by Glenn Cooper
It was a night of dramatic weather, the wind howling and pushing big waves over the dock. At dusk, Jamie had gone with Connie to fill a five-gallon jug with fresh water, and she had surveyed the dock ruefully. It was pretty close to the least of her concerns, she admitted, but she complained that without electricity to operate the water-bubbler, the dock would be swept away by winter ice.
She laughed at herself and said, “So stupid.”
After supper, Jamie washed the dishes, then joined Connie and Morningside at the kitchen table to polish off the bottle of wine. Emma, Kyra, and Dylan were spread out on the living-room floor, building a Lego castle.
Connie said she had some news. “Pete and Dennis came by early, before you-all got up today. They got an abandoned SUV running with a fresh battery. They’ve got it cleaned and gassed up. They’ll bring it by tomorrow.”
“When can you do my cast?” Jamie asked.
“In the morning.”
“Well, then,” he said. “We might as well hit the road right after.”
He saw her looking at the wine bottle instead of him. “Might as well,” she said.
Theirs had never turned into a hot war, but he knew that under the surface, her resentment over his part in the epidemic had been simmering.
“What you did for us, Connie, has been nothing short of extraordinary. We will be grateful forever.”
“I’ll second, third, and fourth that,” Morningside said, raising her glass. “It will be hard on the children though, won’t it?”
“They’re attached to Dylan, that’s for sure,” he said, “Emma especially.”
“What will you tell them?” Morningside asked.
Connie said, “I’m going to tell him you’re going on a trip and he’ll see them again soon.”
Morningside tutted. “Is it right to lie to him? He’s over the moon about her.”
“He’ll forget her,” Connie said.
“They’re going to retain all their new memories,” Jamie said.
“Stop being a fucking scientist all the time,” Connie said. “A lot of good your science did us.”
Jamie nodded and said sorry, though he wasn’t sure what he was sorry for.
A faraway sound came through the wind. They all heard it, but it didn’t seem important, and no one got up to look through a window.
“What will you do, Gloria?” Connie asked, changing the flow.
Morningside was recovering physically, but she had been listless, and Connie and Jamie had heard her crying some mornings under her covers. On their walks, Connie had told her that post-op depression was common, but they both knew there was more to it than that.
“I’ll go with Jamie, of course, but I’m torn,” she said. “Part of me wants to be in Iowa. My brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews are all in the Davenport area. The Lord knows what’s happened to them, but I don’t. On the other hand, I’ve got a responsibility, as the one and only remaining representative of the Executive Branch, to try and reconstitute our government. That’s best done in Fort Detrick.” She sighed plaintively. “I don’t know, really. You nice people keep calling me Madame President, but I’m really just poor, old, and very tired, Gloria Morningside.”
When they finished off the bottle, Connie hollered at the kids to clean up the living room so Gloria could get to bed. Amid protestations, there was a pounding at the front door. The dog started barking his head off.
“This can’t be good,” Connie muttered.
Kevin Cole was holding a hand to the side of his neck and he was shaking uncontrollably. Blood was seeping through onto his shirt and down his jeans.
“Jesus, Kevin!” Connie said, pulling him inside. “What happened?”
“Men came. They shot dad.”
Connie tossed Jamie a dish towel and said, “Get him onto the sofa and keep the pressure on his wound. I’ll get my kit.”
“Guys, upstairs, now!” Jamie said, laying the boy down and pushing the towel into the welling blood.
“Dylan too?” Emma said with more than a little excitement.
“Yes. Dylan too.”
“What can I do?” Morningside asked.
“Stay with the kids,” Jamie said.
Connie came back with her surgical kit and took the shade off the lamp for more light.
“You ran all the way here?” Connie asked the shivering boy.
“Yeah. I think they killed my dad.”
“Okay, we’ll go up there as soon as I’ve stopped your bleeding. It’s superficial,” Connie said. “I’m going to numb this up, Kev, then throw in a few stitches. What did the men want?”
