As Wind in Dry Grass

by H. Grant Llewellyn

  "He's dee-ceased...he's lyin in a pool of something...looks like blood...I can't tell...better get someone down here..."

  The ambulance made its second trip that night and the masked attendants lifted George's stiffened body onto the gurney and stuffed him as quickly as possible into the vehicle. They left without sirens or flashing lights.

  The mayor had accompanied the police to the house and he stood to one side, listening as Chief Finney consulted with the shaken cop and ordered him to pin police tape around the residence all the way to the sidewalk.

  Vanna didn't last the night. She died without regaining consciousness; thus neither knew the other had died, though the same bug got them both. They were taken to the morgue and put on ice while the hospital awaited the arrival of two CDC officials who were to examine the bodies before they were burned.

  Gonzalez felt his head was stuffed with dough by the time the night had ended and he was driving back to Albert's place.

  The electricity had come and gone twice more. The weather was milder, but still cold and he imagined any number of people huddled in their homes trying to keep warm without natural gas or propane or oil. Only those with wood-burning stoves were able to remain comfortable and that was mainly in the surrounding county. He hadn't been given any instructions per se, regarding firewood but he realized he would have to step in shortly and force rationing of the wood and require those with heating units to share their accommodations with others. It was the right thing to do. You can't have someone sitting in front of a fire while the man next door lies in bed freezing.

  He was surprised to see the lights in the house on when he climbed the last rise of the driveway. Where was the power coming from? He stepped down out of the truck and heard Hank Williams Sr.'s baritone crooning, Blue Eyes Cryin in the Rain. As he got closer he could hear the music clearly and laughing and women's voices.

  He opened the door and was greeted immediately by Smith-Jones #1 and #2 sitting on Albert's big leather sofa - Hector's sofa, now, by rights - drinking from a bottle of liquor while two women, who were obviously drunk, pretended to dance. The women stopped and looked at him and he could see they were almost unable to focus.

  "Hey beaner, c'mon in," Lewis, AKA Smith-Jones #2 grinned at him. "C'mon in, man, there's plenty to go around."

  One of the women was in her late twenties and the other was closer to forty and in normal times neither have drawn much attention. Their body language was not really even crude but just simplistic and vulgar, as though they had gotten their sexual ideas from a comic book or maybe some kind of television series. The two black security men knew it, too. Gonzalez could tell by the way they were supplying them and encouraging them to dance that the men had nothing but contempt for these two women and probably had plans for them the women hadn't fully considered.

  Gonzalez was no priest. He had nothing against these two women. He liked women, in their place. The fact was, he couldn't have cared less about these two; he was just uncomfortable with the breach of protocol. Gonzalez believed in rules and regulations, not in individual initiative. He was given a task to perform and if someone tried to prevent him from completing that task there was a system in place that would eventually vindicate him and punish the malefactor. You followed the rules. If everyone would just follow the rules. In rare moments he might wonder about the rules, about who made them and what gave them the power to do so, but the answer always came to him: They were following the rules, too. Everyone reports to somebody, his supervisor used to tell them.

  "Ya, c'mon, honey..." the older one said and leaned forward, trying to display her sagging breasts.

  Gonzalez looked away and thought for a moment.

  "Civilians are not supposed to be in here," he finally said, addressing the South African Smith-Jones.

  The two men looked at him and the woman shrieked with idiotic laughter. The younger girl looked away without expression. Seeing his objections meant nothing, he went down the hallway to his room and shut the door.

  The party went on for most of the night but Gonzalez slept through it. When he woke, the house was quiet. He heard snoring and giggling from the spare bedroom as he walked past. He looked outside and noticed that no one was patrolling. His orders were to submit to military control, but did that include this kind of dereliction of duty?

  He turned around as the older woman emerged, smoking a cigarette, alternately inhaling and coughing.

  "Exkyoose me," she chirped and sat down on the sofa. Her face was streaked and puffy and he could see a kind of desperation in her eyes, a false cheeriness.

  "Are you gay?" she asked, in a friendly tone. "It's okay. I mean who cares, right?"

  Hector felt his blood pressure rise suddenly but he tried to keep the symptoms under control. He did not blush or lose his voice.

  "Stay out of this room," he said.

  She looked at him like she'd been slapped and rose from the sofa.

  "What's your fuckin problem?" she snarled.

  "This is my office. You and your...friends...stay out of this room from now on."

  "Whatsup?" a voice came from the hallway.

  "I dunno," the woman began. "This fuckin gay beaner friend of yours is wound too tight, you know what I mean?"

  Smith-Jones #1 appeared, his face calm, almost indifferent.

  "That's okay," he told her. "You leave Gonzo alone."

  Gonzalez realized it was #1's concession to their shared management of the facility. He was telling Gonzalez that he would compromise: he would allow Gonzalez to continue to live there, too.

  Albert slept twenty four hours, something he'd never done in his life. He woke and checked his battery systems and then turned on the camera and saw daylight. He checked his watch and it read 7 A.M. He'd finally checked out about seven a.m. the day before, so he had slept around the clock. It felt like it. He rose without any glue trying to keep him back. He turned on the mic and listened for a while. There was no one out there. It was another bright, hard-looking day and he figured he could do a little patrolling himself.

