“I don’t believe the two of you are involved. If you are, then I’m dead as we speak.”
The two soldiers looked at each other, confusion on their faces.
“Where are you from? Where is your billet?”
“Smyrna.” Castro hesitantly replied. “Why?”
Relief flooded Claire’s voice as she asked, “Do you know Billy Sims?”
“Sure,” Jackson replied. “He’s a friend.”
“Then I have a story to tell you, and I swear it’s true. I just hope you believe me.”
For the next five minutes, they stood in front of the HUMVEE while Claire told them about disappearing patients and the chaos her family was facing.
“And that’s why I need to get to my friend’s house. I have to talk to my dad. I need to know what to do.”
Castro gave Jackson a look before replying. “Doc, I believe you. We’ve heard some nasty rumors, and what you’re telling me jives with them.”
Castro turned to Jackson and barked out a command. “NVG’s Jackson. Take the deuce. We’re going in there.”
Jackson and Castro each retrieved a tube with a cantilevered arm from a pouch on their MOLLE belts. Snapping it onto a square mount on the front of their helmets, they both rotated the lens over their left eye and a green glow bathed their faces as the night vision monocular came to life.
“Front seat, Ma’am” Castro commanded, opening the passenger door for Claire.
Jackson moved to the back and stood up through a hatch in the metal roof of the HUMVEE. He took his place behind “Ma Deuce,” the M-2 machine gun mounted to the top of their vehicle. Pulling back on a handle on the right side of the gun, he racked the slide, putting a live round into the firing chamber.
Jackson leaned down into the cab of the HUMVEE and yelled out, “Locked and loaded!” He pulled himself back into position behind the machine gun and slapped the metal roof three times, indicating that he was ready to go.
“Which way, ma’am?” Castro asked.
“Claire,” she replied. “Please, call me Claire.”
“Maybe after we get out of the hot zone.”
“Go to the right and down the street to the end,” Claire said.
The vehicle’s huge, turbine V8 engine roared to life as Castro steered around the barrier’s vehicles and made her way to the makeshift blockade The HUMVEE pushed one of the barricade’s SUVs to the side.
With the lights out, and the moon shining down, they were still visible. But the NVG monocular that each of them wore, lit up the night in a bright green hue. As far as the two soldiers were concerned, it was mid-day when they looked through the light intensifiers that were over their left eyes.
“Fourth house on the right,” Claire said, as they made the turn at the bottom of the hill.
“See anything?” Castro asked over her military headset.
Claire couldn’t hear Jackson’s response over the rumble of the HUMVEE’s engine, but given that they continued down the road, she assumed that all was clear.
Claire touched Castro’s right arm and pointed to the single-story home where she had last visited Slack. The tall evergreen bushes that flanked the front door hid the entrance from view. Castro she turned the big machine and drove up the curb and onto the front lawn, then stopped directly in front of the house.
“Doc, you stay here until I give you the green light,” Castro said to Claire. “Jackson, cover me.”
Castro brought her rifle up and walked heel to toe to the front porch, then disappeared into the shadows between the tall bushes. A moment later, Jackson dropped back into the cab and exited through the rear door. Claire sat in silence for what seemed an eternity before Jackson returned.
“This way, ma’am,” he said as he opened her door.
“Is he in there?” Claire asked.
“I’m sorry, we were too late.”
Jackson produced a flashlight and guided her through the darkened house. Claire saw light ahead and entered the room where Castro stood. A camping lantern glowed in the kitchen, and another lit up the back bedroom.
“Slack?” Claire asked, already knowing that her only contact with her parents was dead in the next room.
Castro just nodded toward the open door. Claire hesitated for a moment then walked into the room. Slack was still in his wheelchair, his head tilted back. Multiple bullet holes riddled his torso. His mouth was open and his lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling. Rigor had yet to set in as Claire examined his body, so his death had occurred no more than a few hours ago. She gently closed his eyes and then turned to examined the desk. The radio and various other electronic equipment had been destroyed by multiple bullets. The HAM setup, a vintage Hallicrafter SX-122 he had owned since the early 70’s, was now a useless pile of wires and vacuum tubes.
Claire lifted the camp lantern from the floor, shining its light on the desktop. Papers were strewn haphazardly, and Claire began examining them to see if anything of value could be salvaged.
“Come on, Doc,” Castro said. “We can’t hang out here. There may be more of them.”
“A moment,” Claire said. “Let me at least gather these papers to bring with us.”
“You’ve got sixty seconds,” Castro replied. “Jackson, get back out front and set up overwatch.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Claire was collecting the various papers when she caught her name written down with what looked like red marker. She brought the page close to the lantern.
Claire, don’t forget to take my car.
“What the…?” Claire said loud enough for Castro to hear.
“Whatcha got?”
“That crazy Slack. He left me a note to take his car. But he doesn’t have a car.”
“What about that?” Castro said, pointing to a car fob that sat on a shelf above the destroyed radio.
“Why is it flashing?” Castro asked.
“I don’t know,” Claire said, as she examined the wireless car controller. “There’s no car name or logo on it.”
