Seattle attack? He struggled to recall the number, but it was somewhere in the fifties. There had been hundreds injured but only fifty or sixty killed. Only. What a cruel word, he decided. And at the Museum of Natural History, just a few blocks away from his apartment, how many had died there? His memory was hazy, but he was sure it was only fourteen or fifteen people. And there it was again: only. Kareem decided he hated that word.
From the Indie Side Page 25