by LC Champlin
“Excellent work, Amanda.” He gave her a nod and a pat on the back. “We’ll give this place a fighting chance.”
After correcting a few people’s techniques, Nathan reached the front of the group. “Time!” He held up his hands in a football referee’s T. “You’re coming along quickly. Remember, the attack is the last part of the process. If you can avoid it, do so. Sun Tzu says the supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting. But that doesn’t always mean run.
“Who here has seen Enter the Dragon?” Many hands went up. “There’s accurate martial arts theory in it. Do you remember when Bruce Lee told his student to strike with emotion but not anger? He meant that with every strike you perform, you should picture hitting your enemy with as much force as you can, then seeing him or it fall. Imagine he’s about to kill you and your loved ones.
“Go slow at first. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. Listen to your instructors. Do you see how they teach?” He held his hand toward them. “Mark it, because you will teach your family and friends. You are in charge of your own safety and that of the neighborhood. We don’t have police at our beck and call to save us. We need to work together if we want to come out alive. Carry on.” Motivational speech complete, he returned to Amanda’s side.
“No Albin?” she asked, tone low and expression troubled.
“Not yet.” Jaw muscles tightening, he shoved his hands into his pockets.
“It’s barely been eighteen hours, Nathan. He’s bound to show up soon. He was so devoted to our safety. He even taught them how to defend themselves against those gang members.” The blood left her face at the memory of her daughters killing two thugs.
“That’s my boy.” Nathan smiled as pride filled his chest. Then the pain came, clenching around his heart, burning in his stomach. Swallowing down bile, he shook his head, attempting to dispel depression’s fog. His ribs began to ache. Time for another half an oxycodone. But not here where everyone could see him.
Nathan cleared his throat. “Is everything ready for Carolyn’s remembrance ceremony?” He looked down, the pain digging its talons deeper into his sides as its wings buffeted him. Physical, emotional, mental—the demon bird touched all.
“A few of her next-door neighbors are working on it.”
After the class came to an end, the people lined up for water. Nathan joined the instructors to help pass out the supplies from the four flats of bottled water the government had allotted the neighborhood. The people who did not come to class did not receive water.
“Can I have two?” inquired a teenage girl of Asian descent as she took her share.
“I’m glad you asked.” Handing a water bottle to the next student in line, he announced, “Everybody, we’re working on the desalination tanks today. We should have them producing fresh water soon. You’ll also receive teaching on how to purify your tap water. Until then, ration the water but don’t allow yourself to get dehydrated.”
The teen looked dejected but held her tongue. She needed to learn that the neighborhood’s good outweighed her desire for comfort.
Water, defenses, research. Next came food. That would require more effort—and a field trip.
Chapter 12
On the Dole
Weight of Living - Bastille
After receiving his rations at the food distribution area, Albin started back toward the living area.
“Why can’t I have enough for tomorrow?” Shukla’s voice rang over the ambient crowd chatter at the cafeteria. The software engineer attempted to stare down a Soldier, who displayed no sign of compromise.
“You are allotted enough for today, sir. Regulations.”
“But this line is ridiculous!” Shukla waved his arm toward the people behind him—evacuees, support personnel, first responders—waiting for meal packages. “If you people gave us enough for a few days, we wouldn’t have to stand here for hours.”
“Yeah,” put in a civilian male. “These rules are fucking stupid.”
One of the law enforcement officers nearby sauntered toward Shukla. “Calm down, sir.”
“Why can’t we have two days’ worth?” another citizen demanded.
Along the line and around the terminal gate, people began to shout their support of increased rations. At the center of attention, Shukla straightened with righteous but foolish purpose. The imbecile would cause a riot if he persisted.
“I said calm down.” The officer caught Shukla’s arm and spun him about to twist the limb behind the rabble-rouser.
“Mr. Shukla,” Albin called, striding across the food court and toward the scene. “Stop struggling.”