“Maybe it’s a duplicate?”
“But he doesn’t have a car. He told me that much when I was here last time. He sold it years ago to help pay for his motorized wheelchair.”
Castro moved next to Claire and took the fob, using her flashlight to inspect it more closely.
“That’s weird,” Castro said. “It’s got a smart card slot.”
Castro pushed on the edge of the card, releasing the tiny memory chip from its slot. Examining the fob again, she smiled.
“I’ll be damned. It’s a video recorder.”
Claire collected all the sheets of paper and stuffed them into a plastic grocery bag she found lying on the floor.
“I’m ready,” Claire said.
Castro gave Claire the memory card. “Hold this and don’t lose it. We’ll have to use a computer back at Smyrna to see what’s on that thing.”
“Smyrna?” Claire asked. “I thought you were going to the Nashville airport?”
***
“Oh, we’re going there to drop off the supplies, but we’re heading on to Smyrna for the night,” she said. “I know that our C.O. will want to hear your story.”
They returned to the HUMVEE, and Castro ordered Jackson back to the machine gun. Claire sat in the front passenger seat, staring out of the window at the darkened city as they drove, wondering just what she had gotten herself into. The HUMVEE’s dashboard gave off little light, so she had to wait before she could read Slack’s notes.
The trip to the Nashville airport took less than ten minutes. There were no further incidents, and Claire began feeling much more at ease when she saw the airport’s lights painting the dark Tennessee sky.
Approaching the northwest corner of the airport, Route 155 crossed over Interstate 40. As they crested the top of the overpass, Claire gave an audible gasp as she saw tens of thousands of people amassed on the flat, concrete grounds of the airport. Buses were leaving the facility, a seemingly endless line of yellow and grey me
tal boxes spewing diesel fumes. They passed at least a dozen Greyhounds and school buses that were merging onto the interstate, breaking east and west depending on their destination.
Castro turned into the airport’s commercial loading area. A DHS agent, backed by a variety of manned assault vehicles, stood guard. After passing over their orders and identification cards, they quickly dispensed with their cargo and returned to the gate. When they stopped to pick up their ID cards, they watched as another dozen buses rumbled past them on their journey out of town. All the transports were full of people; Claire could see their silhouettes in the foggy windows. Who were they? And where were they being taken?
Once the road was clear, they were waved through and the three of them were off on the final leg of their trip to the Smyrna airport and the Air National Guard’s relocated headquarters. The fifteen-mile trip took nearly forty-five minutes. After clearing security, Castro pulled up to a building about a quarter mile from the main gate near the runway. The concrete tarmac was littered with lifeless aircraft. Several more darkened administrative buildings sat just ahead, all as lifeless as the Guard’s dead helicopters. To her right were multiple apartment-like structures, each with a few lit windows. No one was outside.
“This way, ma’am.” Castro said as she hopped out of the driver’s side door and began walking up the sidewalk.
Claire wearily grabbed her plastic bag of papers and unconsciously touched her front pocket where she felt the outline of the memory card. Just inside the front door, a guard sat at a metal desk. Castro reported to him, and after a minute or two in hushed conversation, the guard picked up an old push-button phone and made a call.
“Follow me, please,” the soldier said. “Sully, take over.”
Another soldier, this one armed with an M-16, appeared from an alcove to her left. Claire was amazed that she hadn’t even noticed his presence until just then. Castro and Claire followed the first guard and were led into an office marked “Commanding Officer.”
“Take a seat,” the guard ordered. “The colonel will be here momentarily.”
Castro sat stiffly in one of the room’s chairs while Claire chose to stand instead. She was tired from riding in the HUMVEE; its thinly padded plastic seats transmitted every bump and pothole.
“How can you sit down after riding in that thing all day?” Claire asked.
“Those were my orders,” Castro simply replied.
Claire roamed the room, looking at a wall display of plaques as well as the official picture of the president. Claire wasn’t much for politics; her life had been too busy for it to be a concern for her. She looked at the picture but found it uninteresting. Other than skin color, this president’s photograph presented the same sanguine smile as all the other ones she had seen. It was a look she had never cared for. Given the constant problems a president faced, the optimistic grin seemed fake and out of place. The one thing she knew was that if she was ever elected president, her photograph would reflect an expression of sheer terror. It amazed her than anyone would want the job.
The clicking sound of shoes on the linoleum hallway floor approached and then stopped just outside the room. On cue, the door opened and a smartly dressed man entered. Greying temples and eyebrows indicated he was likely in his late fifties, but his physique spoke of a disciplined man, with a tapered waist and wide shoulders.
Castro snapped to attention, presenting a crisp salute and barking out her name.
“Sir, Specialist Janice Castro reporting.”
The officer gave her a gentle smile and returned the salute. “At ease, Castro. It’s too late to be so damned energetic.”
“Yes sir,” she replied, but she continued to stand stiffly with arms behind her back.
The officer went to Claire and held out his hand. “I’m Colonel Cooper,” he said as they shook hands. “Thank you for coming. Let’s go to my office.”
