by Rob Lopez
“We’re advisers with the SDF,” said Rick.
The commander, his face creased by too many days in the sun, looked up, noticing the Kurdish insignia on Flynn and Jamie’s arm patches. “YPG, you mean,” said the commander with a trace of disgust, referring to the Kurdish militias.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Rick. “We’re on the same side, and I have a man here who needs medical assistance.”
The commander glanced at Walt, then back to the map. “I cannot help you. We have no supplies, and our radios do not work.”
“Ours don’t either. What’s the situation here?”
“What do you think?” snapped the commander. “We have been abandoned.”
“ISIS has retaken Ain Issa. They could be moving on the dam.”
“Of course. We have ISIS advancing from the south, and the Free Syrian Army advancing from the north. Messengers I send out do not return, and your much vaunted air power is nowhere to be seen. What use are you to me?”
“What about Manbij?”
“Who cares about Manbij? Your friends are no longer there. They drive their convoys to show the flag, then they return to their bases in the east. They have not been seen for days. How convenient. Now the Iranians had detonated an EMP device, and nothing works, so there is little to stop the Kurds, Turks and Russians from dividing up my country between them. You were supposed to be protecting us, but instead you have made a deal with our enemies.”
“It wasn’t the Iranians.”
“Do not give me your excuses. Look at this dam. It worked perfectly when it was held by ISIS. Now my people have no power. What are your promises worth, now?”
While they were talking, the militiamen took an interest in Kowalski, getting up close and prodding his flight suit. One of them pointed to his name badge and said, “Russki.”
That really got their interest, and suddenly they were shoving Kowalski and hitting him.
“Hey!” yelled Flynn, savagely pushing a militiaman back.
Militiamen reached for their rifles, then froze as the Special Forces operatives aimed their weapons at them, safety catches clicking ominously.
Rick found himself aiming his rifle at the commander’s head. It was an instinctive action, and the commander slowly raised his eyes.
“You have a Russian pilot with you,” he said acidly.
The Russian air force wasn’t popular here, having hit the SDF units a couple of times when they clashed with Assad’s forces.
“He’s not Russian. He’s an American pilot,” said Rick. “Tell your men to stand down.”
The commander was unfazed. “I have more men outside. You are outnumbered. Give us the Russian, and I will let you go free.”
Rick imagined exactly what they would do if they handed the pilot over, and pressed the barrel of his rifle forcefully against the commander’s head. “Order your men to stand down, or you’ll be the first to die, and we’ll cut through any man who stands in our way. Do you understand?”
The commander weighed the odds, and read the intent in Ric’s eyes. Finally he barked a command in Arabic, ordering his men to lay down their arms. Rick eased back the rifle from the commander’s skull, but kept his safety off. He contemplated disarming them and tying them up, but that would involve shouting and alerting the others outside. Rick chose instead to have his team casually withdraw. “You have a good day,” he said to the commander.
The commander gave him a weary look. “Go home, American.”
They made their way out the door.
It was a tense few minutes as they made their way across the parking lot. Rick nodded and salaamed the militiamen outside as casually as he could, while maintaining three-sixty awareness. The militiamen were mildly confused, curious at this group of Americans moving in tactical formation. Then a man came out of the building, shaking his rifle at them and shouting.
“Stay easy,” murmured Rick to his men, waving back with a fake smile.
The militiamen grew agitated as pertinent information passed quickly through the group, injured pride hardening their faces. More started to shout.
“Easy now,” said Rick. They were nearly at the concrete barriers on the other side of the parking lot.
The man who’d come out of the building leveled his AK47. A staccato punching ripped the air as Leroy opened fire with his M249, a line of exploding concrete chips and ricocheting bullets appearing in front of the militiamen, who immediately ducked and scattered.
The commander came running to the door, seeing his men taking cover, and barked angry orders at them.
Rick thought he might be ordering them to attack, but when they remained in position, watching the Americans with sullen looks, he realized the commander was restraining them, worried about the consequences of a shootout.
Rick tipped him a salute, and the man glowered back. By now, the team had reached the concrete blocks and the raised parapet of the exit road that led past the substation and towards a junction. To the southwest were a line of hills, beyond which were ISIS. To the northwest, along a wide road, lay Manbij.
“Nice going,” said Rick to Leroy, still walking backwards and keeping an eye on the militia.
“Yeah, it worked,” said Leroy. “Used up the rest of the ammo in the box, though.”
Leroy tossed the machine gun over the parapet, where it slid down the bank towards the water, and unslung his M4.
“Kowalski,” said Rick.
“What?”
“Tear off that name tape before I shove it up your ass.”
16
Lauren doubled up her jacket and tied it to the saddle to make the ride more bearable. Her legs still ached when she woke, but the feeling passed. Under the hot sun, however, she felt thirsty, and began to worry about her water supplies. Food was running low too. It was hungry work, cycling. When she saw the sign for the Molly Pitcher rest stop, she thought it worth checking out.
