by A. R. Shaw
“No running up and down the stairs,” he said to them, “and mind the ghost.” The girls giggled again.
“I’m not kidding.” He acted incredulous. “No one believes me.”
She watched him put on his jacket and tie his boots, and then he left. She was sure that was goodbye and they’d never see his handsome and charming face again but it didn’t matter; he’d helped them when they truly needed someone the most and she’d be forever grateful.
She smiled at the girls laughing around her. She thanked God for him, bringing her this peace when she needed help the most.
33
Trust
After the girls woke from their second nap of the day, Sloane gave them more of the medication that Kent had left for them. They were feeling so much better and even managed to eat an MRE apiece from their packs. She’d cleaned up the wet clothing and sopped up all the melted snow while the girls napped. She had the fire going nicely when Wren asked, “Where’s Finn? Is he coming back?”
Sloane felt sorry to break her daughter’s heart. It would be one of many lessons to learn with men in her young life. “I don’t think we’ll see Dr. Kent again, dove. But it was so nice of him to help us out when he did. He didn’t have to.”
Her daughter was silent for a time, thinking no less, that what Sloane foretold was coming true. He was gone and though they felt a little more secure with him there, it was a feeling they could not get used to. They could never trust anyone; recent events had taught them that and the sooner the girls learned this lesson the better off they would be.
If they were the lenders of hearts, they would soon learn to fall, and that was a lesson she couldn’t help them learn; only strangers would teach them that and Kent had done her a favor in not only helping the girls get better but also learning this little lesson.
A few hours later, the girls were asleep. With her eyes transfixed on the fire flames, she was a little startled when there was a knock on the back door.
She cautiously approached with her Glock out. She looked out the window and immediately flung open the door. “Ace!” she yelled and the black dog jumped into her lap, licking her and jumping all over.
“Does this guy belong to you guys?” Kent asked. “He would not go away.”
“Yes!” she said, loving her furry friend.
“I found him sniffing around the water pump and watched him run back and forth like he was looking for a familiar scent. Sorry I slept so long. I was more tired than I realized,” he said, rubbing his hand through his crazy hair.
Her eyes met his.
He smiled.
She thought, Please prove me wrong...
Continue the Journey
Dawn of Deception
Unbound
Undone
Unbeaten
To Doug: A true friend.
The question isn’t who is going to let me; it’s who is going to stop me.
-Ayn Rand
Foreword
Ed
The grand-sized television sat on the mahogany console table supported by the most absurdly small pint-sized black plastic feet imaginable. The viewer paid no mind to the disparity. His name was Ed and he was exhausted after fitting parts on the line, standing on the unsympathetic flat surface of a concrete floor, all day long. His back ached with the compression of every step. His sweaty feet had filled his steel-toed boots to capacity and all he wanted to do when he returned to his little house was spend a few numb hours relaxing in the La-Z-Boy in front of the flat screen. Having a beer and a Hungry Man around 6:30 was Ed’s daily ritual. It worked for him. He liked his life simple that way. It was uncomplicated, un-messy and like most Midwesterners, he watched the evening news while the inflammation subsided in both ends of his existence.
“Look,” said Congressman Gowdy with a strong South Carolina accent, landing his index finger hard against the interviewer’s desk. The studio lights beamed down against his forehead, reflecting an increasing sheen of sweat, despite the concealer applied to his face. “We’ve had enough of this. First you claim all water landing on the planet is somehow government property and you go around arresting old men on hundred-acre farms for collecting a few barrels of rainwater to feed their damn cattle. Then you start limiting water itself to communities claiming a crisis du jour, and now you’re passing legislation making it illegal to install solar panels on your own roof that you’ve paid for. It makes no sense…the government can’t also claim to own all energy from the sun. Basically, you’re making it illegal to exist in nature if you’re a human being, yet you protect a newt’s right to live in its natural environment. And don’t get me started on food shortages.
“Don’t you see? Think about that. It’s illegal to exist…forget about fines for being born…it’s illegal to exist if you don’t buy into government control. Hell, you’ve even fined and jailed the Amish, a national treasure for God’s sake, for not complying with your made-up rules. Now you’re after oil. Keep pushing the American people. Go ahead. Keep it up. Last man standing gets to make the new rules. There was a revolution for that. A lot of people died. That’s what we’re headed for. Keep laughing…watch and see.”
“Your hyperbole will get you nowhere, Congressman Gowdy. You know as well as I do, there’s a national energy crisis at hand. Exaggerating will not help, but hurt the people of this country. Our polls state that Americans are on board with the newly proposed energy bill saving our very limited and precious resources for future generations. It’s time to stop stealing from our children. You’re just upset that you’ll no longer enjoy your paybacks from your capitalist friends.”
“I’m not even going to respond to that snipe. And last time I checked, you, were on the board of Hutchins Polls. That’s the one you talking about, right?”
“Are you suggesting…”
Gowdy leaned directly into the personal space of CSN political commentator Cameron Hughes. “I am suggesting…you market and manufacture any result you wish.”
“BREAKING NEWS!” the television screen flashed in bright red hues.