Three of them went through a second door and into his private office. After seating himself behind his desk, Cooper folded his hands on the desktop and looked up at Claire.
“Well, I’ve been told you have a story you’d like to tell me.”
His eyes and smile gave her all the confidence she needed. After almost ten uninterrupted minutes, including a description of her missing renal patients and other rumors she had gleaned from people she had treated in her emergency room, she produced the memory card and handed it to the colonel.
“I haven’t gone through the papers yet,” Claire said. “But that shouldn’t take much time.”
“Go ahead and get started.” Cooper punched some buttons on his phone and said, “Get I.T. over here right away with a secure laptop and memory card reader.”
Claire began going through the papers, putting them in a neat pile as she pulled each one out of the stuffed plastic grocery bag. About half way through, she found a handwritten note.
It read:
Message from Cornbread as follows – For Lady Doc
Contact father as soon as possible. Everyone is safe and healthy but situation has become dangerous. Confirmed mass murders by DHS agents. Incinerator plant outside Leesburg being used as crematory for sick and other undesirables. Thousands dead. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t talk about missing patients. DO NOT TRUST HOMELAND SECURITY.
Claire began to tremble as she re-read the message. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Cooper saw her crying and came out of his chair.
“What is it?” He put his hand on her shoulder. The fatherly gesture set off a range of pent up emotions and, Claire let loose with a full throttled sob. As she fell again the kind, older man’s chest, he put his arm around her and motioned for Castro to bring some Kleenex from his bathroom.
“Here,” he said, handing her a tissue. “Now what’s caused all those tears?”
Claire handed him the note.
“That’s from my dad,” she said. “If he says that DHS is committing genocide, I believe him.”
Cooper re-read the note then put it down on his desk, his face tensed in anger. He sat heavily in his chair and was about to speak when there was a knock at the door.
“Enter!”
“Sir, Specialist Rooney from I.T., reporting as ordered.”
After the specialist set up the laptop and attached the card reader, the colonel turned to him and asked, “Is this machine secured?”
“Yes sir, the computer was wiped clean and we are not on the network.”
“What’s that about?” Claire asked.
“Viruses,” the colonel replied. “Without knowing the history and source of this memory card, we’ve isolated the computer from the rest of our network. Can’t be too careful.”
The tech inserted the card and once the computer recognized it, Rooney navigated to the appropriate dialog box.
“Sir, just double-click on the icon and you’ll be able to see its contents.”
“Go ahead, Rooney.”
Specialist Rooney opened the card and found two large movie files.
“Shall I, sir?”
“Go ahead.”
The first movie file showed the final moments of Slack’s life. The old man stared straight into the camera, a look of weary resignation on his lined face, and began to speak:
This is first sergeant Michael R. Creighton, retired United States Marines. This is my final report. Doc Kramer, I hope it’s you and that you’ve found my note from your father. From what I’ve been hearing these last few months, and from what ole’ cornbread has been saying, we’ve got ourselves a mess. Lots of people disappearing once the government gets involved.
Just a few minutes ago, one of the neighbors came down and said that DHS is at our front gate with enough heavy firepower to wipe our neighborhood off the face of the earth. They want to take us all away to their relocation camp. I can hear heavy engines out there. Even if they spare the others, I’m one of the ones they don’t have a use for. I hope you find me with an empty gun in my hand.
***
When the recording ended
, the colonel sat back in his chair and began to rub his temples.
“My God,” he finally said. “Can this really be happening?”
He double-clicked the second file. It was Slack once again, but the camera was tilted at a slight angle and he was facing away from the screen. Claire guessed he had placed the recording fob on the shelf where Castro had first noticed it.
Someone was pounding on the door of his home. Seconds later, a crash sounded as they broke down the door. A voice shouting orders was calling for the men to search the house. All the while Slack waited, facing his inevitable death.
The retired Marine brought up a .45 handgun and racked the slide. Pointing the pistol at the door, he called out to the men just outside.
“What the hell do you want? Just leave me alone.”
“Come on out, old man. Your neighbors said you’d be in here.”
“I can’t come out,” Slack yelled back. “My wheelchair’s out of power.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” a man said as he opened the door.
BLAM! BLAM!
The 1911 handgun spoke twice, sending its 230-grain hollow point bullets into the head of the DHS agent. A stunned look flickered across the man’s face as the back of his head exploded. His body landed on the kitchen’s linoleum floor at the feet of two more agents.
Slack emptied his magazine at the men in the kitchen. When his slide stayed back after his last round had been spent, an agent with a DHS logo on his tactical vest stepped into the doorway and emptied his thirty-round magazine in full automatic mode.
It was over in less than three seconds. Slack was dead, the gun falling from his limp hand onto the floor, and his beloved HAM radio equipment had died with him.
“Son of a bitch!” the DHS agent shouted. The camera continued to record as men dragged the two downed Homeland agents out of the kitchen. The agents left, not bothering to search the house, but the video continued to record. After almost five more minutes of viewing an empty room, the colonel stopped the movie.
The four of them sat in silence as they tried to process what they had just seen.
Charlie's Requiem: Resistance Page 11