Eyes wide with the realization of his peril, Shukla raised his free hand in surrender. “Sorry, sorry! I’m calm, okay?”
The officer shoved him away from the line. Only a roll recalled from Shukla’s football days prevented him from striking his face on the floor.
As the bystanders began to murmur, the officer put his hand on his Taser while radioing for backup. Military and law enforcement personnel from various points in the court took notice, alert for dissention.
“Come.” Taking Shukla by the elbow as the engineer struggled to his feet, Albin pulled him upright. “Now.” He dragged his charge down the hall.
“Let go,” Shukla snapped, pulling his arm back—and nearly overbalancing when Albin released him.
“What were you attempting to accomplish, Mr. Shukla?” The glacial glare Albin leveled froze excuses. “We do not have the luxury of protest.”
“We don’t have any luxuries at all. We barely have necessities,” the software engineer sneered over his shoulder at the food court’s patrons as he stalked beside Albin. “This sucks. It sucks and it blows.” He pulled the Meal, Ready to Eat from his pocket and stared at the package as if he could incinerate it with the force of his rage. “I think prisoners eat better than this.”
“Most likely. This is for our military personnel. At least you have food, water, and safety. You are free to leave if you wish.” And to cease grousing.
The normally good-humored engineer rolled his shoulders as his expression clouded.
When they reached the terminal gate that served as their temporary accommodations, Shukla stormed to the window to glare death at the military aircraft and personnel on the tarmac. “Maybe I should go. I’m sick of being a prisoner.”
Albin looked up from greeting Judge. “And where, pray tell, would you go?”
Hearing the airing of grievances, Kuznetsov left off folding his Red-Cross blanket to join his companions. “If you think this is a prison environment, you must not remember what the Red Devil Goats did to you.”
“That wasn’t my government!” Shukla retorted, arms spread.
“The government could abandon you, or they could use you as slave labor.” Kuznetsov looked away, his face ashen.
“Give me a break. They’re not Communist Russia, Comrade—”
“Do not call me that!” Kuznetsov went rigid.
Shukla rolled his eyes. “Chill out. I just thought they would be managing this better.”
As the pair argued, Albin glanced over at Bridges, who lay on his back on the floor, contemplating the ceiling. He had not moved in over two hours. Only the rise and fall of his chest marked him as alive.
“Albin, what about Redwood Shores?” Shukla demanded.
“Excuse me?”
“It might be better than here, right?”
“I fail to see how. They have limited food, water, and defenses. Here you have all three.”
Shukla’s brows knit in concern. “Is Redwood Shores really that bad off?”
“They are in desperate straits, a situation which they brought upon themselves.”
“Then Mr. Serebus needs help.” Shukla straightened as if he had heard a call to arms. “I know you two think he’s the spawn of Satan now, but that’s your loss.”
Kuznetsov gaped. “Surely you’re not considering going there.
Getting there will be very dangerous. And how will you really help? You’re safer here.”
“But I’m not doing anything here!” Shukla stamped his foot like young David Serebus throwing a tantrum. “Don’t you get it? I have no purpose here. If the government can give me a time to fly out, I’ll be back. But I don’t see why I should waste my time and live like a refugee while I wait. I want to help people through this mess. I don’t want anyone to feel how I did when I thought my sister was a hostage. I can’t help here. Hell, I can’t even eat the food here.” He threw his MRE at Judge’s paws. She sniffed at it, then turned away. “See? Even the dumb dog won’t eat it, and dogs eat their own puke.”
“She hasn’t eaten anything today,” Bridges related in a monotone from his place on the floor. “She won’t.”
“I am not your keeper, Mr. Shukla.” Albin’s stare locked with Shukla’s. “If you feel so strongly, then perhaps you should go.”
This left Shukla with no reply but to stomp off, muttering profanities.
“Will he go, do you think?” Kuznetsov wondered.
