by D Krauss
Confusion.
A lot of militias had formed on the parade field, been issued weapons by a Provo commander, and marched off. In the middle of that, a regular patrol showed up and everyone thought it was a Draft Gang, so the bell sounded and the corps pulled up barricades and grabbed M1s and hit their positions, Collier taking the gap between the school and Hudgins Hall, Davis opposite him at the street. It wasn’t a Draft Gang, though, and their lieutenant spoke with Captain Bock for a few minutes and then left.
“Bastards,” Litton muttered and Collier silently echoed the sentiment.
“Keep the weapons,” Captain Bock said grimly. “Major Rashkil, you’re on CQ,” and he walked away.
Davis’s eyes rounded and he looked at Collier who set his jaw and told Farley to send everyone back to class and then marched down to the Ready Room, carrying the rifle.
Chief Fessen was sitting behind the high desk wearing his fatigues, usual sour expression, an M-16 laid on the counter. One of the best guys on staff and Collier would have smiled, except things were tense.
“Seen this?” Chief waved a flimsy pink paper and handed it to him. It was a broadside:
Arise!
Strike Off Your Chains!
The Wars In Arabia And Mexico Are Slave Wars!
You Are Not Slaves! You Are Americans!
Today We Strike At The Slave Holders!
Join Us!
At the bottom was the logo of a clenched fist with NATIONAL LIBERATION FRONT arced below it.
“They were all over the bomb site,” Fessen said.
“Where’d you get it?”
“That army patrol gave it to Captain Bock.”
“Oh,” Collier studied it. “What’s the National Liberation Front?”
Fessen shrugged. “Who knows? Some bunch of piss-ants. Maybe a front for the ‘Slams,’ I couldn’t tell ya.”
“Did they get the president?”
Fessen snorted. “That coward. The little bastard is hiding in some old bunker somewhere, probably in one of the missile fields. His generals are more likely to get him than these shitheads,” and he pointed at the paper Collier held.
“So who’d they get?”
Fessen’s lips compressed. “Little Pentagon.”
“Jesus,” Collier sucked in a breath, “the whole thing?”
“Pretty much.”
The square of Old Town, Charlottesville, de facto center of the de facto new capital of the US. Army headquarters and Air Force headquarters and just about everyone’s headquarters, come to think of it.
“What’d they use, a nuke?” Collier asked.
“Someone said four truck bombs, timed. Pretty fuckin’ sophisticated, if you ask me,” Fessen started fiddling with the M-16. “Gotta be the ’Slams.”
Collier stared at the broadside. “So why didn’t they say so?”
Fessen blinked, chewed the ends of his straw-colored mustache. “I don’t know, son. I don’t know much of anything anymore.” He paused. “Why’n’t you go see if Captain Bock wants a fresh pot of coffee? We still got about an hour of power.” He grinned at the rhyme.
Collier nodded and made the odd little cramped turn that led to the administrative offices. Collier squeezed past the lit-up security console, careful not to brush any of the knobs. The cameras were on and Collier saw kids all over the place, still holding their rifles. Looked like war.
Collier heard Captain Bock talking on the phone and he stopped, not wanting to interrupt. Phone time was precious. “They’re just kids,” he heard Bock say. A little bit of ice shot through his veins and he moved closer to hear.
“I know that.” Pause. “I know that.” An edge crept into Captain Bock’s voice. “But—” he said, and there was a long pause. “But—” he said again, another pause and Collier wondered if he should make his presence known.
“No way. Absolutely no way,” Captain Bock was animated now and Collier was glad he had remained still. “They can’t just arbitrarily change things, and the militias have to go before the Provos, that’s the new law, that’s the last decision, and congress has to reconvene before...” his voice trailed off. “What do you mean, they’ve already been called?”
Collier stepped back slowly, Captain Bock’s voice trailing him as it got louder and angrier, “Then let them go through the militias, dammit! Then they can come to us and negotiate,” his voice more broken the farther away Collier moved, “… too damn young! Don’t care... draftees...”