The baking hot concrete of the parking lot shimmered the air. A handful of abandoned cars were parked, but the majority of the vehicles in the lot were long haul trucks. Their drivers had obviously been sleeping in the cabs when the storm hit. Lauren dismounted and walked her bike towards the service building. A trio of truckers sat in chairs outside the entrance, soaking up the rays and shooting the breeze. One of them had a baseball bat propped by his chair.
“Howdy,” said Lauren as she got close.
“Hi there, young lady,” said the one with the baseball bat. He was completely bald, with a short white beard and a patterned tattoo covering most of his scalp. His eyes creased as he scrutinized her, but Lauren didn’t get a sense of menace from either him nor the others.
“Not so young, but thanks. This place open?” The door was wide open, but she thought it courteous to ask.
“I believe it is. Better talk to Ralph here, though.”
Lauren had assumed Ralph was a trucker, but he wore the green shirt and pants uniform of the service station company. He must have been the night manager when the power went down. His pants were creased, like he’d been sleeping in them, and the shirt underarms were stained by two large sweat patches. “Go right on through,” he said, “but pay me out here. The cash register’s out. And don’t touch the Starbucks machine. That’s a franchise and I promised to leave it as it is. Useless without power anyway, but you’ve no idea how many people keep trying.”
Lauren looked around the empty lot and wondered who those other people were. Had there been a constant stream of highway refugees?
Lauren took her bike inside. It was dim, and hot as hell without the air conditioning. She made her way to the bathroom. It was bliss to use a toilet after squatting at the roadside, and she made a point of taking some of the toilet paper for later. She flushed the toilet by habit, forgetting that the water system wouldn’t be operating anymore. She was thus surprised when water cascaded into the bowl. Taking the empty bottles from her bag, she filled them at a basin, then splashed water onto her face to remove the caked-on du
st. It was warm but heavenly, and she drank her fill from the faucet.
The shelves in the store were almost empty, most of the good stuff already having been taken. Lauren grabbed a few bags of potato chips and some candy and granola bars. It was the kind of junk that put weight on her hips, but today wasn’t a day to worry about that.
Outside, as she paid Ralph, she realized that maybe he wasn’t the manager. He could have been the janitor taking advantage of a free payday. The three together looked as if they’d taken ownership of the place and, apart from the baseball bat, had the appearance of three old boys manning a garage sale.
There were chairs available, so Lauren sat down to eat. “I’m surprised you’ve still got water running,” she said.
“It’s the water tower,” said Ralph, jerking his head back towards the structure at the back of the service area. “It’ll be good for a while.”
“How long do you plan on staying?”
Ralph shrugged. “Till there’s no reason to stay. Right now, there’s no reason to go nowhere.”
“Home?”
“It’s just an apartment. I’ll make that long walk when I have to.”
“And where’s home to you, young lady?” asked the guy with the bat.
“North Carolina,” said Lauren, picking oats from between her teeth. “And the name’s Lauren.”
“North Carolina? I’d give you a ride in my truck, if it was working. I brought a load up from Georgia. I’m Sam, by the way. And this is Earl. Poor guy came all the way from Louisiana.”
Earl looked like a sad puppy.
“His daughter’s about to get married,” explained Sam, “and he’s worried he’ll miss the wedding.”
“It ain’t right,” murmured Earl.
Lauren doubted the wedding would take place now, but she didn’t want to fan the flames of that particularly discontentment. “What about the other drivers?” she asked.
“Ahh, the local boys made their way home on foot. One dude from Michigan hung around for a while, waiting for help. Lost patience in the end and set out this morning. Good job, too. Guy did nothing but bitch. We got a nice little community here. Gotta make the best of it, right?”
“You’re going to hole up here?”
“Sure. Why not? No point running around all scared. There’s warehouses around here. One of them will have food. Need a Buddhist frame of mind, that’s all. Keep the energies flowing in the right direction, and things will work out. There’s people out there fixing stuff. Might take a while, but it’ll all come good.”
“Go with the flow,” muttered Lauren.
“Exactly. That’s what I’ve been saying the whole time.”
Lauren wasn’t sure whether to admire such faith, or pity it.
On the far side of the rest stop was a police station house, its red and white radio mast sticking up beyond the gas station. A lonely state trooper ambled casually across the parking lot. He looked the same age as the truckers and wasn’t in any hurry.
“How are you doing, Pete?” called Sam to the trooper.
Pete looked beat. He dropped his heavy frame into a chair and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “So so,” said the trooper. “Made it as far as Concordia today. Most folks are calm, though they got a million questions I can’t answer. Even saw some guys on the golf course. Some people don’t care what happens so long as they get to play their holes. Still short of about fifteen troopers who failed to report for shift yesterday, but they live a hell of a long way out. If no one else turns up, I’m going to have to start deputizing. Get some of the fine folks from these gated communities to start wearing out some shoe leather. That’s going to be fun.”
Sam leaned across to Lauren. “We’ve already been deputized,” he assured her. “Keeping the peace in our little neck of the woods.”
“Just so long as you don’t go swinging that bat where you shouldn’t,” said Pete. “So who’s the newcomer?”
“This here’s Lauren – or so she tells us – and she cycled here off the freeway.”
