SNAFU: Future Warfare

by Geoff Brown

  I felt my anger rise. Not only was it ludicrous that I was being blamed for her missing an arm and eye, but that she’d forgotten how we’d ended our relationship. No, not just forgotten, entirely reframed the narrative. I kept my voice low, but I couldn’t keep the anger out of it.

  “You remember the month we had together, right?”

  She nodded.

  “You remember our dates. Seeing Matrix Reloaded. Santa Monica Pier. Ventura. That party off of Laurel Canyon Drive.”

  Each date got a nod. Somehow she remembered those but not the way it ended.

  “Do you remember dropping me off at the airport?”

  She shook her head.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  “You promised to marry me when you returned from deployment,” she said softly.

  I shook my head. “What? Marry you?”

  My words struck her like a slap to the face. She turned her head and opened her mouth, unwilling to look at me.

  “You want to keep it down, boss?” Crefloe asked.

  I nodded. “Got it. Just watch our six.” Then to Suzie I said, “Marry you? I have never once said that to you or any other woman on the planet. I don’t know what you’re talking about, Suzie. That never happened.”

  “You never wrote. You never sent an email. It was as if you’d fallen off the face of the planet.”

  “You said it was just a fling.”

  “No, I answered your question with ‘Yes’.”

  “What question?” My blood pressure shot through the top of my head. “Suzie,” I whispered harshly. “I never asked you to marry me. That never ever happened.”

  She glanced at me as if I were a piece of gum on the ground she was about to step over, then looked away.

  I stood and went to Crefloe so I could cool down. “How many?”

  “I counted three men and two women. The women are never left alone. It could be nothing or it could be something.” He shrugged.

  “Weapons?”

  “Men have pistols. Two hunting rifles.” He glanced behind me. “You know, we really should be moving on.”

  I nodded. “I know. But we can’t. I want you to get inside the barn and report to me.”

  He looked at the hundreds of feet of open ground between here and the barn. “You have got to be kidding. They’ll see me right away.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  He did a double take.

  “When they come after you, run to the wood line. I have a plan.”

  “Can I return fire?”

  “Only if you have to. This might all be for nothing”

  Crefloe shook his head. “I heard that scream. That was not nothing.”

  * * *

  I guess me trying to find out how Suzie lost her arm drove her bat shit crazy. She wasn’t moving until I did something about the girl and somehow, in some alternate universe, she believed I’d asked her to marry me. I’d done some things to the girls of planet Earth to get into their pants that I’m not exactly proud of, but proposing marriage and running wasn’t one of them.

  Crefloe and I had come up with a plan. We’d even involved Suzie, although I wasn’t sure if she’d be able to pull her part off. The plan wasn’t exactly complicated, but it did have some moving parts, so I’d have to make sure we were careful.

  It was early afternoon. I’d have preferred it be darker, but I didn’t want to stick around here longer than we had to. As it was, I was only doing this to ameliorate Suzie’s needs.

  Crefloe waited for my signal. I squelched my walkie and he began walking across the grass toward the barn. One foot in front of the other, easy as you please, as if he was out for a stroll. Just a guy with military grade weapons, a pack on his back, walkie on his belt with receiver-transmitter affixed to his chest, and dressed in black who means no harm. He could have been a militant Mormon marching up to a door in the days of yore or perhaps even a Seventh Day Adventist who was going to force his neighbors to convert at the point of a gun. He was anything but a decoy out to do lots of harm.

  But I wasn’t watching him. I was watching the house. I was looking for the hand. And there it was, pulling aside the curtain. This time I saw the face – old, wrinkled, one side sagging from what had probably been a stroke. His mouth moved and ten seconds later the front door opened and two men poured out onto the porch. They both had hunting rifles.

  One of the men brought his rifle up to his shoulder and I said, “Down,” into the walkie just as the man fired.

  Crefloe had listened and now picked himself off the ground and began trotting toward the barn.

  The other man lifted his rifle and prepared to fire.

  “Down.”

  This time Crefloe dove to his left.