“Hey, watch it,” Fessen warned as Collier backed around the corner, getting too close to the console. “Did he want coffee?”
“No,” Collier turned, his breath short.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing. Chief, I gotta go back to my room for a moment, okay?” and he left without acknowledgment, getting a raised eyebrow for the protocol breach. He rushed up the parapet, swinging on the balustrade, and opened his door. Davis was at the table, cleaning the disassembled rifle.
“We’re in trouble,” Collier said.
12
Had to be Raiders. Had to be. John stood outside on the little patch of ground that sloped away from the front entrance of Cassell, monitoring the last smoldering bits of Missus. What a gruesome job. He’d winched her onto a stretched-out tarp, only losing one of her legs in the process, but she expelled a lot of gas when he started dragging the tarp out the door and, oh, good Lord. The kerosene reek was actually a relief and he’d walked about a half-block away after igniting her, taking short sniffs of the rag he’d soaked, careful to avoid intoxication. The smell of burnt body still came through.
That smell. First time with it, an aircraft accident back in 1980. The pilot had been crisped on one side, fresh on the other, sort of like a steak left on a too-hot grill. Burned-body-smell coats the inside of your nose for weeks. Missus would, too.
She was just coals and smoke now and he said a prayer, a warrior’s prayer, invoking Heaven and Valhalla, one a form of the other. She would rise on the smoke and sit in the company of other warriors where they would regale and toast each other and clash weapons, the sound of it thunder. And then she would rest on a cloud and strum a harp and match her voice to it, singing of lost lands and lost loves. He would have to pay her a visit, when he got there. Take Theresa. The two of them would get along very well, as long as Missus didn’t mention Cousin Barb. Hell, Cousin Barb was probably there, too. Along with Beard.
Baby.
He set his lips. So, which ones, the Mall Raiders or the Independence Avenues? One or the other, and he wondered what had prompted an attack. Had they joined forces?
Not bloody likely.
Last he’d heard they were still squared off against each other down near the White House. The Mall Boys were still pretty busy with the Smithsonian, while the Avenues were still picking over the Supreme Court and Library of Congress.
Supposedly, the Avenues sold the William Blake plates for around five million in gold and weapons, while the Mall Boys got twice that for the Hope Diamond. That’s a lot of scratch, a lot of weapons, and they were all greedy bastards, so there was no way they’d join up. Accords, yes, and they’d had an uneasy truce for a while, just a little scrapping around the edges. But command such prices, there’s no way to keep a peace. It’s all or nothing.
So why did they reach across the bridge and destroy a Family? Linking up with some Virginia Raiders? He shook his head. Again, not bloody likely. Still just gangs in Virginia fighting over territory, too scattered, too stupid. They just didn’t have the long-hallowed tradition of organized criminal activity in Virginia as they did in DC. Even the Gate crooks were DC connected. The Families had the local gangs pretty much under control, and there’s no way Raiders could reach out to them without the Families finding out and doing something about it.
So what happened?
And, Brother John, more importantly, how did she end up here?
He watched the last of her popping and falling apart. Lots of questions in that. For
instance, how the hell whoever did this know he knew the Alexandrias? A spy in the Family? No, more likely a campus Vandal, one of the small-timers pilfering the place on a regular basis, selling off the art and valuables John hadn’t managed to hide. They sometimes left his Claymore traps neatly bundled up where he’d placed them. It was a joke. They weren’t even trying to kill him anymore, which was quite the insult.
But the smart-aleck campus Vandals could never muster the strength to take on a Family and win. He shook his head. Better scenario, the Mall Boys or Avenues recruited one of ’em to assist. Okay, he could buy that. So, why drag Missus all the way back here for the evening’s entertainment?
Warning. Threat.
But why? Really, why? Just ignore him, have a good laugh at his expense, stupid old fart cop, what’s he doing here, anyway? A joke, that’s what he was. “Ach!” an exasperated gasp through the kerosene rag.
No. He. Wasn’t.