“I do not know, Mr. Kuznetsov.” Albin dropped into a seat, propping his elbows on his knees and pressing the heels of his palms into his temples. The headache had returned, and now it made up for lost time. “I simply do not know.”
Chapter 13
Animus Revertendi
Free Life - Dan Wilson
Albin strode down a deserted airport hall. Judge’s claws clicked as she trotted at his side. The weekend’s events swirled in a sandstorm across his mind’s landscape. How could Mr. Serebus turn into a tyrant? Yes, the man file snooped, stealing data from the very clients who trusted Arete Technologies to keep them secure, but this did not compare to imposing his will on a community.
Arete, the Greek goddess who personified excellence and moral virtue. The word also referred to the act of living up to one’s full potential. Mr. Serebus viewed it as both a challenge and a play on words, considering his company’s dual pursuits.
This came as no surprise from a man who manipulated the stock prices of his father-in-law Neil Crevan’s company, the stress of which may have caused the recent downturn in the old man’s degenerative neurological condition.
Was keeping the people at Redwood Shores really that wrong? doubt asked. The government has yet to show itself a savior. Mr. Serebus stands in the breach.
True. Rather than protect the people, it massacred them.
But that failed to change the painful truth: “He used me.” Mr. Serebus no longer valued his adviser’s counsel or friendship. Cold settled around Albin’s heart, bringing an ache. It migrated behind his eyes in the now-familiar migraine.
Albin shook his head as he reached down to scratch behind Judge’s occiput, rubbing his thumb on the knob at the rear of her skull. “I don’t know anymore, girl.” He sighed. “I just want to go home.”
With those words, the weight of his situation, which his mind thus far had done an admirable job of shoring up, collapsed. “I am alone.” He stopped, his vision unfocused as he stared down the dark passage. “What am I doing?” The pain behind his eyes flared, twisting his optic nerves in its grasp.
Warmth on his hand brought him to reality: Judge, licking his palm.
Shaking the fog from his mind, he resumed his trek. “Thank you.”
Retracing his steps returned him to the living-quarters terminal. No sooner had he entered the demarcated area than Officer Rodriguez marched around the corner. “Conrad, Bridges. It’s time for debriefing.”
“Director Washington at last deigns to speak with us?” Albin raised a brow.
“Come on.” She jerked her head toward the way she had come.
Albin and Bridges exchanged a glance before following. Judge remained with Kuznetsov and Shukla, who watched with resignation as their companions departed.
Rodriguez led her charges to a gray meeting room, which held a table and chairs. “Sit.”
They did, and she departed.
An hour passed. Albin maintained his rigid posture and blank stare, while Bridges fidgeted beside him.
At last the door opened to admit an African-American woman between thirty and fifty years of age, and over a hundred kilograms in weight. She stormed in, a conquering warrior come to subdue the enemy’s leader. She wore her hair in a bun that topped her head like a totem.
“Trouble in paradise?” She raked her glare over the men. “I thought you people were inseparable.”
Albin remained silent and still.
“Well? Do you have any new information?”
The government had the data regarding the cannibal contagion, as well as the schematics for the ReMOT. Their scientists could decipher it, given enough time. Mr. Serebus had left notes for them, detailing what he and his team knew.
“Director Washington.” Albin dragged his gaze to meet hers. “You have our statements. We were as thorough and detailed as possible.”
“Yes. You made a number of serious accusations against your boss.”
He is not my “boss.” The retort balanced on the tip of Albin’s tongue, but he closed his teeth on it.
“Do you have any proof for the allegations, though? Don’t misunderstand,” she went on, folding her thick arms over her chest, “I’d love to see him behind bars for helping terrorists, even though he claims he had no choice, but we need more than your word against his to make this stick.”
“I am aware, Director.” Did she truly imagine she needed to explain the law to an attorney?
“And although it pains me to say it, Serebus is for once in his life being useful, keeping the peace in Redwood Shores. Because of that, I can’t justify devoting my people to taking him down. Not yet, anyway.”
