Pulse of the Goddess: American Blackout Book One

by Fred Tribuzzo

  Tony said, “We ran into these true believers and they talked about a woman bringing everyone together—thieves, jihadists, street gangs, the worst of the worst. She hates modern life. A preindustrial babe. Grass huts, horses crapping in the street. Cleanliness, manners, right out the window.”

  “Tony, for goodness’ sake, they were high,” Ron cut in. “People’s fantasies are spewing out all over the place. Reason is dying fast.”

  Tony eyed Cricket. “Didn’t those two hitchhikers talk about a big plan, like they were part of some movement?”

  “She was definitely high and talked about destroying religion. But she never mentioned the Brazilian.”

  “Cricket, I like your perspective,” Ron offered. “You meet every bad situation with a gut sense on how to survive the next five seconds. You did a great job back there—no lights, cutting the engine, surprising those monsters. But it’s a monster without a brain.”

  “I hope so,” Cricket said.

  There was a bedroom off the kitchen, and Sister and Cricket each had their own single bed. The two women got under the covers and decided to keep a fat candle lit atop a dresser for bathroom visits and to find Uncle Tommy if he started getting rattled in the middle of the night. They also wanted to avoid tripping over their two hosts who had crawled into sleeping bags on the living room floor.

  “You knew my dad before I was born,” Cricket said, on her back, pushing the covers off, drawing her long legs up.

  “He loved you beyond measure.”

  “I want to lie here in bed and talk to my best friend for a few minutes, and then sleep for a long time.” She rolled on her side facing Sister Marie. “You know, there’s a silver dye that would look fantastic on you. Every wave and curl would be heart-stopping.”

  “Cricket, I like my hair changing naturally in stages. It’s a lot like life.”

  “So wise and practical. Everything’s connected to the big stuff. Right?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Everything today was big stuff.” She rolled on her back and stared at the small flame, dancing, agitated by a draft, the shadows overhead never resting. “My father’s gone, Sister … and I’ve killed people—not at all like hunting—” She broke off the futile spiral into nothingness and brought the covers up.

  “We could pray together,” Sister Marie challenged.

  “You pray, Sister. I’ll listen.”

  Sister began the rosary. Cricket turned back on her side and faced her friend, who sat on the bed in cream-colored flannel pajamas, head bowed, enunciating softly each Hail Mary.

  “Let’s go home tomorrow,” Cricket said, her pillow wet from tears.

  Sister Marie paused, looked up, and smiled her approval before reciting the Glory Be.

  9

  Get Your Gun

  The road was clear, the sun bright, and the clouds evenly spaced as if for accent.

  Ron had stayed back at the cabin and planned on nabbing a deer. From the back seat Uncle Tommy shouted to Tony: “I need to get off the damn road. I was a traveling salesman for years. But now I own a thirty-minute ass. Have exceeded my limit. Need to get home. I live in a nice place, not far from Cricket and my nephew.”

  “You live with us,” Cricket informed him.

  “My nephew, he’s the chief of police.” Uncle Tommy ended with a smile, not lost on Cricket, who watched him in the rearview mirror. Today, she envied such forgetfulness.

  A few miles from Woodburn, smoke hung above the trees. Cricket sped up, Diesel barked, and Tony cried out, “Holy shit!”

  “Cricket, go to the police station first,” Sister Marie urged.

  Paul Hastings had fifteen officers, five part-time, and within a couple of blocks of the police station the gunfire was intense and Cricket changed her destination. They cruised slowly down Elm Street, and people poked their heads out or pulled back a curtain. Cricket’s girlfriend, Claire Foster, had lived at the end of the street, a five-minute walk to the small downtown area. She pulled into the Fosters’ driveway and onto the back lawn to avoid detection.

  Mr. Foster waved sadly from the kitchen window. Ten years older than her dad, all gray, he welcomed them in. He and his wife were parishioners at Saint Matthew’s where Cricket and her dad attended. Diesel ran to Mrs. Foster, who was crying and wouldn’t let go of Sister Marie. Tony helped Uncle Tommy onto the couch, got his shoes off, and heard the old vet say “thanks” before falling asleep. Tony went to the window and checked the street.