So what, then, revenge? Some friend or lover of some Bundy or Vandal he had done? Well, then, just shoot him. Granted, John was particularly watchful and lucky and managed to spot ambushes before they triggered, but he had to be lucky all the time and what were the odds of that? Someone wanted payback, eventually, they’d get it. Again, no need to drag a screaming, raped and ripped woman all the way back here and hang her up for him to see.
Think bigger, John.
Okay, let’s see. How did he draw the Raiders’ ire, but in a way they preferred to warn rather than kill? Gate. Must have something to do with the Gate. Hmm.
Last time he’d been there, three weeks ago, did anything happen? He reviewed. Uneventful drive that time, no firefights, no one trying to hijack the Pathfinder, nothing. A little odd, but sometimes all the crapheads were up on 66 going through the cars and bodies instead of loitering on 50. So, no, not the drive.
The usual routine when he got there: checked in with Bill, walked around the tents a bit seeing what was what, gave the CDC and their ever-present needles and penchant for kidnap and live autopsies a wide berth.
Not that he needed to anymore. Bill told him the CDC had pretty much given up on Gate dwellers. Apparently, living close together did something to the Flu’s course. Gaters were passing the same bug back and forth, or something like that, which screwed up the trials. At least, that’s what the CDC told Bill. ’Course you can’t believe anything they said and maybe they’d look upon John’s casual arrival as a gift. So, avoid.
He’d walked over to the Gate itself and peered through the Mylar sheets. Bank Lizards over on the far side started waving at him, like always. John helped them out by waving back as frantically as they did, but actually, he was hoping for a glimpse of Collier standing over there.
Silly, of course. It was too far away and the sheets blurred everything and the Zone Guards always came up and blocked the view, nervous about his intentions. Didn’t stop John from trying.
After a few pointless minutes, he moved over to the video banks, grabbed an empty booth, and waited. After some time, the screen blinked on and there he was. “Didja see? Didja see?” Collier was excited, like always, and, like always, John lied, “Yeah, I saw ya,” and then they just looked at each other.
He’d become a man. Tall and strong and handsome, puzzling genetic traits because the only thing John shared with him was the tallness. Weird combination of Asia and Scots-Irish and German that gave the kid quite an exotic look.
He had his mother’s cast, the tell of her Japanese ancestry in his high cheekbones and eye slant, pale golden skin color with John’s green eyes; must drive the girls wild. His mother’s black-red hair, too, a color that always drove John wild, cropped short, of course. Coll’s nose balanced out to something between John’s honker and his mother’s tiny little mound, overseeing John’s very broad and merry smile, but, in Coll’s case, with actual lips.
Wasp-waisted and broad shouldered in his Provo uniform... God, he’s just perfect. Must have about 30 or 40 girlfriends, especially with the army doing such a good job of keeping the bachelor pool low.
John changed the view from head shot to full body, back and forth, while Coll babbled on about the hazards of the trip, how many times they had to pull weapons or show papers to make it here. That’s fine. Let him talk. John had almost unlimited time on the video because not a lot of people came to the Gate anymore. The booth was his until Bill alerted him someone else wanted it.
While Coll drew a breath, John told him about work but kept it mild. No need to depress him any further than circumstances did already. On to current events, of which John was quite knowledgeable, keeping up with Fox News Network now broadcasting out of Chicago (with none of the original anchors, of course, who never made it out of New York and DC). Then, the first of the arguments about plans, John against, and Coll for, the USAF, which John broke off before it got too heated, both of them holding uncompromising positions.
Coll backed up and then his buddies got on, always Davis of course, and a supporting cast that changed with each visit. This time it was Pearson and Reardon. They started out with how they were doing and then asked how John was doing and, always, what it was like.
John changed tactics and answered them brutally, honestly until they blanched, then he backed off. He didn’t want them getting any stupid ideas about sneaking in. Davis, as always, asked him to go look for his parents. Like always, he told him no. There was disappointment in the kid’s eyes, but John wouldn’t budge. It was hard enough making it out to the Gate in one piece, much less Baltimore, but that wasn’t John’s main reason.
