by D W McAliley
The two jets, dropped to barely a hundred feet from the ground and raced back the way they'd come. As they passed overhead, they rocked their wings again, and were gone.
"Jesus H.," Donovan whispered softly as the echoes of their engines faded in the distance.
Joe blinked for the first time in what seemed like an hour. The entire thing had happened in maybe three minutes, tops, but it had been like watching a dance in slow motion, each move graceful and coordinated with deadly precision.
"I think we've got a war, fellas," Tom said, his voice thick with emotion.
"Yeah," Henderson said, "but who's shooting at who?"
"The tail on one of the A-10's said 'AZNG'," Joe said, "Arizona National Guard. Whoever we're fighting against, I think those were the good guys."
Tom nodded but didn't say anything in return; there simply wasn't much to say. Tom and Henderson climbed in the car, and Joe sat in the driver's seat. Before he cranked the car, he took the clipboard with the address list and looked over it. Three addresses were from Chesapeake, and two were within fifteen minutes of the bridge.
Joe looked over at Tom, who shrugged with a smile. "We might as well," he said. "I'd hate to get dressed up and drive all the way here without dancing at least one song."
Joe snorted a short chuckle and cranked the engine. He pulled a U-turn in the highway and left the rubble of the shattered bridge behind him. When he looked in the rearview mirror, Donovan was still staring north toward the city and the columns of thick black smoke rising above it.
The angry brother was nowhere to be seen, and that worried him, but Joe decided he'd deal with that problem if it came down the road to him; no need to go chasing after it.
Ch. 47
Halfway Up The Hill
Eric was exhausted.
He carried a half-full five gallon bucket in each hand, careful not to jostle any of the tomatoes on either side of him. The fruit in his buckets was nearly ripe, with just a hint of green-tinted orange along the top third of the grapefruit sized tomatoes. The bottom two thirds of the tomatoes was a deep, ruby red and fully ripe.
Eric set the two buckets in the thin edge of shade at the end of the garden rows. A line of tall, old oak trees bordered the garden field on all sides, and even in the extremes of the seasons, the shadows along that edge would shrink, but they never completely evaporated. Eric picked up two empty buckets and carried them back out into the sun.
Two of Tom's children would take the half-full buckets a little way up the hill towards the farm house and leave them in the shade. The other two youngsters would carry them the rest of the way. Imogene was back at the house with Jen and Meg. The women would wash the tomatoes, dry them, and set them out to finish ripening on two long, low tables that sat in the shade of three old sweet gum trees in the back yard. They laid the tomatoes out with two to three inches between them with the stem scar facing up.
This late in the season, if the tomatoes were left to ripen in the fields, they'd get too hot and begin to cook. The fruit would split from the pressures and then sour and spoil. In the shade of the tall trees, though, they would be protected from the harsh August sun.
In front of him, Eric's grandfather straightened for a moment. He pulled off a faded straw hat and wiped his forehead with a worn, thin handkerchief that stayed perpetually tucked into his back left pocket. He smiled and nodded to Eric, then bent back to the tomato vines. He took each tomato that seemed close enough to ripe and turned it one good time in his hand. If the stem snapped, he would put it in his bucket. Otherwise, he moved on to the next fruit or the next vine.
Eric guessed that they were no more than fifteen yards from the end of the rows, and he desperately hoped that these two buckets would finish them out. His mother worked the right hand row alone, and his grandparents helped each other on the left. Eric's arms and shoulders ached and his lungs burned as he handed the empty buckets over to be filled.
Before the tomatoes, Eric had carried buckets of butterbeans and bell peppers the entire way up to the house. None of the other kids were awake then, so he didn't have anyone to share the load with. Over the day, the buckets had actually gotten lighter, but they felt ten times heavier than the first full ones. It had been years since he'd been available to help with the harvest. Sometimes it was by design, but more often than not it was simply due to happenstance.