Ed suddenly aborted the fork he was using and dropped the handle against the edge of the paper tray, where moments before he’d rocked the plastic tines in vain over the short end of a red enchilada, and grabbed the TV remote instead, turning up the volume to hear the breaking news unfold.
1
Dane
I don’t mind my own death, but it’s not given freely.
“Matthew Brogen?” announced the dark-mustached man holding the tablet. His blank stare held the crowd before him. There were men and women amongst the tired crowd. Some old…some not so old. The commonality they held was a worn terror, too worn to acknowledge any longer. Every now and then a face glanced at the TV monitor bracketed high up against the corner wall along a brown ceiling beam. The casting glow played shadows across human features in its wake. Always a quick glance and then the eyes dashed away again. Like wreckage, you couldn’t help but gawk, but this ruin never went away. No sense in lingering…they all knew what happened out there and they were beyond even cursory astonishment. Maimed and desensitized, they were numbed through by now. What held them all hostage had already dragged on for nearly a decade. Someone’s chin lifted—whomever held the name Matthew Brogen, Dane assumed.
Then, “Dane Talbot?” tablet guy read next on his list, followed by the same blank stare.
She lifted her chin as well.
The list reader’s eyes lingered on her a split second longer than he needed to account for her presence. She wasn’t certain if he recognized her or not. Some still did from past news reports. Fewer by the passing days, although no one should recognize her here. People in Montana didn’t really pay much attention to tragedies that happened in other states years ago.
“Cal Wester?”
“Here,” the guy standing right next to her said sharply.
Why he had to go and use his full voice instead of the simple nod, Dane didn’t know, but she found him annoying rig
ht off. First impressions she coveted. Always go with your first impression…to suspend judgment led to disappointment down the line. These lessons she’d learned and though harsh and dry as wind igniting a flame…they kept her safe. People had a way of twisting their personal facts in time, adjusting perceptions of themselves…malleable and deceptive as clay.
The only attribute she would assign to Cal at the moment was an annoying, eager to please…brownnoser. That was all for now but in time she’d give him more labels…a lot more.
“Listen up,” the mustached man said. “My name is Tucker Johnson. You will call me Tuck. I used to be the captain before ranks became politically incorrect so now, I’m just Tuck.” Leaning the tablet to the side of his leg, he passed up and down the front of the crowd of nearly twenty recruits. “You’re here today because you deserve to be. You’re the best firefighters. You’re here today because you were chosen for even greater things. You’re here today because you’re not dead already or,” he pointed to the muted television, “there, killing your fellow man for whatever reason. Whatever you do, don’t screw it up because it doesn’t matter how you got here…it matters that you serve. You will do your job, not for personal gain, personal reasons, personal trauma, or the lack of personal wealth. Ha! You’re here to do a selfless, thankless, dangerous job. You…are…a…servant. You’ve surpassed the normal firefighter status. You’re now a Smokejumper in training and you will serve as one until you either burn the hell up or your time commitment is fulfilled.” He stopped pacing then, in the center of the small crowd.
The light was dim in the ranger station. Dane shifted her weight from one leg to the other and adjusted the wide strap of her leather bag over her shoulder. She’d traveled a long way to get to Missoula, Montana. The speech from Tuck was the same as many she’d heard before. There wasn’t much to differentiate between this one and the last one, though she did her best to appear interested. Eyes open and attentive was the way to keep them from singling you out most of the time. They were looking for the ones who avoided eye contact. Those were the ones Tuck would look for in the crowd. Someone to single out. That usually happened next, right after the speech. And just as she predicted, Tuck jutted his chin out and checked the tablet for a reminder of his name. “You there, Cal Wester, where are you from?”
As if he’d been asked a question for prizemoney, Cal yelled out, “Spokane, sir.”
Oh hell, wrong answer, Cal, Dane thought, looking down, trying not to betray the roll of her eyes.
“What’s my name, Cal?” Tuck yelled suddenly, startling a few in the front row to a minor jolt.
Looking as if he might pee himself, Cal said, “Tucker uh, Johnston?”
Seriously? Dane thought as the events unfolded. We’re going to be here all night now. Thanks Cal. You’re a moron and a brownnoser so far.
Tuck swung his head to the left with a forced look of astonished dismay, saying, “No! That is not my name.”
“You there, with the brown hair,” Tuck pointed through the crowd.
Dane looked up, silently kicking herself for not seeing that one coming. And of course, he was pointing directly at her, causing the few in front of her to part as if she had some communicable disease.
“Dane Talbot…what’s my name?”
“Tuck…sir.”
Tuck seemed a bit surprised she’d had the right answer handy.
In her experience, they usually liked to play cat and mouse with at least three or four recruits before they revealed the right answer. She didn’t give him that chance. She’d seen this before…this experience, and tucked it away for the future—no sense in wasting time. She was tired after all.
