Pulse of the Goddess: American Blackout Book One

by Fred Tribuzzo

  “Music doesn’t free us, only ideas can.” Sister Marie strummed all six strings and they resonated true and in tune.

  “Aren’t we the pithy one today,” the Brazilian replied.

  “Music in the service of great ideas, like, ‘I bring you a new commandment: love one another as I have loved you,’ can do wonderful things. It’s a profound thought expressed with elegance that rocks the world.”

  “Too bad TV is a thing of the past; you could have taken over Sister Wendy’s gig or superstar Bishop Sheen’s!”

  “Sister, we should get moving,” Cricket said.

  “What’s the matter, Hastings, not the center of attention?” The Brazilian smiled wickedly and turned back to Sister.

  Cricket didn’t think counting to ten would work, so she tried a Hail Mary to avoid punching the bitch out.

  The Brazilian ignored Cricket, focusing on the singing nun. “Oh c’mon, Sister, humor me. Try and touch this hardened heart. Soothe the savage beast towering over you.”

  Sister strummed several chords, a moody progression played rubato. Cricket hated seeing her friend toyed with and matched the Brazilian’s lingering wicked smile with one of her own.

  Sister Marie began singing “Autumn Leaves.” She played it slowly, letting each chord ring to match the old standard’s tale of loss.

  Cricket heard the song’s story for the first time. It was a melody she was familiar with, but not the words.

  The Brazilian took a step back and stumbled. Her bodyguard effortlessly caught her with one arm. She quickly recovered and pushed him away. A quick smile for Sister, who sang:

  “I see your lips … the summer kisses … the sunburned hands I used to hold …”

  Cricket watched the Brazilian swallow hard and then check her nails, frowning like she had forgotten her manicure appointment.

  “And soon I’ll hear … old winter’s song …”

  Cricket enjoyed watching the Brazilian squirm through the old classic. The Brazilian glanced about, in the same boat as the family who had just departed, anxious to be on her way, pressing matters, giving excuses as to why it would be better to come back tomorrow to listen to Sister Marie sing.

  For Cricket, the song spoke to the sorrow of remembering something that was gone forever, irretrievable. She never heard Sister sing the classic until now.

  “When autumn leaves … start to fall …”

  Sister let the last chord ring, holding the neck of the guitar tightly, squeezing out every drop of sound.

  “I think you should stick to the church classics,” the Brazilian said. “I didn’t think sentimentality would be the Nun with a Gun’s style. I’m thinking ‘Onward Christian Soldiers.’” She walked off.

  They both watched the Brazilian sashay to the other side of the park, where a handful of Falls citizens congregated around her.

  Cricket said, “I guess you didn’t save her soul.”

  “She’s a broken person with a very broken heart.”

  Fritz joined them, having passed the Brazilian moments earlier.

  “Well, the authorities don’t seem to be worried about this woman. They kept saying that no one can deny how better off the town is, compared to every other place, thanks to her.”

  “I’ll remain a denier,” Cricket said, and Sister agreed, wiping down the rosewood fingerboard.

  25

  Eggs and Batteries

  “She’s got the mayor by the balls,” Tony said, and Cricket threw her head back, baring her slender neck in a “kill me now” look at the mention of Mayor DiFazio.

  “I’m afraid with both hands,” Sister replied. “And I’m concerned about the police. Their inability to sense danger.”

  Tony added, “Probably got pictures of the mayor with small animals.”

  They were seated around the Holadays’ table starting in on dinner. Canned pork, potatoes, and two different vegetables courtesy of Ron and Tony and their creative use of the Smokey Joe.

  Tony looked to Sister Marie and then to Fritz’s mom. “Sorry, ladies, for the inappropriate remark. Once again I’m ignoring the large animals on God’s good green earth.”

  Judy Holaday brightened, saying, “The truth is required these days without sugar-coating it. We don’t have the luxury of political correctness anymore.”

  “Amen to that,” Tony said, toasting himself by clicking his wineglass—a small jelly jar—against the frame of his glasses.