“They didn’t say. Dad told them to get the hell away and drew on them. They fired back. I had the shotgun. I fired from near the back door and that’s when I got hit. I ran to Pete’s place first. He was dead, I think. There was blood all over.”
“Did they follow you?” Jamie said.
“I don’t think so.”
The dog started barking again.
“I think he’s wrong,” Connie whispered to Jamie, with the unflappable calm of a trauma surgeon. “The pistol is up in my bedroom, under the pillow.”
Jamie didn’t make it out of the room.
The front door swung open and a stocky man in a long black overcoat was in the room, pointing a semi-automatic rifle. He had bushy sideburns poking from under a Carolina Panthers knit hat, and a thick, crooked nose. Another entered behind him, older, fat and sweating profusely, and then a third man, young and slender broke through the kitchen door.
“Does he bite?” the first man said, pointing his rifle at the dog.
“No, he doesn’t,” Connie said.
He spoke in a torrent of words. “Then I won’t shoot him. I like dogs. I like them more than people for the most part. Who else is in here?”
Jamie had a flashback to Dillingham. His skin prickled in anger and he glowered at him.
“I see the way you’re looking at me,” the man said. “I will blow your fucking head off. Who else is in the house?”
“There’s a woman upstairs and three kids,” Connie said.
“Any of them sick?”
“The kids.”
“How old are they?”
“Teenagers.”
“That’s good. Rocky, bring ’em down.”
Rocky was the older fellow. Before he could move, Jamie said, “You’ll get infected.”
“Hey, club foot,” the overcoat man said, mocking Jamie’s cast, “if I haven’t gotten sick yet, it’s not happening. Go on, bring all of ’em down.”
Rocky headed up the stairs.
“Move away from the kid,” the man said to Connie.
She kept applying pressure to Kevin’s neck. “I’m trying to stop his bleeding.”
“I said move away.”
Connie swore at him and stood her ground. The man stepped forward and roughly pulled her, and when Jamie tried to intervene, the younger man put a gun to his head and told him to back the fuck off.
“Just relax, everyone,” the overcoat man said. “I just want to talk to him.”
When the man got into the light of the naked bulb, Jamie was close enough to see that his pupils hardly budged. He’s on amphetamines, he thought.
“What’s your name, kid?” the man asked.
“Kevin.”
“Why’d you fire at me with that shotgun, Kevin?”
“Because you killed my dad,” he spat back.
“Because he took a shot at me too. Neither of you hit me, know why?”
“Why?”
“Because I am invincible. But even so, I cannot abide it when a man fires at me. I was a policeman not long ago, and when a perpetrator even so much as threatened me with a weapon, I was fully justified in taking lethal action. Do you know what my name is?”
“No.”
“Used to be Officer Streeter, but now it’s Mr. Streeter to you. Want to know why I’m telling you that?”
“No.”
“Because
you ought to know the name of the man who killed you.”
Streeter fired once into the boy’s head then pivoted, surprisingly daintily, pointing the rifle at Connie as she raged and swore.
She stopped screaming when she heard Dylan at the bottom of the stairs saying, “Why does Kevin got blood on his head?”
“He’s hurt, darling,” she said. “Don’t look at him.”
“Girls, come over to me,” Jamie said.
“No girls, you stay with old Rocky Raccoon,” Streeter said. “He’s a nice man.”
Morningside had her arms around Emma and Kyra. With a clear voice, devoid of fear, she said to Streeter, “What is it you want from us?”
“Well, I sure as shit don’t want you, lady. I’m here for the sick ones only. He only wants the sick ones.”
“Why?” Jamie said.
“None of your business, is the long and the short of it. Rocky, take the three kids to the car. Me and Roger Dodger will deal with the cleanup on aisle two.”
“Daddy?” Emma said.
Jamie made himself smile at her in case it was going to be her last memory of him.
“Go with the man, honey. Daddy loves you.”
“I love you, Daddy.”
