Do Not Call

by Julian Folk

  What was that?

  A whistle.

  “Hey, E.J.”

  Milo whistles from the center strip, dozens of yards from the mating punks. The guy’s way too close. Bulls in musth will kill you for no reason. Still, E.J. ventures to his anti-poaching brother and hugs him.

  “You think the rangers built this for the elephants, because of the drought?” E.J. asks.

  “Possibly.”

  The punk orgy expands. The unit’s nine anti-poachers huddle on the strip. No one has a good explanation for the watering holes. But the punks delight in them.

  Tired of sex, the bulls retreat from their mates. Zero signs of poisoning. Zero gunfire in the distance. This night is a pleasant hiccup in the unfolding extinction.

  Two young bulls tussle, like trucks colliding. E.J.’s matriarch grunts and trumpets. Time to bust a move. E.J. fist bumps his brothers. They separate. His matriarch crosses the center strip.

  And then the machine gun fire starts.

  This is a fucking trap.

  The punks instinctively crowd the center, boxing E.J. in. He hears return fire, trumpets, thuds and groans. Punks close in tighter and tighter. Baby punks squeak in terror, turn to E.J.

  I’ve got no light of sight, guys.

  Poachers shoot from at least four directions. Possibly six. Or eight. The gunfire draws closer. It shakes his body. The trumpets, thuds and groans draw closer. The groans leach marrow from his bones.

  Poachers shoot the Matriarch’s legs, which weaken and buckle. She tips E.J.’s way. It happens super-fast, in a super-slow second. Her body squashes two babies and his lower half.

  She groans.

  Her groans tears holes in E.J.’s heart.

  We fought the good fight; we had a good run.

  He regains consciousness amid agonized groans and buzzing chainsaws.

  Few of these larger punks are dead yet. E.J.’s certain the baby beside him plays dead. The matriarch pins him down from an inch beneath his package. She compresses his legs to two dimensional pancakes.

  He swathes punk blood on his face, closes his eyes and slows his breaths.

  The chainsaw buzzes feet from him. A poacher saws the matriarch’s enormous tusks. She groans. Each time the buzzing halts, E.J. hopes to hear a bullet enter her head. He prays for the same fate.

  The sawing stops. The break lasts. E.J. beckons the bullets to flow.

  A man stands on the groaning de-tusked matriarch and peers beyond. His chainsaw drips blood on E.J.’s nose. E.J. plays real dead.

  “You are alive?” the man asks.

  Serviceable English.

  E.J. pretends he was dead before any elephants got caught in this trap, dead for days, if not weeks.

  “I see your chest respiring, sir,” the poacher says. “You are Edward James Loeven, correct? We crouched in the bushes and watched you.”

  The dripping blood tickles E.J.’s mustache. He wrinkles his nose. But sustains the charade.

  “Maisie, a woman of the U.S. government, paid us to shoot you.”

  The dripping blood induces a sneeze.

  Chapter 18

  Northeast Kingdom

  Robert’s boys, early risers, find Hank dead. He passed in a seated position, against the base of a tree. The boys assist Nikki in digging the hole. Melody strings together sentence fragments of gratitude. Nikki and the boys chomp at the bit to bury him.

  Routines calcify within twenty-four hours.

  Connor vanishes on long jogs.

  Let him.

  The boys taunt moose in the woods.

  Let them.

  Ayelet shuts herself away to write.

  Let her.

  Jimmy, a Yankee fan, smokes cigarettes listening to Red Sox games.

  Let him.

  Jan overfeeds the group.

  Let her.

  Melody boils like a pot with the lid on.

  Vent, woman.

  She vents after dinner.

  Ash opens the door and spots a moose. “Look, Tyler’s girlfriend’s back,” he says. The boys rush out and shut the door.

  “You may be excused,” Melody says.

  She cleans her plate, wipes her hands and folds them under her augmented breasts. She unfolds them and sips her wine. Robert stocked four cases of red. They killed five bottles so far and call it three.