Now, he was tired and sweaty. He wished he'd spent more time in the gym and less on the couch the past few years. Finally, they reached the end of the tomatoes, and the three pickers stood. Eric's mother was dirty and sweat-stained, but both of his grandparents looked oddly clean. There was a dark stain around his grandfather's straw hat, and there were a couple of dark sweat spots on Nanny's bandanna, but that was all.
Eric's mother tried to carry the buckets, but Eric shook his head and took them from her. He was tired, but not so tired that he'd let her work while he didn't.
Eric suddenly heard Christina shouting his name from the house, "Eric! Eric!"
He frowned, and started walking back towards the far edge of the garden and the road up to the house a little faster. It was tough to move too quickly with buckets in his hands, but something in Christina's voice didn't sound right. Before he could even reach the edge of the shade, Christina came sprinting out into the sun, breathless.
"Someone's coming up the road, Eric," Christina panted. "They're walking."
Eric turned, and his grandfather nodded once. "Go, Doc," he said. "You can get there quicker than we can. See who it is, and be careful."
Eric was moving before his grandfather had finished speaking. He sprinted for the edge of the field with Christina close behind him. Eric paused just long enough to grab the twelve gauge shotgun that was leaning against one of the thick oak trees on the verge of the garden. The gun was his father's, a Remington semi-auto, and Eric had used it for years to hunt doves and squirrels.
It was only about two hundred yards from the garden to the house so it didn't take long for Eric to reach the front porch. He rounded the edge of the farmhouse, and pointed for Christina to go up and stand by the front door. If something went wrong, he wanted her where she could get inside quickly to warn the others.
Eric trotted out into the white sand of the quarter mile long driveway. He looked down the road and past the first drainage dike; he could see a figure walking towards him. It was still quite a ways off, and the glare from the sun made it difficult to see details, but there was something familiar about the shape and the way it moved.
As the person grew closer, the sense of familiarity grew stronger, until finally a voice he recognized called out, "It's just me, Betsy."
Eric heaved a heavy sigh of relief. 'Aunt' Betsy had lived on the road as long as Eric could remember. She was as much a part of his family as any of his actual aunts and uncles, two of which lived at the far end of Cutler's Run from his grandparents, less than two miles away.
Aunt Betsy moved slowly but confidently down the road. She paused when she got closer to Eric and eyed the shotgun with a twinkle in her eye.
"What you gonna do with that pea-shooter?" Aunt Betsy asked around the Pall Mall hanging from her lip. "I don't see no squirrels around here."
Eric couldn't help but chuckle as he shook his head. "No, but I heard a rumor about some wild Billy goats. Figured you can't be too safe."
Aunt Betsy barked a short laugh at that and shook her head. "Where's yer grandma?"
"Round back of the house," Eric replied. "I'll take you to her."
Aunt Betsy nodded but didn't say anything else. Eric saw a look on her face that he didn't quite understand, but he could tell she was deep in her own mind about something, so he didn't bring it up. He led her around to the back of the farmhouse where Nanny was helping lay out the last of the fresh tomatoes.
When Nanny saw Aunt Bets, she stood and dried her hands. Eric's grandmother came over and the two women greeted each other warmly. After a moment, Aunt Betsy dropped her cigarette and ground it i
nto the dirt.
"Well, there's a reason I come by," Aunt Betsy said. "The other night, when the lights all stopped working, Darril passed away. Only thing we can figure is that his pacemaker just stopped workin right along with everything else. I woke up the next morning, and he looked like he was sleeping. I knew something was wrong. In fifty three years, I never once beat him out of the bed."
Nanny gasped and hugged Aunt Betsy, who assured Nanny that everything was fine and she was okay with everything.
"Actually," Aunt Betsy continued, "I come by to make sure y'all were okay. After everything that happened, and everything with Darril, I just needed to see some faces that were friendly, I guess."
