Reaper

by Buckhout, Craig

  Another nurse, this one a woman, walked over, touched Max’s shoulder, and said, “Come on, Mr. Calloway, at least let’s check your vitals, call the doctor, make sure we’re not jumping the gun here.”

  “We’re not doing anything, I am.” Max had enough. He turned and started walking toward the elevator with the reserve officer trailing behind.

  The male nurse said, “At least let us get you a wheelchair. It’s policy.”

  Without turning around, Max said, “Do I look like I need a wheelchair?”

  Max and the reserve officer followed the signs to the front lobby. The reserve said, “Uh, you know, I gotta call this in. They’ll have my butt if I don’t.”

  “Yeah, I know. Don’t worry about it.”

  The reserve chuckled, “I’ll give you a head start, though.”

  Max stood at the drive-up circle in front of the hospital with the reserve officer right next to him, waiting for the cab.

  From around the corner of the hospital, Max saw an ambulance driving out toward the street with a male behind the wheel. Before reaching the street it came to an abrupt stop, remained motionless for a few seconds, backed-up, and turned toward him.

  What’s this, Max thought, the hospital police?

  The ambulance pulled to a stop with the driver looking at him. The passenger leaned forward into view and asked, “They released you?”

  “Myra. What is it with everyone around here? I’m good to go.”

  “What I thought,” she said shaking her head. She looked forward, out the windshield, as if she was trying to make up her mind, before saying, “Come on, we’ll give you a ride home.”

  Her partner, the driver, turned toward her and said something that she replied to. He looked forward then, seemingly annoyed, and she repeated, “Come on. We don’t have all day. Get in.”

  He watched her get out of the ambulance, walk around to his side of the vehicle, and open the side door, nodding him inside.

  His first instinct was to tell her he didn’t need a ride, he could take care of himself, but something moved his feet forward, toward the open door.

  As he stepped inside, he winced and exhaled.

  “Feel good?” Myra asked but not really asking at all.

  “Piece of cake. Nothing to it,” Max said gritting his teeth.

  “Sure it is.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  JUNE 6TH

  D Day Anniversary

  As usual, Steve didn’t knock. He just walked in unannounced, like he owned the place.

  Beth, on the other hand, hung back at the door and shouted, “Hello? You decent?” before stepping over the threshold and following her husband inside.

  “Whoa,” Steve said.

  This caused Beth to stop and look around her husband’s broad back to see what he was staring at. “Oh my God.” She scooted Gavin behind her.

  “Relax,” Max told them. “She’s just making sure I don’t have an infection.”

  “Yeah, but what kind of infection? Will she check me out, too?”

  Beth straight-armed Steve in his sore shoulder.

  “Hey,” he said as he grabbed it with his opposite hand.

  Max was standing in the middle of the living room with Myra, who was wearing a pair of blue jeans with a split knee, a white, sleeveless top, sandals, exposing two sets of perfectly painted, dark red toenails, seated on a kitchen chair directly in front of him, head down, up close, hands moving and out of view.

  Myra turned her head, smiled, and said, “You must be Steve. I’m just cleaning one of his wounds and changing the dressing.” She turned back to Max, ripped off another piece of tape, dropped the roll on top of her bag on the floor, pressed the strip in place, and said, “There, that should do it.”

  “Thanks, you didn’t have to do that,” Max said, pulling his cargo shorts up.

  “I know.”

  “How do you rate your very own doctor?” Steve asked.

  “Paramedic,” Max said.

  “I didn’t know paramedics made house calls either.”

  Beth pushed her husband aside, said, “Knock it off, Steve,” walked past him, and put her hand out to Myra. “I’m Beth.”

  “Myra,” as she accepted the hand.

  “So I still don’t get how you know Max,” Steve said, not letting up.

  Before Myra could answer, Max said, “Myra and her partner are the ones who transported me to the hospital. When I checked myself out, she saw me standing near the passenger drop off and gave me a ride home.” To add in the bit about Myra’s hospital visit would only result in more uncomfortable questions, and he wasn’t sure yet if he had the answers for them, so he left that part out.

  Steve squinted one eye at the two of them and said, “Yeah, right, …whatever. Look, we just came by to see if you needed anything, but I guess not.”

  Myra smiled and said, “Nope, at this point I think it’s pretty much under control. Beth, you want some coffee?”

  “Oh, you make coffee, too? Uh huh, just changing his bandages,” Steve said.

  “I’d love some,” Beth answered. “Come on Gavin.” And then to Myra, “I apologize for my husband. Sometimes he thinks he’s funny.”

  As soon as the women were out of the room, Steve moved closer and said, “Nice. Now really, how’d you meet her?”

  “Hey, I told you ….” His answer was interrupted by an alert on Steve’s phone indicating a text message received.

  “Hang on. I don’t want to miss a single word of this,” Steve said, pulling the phone from his pocket. He hit a few buttons, stared at the screen, turned to Max and said, “Turn the TV on. They hit us again.”

  Max grabbed the remote, switched it on, and punched the volume button up a couple of times.

  “Upon news of the attacks, the Dow fell nearly seven hundred points before it closed at ….”