In the beginning, John checked the homes of Coll’s buddies (those near enough, anyway), buried what he found and then came back and told them. They quit the Provos, joined the army and disappeared, maybe Saudi, maybe Mexico, who knew, because they were never heard from again. John blamed himself. He stole their hope. He wasn’t going to steal Davis’s.
Collier slapped in a tape, putting it in the second feed while Bill arranged picture-in-picture. Lacrosse game. Coll was a middie, an outstanding one at that, leading the Waynesboro Provo team in scoring so far this season. John watched the game while Collier and his pals provided running commentary. John loved it, watching his son’s deft movements.
Where did all that athletic talent come from? About the only thing John ever did was martial arts and at a fairly mediocre level, his two black belts notwithstanding. Collier played all the rough sports, football and rugby. He brought those tapes in season and John loved them.
Easy, while watching, to let the imagination go, be in the living room with Coll while Mom got nachos together and made them rewind it so she could see the score Coll just made...
John shook himself back to reality. The tape meandered off the game, onto other subjects like marching or some ceremony or Coll just goofing around, down at the river fishing or playing guitar. It ended and then Davis put on a few tapes because he had no one and John was the closest thing to Dad. So he watched and commented and joked just like any father would.
They got an hour and a half that time. Barely enough. He could have stood another three or four, even if it was just Coll and he staring at each other. Bill on the intercom, gentle, “Hey guys, got some others want to look.”
“All right, all right,” and John looked at Collier and said, “Time to go.” That was the exact point, like in every previous visit, where his heart rent. “Next month on the 15th?” Coll asked, being too damn manly but John could read it. Another rent heart. “Okay.”
They didn’t know how to leave the first few times. There were crowds then, big ones, and they had only about ten minutes in the booths and they didn’t know how very important it was to stop, just stop, so they lingered, catching a few minutes here and there as booths came open. Lingering can become your whole life. Look at the Bank Lizards, who sit there day after day watching for someone, anyone, waving and waving across those several hundred yards at the Mylar-obscured figure and hoping, just hoping, it’s their own Survivor making his way, fina
lly, to the feeds.
Collier was becoming one of them, so John ordered him back to Fishburne. “Get the hell back to school now. Come back on the 15th, next month. You hear me?” and he had stalked away, screaming in his own mind as Collier screamed in the microphone.
You have to stop.
Coll nodded and his face tightened but he didn’t cry. Neither did John. That wasn’t the way of things anymore. Men were men again, and they held it all in and looked stalwart and strong while dying inside because rage was for the enemy. That was Coll’s big reason for the USAF. John understood but no, Coll, not you, not the last of me. Coll slid out of the seat and maybe Davis or Reardon waved a hand in the camera and they were gone.
John stumbled out of the seat and back along one of the walls, pressing against it and probably sending the alarms into shock and making the Zone Guards real nervous but he was hoping, please God, that one of those obscured moving blurs way out there on the other side was actually Coll.
Pretend. John waved and all the Lizards waved and waved and then it was just ridiculous so he stopped. It took John a few moments to recover, and a yellow-shrouded ZeeGee came up from the Outside, cocked his head in query. John nodded and backed off. The ZeeGee lowered his rifle and sauntered away. John sauntered, too.
He wandered back along the fence and then cut among the pavilions and tents and Nissan huts, keeping his head down. Everyone kept his or her head down. For reasons John had yet to figure out, everyone seemed embarrassed. Not in the beginning, of course. Then, they’d all been a crazed, frantic family running around and gripping and crying and imploring each other: “Where are you from? What street? Did you know [insert name] or [insert another name]? Have you seen name or name?”
Bill said about 20,000 people arrived during the first months. Seemed like 40,000, quite a crowd here when John first showed up, a big, scattered tent city that started at Front Royal and went all the way to Middletown before the Gate was actually sited on the bridge.
He only stayed a few days the first time because he’d already decided to live in the house but he came back a lot, a lot more after he made contact with Collier. There was always a crowd milling about, those times. But, after a while, they left, too.