Nanny nodded. "Well, Betsy, you know you can come down here any time," she said, patting the other woman on the back. "Our door's always open for you, you know that. If there's anything you need, you just let us know. Come inside and have a drink of tea, we're just about to fix some dinner."
Aunt Betsy shook her head, though. "Nah, I better get back," she said, lighting another unfiltered Pall Mall. "Like I said, I just wanted to stop by and see ya for a bit."
Nanny shook her head. "Well at least take some tomatoes and butterbeans back with you," she said, already placing some of the vegetables and fruit into a bucket. "Eric, you carry that back for Aunt Betsy."
Eric stepped forward and reached for the bucket, but Aunt Betsy slapped his hand away.
"I don't need no chaperone," Aunt Betsy grumbled, taking the bucket for herself, "and the only reason I'm taking this is 'cause I know if I don't, you'll send Eric after me with it. When you want the bucket back, come get it and I'll fill it up with some corn and chicken eggs for you."
"You sure you don't want me to go with you, Aunt Betsy?" Eric asked.
Aunt Betsy snorted hard. "Boy, I was walking up and down this road before you was even a thought in your momma's head. I think I'll manage."
Aunt Betsy turned and shuffled back down the road, the half-full bucket swinging from one hand, her cigarette clenched in the other.
Ch. 48
0-4
Joe stepped onto the front porch of a single story brick ranch, his Beretta tucked neatly in his hand. Tom and Henderson stood at the foot of the front steps covering both directions down the empty street. Joe cupped his left hand and tried to see through the small window to the right of the door with no luck. There was a thick black film on the inside surface of the glass, and Joe couldn't see a thing.
Joe took the door handle and tried to turn it slowly, but the door was locked. He turned to the two men at the foot of the steps and shook his head.
"Locked down," Joe said. "Just like the other two. Everything's blacked out inside and I can't see a thing through the glass."
Tom shook his head, eyeing the red spray paint on the front door. There was a large red X on the door, marking it out into quadrants. It was the standard Urban Search and Rescue (URS) code that had been used during Hurricane Katrina to clear neighborhoods in house-to-house sweeps. In the left area, in large block letters and numbers, 'TOT KG 117' was painted. The top quadrant was dated the day before, August sixteenth. The right quadrant was the hazards list, with biohazard (Bhz), corrosive chemicals (CC), and explosive flammables (ExF) painted in the same red spray paint. In the bottom quadrant, the body count was listed as zero living and four dead (0-4).
They had seen the same code painted in red paint on each of the three doors from the list of addresses that they'd visited, all with no survivors found. It had also been painted on maybe a half dozen other doors that weren't on the list, all in the same red spray paint. In each of the houses not on the list, there had been at least one living person removed from the home, according to the URS code, but Joe had his doubts.
The three men started walking back towards the station wagon. There was a crash of breaking glass behind them, loud on the otherwise silent street. Joe spun back towards the house, his pistol up and ready. Tom scanned the perimeter, and Henderson checked both ends of the street. There wasn't any movement other than a few shards of broken glass slipping out of the window frame to clink onto the pile on the ground.
Joe gave hand signals to Tom and Henderson to keep a sharp eye out for any movement or threat. He carefully inched his way forward, keeping his gun trained on the shattered bay window. Joe crouched down and crept up to the brick wall directly beneath the window. He heard muffled groans and coughing from inside the home. Joe motioned for Tom and Chris to cover him, and the three made their way back up the steps to the front porch. With Tom and Henderson to either side of the door, Joe stepped in front of it and nodded to Tom. Tom stepped forward and, with a strong backward mule kick, struck the door just to the left of the handle.
The frame splintered, and the door swung in with a snap. Joe stepped smoothly inside and turned immediately to his left. He heard Henderson come in next and move ahead, with Tom directly behind him and clearing right.