  George Holaday clicked his glasses, too.

  Head down, seeming to examine his full plate of food, Ron said, “Something’s missing here. She’s just an ordinary person, not political, not connected with a vast organization, not even Wiccan. Just an oddball.”

  “Really?” Cricket said. “Just watch her for five minutes. This babe owns whatever she comes into contact with.”

  “Scary,” Tony replied.

  “Let’s not give her too much credit,” Ron said.

  “I just get a real uneasy feeling around her,” Cricket confided.

  “She has a terrific body,” Mr. Holaday said.

  “Oh, George, that’s so unimportant,” his wife responded. “Although being a man, you probably believe she’s having affairs with every man she meets in order to control them. Like the mayor.”

  “Unfortunately, the mayor is under her spell whether she’s having sex with him or not,” George Holaday offered. “On the plus side, she’s fended off the worst that have come through the Falls with the help of that small army camped at her farm. A lot of chaos coming from Cleveland. And she brings food to the neighborhoods … well, her hired guns do,” he added, correcting himself. “A lot of people are very thankful for her good works.”

  “Now, George, she has a tremendous capacity for deceit—”

  “Yes, I know, Judy, but when you narrow down your gift-giving to the two most important things people want, you’re going to get a following.”

  “Dad, what two things?” Fritz asked. “Drugs and food?”

  “Almost. Eggs and batteries.”

  No one immediately responded.

  “Holy moly,” Tony said. “That’s brilliant.” Everyone else reluctantly nodded.

  Mr. Holaday said, “What could be more important for any little electrical device? A light, batteries for radios that may have vital information for survival when a station gets up and running, and, as always, power for flashlights.” He returned to his food and pumped his shoulders once. “And everyone knows eggs are the perfect food.”

  “Even though she’s won over a lot of residents, especially men,” Mrs. Holaday said, “others are leaving town. Packed up their families. Some heading out to the Ledges.”

  Cricket slowed her knife strokes across the gravy-smothered pork. “I didn’t think anybody would try staying there. We were there at the beginning of the month, and the few families we met felt they wouldn’t be safe and left. And I don’t know if they made it.”

  “Well, talk to Father Danko,” Mrs. Holaday replied. “His church members say that several dozen families—home-schoolers, survivalists, ex-military from all over the state—will be making it their home.”

  “Maybe my dad’s vision is actually going to work.” Cricket spooned up more green beans.

  Judy Holaday gave a dazzling smile. “Tony and Ron, the food is absolutely wonderful.”

  George said, “I hope I’m not spoiling appetites here with all my survival talk. We need to take moments like this and enjoy the hell out of them.”

  Ron and Tony clapped their approval and everyone encouraged him to continue and he did, but not before taking another forkful of pork and sloshing it around in Tony’s light brown gravy.

  “At the Ledges the sandstone formations form a chain around the cabins and the lake.” George winked at Judy, happy to add to his wife’s topic. “There’ll be a lot of protection, especially in the winter months. The one road leading in, they plan to camouflage with rocks and heavy brush.”

  “The Brazilian show any interest in their
homesteading?” Cricket asked.

  “I haven’t heard anything. For good or bad, I think she likes it right here. Passable roads, supplies from the city. She has a base of operations that’s worked out well for her these last couple of months.”

  “All dialed in,” Cricket said, unenthused.

  George nodded, reaching for his wife’s hand. “Many of us are wary of her and the gangs she hangs out with on that farm of hers. I trust whatever her influence over the police, they’ll still keep her on their radar. A lot of eyes are watching this woman. I do have trouble forming a final opinion.”

  He turned to Sister Marie, speaking sincerely. “Sister, let us know if we’re getting out of line here. I don’t trust her, but I can’t just condemn her when I see the food getting delivered around town—like this canned pork—and protecting us this past month from being overrun by scavengers and criminal types. Although she keeps bad company herself.”