  The man fired and missed.

  This wasn’t good. I was playing chicken with a human being.

  Both men swore, leaped off the porch and began running toward the intruder.

  Crefloe turned and ran straight for the wood line.

  I watched as he juked and jived, diving and rolling to the safety of the trees. Our plan truly was a piece of magnificent shit. We should have just walked away or else gone in blasting but Suzie had thrown me so off with her crazed nonsense that I was having trouble thinking straight.

  I eased myself out of the copse, glancing once at Suzie who was curled into a ball, sucking her thumb. Black Johnson’s words rang through me and I cursed myself for being too proud not to heed them. With the trees screening me from the house, I crouched and made it to the woods as well. I could hear the two men crashing through saplings and brush, eager to get to Crefloe. I squelched my walkie twice, then continued to move through the wood, careful of each footfall.

  When I made it to the immense oak I’d seen earlier, I flattened myself on the other side. The tree had probably seen the rise and fall of Los Angeles, witnessing not only the first settlers in their wagons and from ships, but the invasion and placement of the hives, and the eventual destruction of them by me and the other team. It was as wide as two people, the bark rough like the ridges of the fingers of an ancient man.

  Thirty seconds later, Crefloe ran past, limping extravagantly. He kept going about twenty meters, then stopped, edging himself mostly behind a tree, bent over, hands on knees, huffing and puffing.

  The sounds of crashing drew closer. I flattened myself even more, becoming one with the tree. Making sure my elbows were in, I held my M4 against my chest, barrel straight up, my nose tickling the ACOG scope.

  The men stopped behind my tree.

  “Drop your weapons,” one shouted, pressing the barrel of his .306 along the left side of the tree, close enough for me to grasp it.

  Another barrel pressed forward from the right and looked to be a .30-30 Winchester.

  “Yeah. Throw ‘em down.”

  Crefloe, who I could just make out, peered around his tree. “Can’t you just let me go? I wasn’t doing no harm.”

  “How do we know that?” asked .30-30.

  “What were you doing by our barn?” asked .306.

  “Looking for someone so I could introduce myself.”

  “He’s bullshitting us,” .306 whispered.

  “Let’s hear him out,” .30-30 whispered back.

  “I mean of course I was walking toward your barn,” Crefloe continued. “Wouldn’t it have been more suspicious had I been sneaking about?”

  “He makes a good point,” whispered .306, “but I still feel like he’s bullshitting. Something’s not right here.”

  “Your spidey senses are for shit, Amos.” Louder, .30-30 said, “Who are you and where are you from?”

  “Crefloe Johnson. I’m from Mother’s Compound.”

  After a few moments of silence, “That the one over on Big Cienaga?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Why you contacting us now?”

  “Wanted to reach out to you as an ambassador, so to speak. Heard about you all. Wanted to let you know that we’re at peace with
you, so to speak.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” .30-30 said, “but why did you run?”

  “Because you were shooting at me. Listen, I’m not a bad guy. I’m a scrounger. I’m sure you have scroungers too. I know where things are that people might need. I can’t carry everything with me, so I just mark their locations and know that I can always return. I can be of help. If there’s something you need and I know where it is, I can go get it or tell you where it is – in the spirit of cooperation so to speak.”

  His words were met with silence. Even .306 wasn’t expressing his desire to shoot on sight.

  Crefloe stepped out from behind the tree.

  This was the moment. Was he going to be shot or was he going to get them to cooperate?

  I’d left it up to him in the planning. He was sure he’d know the moment. We’d find out right now. I tensed, ready to grab one of the rifle barrels and begin firing.

  Crefloe held his hands half-heartedly in the air. “Look. I have a pair of pistols, but nothing else.”

  “We’re going to need those pistols.”

  Crefloe nodded, his hands still up and began to walk slowly toward them.

  The barrels of both rifles pulled back. I heard the men crunch leaves as they backed away.

  Crefloe could have easily made eye contact with me, but he kept his gaze straight ahead instead.