  Nikki wears the gun in this cabin, but Melody fires the first shot:

  “What part of being a homewrecker appeals to a woman?”

  A glut of emotions in Melody’s voice, in her eyes.

  “Don’t look at me,” Nikki says. “Your home was intact ’til these hackers struck.”

  “Robert is mine,” Melody says.

  “And I’ve been his since you told him to find a sexy young FBI agent for a threesome,” Nikki says.

  Ayelet laughs so hard she almost gives birth prematurely.

  “TMI,” Jan says.

  “This changes my perspective on things,” Jimmy says.

  “Leave them be, Dad,” Connor says.

  “You could’ve dated a guy who wasn’t taken, Nikki,” Melody says.

  “Robert gets what he wants,” Nikki says. “We girls are powerless against him.”

  A smile craves to penetrate the storm clouds on Melody’s face.

  Nikki sneaks a glance at the others. Connor and Ayelet eat energetically. Eyes downcast. Monogamy would be a hard sell to Ayelet, Nikki speculates. The best-selling author who was a lesbian ’til her mid-twenties…

  Jimmy inhales his second Amstel Light. Jan takes the bottle opener to her third. The Amstel’s stacked twelve cases high in the cellar. Robert couldn’t be bothered to supply green tea, the healthiest beverage on earth, for Nikki, but his parents’ beer flows like Melody’s tears.

  Those tears pool in her hands.

  Nikki would be upset, too, if she wasn’t convinced a kill team was going to massacre them any second now.

  Nikki hopes they just shoot her. Torture would be pointless. Robert told her the bare minimum.

  “I’m a feminist, Melody,” Ayelet says. “I don’t blame the woman. Besides, Nikki’s a shy girl. Shy girls have a hard time meeting guys.”

  Nikki flashes a sheepish grin:

  “You know I was a virgin, Melody.”

  “There was a time when I was a virgin,” Jan says, nursing her beer, trying to distract attention from Robert’s wife, whose sobs intensify. “I didn’t put out for married men, though. I wasn’t a threesome girl. Sorry, Nikki.”

  Connor looks sick at his mother’s acknowledgment of her sexuality:

  “You’re always a virgin to me, Mom. You too, Dad.”

  “Cheers,” Jan says and clinks the others’ glasses.

  “Don’t quite know how to take that,” Jimmy says.

  “At least Nikki practices good hygiene,” Jan says, “washing and showering a lot.”

  Ayelet chuckles.

  “You know, Melody, Robert’s got game,” Connor says.

  “Where are we going with this, Connor?” Ayelet says.

  “I’m just saying,” Connor says, “it could be much worse.”

  “Like the girl in high school, Kimberly,” Jan says. “She came in through the bathroom window. How the Beatles sang it. That’s what she did.”

  Nikki lets her laughter peel. She heard this story. Kimberly was high and horny…

  Her burner vibrates.

  The name on the screen delights her. Jasper. The man who interviewed her when she applied to CIA, he pointed her to the Bureau. Robert must have advocated for his family, Nikki believes, and told Jasper this number. Now Jasper’s people will swoop in to evacuate them to a safer, bigger place.

  Or perhaps he’ll tell her the hackers were captured.

  She excuses herself and, afraid Melody will drown her misery in the bottom half of the wine bottle, fills her glass and walks it outside. Bullets of fear usually strike her when she leaves the cabin, but not this time.

  Help’s on the way.

 
She answers:

  “Hello?”

  “Hello Nikki. Jasper Gwyon. I interviewed you four years ago for a position—”

  “I remember, Jasper. I’m so glad to hear from you. I’m so glad you’re still”—the man’s in his mid-nineties; don’t say ALIVE—“fighting the good fight.”

  “Of course.”

  Jasper must be the kindest practicioner of the Dark Arts she’s met.

  “How did you find me?”

  “Nikki, darling, please, if I divulged my methods, the National Security Family would disown me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The important thing is you’re safe, Nikki.”

  “Am I, sir?”