  Nick switched the channel.

  “…so far the tally is six separate bombings with an unknown number of killed and wounded. We’ll get you more as soon as it is known. …”

  He switched it again.

  “...If you’re just tuning in, what we know so far is that explosive devices have been detonated at transportation centers in Portland, Oregon; San Francisco and San Diego, California; Huston, Texas; New Orleans, Louisiana; and Norfolk, Virgina. …”

  Max heard Beth and Myra enter the room behind them. One of them sucked in a deep breath.

  “… It appears that in each case the bombs were contained in an SUV of some sort, driven to the site, and set off with the occupant or occupants still inside. Comparing the notes of our affiliates in each of these cities, it also looks as if the attacks all occurred within forty-five minutes of one another, which suggests a level of sophistication we haven’t seen since 9/11. …”

  As the newscaster was speaking, the screen showed scenes of utter and complete devastation — burning buildings, rescuers rushing back and forth through debris-littered streets, twisted wreckage, people being carried from the scene with hastily applied bandages over bloody wounds, other people appearing dazed or crying. At the bottom of the screen was a continuous ribbon including the lead, “America Under Attack.”

  “…It will be several hours before we know how many casualties we have, but we’ll get that information to you as soon as it becomes available ….”

  The visual changed to a police officer approaching the on-scene reporter and cameraman, yelling, “Get out of here! Back-up! Move! Now! This is a crime scene! We don’t even know if it’s safe yet. There could be other explosive devices. Let’s go! Move, now!” The picture cut back to the anchor in the studio, pressing his fingers to his earphone and looking off camera.

  “Okay, this just came in. In five minutes the President is expected to give an address from the Oval Office. This is continuing coverage of America Under Attack. …”

  Steve’s phone rang and after a brief conversation he looked back at Beth, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “I gotta go in.”

  “
Why, to answer phones? Tell ‘em no.”

  “Can’t do that. With me on the phones, it means someone else can go out.” He then turned to Max, “Look, man, do you mind if Beth and Gavin stay with you while I’m at work? I know nothing is going to happen to them, but it would make me feel better is all.”

  “Sure, of course. No problem. Don’t worry, got you covered. They’ll be fine here.”

  Steve kissed his wife and son and walked to his truck with Max limping behind.

  “Hey man, this isn’t good, Max said. “No telling where all this is going to lead. We gotta what if this thing a little.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, remember how terrified everyone was after the Boston Marathon bombing? It seemed as if the whole of Boston was told to shelter in place; cops, FBI, Homeland Security running around with guns pointing all over. The shootouts. Bombs going off. It was crazy. And that was just two guys …kids. This thing is nationwide. And all the stuff after the World Trade Center; that’s how we ended up with the NSA reading our emails and tracking our phone usage. And don’t forget that whole anthrax deal; some asshole seeing an opportunity to scare people even more than they already were? For a while there it seemed like every spilled packet of coffee creamer got a Hazmat response. Some cops were even refusing to go to the calls. I’m telling you, this could get out of hand.”

  “You think it’ll get that bad?”

  “I think it could get that bad. Look what’s happened here so far.”

  Steve looked off in the distance and nodded his head. “Okay. I’ll call you when I get a chance. Maybe we can talk about it some more. And thanks for taking care of the family. Beth would totally freak out at home by herself. She’d be calling me about every ten minutes. I know her.”

  Back inside, Max found Beth and Myra sitting in front of the TV listening to the President’s speech.

  “…so as of a few minutes ago, I signed the necessary documents to declare a state of national emergency. This allows me to access certain federal resources and cut through a lot of red tape, permitting a faster response by your government. …”

  Great, Max thought. The son of a bitch has screwed up just about everything he’s touched, lies every time he opens his mouth, and now just gave himself even more power, without all the usual checks and balances.

  “…You can be assured that we will find the people responsible for these attacks and bring them to justice. Tonight, though, our thoughts and prayers are with the victims and their families. God bless America.”

  The news channel went back to the anchor who had a Washington insider in the studio with him.

  “So what exactly does declaring a national emergency do?” the anchor asked. “What is the President able to accomplish that he and Congress couldn’t otherwise accomplish?”

  “Well, it gives him some preapproved authority to take swift action to deal with the problem without necessarily consulting with Congress first. For instance, he could seize property, control the production of certain items, declare martial law, restrict travel. I mean there are a host of things he could do. He could even take control over communications ….”

  “You mean he could take control of the internet, TV, radio?” the anchor asked.

  “Yes, it’s possible. He could take control over food production and shipping, too. I don’t think we have to worry about that, though. The authorities will get this sorted out.”

  “This President has been an outspoken advocate of strict gun control, is that something he can do under these circumstances?”

  “I suppose so, with his power to control commerce …for as long as the national emergency lasts anyway. When the emergency is over, everything is supposed to go back to the way it was.”

  “Does Congress have any say in this? I mean …”

  Max walked into his study and sat down at the computer. As he was waiting for the internet page to open, he heard someone enter the room.

  “Think I’ll hang out for a while; that okay with you?” Myra asked.