  “What’s up with your skin?” .306 asked. “Get acid thrown on you or something?”

  “Vitiligo,” Crefloe said. “It’s a skin condition. Soon I’ll be white just like you.”

  “Seriously?” .306 asked, wonder in his voice.

  “Seriously. They have the reverse too… called Blavitiligo. It’s where people turn black.”

  “Now you’re fucking with me,” .306 said.

  “Wouldn’t do that to a guy holding a rifle on me.” They removed his pistols. “They think it’s something the aliens brought.”

  “Is it contagious?” .30-30 asked.

  “Dunno. It’s just a weird condition. Doesn’t hurt. Doesn’t tingle. But the whiter I get the more superior I start to feel.” Crefloe laughed. “Know what I mean?”

  .30-30 laughed with him. “You made all of that up, didn’t you?”

  Crefloe chuckled. “Yeah. Sorry. Couldn’t help it. It was just the look on this guy’s face.”

  “Amos, he’s right. I thought you were going to shit your pants right here.”

  .306, whose name was evidently Amos, sighed. “That was messed up, Steve.” Then to Crefloe he added, “Come on. Let’s get you in front of the Rev so we can clear you and you can get on your way.”

  “Can I put my hands down?” Crefloe asked. “After all, you’re behind me.”

  “I suppose so,” Steve said.

  It wasn’t until they began moving away that I risked a look. They’d both shouldered their rifles and were walking behind Crefloe. Sure enough, he’d made them comfortable. He could sell crack to the Pope, given the chance.

  Now it was my turn.

  Go time.

  I lowered my M4. “Don’t move.” Two simple yet effective words.

  Steve and Amos stopped cold. Their backs tensed. Their hands went to their rifles.

  “I’ll shoot you before you can even get it clear,” I said. “Now turn around.”

  They both turned. Amos’s face was ash white beneath red hair. Steve’s was beet red beneath brown hair. Their eyes went from my M4 to my face, then back again.

  “Crefloe, if you please.”

  He turned around a big smile on his face. “Put your hands in the air.”

  They both did.

  Crefloe disarmed them, including regaining his pistols. He then frisked them, finding Steve’s ankle pistol and a pistol at the small of Amos’s back. Once completely disarmed, I had them remove their clothes. They tried to argue out of it, but I made my countenance such that they knew I wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

  Once I had them sitting naked back to back, I began my interrogation.

  * * *

  Interrogations are strange things. No two are ever the same. There’s no magic word to make someone speak. There’s no defined method. Listening to what’s said and not said is as important as knowing what to say. Hollywood, as usual, got it wrong. Although I absolutely loved Crease’s interrogation of the kidnapper in Tony Scott’s movie Man on Fire. Cutting off Amos’s and Steve’s fingers, then cauterizing them probably wouldn’t be the best way to engender trust. Torture was basically useless. The only time I’d seen it used was in Afghanistan where a UK soldier went missing and his life was in imminent danger. Ten minutes, a knife, a threat to kill the man’s family, and a dedicated interrogator got the exact location of the missing soldier who was rescued alive. But those were on-offs. Normally, information gained from torture was unverifiable until it was too late. After all, if someone was torturing me, I’d tell them anything just to make the pain stop.

  The greatest advantage an interrogator had was not fear and it wasn’t hope. Those were both palpable emotions to which one could latch on. No, the greatest advantage was uncertainty... and as long as I could keep uncertainty alive in the hearts of my two prisoners, the better chance at my success.

  Using the hours of the clock, I stood at twelve and Crefloe stood at six. Amos faced nine and Steve faced three. Their hands were ziptied in front of them. They were told not to move, not to look anywhere but straight ahead, and to cooperate. The idea was to depersonalize the situation. Without me to focus on, it would be harder for them to mentally defend against my techniques.

  We stood silently for exactly seventeen minutes and eight seconds before someone said a word. It wasn’t me, nor was it Crefloe. Instead, it was Amos.