Lauren wondered if Pete was going to give her a ticket for that, but instead he just nodded. “Good call. I could do with a bike right now. Live local?”
“No, just passing through,” said Lauren.
Pete seemed amused by that. “Stranger rolling into town. Maybe I should check you against my wanted posters.”
Lauren shifted uncomfortably, thinking about her stolen bike.
“Just kidding,” said Pete. “Where you headed to, anyway?”
“North Carolina.”
Pete whistled. “Well good luck. You carrying?”
“No.”
“You wouldn’t have a permit, anyway,” reasoned the trooper, “but you want to be careful out there, a woman traveling alone. Can’t call 911 now.”
Lauren didn’t see the point in restating the obvious, and just said, “Thanks.”
Pete looked around, like he was missing something. “Are you guys going to make a coffee for me?”
“Oh now, come on,” said Ralph, “I promised Sally I wouldn’t touch her stuff.”
“It’s just a few capsules,” said Pete. “I could do with a Starbucks now. Put it on the station tab. Hell, we’ve given her enough good service. And where’s Martha?”
“She’s getting some wood,” said Sam. “Soon as she gets here, we’ll brew some water.”
A huge woman with the meatiest arms Lauren had ever seen waddled out from behind the building, carrying an armful of firewood. “Howdy, Sheriff,” said Martha with a toothy grin.
“Have these deadbeats been leaving you to do all the work?” said Pete.
“Sure have,” said Martha.
“She volunteered,” protested Sam.
Pete narrowed his eyes at him. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”
“Not ever,” called Martha cheerfully.
Lauren got up from her chair, suspecting it was Martha’s. “I’ll be on my way,” she said.
“You sure?” said Pete. “If we get a good coffee going, you could be in luck.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got a long way to go.”
“Okay. Happy trails, pardner.”
Lauren left them chuckling over the asinine joke. She wondered whether they’d be laughing in a couple of days time when the food and water ran out. Sam’s optimism about people 'fixing stuff’ was touching, but misplaced.
She felt sorry for Earl, though. Somewhere out there, his daughter was wondering when he’d return to walk her down the aisle. Such thoughts led her to dwell on her own children. Spurred on by that, she pushed the pace as she hit the freeway.
*
Josh ached all over. His feet stung, his hands were blistered and his arms and shoulders hurt, but he felt good, which was strange.
Tending the barbecue, he looked towards Grandpa’s grave. Dawn’s light showed that it hadn’t been covered properly, so he’d added more soil this morning, making it look neat and even. Grandma had asked a neighbor if she could cut some flowers to put on the grave, and the blooms rippled in the fresh breeze.
Stoking the coals, Josh felt, for the first time in his life, like a man.
I buried Grandpa, he thought.
The implications of that blew his mind. The memory of the night before felt surreal, and after years of lethargy, it was manic. It was like he’d gone crazy. He should have felt remorse. Or haunted. Instead he felt decisive. Something needed doing and he’d done it.
He wasn’t useless anymore.
Grandma staggered out with a bucket of murky water.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Brine,” she said. “My, I haven’t done this since I was a little girl. My own grandmother showed me how to do this, but I never dreamed I’d have to do it myself.”
“We’re just barbecuing, Grandma.”
“No, this is different. Pay attention. Back before they had refrigerators, they had to salt and smoke meat to preserve it. Push the white coals to one side, and add more in a line around the
edges. Leave the middle clear. Did you soak the wood chips like I asked you?”
“Sure.”
“Good boy. Sprinkle them on the coals.”
Josh did so, and Grandma dug her hand in the bucket and pulled out a disgusting looking piece of meat. She’d rescued everything from the freezer, but Josh thought it smelled too bad to bother with. Grandma begged to differ. She slapped all the meat onto the rack. The wood chips were already smoking, and the drips from the meat sizzled on the bottom of the barbecue.
“Close the lid now and open the vent just a touch.”
Josh did as he was told. “And now?”
“We leave it for the rest of the day. We’ll have jerky and smoked ham for the rest of the week.”
“And after that?”
Grandma put her hands on her hips and took a deep breath. “One step at a time, please, Josh. My word. Your grandpa wanted us to buy a small homestead when we retired. I told him not to be so ridiculous. When you’re old, fetching food from the store is enough work. I couldn’t imagine spending my time with chickens and the like. And your grandpa certainly wasn’t about to chop wood for the stove. I wasn’t taken with the romantic image, but now...” She glanced at the grave, and the suburban image around her. “Well, it’s too late now. I need to go lie down for a spell. See if you can cheer your sister up. She’s still not herself.”
Lizzy was in the bedroom, hugging her knees to her chin and staring at the wall. Josh sat on the bed, but she didn’t move closer to him.
“Hey,” he said gently.
Lizzy didn’t respond.
“You okay?”
Silence.
“You haven’t been drawing today.”
“Can’t draw,” murmured Lizzy.
“Sure you can. Why don’t you draw the teddy bear there? Put him in the woods. Or something.”
“Don’t want to.”
“I’ll draw him, then.”
Josh picked up her pencil and pad and began sketching eyes and a nose, adding fur.
“Can you draw me a hole?” said Lizzy.