  “Mr. Foster, what happened?” Cricket asked, smiling warmly at Tony.

  “Gangs came flying through last night—motorcycles, old cars. They attacked the police station first. I made my way through the backyards, along with a few other scared folks and couldn’t believe what I saw. They were killing people in the street, keeping our police trapped in the station unable to help anyone. There were too many of them. They started fires. We couldn’t do a thing. I watched Mr. Malone and his wife get gunned down. Horrible.”

  “I’m going upstairs and check the street from there,” Cricket said.

  “Cricket, what about your dad?” Mr. Foster asked.

  “My dad’s gone,” Cricket said, slowing her pace as she climbed the steps.

  Claire’s room hadn’t changed since they were in high school. They had taken pictures of each other with their phones, texted a lot, side by side, painted each other’s nails and discussed certain words that were verboten and talked a lot about boys. On the subject of hunting, however, they’d often argue themselves into silence. Claire despised it. Fearing for their friendship, Claire would bring up a movie she wanted to see or Cricket would sit next to Claire and play with her hair, study the sides and the back, and insist she had a vision to make her best friend more gorgeous than she already was.

  A year after high school Claire was gone. There were Claire sightings and later reports that she was in Florida in a bad way with no address, no phone. Her parents had hired a private investigator to no avail.

  Cricket was looking out the window when she spotted a young woman running down the street. She ran downstairs in time to hear the roar of several vehicles and machine-gun fire. She stopped Tony from shooting. Nearly a dozen attackers climbed out of a truck and spilled from the cab, a few of them with M16s. They looked up and down the street, perhaps canvassing for future operations. The girl was dead and there was nothing they could do. Uncle Tommy opened his eyes wide, confused as to his whereabouts. Cricket quickly kneeled at his side and placed a slender finger to his mouth when it appeared he was ready to belt something out.

  He knew to whisper. “Is everything going to be okay?”

  “I’ll do my best, Uncle Tommy.”

  “That’s all your dad and I need to hear.”

  He couldn’t keep his eyes open and soon fell back to sleep. The Fosters had crumpled to the carpet, moaning in terror. Cricket and Sister Marie drove them into the kitchen.

  “I’ve got the front door,” Tony said. “They just sped off and the bastards ran the girl over.”

  “I’ve got the kitchen.” Cricket tried to hush Mrs. Foster, who was convulsing with sobs.

  “The girl was my Claire’s age,” she said, hand to her mouth, trying to stifle the noise of her crying. Sister Marie walked the woman around the kitchen and down a hallway, telling her to breathe slowly, not deeply.

  Cricket said, “I know my way around this neighborhood. I need to get to the police station. See who’s left. What we’re dealing with: random or something else?”

  Tony’s look told her the latter.

  “Should we stay here?” Mr. Foster pleaded. “What should we do? Will they come to our house? Oh, God, I don’t know … I have a gun … upstairs.”

  “Get it,” Cricket said.

  “Mr. Foster, I’m armed as well,” Sister Marie said, standing tall at just over five feet, shoulders back, her hazel eyes backlit by love. “And in defense of this household, I will surely use it.”

  “Way to go, Sister,” Tony
said in a subdued voice.

  “I’m here to help protect your family,” Sister Marie said. “And Cricket’s right, you need to have the gun downstairs, on your person. At all times.”

  “Sister Marie!” Cricket exclaimed and ran and hugged her.

  “I prayed and meditated last night.” Sister Marie looked at everyone. “It’s the right thing to do. Not an easy thing, and my heart is heavy. I wish I had Sister Teresa to talk to.”

  Cricket knew that Sister was worried for the safety of the nearly fifty sisters who called the convent home, especially her dear friend, Sister Teresa, director of the Sisters of Saint Augustine. And there were the many patients and staff at Holy Cross hospital, where she had worked for the past twelve years. Paul attempted once, shortly after the EMP attack, to get her back and was turned away by the Guard ten miles outside the city. Sister Marie never complained about her separation, but her anguish was visible when others talked about the chaos on the streets of Cleveland.