“Do I go too?” Kyra asked.
“Yes, go with Emma.”
“I love you, Daddy,” she said.
“You too, honey.”
Streeter said, “I am going to be sick with this Waltons’ goodnight John-boy shit. Get them out of here.”
“Your momma loves you,” Connie called after Dylan.
When the room was clear, Streeter and his accomplice raised their rifles execution-style.
“You don’t want to do this,” Jamie said.
“Why the hell not?” Streeter said.
“I don’t know why you’re taking them, but do you have doctors where you’re going?”
“No, why?”
He pointed toward Connie. “Because we’re both doctors and she’s a surgeon.”
“Is that right?”
“That’s right. You said, he wants the sick ones. What’s his name, the one in charge?”
“Holland’s in charge. So what?”
“Don’t you think you’ll score a lot of points with Holland if you bring him two doctors?”
“Possibly.”
“How many in your group?”
“Ten normals, about fifty sick.”
“A lot can go wrong with sixty people in close quarters.”
Streeter said, “What about the old lady. What’s her claim to fame? You going to tell me she’s Florence Nightingale?”
“She’s not a nurse,” Jamie said. “She’s the President of the United States.”
52
They had been on the road for only twenty minutes, and at a turn-off, Connie whispered to Jamie that she knew where they were headed.
The road was potholed and the wind was stiff. They bounced around in the back of Streeter’s minibus with Haywood County Correctional Department stenciled on its sides.
“This leads to Lake Splendor,” she said.
“What’s there?”
“Not much. A few small fishing camps. And—”
“And what?”
“A summer camp. Dylan went there when he was a kid.”
Arthur sat between Emma and Kyra on one of the seats, his tongue hanging out as both of them stroked his belly. Morningside was alone on another bench, staring into the night.
They came to a barbed-wire-topped gate that was chained and padlocked. Jamie saw a barbed-wire fence disappearing into the darkness to either side of it. Two of Streeter’s men were on guard duty. They unlocked the gate, swung it open, then locked it again when Rocky drove the bus through. After another few hundred yards, the dark road dead-ended at a lake. The reflected moon danced on its choppy waters. Rocky pulled up to a house, its windows glowing from candlelight and firewood.
Streeter told his men, “Keep them here while I talk to him.”
After a short while, a rather short, middle-aged man with a widow’s-peak hairline bounded onto the minibus. His lips were full and feminine, his chin small, giving his head a top-heavy appearance. He was dressed like an accountant or a lawyer who couldn’t quite pull off a casual Friday, with charcoal-gray pants cinched high on his waist with a thin belt, and an open-collared, white Oxford shirt. When he came up the aisle, Jamie could see his small eyes darting from person to person, taking in his haul.
“Is this true?” he gushed. “Is Gloria Morningside really on this bus?”
“You’ve heard of me?” she replied, somewhat amazed.
“Of course, I have,” Holland said, standing over her. “When Oliver Perkins gave his last presidential address before the lights went out, you were with him at the podium. Mr. Streeter tells me that you’re the president now. What in God’s name happened?”
“We were with some of these good people when Marine One crashed near Lake Junaluska. Oliver didn’t make it. I was badly injured. Dr. Alexiadis saved me. Whether or not I am president is a matter of conjecture, as there’s no one with standing to administer the oath of office.”
“Well, it’s an honor to welcome you to my camp. I’m Jack Holland. My wife, Melissa, and I have more than a passing interest in American history, so it will be an astonishing pleasure to talk to you about presidential succession and our current constitutional crisis. Melissa is working out your accommodations as we speak.”
Jamie and Connie exchanged glances. It seemed that the two of them were going to be competing to be the first to register outrage, but Morningside beat them to the punch.
“Let me tell you something, Mr. Holland,” she said, “I don’t know what it is you’re doing here, but this man, Mr. Streeter, is a cold-blooded murderer. He shot a young boy without provocation.”
Holland turned to Streeter and said, “Chuck, is that true?”
