299 Days IX: The Restoration

by Glen Tate

  Pancakes.

  Grant remembered one of the first mornings out at the cabin after Lisa and the kids came out. Wes said one time over breakfast that his last meal would probably be pancakes. That comment had bothered Grant since that day and he never knew why. Now he did.

  This was all Grant’s fault. If Grant had remembered Wes saying that months ago, then he could have stopped Wes from eating the pancakes and Wes would have lived.

  Grant thought about that. Was it his fault? Because of pancakes? That was insane. Grant realized that absolutely irrational guilt comes from losses like this. The lack of sleep didn’t help either when it came to thinking straight. Grant took a deep breath. It wasn’t the pancakes or Grant that killed Wes.

  He had to get back to business, as hard as that was. For the first time, he noticed that Ryan, Pow, and Scotty had blood all over their clothes and gear. He started to say they needed to clean up, but what clothes would they change into? What extra set of kit did they have?

  Besides, Grant wanted the rest of the 17th to see that war was serious fucking business. They needed to see the blood and to understand what it was they were doing out there.

  “Gotta get back to work,” Grant said to the Team, ashamed that he had to leave Wes. They nodded. They understood. They, too, needed to go back out. They would go and help Bravo Company seal off the exits from the park. They wanted to be there when those fucking animals were flushed out of the woods. They wanted to see if no one was looking and then do some more ZT work. They would even use Wes' knife, just for the symbolism of it. This was personal now.

  Grant walked back to the area where the 17th was. He tried to look at his pamphlet that he was so proud of, but it didn’t mean anything anymore. All the strategy, all the thinking, all the planning, all the … everything was a joke. Meaningless. Words. What mattered was in the back of that truck.

  Grant pulled his black knit cap off and looked at the lieutenant’s bar stapled onto it. What a stupid piece of cloth that insignia was. Stapled on, not even sewn. What a joke. A piece of cloth. All of this was stupid.

  Grant wanted to be back on the range with Wes and the guys before all this started. Back when Grant had a wife and kids he could go home to. Back when he had a real job. Back when sick people had simple medicines to keep them alive and back before all this killing and dying and good people going insane. Like Mark. Poor Mark. And Luke. And Tammy. And especially Missy.

  The list went on. The list needed to stop. Everything needed to stop. It was out of control. Grant felt like he was physically spinning, thinking about all the things that needed to stop. He had to sit down. He was starting to pass out from exhaustion and hunger and stress.

  He abruptly sat down on the concrete outside the brewery. Sitting there, he realized that he needed to be back in control of things, which meant getting back to Pierce Point. Things were normal there. Wes wouldn’t have died there. They would still be riding around in a truck there and saying, “This never gets old” with big smiles on their faces. He could go home to his family there, too.

  Grant took off his black knit cap. He looked at the lieutenant’s bar on it. He tore it off. Grant had just resigned his commission. He and the Team were volunteers. Irregulars. They could go home at any time. That was what Grant would do. He’d done plenty. He was done. He went to go gather up the guys before they went out again.

  Grant got up off the concrete and took that first step toward the truck. He knew that if he walked up to it and said, “We’re done, guys. Let’s go back home,” that things would truly be over. Even if the guys didn’t come back to Pierce Point with him, it would be over for him. Over. He walked quickly to the truck, wanting to say something that couldn’t be taken back. He wanted this to be over with.

  He was two steps from the truck. The Team looked at him and realized he had something important to say. Grant opened his mouth and said, “Guys…”

  Just then, someone came up and grabbed Grant’s left arm. He swung around, reaching for his pistol with his right hand.

  Grant turned and saw a female soldier was grabbing him. Fortunately, he hadn’t drawn his pistol yet.

  The soldier exclaimed, “Lt. Matson! The Governor wants to talk to you.”

  Chapter 319

  “We Know Everything. Everything.”

  (January 3)

  She must be telling the truth, Ron Spencer thought as he was looking at Judy Kilmer. There was no faking that kind of shuddering, body-shaking crying.