Usually the person in charge would hound his point home to emphasize the understanding that he was the one in charge. No one else, just him. It was a worthy exercise in the end. In the worst of moments, and there would be many worst moments, Tuck or any leader needed the direct attention of those he led. There should never be any doubt as to who was in charge. Many firefighters died with doubts. Burnt to crisps. But they were beyond this, weren’t they? Dane thought perhaps now those she worked with would have been through this…introduction…a time or two at this point.
Quirking his left cheek up, he nodded. “That’s right,” he said, his eyes beaming straight at her.
Perplexed…if she had to name his expression, that was it.
He might know who I am, she thought. Can’t worry about that…not right now.
“Tuck is my name. All right, get to sleep. The bunk room is right behind me.” He motioned with his finger over his shoulder without glancing. “It’s coed…not like the old days. We don’t have room for complaints so keep your hands to yourself, whatever you are.”
They picked up their packs and shuffled their way toward the darkened room, past the glow of the news, emblazoned now with a banner that read ‘Food Shortages.’ On their way, Tuck shouted out the building’s rule. They were an army, unlike the never-ending one on the television. Fighting against a natural enemy, one that took land and lives without the inclination toward any particular god, political association, or social link. Their only crime was existing in the way of the flame.
Once inside the bunkroom, like in her previous experience, her curious observations told her males and females shifted to one part of the room or the other. Often the males to the right and females to the left…or however they identified, assembling somewhere in between. It didn’t matter. Sleeping in one large room, it was always that way. Then in a few weeks of cohabitating it would come down to race most likely, or so she’d seen in the past. Dane, however, didn’t care. Her criterion for a bunk or any room was an exit strategy. Always identify two or more ways out of every room you’re in. She walked quickly to the right back corner and placed her bag on the green wool army blanket next to the rear exit door. Cal looked up at her as he took the bed next to hers. He even scanned her up and down, not making eye contact, as if she was in the wrong place. She paid him no mind. So what that the males had already silently claimed that side of the room? Not her problem, she thought and began to take off her jacket.
In a deep voice, someone said, “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable on the other side of the room with the other women?”
When she looked up, she saw that the question came from the guy named Matthew and that the moron brownnoser named Cal sat on the bed next to hers watching the exchange with an amused look on his face.
Only the dim light from the moon spilled through the high windows. Dane looked up at Matthew, a good foot taller than her own height, and she reached down, crossed her arms at her waist and, without a word, pulled the hemmed edge of her black, long-sleeve t-shirt up and over her head.
“Uh,” Matthew stuttered and then turned on his heel, she assumed to claim another empty bunk, unpack, harass someone else, or busy himself doing whatever as long as it didn’t involve her.
Standing in her bra and denim jeans in the moonlight, she untied and kicked off her boots, placing them purposely right under her bed, within arm’s reach, as the others scrambled around settling in. After removing her jeans, she laid them at the end of the bed and slipped under the thin covers. She rolled to the left, facing the exit door, after moving her long hair out from under her bare shoulders and went to sleep, knowing Cal’s eyes watched her the entire time.
2
Ed
Laying the remote upside down again along the brown vinyl so that the rubber buttons prevented its eventual slide into dark crevices where Ed might never find its location again amongst the tiny broken tortilla triangles and carnival-colored gummy bears coated in skin, dust and hair, he read the breaking news headlines.
BREAKING NEWS: SHALE IS DEAD – WIN FOR FUTURE
“Oh hell,” Ed said as he retrieved his fork and plunged it into the already bite-sized piece of red enchilada ready for the taking. Adjusting in his chair, he mouthed the bite, too hot for his tongue, and watched as a massive crowd bearing signs on sticks in front of
the capital building in DC erupted into a brawl when Capitol police began tossing teargas canisters at their feet. Reaching for his beer, he sipped a guarded mouthful to bring relief to his burning tongue, never taking his eyes off the events unfolding as the cold beer foamed in his mouth. One metal container clanked and rolled into the crowd as he watched, its white smoke pouring out in cloudy mushrooms. Protesters scattered and held cloths to their mouths choking and suddenly the skinny sticks bearing useless messages became weapons as one man thrust the pointy end at a battle-tac clad officer.
“Bad move, hombre,” Ed said and sat the beer back down on the cork coaster beside him. Just as the officer pulled a stun gun, three more officers appeared suddenly beating the man into submission with black batons. Soon the only thing visible on the screen besides the black battle-tac officers whaling on the protester was the white poster board sign freed of its hearty staples, tattered and crunched at the sides, still bearing the black Sharpie marks reading ‘KEEP CALM; FRACK ON.’
3
Dane
“Dane Talbot, get your ass up there,” Tuck yelled from somewhere below her.
Dane rolled her eyes as her sweaty hands burned on the thick dry rope she held taut while walking her lug-soled boots up the side of the twelve-foot wooden wall, one foot over the other, while her heavy backpack acted as a counterweight pulling her back toward earth. She was in the first ten percent of the group running the obstacle course. There was no reason for Tuck to single her out, but she knew that was part of the play. They always picked a few candidates each day to torment and after several weeks of training now, she knew she had to be one of the last chosen to kick around. It was like clockwork. She had wondered when it would be her turn; now she knew today was the day.