  Even with such burdens, Sister Marie was the lightest person Cricket had ever known. The shadows of fear, doubt, and anger rarely darkened her brilliant eyes. And Cricket thought she was the most present human being she had ever known, in the moment for another person, for the job that needed done.

  Cricket said through tears that came freely, “Dad always told me that when you pulled the trigger, you had to feel something inside, about the bigness of taking a life, whether hunting or in self-defense. A heavy heart is fine and proper, he would have said. Just keep your hands steady, Sister.”

  She wiped the tears with the back of her hand and wiped her hands on her pink T-shirt, grossed out she had worn it two days in a row and it wasn’t even a favorite. “I need pockets.” Ron’s flannel shirt was a great nightshirt but too big to wear daily with a war going on.

  “I have something for you,” Mrs. Foster said. “It was one of Claire’s favorites. I know it’ll fit.” She went to a room down the hallway and returned with a black T-shirt and a black leather vest with two big pockets.

  “It may get warm. But I think it’ll work fine.”

  Cricket nodded fast. “It has buttons on the pockets, too.” She called to Tony at the picture window. “Is the street clear?”

  “Yeah, for the moment. Don’t be fooled. It’s still hotter than a popcorn fart out there.”

  “I won’t … forget that.”

  “In another time and place you’d be quite amusing,” Sister Marie said.

  “I am what I am, Sister. Just remember when you’re my agent someday: no more than two shows a night. Sundays off. And I’m done by eleven.”

  Tony scrambled to his feet. “Hey, people are coming out of the house across the street.” Two men and a woman approached the dead young girl with a blanket, covered her, and carried her back inside.

  “The Nichols’s must have known her,” Mr. Foster said.

  The woman led, head bowed, trailed by the two men who carried the girl carefully, their steps slow and sure.

  “I’m going,” Cricket said to the group, flush with emotion. “I’ll be back before nightfall,” she assured Sister and Tony. “Tomorrow I want to go out to the airport where my dad kept his plane.” She glanced at Uncle Tommy, who was still asleep on the sofa. “Can the three of us stay tonight? Uncle Tommy might have to stay longer.

  “Yes, of course, we have food … for a while,” Mrs. Foster said.

  “Before we leave I’ll get you more food. Uncle Tommy’s medication and a few clothes are in the trunk of the Barracuda. I’m not going to abandon him. I’ll keep circling back to Woodburn as we figure out how to survive the winter months.”

  Sister Marie followed Cricket outside.

  “Would it do any good to say be very careful and not do anything foolish?”

  “A lot needs to be done, Sister. I can’t worry about separating wise from foolish.”

  “Just make it back tonight and I’ll be grateful. Godspeed.”

  She hugged Sister Marie tightly and turned quickly to hide a fresh batch of tears.

  10

  Bowling for Terrorists

  Before leaving the Fosters, Cricket retrieved her ankle knife from under the front seat of the Barracuda. She stayed along the backyards. A few people spotted her and waved from inside their houses. She startled one man on his back porch, who went for his shotgun. But Cricket kept moving. Others, who knew her, called to her and wished her good luck.

  She thought of Father Derringer from Saint Matthew’s. The Fosters said attendance was down but the older priest and his deacon made the rounds as best they could to comfort the sick, the dying, and those simply losing hope. Sister Marie hoped to make contact with the parish priest before long. Cricket started her favorite short prayer: Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end Amen.

  A block from the police station, the chaos grew louder: the peel of tires, gunfire, the shouts of predator and prey.