  Ron hugged Judy. She needed that. She needed to know that she wasn’t a monster, that there was still some forgiveness and decency left in this world. Ron hugged her as she finished crying. He wasn’t hurrying her; he wanted her to get it all out.

  When she was done crying, she meekly asked, “What are you going to do, Ron?”

  Time to lie, he thought. As horrible as that was, he had to play it safe. After all, until five minutes ago, Judy was a Lima. She was very emotional and scared. For all Ron knew, Judy might run out and naively try to tell Carlos, Rex, and Scott that everything was okay and no one had to do anything like shoot someone. Ron knew otherwise.

  “You can stay here for a while,” Ron said, looking at the clock and noticing it was now after midnight, officially January third. Three days into the new year and look at how much had changed. A sobbing and apparently confessing Lima, like “Judge” Judy was there on Ron’s couch begging for forgiveness.

  “Sherri and the kids will take care of you,” Ron said. He knew that Judy loved his kids. She had a son of her own, but he never liked her. She had been so focused on her career that she never spent much time with him. He became a left-wing activist, which pleased Judy at the time, and moved to Washington, DC to work for a big union at the beginning of the last presidency. She hadn’t heard from him since. This ended up meaning that Ron’s adorable kids were Judy’s window into the world of functional families and happy kids.

  “Oh, the kids!” Judy said, suddenly happy. “Yes, yes, that would be nice. I can stay here tonight. It’s best not to be out there tonight. There have been some shooting sounds.” That was quite an understatement.

  “You bet,” Ron said, half feeling guilty about using his kids to keep Judy put, and half proud that he thought of it.

  Ron put his shotgun down and said, “I’m going to go talk to Carlos and the others. Unarmed. I just feel like we can work this out.”

  Judy clapped her hands like a little girl. “Oh yes!” she said. “That would be so great. Violence only begets more violence.” She thought that was in the Bible or something. That was the only part of the Bible she ever remembered.

  “No need for that,” Ron said, pointing toward the shotgun. “I’m going to go warn Len.”

  Judy nodded. Awesome, she thought. This really is working out. Without violence and guns. What a relief.

  “Sherri,” Ron called up the stairs to his wife. He went upstairs to explain why Judy would be staying at their house that night.

  Ron explained that Judy had told him about Carlos and them wanting to burn down their house and Len’s. He told her not to worry, and then explained his plan. Ron told the kids everything was okay and he’d be back in the morning.

  He went back downstairs with a coat on. “See you in the morning when everything’s been worked out,” he said to Judy.

  She gave him the thumbs up, feeling so glad this could be worked out peacefully.

  Ron walked out of his house and headed to Len’s. He wondered if that had been the last time he would ever leave his house. He quickly got there and did their secret knock on the door. It was kind of childish, but it was effective. A “daa daa, da da da, daa daa” knock.

  Len came to the door with a shotgun, but also knowing it was Ron. Len asked who was at the door and, when he heard Ron’s voice, opened it.

  “We have some work to do tonight,” Ron said. He told Len what had happened. Len was stunned, but not that surprised at the same time. He wouldn’t put anything past the Carlos Ca
bal, but this? Wow.

  Ron told Len the plan and asked to borrow a shotgun. Len nodded and they quickly headed out.

  They waited a few hours—long, long hours out in the cold and occasional drizzle—at the one point in the neighborhood on the route to both Ron’s and Len’s house. A chokepoint.

  Sure enough, at 4:35 a.m. Carlos, Rex, and Scott came walking into the neighborhood. Scott had a rifle or shotgun and Carlos had a gas can.

  Ron and Len silently watched as the three walked—they thought they were being so stealthy—to a place about twenty-five yards away. It was a pre-planned place Ron and Len came up with where there were no houses directly in front of them.

  Ron raised his borrowed shotgun. Len raised his, too. Each of them put three rounds of 00 buck into the three men. Just like they’d planned, Ron put one round in each of the three men from left to right and Len did the same from right to left. That would avoid confusion and make sure each target got two rounds of 00 buckshot.