  He opened a breakfast MRE and went through the ritual, imagining his big stove and his coffee and the familiarity of his home. He could understand the bastards using it as a headquarters. It had everything set up for long-term siege. He pulled a small short-wave combination radio receiver off a shelf and attached an antennae cable that ran from the tip of the windmill frame. There was mostly static but he picked up an FM broadcast. He was surprised when he finally tuned it in clear enough, to find out that it was NPR. Maybe this thing was winding down; maybe it was over. That wouldn't do him any good. Someone who kills two police officers, a federal emergency management official and a stupid civilian would remain on the wanted list and probably the shoot-on-sight list until DNA proved beyond a doubt that the shot up mangled body on the coroner's table was his. They'd have had no trouble finding a DNA sample when they combed the house to compare it to, either. They might even try and find his mother or sisters. They'd get their slide all right and they'd put someone on him for a couple of years at least.

  The NPR announcer mispronounced a name, stumbled over it and resumed his report.

  "...Jacqueline Mognazonovitch-Ruwrllutsky, pardon me, is only the fourteenth openly gay Polish-American female lawyer in a mixed relationship with a blind African-Chinese mentally handicapped figure skater to be appointed to the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals since last year. Tune in this afternoon for our in depth report on Jewish influence on music composed in the key of F sharp major between April 13, and May 9, 1736.

  "And birthdays in the news: Today is the one thousand four hundred and forty fourth anniversary of the birthday of Mohammed, the messenger and prophet of God.

  "In other news, the government announced today that Martial Law will continue to be in effect for the foreseeable future. Our reporter, Martin Gomez-Kornbluth has this report:

  'Until the cows come home if that's how long it takes to make this country secure once again.'

 
; "Those are the words of President Obama at today's press conference when he was asked how much longer Martial Law will remain in force.

  "There's no time limit," Mr. Obama said. "I have the authority to keep this country under Martial Law for as long as I see fit and I intend to use that authority to protect the American people from themselves and from anyone else who thinks they can control this freedom-loving people by force of arms."

  Mr. Obama left before answering any more questions..."

  Albert turned off the radio.

  "Happy birthday Mo-," Albert said, drinking down a mixture of water and flavor crystals.

  He checked the screen again and nothing had changed.

  When he opened the hatch, he felt a brisk, cold wind and inhaled deeply. It was still below freezing and winter was far from over but the days were noticeably longer.

  He dropped the hatch and then armed the IEDs. It was simply a matter of connecting a couple of leads. If someone opened the hatch without disconnecting those same leads first, he'd blow himself and everybody around him to pieces; if that device failed, for some reason and he ventured into the tomb, he'd flick a light switch and blow himself to pieces. If both devices failed, Albert was dead anyway, so who could give a shit?

  There was a fresh sprinkling of snow which made tracking easy and it was clear that no one had come this way. He moved cautiously through the trees, alert to any sound or flicker of light. If the birds stopped yammering, he stopped and waited until they resumed. He moved around the perimeter, twenty feet at a time. He was carrying his AK and five forty-round magazines, a .45 Auto with three clips, a belly gun in his pants pocket and several knives. The tiny North American Arms five-shot .22 Magnum fit in the palm of the hand. The long-rifle version was even smaller, but Albert liked the .22 magnum cartridge. Pound for pound at close range it was unbeatable. It was a single-action revolver that had to be cocked each time it was fired and it wasn't much good over twenty feet in terms of accuracy because it was so difficult to hold. But it was also the most concealable weapon he had. It could ride in his pants pocket and not be visible to anyone. It was just possible that someone might overlook it some time and he'd get to pull it and shoot some brains out. He wasn't planning to be taken alive, but "sometimes they get the jump on you, Albert," he heard Lenny Markwith telling him.

  "Keep something back, man. Reserves."

  Lenny Markwith had taught him to shoot and to load a shotgun in a certain way and to build his own ammo and how to kill and cause pain. He had died of a stroke in a room in Indianapolis and lay in the bed for four days before anyone found the body. Albert had only found out about his death because he went to see him and another roomer told him the story. Every time he touched that .22 he thought of Lenny. Lenny Markwith: ex-marine - no, not former marine - ex-marine, jailed, then dishonorably discharged after seven years service for punching out an MP because the MP had dissed him. It was the beginning of Lenny's crack-up. He was eventually able to qualify for a commercial drivers license and spent the next twenty three years hauling flatbed. When they met, Albert was already on his last five years as a driver but they got along and he took a couple of off-times at Lenny's cabin in New Mexico where he learned to shoot. Then Lenny lost his license drunk driving, spent three more years in jail and was kicked back onto the street where he methodically drank himself to death.