They found themselves in a large, open sitting room with sturdy, though plain, furniture. The hardwood floors were deeply polished walnut and the walls were a desert sand color. A dark rusted brown stain marred the cream colored arm chair and stained the hardwoods in a long smear over to a sofa table along one wall. The sofa table was on its side in front of a broken bay window, and leaning against it was a man clutching his gut. The man's face was pale and slick with shiny sweat. His breath came in shallow, labored gasps, and he groaned incoherently between them.
Joe walked slowly towards the man, his pistol trained on him the entire time. When he was a few feet away, the injured man sat up, and fixed him with a hard stare. There was a solid trickle of blood coming from the corner of his mouth, and he was clutching his gut with both arms.
"You're a little late to the party," the man said. He barked a short chuckled that dissolved into a rough, tearing cough. He turned his head and spat a mouthful of dark, frothy blood to the side.
"Look I'm--" Joe began, but the man cut him off, shaking his head.
"Don't matter who you are," he said, his voice strained. "Won't matter who I am for much longer. Dirty son of a bitch shot me in the gut twice and left me for dead."
The man started coughing harshly again and bloody spittle sprayed from his lips. Joe knelt in front of the man, and lightly touched his shoulder with a hand. When the man looked up, it took a brief moment for his eyes to focus, and when they did he shook Joe's hand off his shoulder roughly.
"Who shot you?" Joe asked quietly.
"Never met him," the man replied. "I guess I should've said yes to the first guy."
"First guy?" Joe asked.
"Yeah, this guy came by with my name on a list," he said, shifting his weight a bit and stifling another cough. "He said I was needed back West for some big operation; a response to this whole thing. I told him I was retired."
"Then he shot you?" Joe asked.
"No, not that one," the man said. "Another guy came with a team a few hours later. I thought they were with the same group, but when I told them I'd already been asked, the head guy got this real serious look on his face. He told me I had one chance to say yes, and I shook my head. That's when he pulled a gun and put two in my gut. Told me he wanted me to die slowly."
"The guy that shot you, did he have a name?" Joe asked.
The man grimaced. "I'm thirsty," he whispered. "So thirsty I can't stand it. Throat feels like it's coated in broken glass."
"Here," Joe said, offering the man his small green canteen. "It's clean and it's fresh."
The man waived his hand and shook his head. "Waste of water," he said. "I'll be dead before I can enjoy it."
Joe took a deep breath. "We've got a field medic that can patch you up," he said.
The man laughed a shallow, rasping laugh again. He lifted his arms, revealing a mass of dark, coagulating blood and thick, yellow bile. The area around the wound was swollen and red, and it smelled like death.
"Can your medic fix that?" the man asked, already shaking his head. "Twe
lve hours ago, maybe. Nothing's bringing me back now."
"Listen, the man that shot you," Joe said. "What did he look like?"
The man coughed hard, but managed to grate, "He was about your height, short black hair. He had a sharp jaw, and dressed in urban tactical gear with dark sunglasses. His name...."
The man trailed off and slumped slightly forward with blood trickling from his mouth. For a brief moment, his breathing stopped, and Joe felt a chill run through him. After a moment, he reached over and squeezed the man's shoulder, and he jumped as if stuck by a knife. The man blinked, winced with pain, and finally his eye found Joe's again.
"His name," the man whispered, his voice barely audible, "was Parker."
Ch. 49
A Long Shot
Terry sat back in his desk chair, lost in thought. His eyes were on the flat top of the desk in front of him, but they were focused somewhere far away. He had expected a flood of angry calls and demands for access to the system, or at the very least, a few irritated secretaries.
The one thing he hadn't really counted on was silence.
Since the Chief Administrator of FEMA had paid his visit, there had been nothing. Not even one of the other SSA's from the other sites had bothered to call and ask about the situation, which made Terry think they'd already been informed. That left little doubt where their loyalties lay. He still couldn't figure out if FEMA was at the head of this thing, or if they were actually trying to do what they were supposed to and manage the emergency and needed access to the databases to do so.