  It was hard for Ron to shoot his last two targets because Len’s round had basically torn them in half. Fortunately, the spread on 00 pellets at twenty-five yards is pretty forgiving.

  Their ears were ringing as they reloaded. They had duck hunter guns that only held three rounds to make them legal under the game laws.

  Ron and Len waited a minute to see if Carlos had any back-up coming, which was very unlikely, but it was a reasonable precaution to take. People starting stirring in nearby houses. Six 12-gauge blasts in a subdivision was pretty hard not to notice, even when the surrounding city was in the middle of a battle.

  As part of the plan, Len kept his shotgun pointed at the bodies and in the direction any bad guys would come. Ron started knocking on the doors nearby. He was waking people up telling them to come out and see what had happened.

  There was Carlos with a full gas can—well, it was punctured with buck shot and the gas had leaked. There was Rex. Ron hoped Rex was wearing that stupid Che Guevara t-shirt when he died, but Rex’s chest was so blown apart and blood soaked that Ron couldn’t tell what shirt he had on. Ron really, really hated that shirt. Scott was dead and holding a shotgun. All three were blown to pieces. Blood was everywhere and was flowing in the street.

  Ron started to scream out, “These men were coming to my house and to Len’s to burn us down. Judy Kilmer told us so.” Ron wanted everyone to know what had happened and why.

  When another crowd of people timidly came out to see the commotion, Ron repeated what he’d previously said about Carlos and the others and what they were planning to do.

  Then he added, to the now-larger crowd, “They said they were going to show us that the ‘legitimate authorities were still in charge.’”

  Ron pointed down at the dead bodies and yelled, “There you have it, folks. The ‘legitimate authorities’ with a can of gas coming to burn out two families. That’s your ‘legitimate authorities’ for you. That’s what they do. But they’re ‘legitimate’ so it must be okay – right?”

  Everyone was silent. It was time for Ron to yell out what he’d been wishing he could say for months.

  “The Patriots have won!” he screamed. “We have taken the city. And our intelligence is telling us about things like what these guys planned to do, how they planned, and when they were going to do it,” he said pointing down at the bodies. “We know about everything. Everything.”

  He paused. He wanted the word “everything” to settle into them.

  “So this is your chance, your only chance, to come clean,” he yelled, looking each of them in the eye. “Come and tell me all the things you were forced to do for the ‘legitimate authorities’ and you will be pardoned. I will see to it that you are pardoned. Work with us and we’ll take care of you. No revenge. Forgive and forget. Forgive and forget.”

  Ron paused and then yelled, “But if you continue to fight us, you’ll end up like them. We know everything. Everything.”

  Later that morning, people came over to Ron’s house and wanted to talk to him privately. Ron had a notebook of paper and took notes as people confessed what they’d done for the government. They were ashamed. The most common thing they admitted was turning in neighbors in an attempt to get extra FCard credits. No one did anything that led to anyone dying or going to a TDF, but still. People were tattling on, or outright lying about, their neighbors to gain favor with Carlos so they could get extra little things and not be a target themselves.

  Everyone stressed that to Ron. “We just did this so they wouldn’t come after us,” they said. Exactly, Ron thought. Help out the system that you know is doing terrible things, just so you will be left alone. So you will keep your privileges. So no one will think you’re a “right-winger.” Helping the system so they don’t come after you. That’s how it had been for a long time.

  Ron looked at his notes. Confession after confession of shameful and regrettable things. Friends betraying friends. What he read bothered him, disturbed him. This was sick and stuff like this wasn’t supposed to happen in America. But this wasn’t America anymore.

  Chapter 320

  Reconciliation

  (January 3)

  “The Governor?” Grant asked the soldier who had grabbed his arm. The governor of the old state? The Lima governor? Huh?

  “The Interim Governor,” the soldier said. “Gov. Trenton.”

  What?

  “Ben Trenton?” Grant asked, jokingly.

  “Yes, sir,” the soldier said. “That’s his first name. I’m pretty sure.”

  No way. How could this soldier know that Grant and Ben were old friends? Or that they had talked about how crazy it would be if Ben ever were the governor. Grant thought he was hallucinating from the sleep deprivation.