  “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

  She stepped so close he could feel her heat.

  Max typed in a search inquiry for ammunition. It led him to a website called Turner’s Shooting Supplies. There he ordered the maximum allowed per person, a thousand rounds each of 5.56, 9 MM, and 12 gauge number 3 buckshot.

  “Bullets?” she asked.

  He nodded his head, “Bullets.”

  “For you?”

  Again he nodded. “Before the night’s out, it’ll all be gone. We won’t see this stuff again for months. If they’d let me buy more, I’d do it.” He checked expedited shipping hoping to beat any restrictions placed on the transportation of ammunition by the federal government.

  The transaction complete, he switched to a different internet vendor. He was able to order five hundred rounds of 12 gauge double aught buck, but when he tried to order 9 MM and 5.56, he found the words “Sold Out” printed in red across the items.

  “That was fast,” Myra said.

  “‘Fraid of that.”

  He went to a third site and apparently this one had already put controls in place to limit purchases to one hundred rounds total per customer. He managed to order a hundred rounds of 5.56.

  “Are people buying this stuff because they’re scared about the terrorists and what they might do next?”

  “Partly. They’re also scared about what the President will do.”

  “What do you think he’ll do?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but he’s definitely a control freak. He thinks he knows what’s best for us even if we think otherwise.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Max hadn’t been asleep for more than forty-five minutes when his phone rang. He almost didn’t answer it, thinking if it was important they’d leave a voicemail, and he’d get it in the morning. But then he remembered. He was sleeping on the fold-out and Myra had his bed. The extension on the nightstand would wake her.

  “Shit,” he mumbled as he rolled off the mattress. He said it again when the pain hit him as he put his feet on the floor, and a third time when he stood up.

  Four steps to the phone, and he answered it.

  “So, did I wake her?” Steve asked. “She’s right beside you, huh? What’s she wearing? Oh God, she’s naked. She’s naked, isn’t she?”

  “Jeeze, Steve,” he looked at his watch. “It’s midnight. I just got to sleep.”

  “How was it?”

  Max couldn’t help but laugh, but he didn’t answer his question. “Why are you calling me?”

  “You got room for someone else? Well actually, more than just one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you see, it’s like this; I was taking a leak and heard one of the guys just outside the door talking to his old lady on the phone, and she was apparently all freaked-out, crying, wanting him to come home, saying she was afraid, stuff like that. And he was trying to tell her not to worry, everything would be okay, to just lock the doors.”

  “Come on, man, why are you telling me all this? Get to the point. I’m trying to sleep here.”

  “Well, I’m calling because after he hung up, I just happened to mention to him that Beth was scared, too, though not anything like this guy’s wife, and well, you know, he kind of asked if you had enough room for his family as well.”

  “You mean you suggested it to him.” Max let out a deep breath taken. “And this guy’s a cop; one of us?”

  “Yeah, but, well …”

  “But what?”

  “See, ah, the thing is, she’s Iranian, they both are, so basically a moving target with everything that’s been happening. Somebody already put a note on their car calling them the Taliban. And this cop, well, the Chief is using and abusing him like a ten dollar whore, so he can’t go home. Got him meeting with the local Muslim community. Apparently he speaks Farsi or something. He’s stuck here, man. The Chief needs him.

  “Oh, for Christ sake. Well, if
he’s a cop, tell him to bring her over. Wait, you said family. Like how big of a family?”

  “Yeah, that’s the thing, they have three kids.”

  “Okay, okay, they’re still welcome. I have room. Just tell them to bring sleeping bags or spare blankets for the kids, whatever they have.”

  “Well, it’s not that easy. You have to go get them. She’s so scared, she doesn’t want to even drive herself. We’ve had more incidents. Someone fired some shots into the Mosque on Fourth Street. And for some reason the Jews are getting it, too. That Synagogue on the west side has been getting so many threats, they’re gonna have to hire an answering service just to keep up with them all. It’s a mess I’m telling you, a big ugly mess.”

  Max closed his eyes.

  “Her name is Raha Ahmadi. I’ll give her a call.”

  “She’s Farid’s wife?” Max knew Farid. They worked the same shift a time or two.

  “Yep, you got it.”

  “Okay, I’ll be on my way in five; make that ten, and text me the address.”

  “Okay, but um, there’s one more thing. There’s another one.”

  “Another one what?”

  Max heard footsteps coming down the stairs.

  “Another one who wants to stay at your place.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Hey, don’t kill the messenger.”

  “You mean loudmouth. Another Iranian?”

  “No, a Mexican. You know the Press Information Officer?”

  “Anna, yeah, so?”

  Myra came into view and sat on the edge of the foldout bed.

  “Well, I guess she went a little off script on one of her interviews. She said something like the guys we killed were a bunch of cowards and that no true religion would condone their kind of behavior.”

  “So, what’s wrong with that?”

  “So, that little comment earned her some of her own death threats.”

  “You gotta be kidding me. …All right, so how exactly does that affect me? Anna has a gun.”

  “Well, she’s askin’ if her old man and the kids can stay with you until things cool down. There isn’t anyone we can put on her house. We’re wiped out, man.”