  Behind the police station sat their armored personnel carrier, now graffiti-covered—“Kill the Pigs,” a real favorite. It had been picked up through the National Guard. Paul Hastings had made the deal two years earlier and had taught his daughter how to operate and drive the eight-ton baby tank. The fighting centered on the front of the building, and Cricket stepped over the smashed fence gate and ran to the APC and dove beneath it. The shooting now was sporadic, lazy sounding. Someone on a bullhorn droned on, calling the cops pigs, talking about a new day, the first day, a new world order, a string of nonsense.

  She lowered the back gate and climbed in and latched the door shut. On the right side she opened the battery box and connected the negative ends of the battery cables. No key for starting was necessary. The driver simply pulled the start lever on the panel to engage it. Two long handles rising from the floor controlled the tracks for stopping and turning. In front of her, left to right, five small rectangular windows of thick Plexiglas allowed periscope vision for viewing the outside world.

  Cricket was settling into the seat when several bullets struck: Great, trapped in a fifty-five-gallon drum being used for target practice! She quickly started the loud 210-horsepower engine and aimed for the side street.

  Even though the inside was an echo chamber of noise—thick steel hull, no insulation—she heard someone atop the carrier banging on the top hatch and swearing. Rounding the corner, half on the street and half on the tree lawn, she smashed the rear end of a parked car and hit the side of her head. The screamer above was silenced.

  She pulled back the two handles and stopped the armor-plated monster and secured the belt as a trickle of blood slid into the corner of her eye. “Wear the damn seatbelt.” She started to use her T-shirt to wipe off the blood when someone began fumbling with the back hatch that Cricket had locked from the inside.

  A woman’s voice:

  “Open—open—I say open-open—now-now!” the woman cried and screeched.

  Really, some crazy is practicing her visualization on my APC?

  “Good luck, bitch!” Cricket yelled. “Wish for three nights in Vegas—something useful.” She accelerated and the woman decided not to piggyback. Her screams grew distant. Blinking away a new stream of blood, Cricket eyed the street in front of the police station and several pickup trucks now directing fire her way.

  “Bowling for terrorists!” she screamed and pressed the pedal to the floor. She aimed the APC for two of the trucks nose to nose. Both vehicles started to back up. One had better reaction time and was moving away faster. She picked the slower one for annihilation.

  Tense, anticipating the coming jolt, she nailed the pickup broadside. Two men jumped from the cab, and Cricket stayed in her seat and pulled back the left track control, anticipating the truck’s direction once hit.

  “Beautiful,” she said, nabbing her prey, pushing the crippled truck down the street onto someone’s lawn, crashing into a small tree that snapped. The APC climbed over the newly made stump. />
  “I’d like a recording of that,” she said triumphantly, enjoying the muffled screams of pain and obscenities all about her.

  She turned right, expecting to see the police station, and found herself facing Cherry Street instead.

  “I command you to open-open—open now,” the voice came from overhead.

  “Crazy chick! You’re still with me?”

  Cricket continued to the right until the police station came into view. Another two trucks were pointed away for a quick escape but not their guns. The front end of the APC was taking bullets that made her jump, but only the top end of the periscope, the actual window, could be damaged. In reality, the steel hull protected her face and eyes.

  Neither truck waited for another game of tag and both sped off, stopping a short distance away and again firing. The crazy woman had become quiet.

  “You’re thinking too?” Cricket said quietly, as one of the shooters in the back of the truck was picked off, struck by one of Woodburn’s finest from inside the station. Both pickups headed out of Dodge.

  Sweat dripped down her face and Cricket felt sadness at the knowledge that the men trapped inside believed Paul Hastings was at the controls. She wished that too.

  “Where the hell is the air conditioning?” She looked up, addressing anyone still atop the APC. “That was a joke.” There was a blower switch to drag in outside air, and she smacked it on. The shooting stopped, and Cricket heard the girl atop moaning about something not working and knocking pathetically on the hatch.

  “You need to get lost, honey,” Cricket said, bringing the APC up to full speed and slamming back the steering handles and making a hard left. The beast swiveled in a circle and somewhere in its pirouette she saw the woman on the ground looking stunned not far from the vehicle. No apparent threats for the moment. The shooting from inside the station had also stopped.