  “Are you kidding me, soldier?” Grant asked, in his lieutenant’s voice. “I’m not in a laughing mood right now,” he said, looking over at Wes.

  “No, sir,” the soldier said confidently. “Gov. Trenton’s office wants to see you. A security detail will be arriving in a few minutes to take you there.”

  This must be real, Grant thought. Shit. Ben was really the governor—or Interim Governor or whatever he was. What are the odds?

  You should know by now.

  Hearing the outside voice gave Grant goose bumps. It comforted him, too, because he knew the things that were happening, especially Wes' death, were supposed to happen.

  Grant still couldn’t fully believe that Ben was the Governor. All the evidence pointed toward that—especially if a security detail came soon and took Grant. But … Grant couldn’t really comprehend it all. He had slowly come to understand and accept all the “coincidences.” Getting the cabin, knowing Ted and Chip, Gideon’s semi, having all the food and guns out at Pierce Point. But Ben as Governor was just too much. It made all the things out at Pierce Point and with the 17th seem like they were mere preparations for something truly big.

  Yes.

  Grant’s goose bumps came back when he heard the outside thought confirm his assumptions. Grant had thought things were already pretty amazing, but this was an order of magnitude more amazing.

  This got Grant thinking. He tried to suspend his normal thought process which looked at things in terms of what is likely to happen, instead of what miracles could possibly happen. Okay, he told himself as he waited for the security detail to pick him, anything is possible. Anything. Think big. Don’t limit yourself to the likely.

  What should Grant try to do at the Governor’s Office? What would be considered thinking big?

  Blank. Grant’s mind was blank. He had no idea. He didn’t know what to ask the Governor for or what he needed to accomplish. Blank.

  Reconciliation.

  That was it! Avoiding a French Revolution outcome. Preventing the people of this state from tearing each other apart for decades with reprisals and blood feuds. Getting people to reconcile with their former enemies and to move on and make things livable again in this place.

  A pick-up full of contractor-looking guys pull
ed up to the vehicle checkpoint at the intersection in front of the brewery. The driver showed something to the guards, they pointed toward Grant and Grant signaled that he was coming over.

  Grant started walking toward the truck. He came up to the driver, who had a State Patrol badge out. The old state badge. It was pretty obvious he wasn’t a Lima, though.

  “Looks like you’re my ride,” Grant said to him. He noticed that many of the contractor guys had “Wash. State Guard” name tapes on their jackets.

  “Your name, sir?” the driver asked.

  “Lt. Grant Matson,” Grant said.

  “Then we are your ride, sir,” the driver replied.

  One of the occupants of the cab, who was in standard State Guard fatigues with name tapes and all, got out and made room for Grant.

  “No,” Grant said to the soldier, who he noticed had captain’s bars on his uniform. “No, sir,” Grant added, seeing the bars. “I ride in the back. I’m used to it.”

  Grant had a surge of cockiness come over him, so he added, “I’m a 17th Irregular, sir. It’s how we roll.” He had no idea why he said that, except that he was thoroughly enjoying this moment. He knew nothing bad could happen to him, not if the Governor wanted to see him.

  The captain smiled and got back into the cab. He was happy to stay warm while their guest rode in the back.

  Grant climbed in the back of the truck with three other guys and the truck took off. Grant was happy that the rain had finally stopped. Grant asked the guys what unit they were in.

  “We’re assigned to SOC,” one of them said, referring to the Special Operations Command.

  “Let me guess,” Grant said, “You used to work with Lt. Col. Hammond at Ft. Lewis back in the day.”

  The contractors smiled. “Yes, sir,” one of them answered.

  “Ted Malloy is my First Sergeant,” Grant said. They all knew Ted. Some of them knew Sap, too. They talked about how many former Special Forces guys were Oath Keepers and had come over to the Patriot side. Knowing how many SF guys were at Boston Harbor shed light on why HQ was able to do all the amazing things it had been doing. They talked until the truck pulled up at the old WAB building.