  “So long as you stay put.”

  She notices a scratchiness to his voice. She hears bustle in the background. People shout. A man yells, “How many wounded?”

  “Are you alright, sir?” she asks.

  “I’m sitting in an ambulance,” he says, “speaking to you on my partially melted, disfigured phone. I’ll send you a picture of the carnage.”

  “What—”

  “A high level meeting was bombed at the NSA Complex in Honolulu.”

  “What a beautiful place to die.”

  The words left her mouth involuntarily. Unedited.

  “Indeed. Robert died a hero—”

  “Oh my God. Are you sure?”

  “I won’t lie to you, Nikki. He’s gone. A suicide bomber posing as an informant accessed a high-level meeting. You must not tell Robert’s loved ones now. They’ll flee the cabin and put themselves and you in harm’s way. We’re withholding public announcement of Robert’s death. The longer you stay in the Northeast Kingdom, the safer you are. May I tell you a secret?”

  “Please, go ahead--”

  “Our working hypothesis pains me: This was an inside job.”

  Inside job. Jasper’s greatest nightmare. The pain Nikki hears in his voice must surely drain his Ki; this tragedy will kill him. “Rogue contractors at CIA and NSA colluded with a sleeper cell. The contractors’ names are Vincent DeSantis and Noland Bridgewater, respectively. Their whereabouts are currently unaccounted for. We’re working ’round the clock.”

  “Oh no…”

  “Think of it this way,” he says. “We’re citizens of a walled city, in a barbaric world. Beyond the wall, tigers roam. They protect us. Well, two of our tigers breached the city walls. We’re scrambling to locate them and put them down. If it gets to that point, I may call upon you to help, Nikki, but for now—”

  “I’d be more than happy, sir,” Nikki says. “I have skills I haven’t shown anyone. My grandfather taught me to—”

  “Oh, I know, Nikki,” Jasper says. “I know.”

  Tears pour down her cheeks but her spirit strengthens.

  Her grandfather said, A bad time is the ONLY time to transform.

  This is Nikki’s opportunity to become what she always wanted to be.

  She overhears a paramedic tell Jasper, “Sir, you need surgery in both legs. We can’t wait longer. We’re taking you to the hospital.”

  “I must go,” he says.

  “Please keep me updated, sir.”

  “Deliver Miss Martin’s baby yourself,” he says. “I’d wager Robert stocked a home birthing kit, equipment and medical supplies.” He hangs up.

  What?

  Suppressing her grief, she searches five minutes and unearths a waterbirth pool.

  Chapter 19

  Honolulu

  Noland swims in the open ocean.

  He swims in a hypervigilant state, maximally aware of his environment. He swims fast, thirty-five feet below the surface, a hundred yards off the rocks, in warm water, seeing bright colors amid a dearth of fish. He wears ten pieces of scuba gear, laden with heavy weights which sink him close to the sea floor and render him minimally visible to the drone fleet in the sky.

  The plastic explosives unleashed a toxic cloud in the conference room. He breathed from it. It induced illness instantly. He pays no heed to the symptoms.

  A minute ago, he was swimming alone.

  Holy shit.

  Not so much anymore.

  He perceives an object in his periphery. The object moves. First he thinks it’s a vessel. Now he understands it’s a creature.

  Noland can deal with the illness. If he must be attacked by marine life, he can deal with a barracuda or an eel. The tiger shark, he dreads.

  Sharks bite three or four people a year in Hawaii. The tiger shark is the most aggressive and dangerous. Oahu has had thirty-six attacks, three times more than the Big Island.

  The creature tracks him…

  Couple years ago, scientists observed a pod of four killer whales. Only time ever in Hawaii. True kings of the sea.

  He knows that if the pod came back Shamu wouldn’t mess with him.

  Please let this creature be Shamu and not Jaws.

  Noland swims speedily and homes in on his hideout, a cave in the national park. The faster he swims, the farther away it gets.

  His head still hurts. A concussion? Yes, in his lay opinion. The brain shook pretty good. Treatment? Not gonna happen here.