“Son of a bitch went for me with a knife.”
“Well, there you have it,” Holland said. “Self-defense.”
Jamie said, “That’s a lie. The boy was unarmed, and he was wounded when this man shot him. Self-defense, my ass.”
“And you are?” Holland said.
“Jamie Abbott.”
“A doctor, I’m told.”
“Yeah.”
“What kind of doctor?”
“Neurologist.”
“My dear wife has been having these awful headaches. Is that something you could help with?”
“Maybe.”
“And you’re a surgeon, Dr. Alexiadis?”
“That’s right.”
“One of our recruits has a very painful abscess on his sit-upon. I imagine that’s something you could treat?”
“You imagine correctly,” she said, but she quickly lobbed in, “What Jamie and Gloria told you is the goddamned truth.”
Holland said, “One often thinks of truth as something absolute, but under our system of jurisprudence, in these he-said-she-said circumstances, it is up to the judiciary to establish the truth. Mr. Streeter was, until recently, an officer of the law, so he’s the closest thing we have to a judiciary in these parts during these hard times. So, if he says it was self-defense, then ipso facto, it was self-defense. Besides, he’s my wife’s brother, and there would be hell to pay if I were too harsh with him.”
Jamie felt his blood rising and said, “So what you’re telling us is that you’re a piece of garbage for siding with this piece of garbage.”
Streeter grunted and started down the aisle, threatening to deliver a beating, but Holland reined him back.
“Easy, Chuck. I’m sure this has been a trying night for our guests. Let’s allow things to cool off. Are these charming-looking young people our new recruits?”
“What the fuck do you mean by recruits?” Connie said.
“All will be revealed. Let’s get everyone situated for the night and we’ll talk at length in the morning. The young people will go with Mr. Streeter. Mrs. Holland will be out t
o show the three of you to your cabin. I’m afraid you’ll have to share one for now. Space is a little tight, but we’re working on it.”
“We’re not letting you take our kids,” Jamie said.
“No fucking way,” Connie agreed.
“She’s got a mouth on her,” Streeter said.
“I think we will be the ones in charge of logistics on my property,” Holland said hesitantly.
Jamie set his jaw and said, “If you want your wife’s headaches treated, if you want your abscesses drained, if you want our medical services for the sixty people we’re told are at this location, then our kids are going to stay with us.”
Streeter said, “Hey, asshole, you don’t get to dictate what happens here,” but Holland raised his hand.
“Chuck, it’s okay. Recruits are easy to come by. Doctors are like diamonds. And the president of our once-great nation—well, that’s a singular rarity, like finding the Hope Diamond. Let’s call it what it is. A very good night for us. Madame President, you’ll be Melissa’s and my guest tonight, and the doctors will share a cabin with their children. There now, it’s settled.”
Emma apparently had been working hard to follow the conversation, because she said, “Will Arthur sleep with us?”
“Have I missed a soul?” Holland asked.
Connie pointed to the dog. “This is Arthur,” she said.
“Mr. Streeter will bring Arthur to the cabin. He’ll be popular around here.”
Melissa Holland had the same flattened-down North Carolinian accent as her husband and she dressed in the same conservative attire. In her case, her white blouse, buttoned to the neck, was paired with a dark gray, mid-calf skirt and sensible shoes. Jamie thought she was about the same age as Jack Holland, somewhere in the late forties. She was not an attractive woman—she had bulging, thyroidal eyes and a prow-like nose, but it was easy to see from Holland’s attentive body language that he cherished her.
Jamie, Connie, their kids, and Gloria Morningside sat in the Hollands’ living room while Streeter and his men prepared a cabin. The place had a lived-in look. An entire wall was taken up by bookcases. An oil portrait of the Hollands standing in front of a stately brick building, surrounded by beds of springtime azaleas, hung over the mantel. There were his and hers reading glasses on the coffee table. This wasn’t like Dillingham where Edison had appropriated a house for himself. This felt like the Hollands’ residence.