“How may we be of service to you, ma’am?” The answer burned with the intensity of a nuclear blast, but she needed to claim credit for the idea.
Propping herself on the table, elbows locked, she leaned toward him. “Get me evidence.” At last she cooperated.
“I shall do my best, ma’am.”
“You’ll have immunity if you get what I need. I don’t know why you suddenly saw the light about Serebus, but I’m glad you did. You won’t be sorry.”
“Thank you.” Her animosity became his advantage.
In contrast to Bridge’s earlier fidgeting, he kept his attention on his folded hands. Seeing the massacre on the freeway had taken time to impact his consciousness, but now it took its toll. “Director, I just want to go home.”
The fire diminished in Washington’s bluster. She thrived on conflict, fodder Mr. Serebus never hesitated to provide when he crossed swords with her. Their cooperation left her fury without fuel.
She straightened. “Considering DC is in chaos too, you’re better off biding your time here.”
Bridges continued to study his hands.
“Conrad.” Director Washington turned to eye him. “I can give you free use of the emergency lane on the Bayshore Freeway. You’ll have to make do with what you’ve got. You’re as tricky as your boss, though, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”
Unsurprisingly, the government demanded he spin straw into gold, yet refused to supply him even the straw. “We are at your disposal, Director Washington.” He inclined his head in a semi-bow, one devoid of sarcasm.
The DHS director frowned in indecision at her victims’ submission. “I’m assigning Agent Greg Saito of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, attached to the Joint Terrorism Task Force, to your case.”
Albin nodded in acceptance. Three days ago, he had sat before the agent in two interrogations. Unlike Director Washington, Agent Saito preferred to use emotional and psychological manipulation rather than overt threats. Neither method affected Albin.
“In the meantime,” she continued, “get your little brains thinking how you can get me that evidence. There is no room for freeloaders.”
“Of course, Director. The United States government is well known for
its intolerance of waste and incompetence.” Then Albin lapsed into silence, his head bowed once more.
Chapter 14
Zoe Imas
Awake My Soul - Mumford & Sons
No body, no murder. Did that hold true if the government disposed of the body because cannibal oil contaminated it?
Nathan looked over the assembled as they faced the Belmont Channel, a breeze ruffling their clothes and making the air taste of salt. Carolyn’s house bordered the water, even boasting a dock.
The majority of her neighbors, as well as those farther afield but familiar with her leadership of Redwood Shores, attended the memorial. They needed a catharsis, even if Nathan didn’t have time. If people felt leadership ignored their pain, they grew disenfranchised.
Nathan closed his eyes as one of Carolyn’s friends began a eulogy. Behind his eyelids, Carolyn fell, his bullet punching a hole through her chest and that of the soon-to-be cannibal who held her hostage. She struggled to escape the man, who coughed black oil. She left a trail of red as blood pumped from the gunshot wound and bubbled from her mouth.
“She always had a smile and a good word to say,” the speaker continued. “She would calm me down whenever I got anxious about politics, or about drama at work. I can’t believe she’s gone.” The young woman halted, putting her hand to her mouth to prevent a sob.
Shifting his weight and bracing his fractured ribs, Nathan glanced down at Amanda, who stood by his side. Eyes wet, she nodded at the woman’s sentiment.
Josephine roamed the edges of the crowd, hunting always for a better vantage. The memorial would no doubt provide a human-interest point in her account of the disaster. Would they still offer the Pulitzer when the world righted itself?
As the eulogizer stepped down from the edge of the dock, Nathan moved forward. More than the California sun made his back sweat. Taking a breath, he turned to face the gathering. “I only knew Carolyn for a day. I wish I could have known her better, though. She was a strong leader and cared for this neighborhood. What we do to protect Redwood Shores, we do to honor her memory. She did not die as a martyr but as a leader who was assassinated.” His voice hardened. “But rest assured, her killer will receive his just desserts.”