  “What’s going on? I thought this was an interrogation?” he said, trying to keep the quavering out of his voice. He had a big build. He wasn’t fat, probably only because McDonald’s had ceased to exist. His round face held a worried look that was akin to eating bad pudding.

  Neither Crefloe nor I answered.

  Two minutes twelve seconds later, “Seriously, what’s going on?” Amos turned to look at me.

  “Don’t look at me,” I said leveling the M4 at his face.

  His head jerked back and he once again turned to face nine o’clock.

  “Shut up, Amos. This is a tactic,” Steve said.

  “Actually, it’s not,” I said. “I’m waiting on someone. When she gets here the interrogation will begin.”

  “Someone? Who’s coming?” Steve asked without turning.

  “An asshole you’ll regret meeting,” I said. “I hate her methods.”

  “Whatever you might think about them,” Crefloe said, his voice low and calm, “You have to admit that they work.”

  I made a face. “But they don’t leave much.”

  “What are you talking about?” Amos asked breathlessly.

  “Shut up,” Steve whispered. “It’s a tactic.”

  I checked my watch and yawned.

  After thirty-three seconds, Amos asked, “If it’s a tactic then why aren’t they asking us any questions.”

  I watched Steve as he tried to work through the question for the answer and failed. He frowned.

  “Listen, man,” Crefloe said on cue, “If you’re so worried about their safety, then why not ask them what we want to know?”

  “You know how she gets. I don’t want her mad at me again,” I said.

  Steve shifted. His pallid skin was pulled tight on a thin frame. He had a tattoo on his right arm. USMC.

  “She’s usually not this late. Want me to call her?” Crefloe asked.

  “No. She wanted radio silence,” I said.

  A minute and four seconds later, “Listen, maybe we can make a deal,” Steve said.

  I shook my head. “It’s probably too late.”

  “I mean, what is it you want? We don’t really know anything so if you want to know something, then we can probably tell you.”

  I shook my head. “I don
’t know. How do I know you’re going to honest?”

  Amos licked his lips. He tried to look at me without moving his head. “There’s no reason to lie. We have nothing to hide. Look, I’m Amos Dayton and this is Steve Frembly. We’ve been friends for about a year and watch each other’s backs.”

  “How many others live in the house?” Crefloe asked.

  “Five,” Amos said.

  Steve closed his eyes as he said, “There’s Emma Driscoll, Frank Spatz, Sara Wong, Rolando, Carl Upchurch and The Rev.”

  “The Rev?” I asked.

  “He owns the house and the barn out back. He let us stay and in exchange we help protect him.”

  “Who is the girl?” I asked.

  Steve snapped his mouth shut.

  “See that. And we were doing so well too.” I said, making tsking noises with my mouth. “Who is the girl?”

  Steve remained steadfast, but Amos spoke. “We’re not allowed to talk about her. She belongs to The Rev.”

  “Why is she kept in the basement?” I asked.

  “Shut up, Amos,” Steve warned.

  “Here she comes,” Crefloe said.

  At that moment, Suzie stepped out from around a tree. She simply stared at the two men, each of whom had turned to see who she was. I imagined their thoughts. Suzie was still mad at me and more than a little crazed, and here she came out of the darkness, her left arm missing, pirate patch over her missing left eye, face implacable enraged.

  Amos wet himself.

  Steve looked confused.

  “They started talking already,” Crefloe said.

  She turned to regard him with a single crazy eye.

  “But then they stopped,” I said.

  She looked at me.

  “They won’t talk about the girl.”

  She turned to them, her face somehow more twisted.

  “WWWSD?” she said, spelling each and every letter.

  When they didn’t respond, she repeated louder, “WWWSD?”

  “I–I d-don’t know what that means,” Steve said.

  “WWWSD?”

  “Puh-please. Can you tell me what that means?” Steve asked, panic in his words

  Crefloe shook his head. “It means you are shit out of luck, Steve.”

  “It stands for ‘What Would William Shatner Do’,” I said. “Captain James Tiberius Kirk had a special place for women. What do you think he’d do knowing there’s a young girl being kept in the basement against her will?”