  “Actually, a strong first impression can be the closest to the truth,” Sister said, looking to Tony, who slapped the table in affirmation. “I’d say you’re on the money. No one should trust her. Condemning her is a different matter.”

  “Sister Marie, you too believe she’s controlling men with sex and drugs?” Ron said.

  “And rock-and-roll,” Tony jumped in. Ron nodded in embarrassment, accepting the chuckles around the table.

  Sister Marie answered, “She uses whatever is at her disposal—food, security, a cell phone or laptop that she somehow gets up and running. And it’s not just men. She’s using both sexes.”

  Ron sadly confessed, “Yeah, I looked over the shoulder of some girl staring at her phone today. Haven’t seen that pose in a while. The thing was lit up but not connected to anything. She tried making one call after another. She didn’t seem frustrated that she actually couldn’t talk to anybody.”

  “All lit up and nobody’s home,” Cricket said.

  “Well said.” Fritz excused himself and started clearing the dinner plates and setting out small plates for dessert. Cricket pitched in, still keeping an ear to the conversation.

  Tony said, “Feminazis bully through work rules and telling people how to act or else. This broad will use whatever she has available, and she’s got a lot available.”

  “Maybe we should make a citizen’s arrest,” Ron said, staring at the peach pie served by Fritz.

  “I’ll be there with the handcuffs.” Tony smiled.

  “How did I know you were going to say that?” Sister Marie said, shaking her head.

  “You’ve got the magic, Sister. I’d like you to be my assistant.” Tony pretended to tip an imaginary hat—probably a fedora, Cricket thought, watching him play the dapper private investigator hiring a smart new associate.

  Sister answered, “I prefer common sense and God’s guidance to magic.”

  “Amen to that,” Mr. Holaday said. This time everyone held their glasses up.

  “I want to make a toast,” Fritz rushed to announce. “Cricket is going to solo tomorrow in the Mustang.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait until after the solo?” Cricket said.

  “Don’t be silly,” Mrs. Holaday answered. “Our son has told us about the work you’ve put into it. He says you’re a natural and handle the Mustang beautifully.”

  Cricket blushed. “Pressure is on.”

  “You’ll do fine,” Fritz said. “Luckily, our flying is going to continue through the summer. We’ve found another airport outside Marietta to deliver fuel. They’re good for several runs right through the winter.”

  “Dangerous ordeal,” his dad said. “The highways are a place for ambushes, littered with dead vehicles. There’s a commercial airliner on the freeway, southbound lane, outside of Canton. Pilot did a pretty good job, I hear. Broke midsection but no fire. Most of the people survived.”

  Fritz said, “They’ll be escorted by two Humvees topped with .50-caliber machine guns.”

  Listening to father and son, Cricket said, “Just want to do my part.”

  “Sounds like you’ll get your chance,” Mrs. Holaday replied.

  Sister Marie led everyone in prayer before they went their separate ways.

  26

  First Solo

  Alone, Cricket popped off the grass runway aiming at the sky. She had never met a horse she really liked until the P-51 Mustang. Most of her girlfriends back in Woodburn had horses and rode constantly, unlike Cricket, who had once used an old quarter horse for her paper route, only to have the romance end when she became enamored with styling hair.

  After raising the gear, she started planning the sequence for landing, remembering airspeeds and flap settings, and immediately caught herself and stopped. She had ignored flying’s number-one motto: Fly the Airplane! Her distraction had caused her to bust through her planned level-off altitude.

  Cricket had never imagined she’d again experience all the emotions and sensations of a first solo, especially that moment shortly after takeoff when you level off and the workload decreases and you know you’re really alone. Not having your teacher onboard could do that. She calmed herself remembering that this first solo led to a mission: tame the wild horse, stay in the saddle, and go after the bad guys. Simple, she thought.

  She leveled off at a higher altitude than Fritz had recommended, but then a pilot always likes altitude. She banked east and saw Kim Tam reservoir and was tempted to leave the traffic pattern and go practice a few maneuvers, but Fritz had insisted on an immediate landing—actually the time-tested three takeoffs and landings to make sure the first one wasn’t mostly luck.