  As he closed in on his buildings, Albert slowed down even more, moving between trees, waiting thirty seconds or a minute, then moving again. He had no military training at all, it just seemed like the smart thing to do. He reached the limestone ridge and stood back a few yards in the trees, straining to see what was going on. He had a poor set of binoculars and focused them on the house where he could see the heat waves coming out of the chimney. It always surprised him how the biodiesel burned without smoke. Those assholes probably didn't even realize they were burning vegetable oil; they just luxuriated in the warmth made by another man's efforts. Calm yourself down...stay cool, motherfucker...think, but don't think too long...do something...when you are cornered and they are killing you: Do something...don't just sit there and die...

  He panned around to the barn and the pasture behind it which he could see clearly from this vantage point. He watched the area for a few minutes and then dropped the binoculars.

  "They must be inside," he thought. "Sure. They've dropped some hay down for them and they're all inside..."

  He wanted to get closer, maybe even right up to the building so he could get an idea of who was occupying his home and land. There was the Quonset hut out to the west with a military Humvee parked behind it. There was the black SUV that FEMA provided to all its field teams. He saw his truck, unmoved since he'd left and a red sedan he didn't recognize. He scouted the pasture again and a knot of anxiety tightened in his gut.

  He wished he smoked cigarettes. This would be a perfect opportunity to smoke. He could just sit here and watch the house and smoke cigarettes. Instead, he day-dreamed, remembering Bolivia's lowing as her bag deflated. She complained a lot but she liked being milked and when he entered the pasture to check on them, she would lumber up to him and stand there, waiting to be caressed. She liked to have her neck scratched. Then he thought about Rosemary all those years ago. He remembered the texture of her skin. She was probably dead somewhere or living in a cardboard box wrapped up in newspapers. For the first time in years he had clear and present memory of his father making a paper airplane and stapling it along the undercarriage.

  "We'll just put a couple of engines in there," he said and handed him the plane. He threw it over and over again until it became so flimsy from repeated crashes that it couldn't fly. Then he ran to his father and held it up to him to fix. His father looked at him without seeing him and went back to work. The recollection stunned him. He hadn't thought of his father in years and that particular memory seemed to come out of nowhere like a dead body that floats to the surface of a lake after it fills up with gas. He started to pant. "Jesus," he said out loud. "What the hell...?" But it was on him now, and he could not do anything about it. He just sat there and watched the stage while the lineup of memories came out, one after another and did its act.

  The sun had fallen behind the western tree line which was high, virgin National Forest but there was still plenty of daylight. He imagined standing still he would appear to be a tree or a stump or maybe a rock, some kind of blob, anyway. He moved across the ridge and started down towards the house and barns. It was about four o'clock, he guessed. He was half way across the open field, when #1 emerged from the house. He walked out a few yards and looked across the snowy ground. Albert froze while #1 urinated and flipped his dick a few times. Then he turned and went back inside. Albert's heart was pounding and he waited a few minutes before deciding to move. Then two of them emerged, both dressed in full combat gear. Albert knew it was over. Maybe he could kill one of them, but two highly trained American special forces soldiers would know what they were doing. He remained still, waiting for them to make their move before he reacted. He pushed the lever on the AK from single shot to full auto and at that moment, the men walked around the house and into the Quonset hut.

  Do something.

  He made it back to the edge of the woods and got under cover before anyone reappeared. Now he could move down the tree-covered slope to the no man's land between the barn and the forest and move around back of the buildings. It took him only a few minutes to get out of sight of the house. He jumped the fence and entered the pasture which was slushy and ugly in the daytime January thaw. It still puzzled him that no one was out in the yard. The big hay rolls were gone but anybody could see the two hundred square bales in the mow. All they had to do was throw them down and the beasts would do the rest. The barn had two doorways. A man door faced the house and a huge sliding door at the back permitted entry of the tractor so he could clean out the manure. It was slid halfway and he stopped and listened but heard nothing. He almost called the cow by name but shut himself up in time. Then
he walked in and caught his breath.

  Tweedle dum and Tweedle dee were busy in the Quonset when Gonzalez came out the front door. He stood outside the hut and called them several times. Finally they came out and the three started arguing.

  Albert could hear their voices but he couldn't make out the words.

  He was standing in the far corner of the barn by the man door. He thought he could probably get two of the three at least if he made a hard run for it, but what if it didn't work? He had no experience, no training to speak of other than the use and fabrication of devices. He didn't know how to attack or what to expect. He wasn't afraid, he just didn't want to waste his life and not kill them. He wanted to be certain they died as badly as he could manage it. He decided to take the chance and sprint across the driveway to the house. He could probably still get under the crawl space if he took his heavy clothing off. Fortunately, the three stooges were trying to sort things out and no one noticed as he ran the fifty feet and pulled a vent off the wall. He crawled in fairly easily and realized that in the last week, he'd probably lost weight from his reduced diet. He kept himself down to two MREs a day when he was active and only one when he wasn't. He pulled the grate back in place and crawled across the muddy ground to the north west corner of the house to his "old bedroom." He had cut a hole in the closet floor as an access point to fix plumbing problems or run wire. He'd never used it but there was no reason to think it wouldn't just pop open when he pushed on it. He had his .45 with three extra clips and his pocket pistol. The machine gun and his clothing where hidden in the mow.