  She throttled back to twenty inches manifold pressure, checked her airspeed, and lowered twenty degrees of flaps. She wouldn’t add the remaining flaps until on short final.

  Cricket had been comfortable with the last pitch change and retrimming the aircraft to stay on speed. Fritz had warned of a low airspeed on final and not carrying enough power before adding flaps, a sure recipe for stalling with no room to recover.

  She was slightly high on short final but configured for landing. She was in the flare when the woods at the end of the grass runway loomed in her windscreen. She initiated a go-around, adding power slowly, bringing the flaps to 20 degrees, when a bullet slapped the back of the canopy, followed by more rounds striking the right side of the fuselage behind her seat.

  This scenario demanded she fly to the alternate field at the north end of Kim Tam Lake. But the complications began to pile up. Cricket wanted the plane on the ground, where she thought it would be safe. And Fritz was there. She was less afraid than angry about being separated from him. What would she find at the other field? She powered back on downwind and glanced below. Fritz’s jeep was racing down the middle of the grass strip.

  Truly pissed, she stuck with Plan A and aimed for Kim Tam. She avoided pounding on the canopy but did scream a choice phrase several times in a row.

  A question arose in her head, and before she could answer it a half dozen more questions arose. Fly the airplane. I can talk to myself on the ground.

  The alternate field was longer than the Falls’ airport. She didn’t see any activity—vehicles or people. About three miles away was a small town, and she decided to land to the west.

  Great, my first landing and no one here to see it. Her T-shirt was soaked. She toweled her face with a clean rag that one of the mechanics had given her, before the sweat burned her eyes. Fritz’s big, warm hug was going to have to wait, wait for at least an hour, the time he figured it would take to pick her up. She scanned the upwind and downwind legs. If anything looked unsafe, she was going back to the Falls. There was no third alternate except whatever emergency field or road seemed doable.

  A left crosswind on final pushed her to the north, and she simply crabbed a few degrees into the wind. The tricky part lay ahead, just feet off the ground, transitioning to down wing and opposite rudder to keep the plane flying straight and not drifting. She was fifty feet off the field when the plane’s rate of descent increased an
d she added power and stabilized the Mustang. Ten feet off the ground she flared, left wing down, into the wind. She bled the power off and landed on the left wheel first and then the right, and pushed the control stick forward to pin the powerful fighter to the ground.

  The ground was more uneven than the last grass runway and she literally tap danced on the pedals to keep the plane moving straight ahead. She gently applied the brakes and the tail wheel came down, and she nailed it down by bringing the stick full aft. Again knocked off heading, she gave a quick shot of power to maintain positive rudder control, finishing the last few hundred feet straight ahead.

  She brought the majestic fighter to a full stop and turned three hundred and sixty degrees, scanning the field and woods for signs of trouble. Satisfied, yet disappointed she was alone, she shut down and opened the bubble canopy to a cool wind.

  The insects, deep in the grass, zoomed through several registers. Standing in the cockpit, she saw that a bullet had grazed the top of the canopy, leaving a short scratch. There was no other apparent damage, and everything had operated fine during the flight and landing.

  She climbed down the wing and postflighted the Mustang, and found no other scars of battle. She took her time inspecting every panel, every control surface, brakes, hydraulic lines, and closely inspected the flaps that were still extended. And, most important, “A Lil’ Somethin’” remained unscathed.

  Cricket’s nearly full wing tanks translated into three hours of flying. She had her 9-millimeter, matches, two bottles of water, and homemade deer jerky in a Ziploc bag from Fritz’s dad. She prayed she wouldn’t be spending the night guarding a million-dollar plane by herself. There’d be no campfire.

  In preparing for this very scenario, Fritz had told her if he didn’t make it before sunset to head back to the Falls. Hopefully, whatever problem had arisen would be handled by her return. If a large American flag hung at the west end of the field, it was safe to land. No flag, no landing, and she was to proceed back to the alternate for the night.