  When he arrives in his new country.

  Please accept Noland Bridgewater, China.

  He avoids looking at the creature.

  Jasper excused himself.

  Noland had to piss. His bladder was the size of a melon. The old man’s objection to Noland’s presentation interfered with his continence. He pissed a little in his pants as the old man spoke.

  Jasper flung his bones toward the door. Urgent business. Seemed like he would take a while. Plinkton knew about Noland’s phobia of public-speaking and the effect it has on his bladder. Plinkton nodded his way. Noland shot up. Shot into the bathroom. Locked the door. Let loose. Heard a muffled shout.

  Boom.

  The door held. It shielded Noland from the fire and the ball bearings. But the force of the blast pervaded. He flew off his feet. The top right side of his skull bashed the wall.

  He spun around the room pissing, regained his balance and finished pissing in the sink. He pulled up his pants, opened the door and regretted it. The burning black cloud suffused the bathroom in a split-second, along with the odor of cooked flesh.

  Ball bearings, nails and shrapnel rattled around. The bomb had shattered the conference room lights. Fires lit his path. Within the cloud, the odors of chemicals and motor oil spooked him.

  Motor oil means C-4.

  The dots connected themselves.

  Jasper got a text. He stepped outside. The bullshit terrorist ran inside. Detonated his vest. Murdered everyone who knew about the NTK fuckups. The Program survives. Perhaps an inconvenient operative—possibly Vincent—and a rogue state share the blame.

  Brilliant.

  Noland got the message: I’m supposed to be dead. He played hopscotch over burning bodyparts. Identifying the dead would take weeks. He needed to vacate the premises now.

  Jasper must have survived. Barely. That was the plan.

  The bomb blew out the glass doors and windows. Jasper exited to the west, so the west had to be avoided. Noland dodged patches of smoldering carpet, pushed aside a flaming potted tree and exited to the east, through the blown out window frame, in the expanding smoke cloud.

  So, Jasper ran his contingency plan.

  It was time for Noland to run his.

  He tapped a button on his phone to shut down the cameras.

  The smoke cloud poisoned him but provided cover by unfurling deeper and deeper into the hallway.

  Flashes of fire singed his eyebrows and trimmed his hair but didn’t melt his skin.

  The smoke thinned.

  A dagger-shaped shard of glass caught his eye. It burned his hand so he stuffed it in his pocket. He tolerated it as it burned his pants and thigh.

  He moved east.

  Entering the other side of the expanding smoke cloud was Arun, one of the Programmers. Arun may or may not have been briefed about Noland. Nolan
d shielded his mouth and pretended breathing was tougher than it was.

  Ten yards separated them.

  Noland said, “Hey dude, they said the old guy, Jasper, got hurt in the hallway.”

  Arun asked, “Jasper? Hey, what the fuck went down, man?”

  Arun sped up, he leaned in, and Noland jammed the glass dagger in the Programmer’s neck, cutting his own fingers deep.

  Arun fell. Noland witnessed the man’s fist unclench and the knife drop. I was a second away from death. He pocketed the knife, taking care not to get blood on his blue shirt, which was already sooty and burned.

  He took the stairs down.

  On his brisk walk to the submarine bay, Noland passed a podium. Presidential seal. Blue backdrop. Flag to either side.

  Those times were much safer.

  The Soviet Union aimed nuclear missiles at the U.S. but never developed a program like NTK.

  The submarine bay.

  He punched in the code.

  Blast resistant doors parted. The scuba gear was strewn sloppily on the platform, like he always left it. He vomited sooty fluids and suited up.

  The creature in Noland’s periphery swims closer. The chances of it being harmless are…there is no chance. The creature is a predator. The only question is whether Noland smells like prey.

  The creature sways in the water, grows larger in his periphery. Does he sense some swagger in this animal? The sea is its bedroom/hunting ground/kitchen table/toilet bowl/shower/La-Z-Boy.

  Hey fish, Noland’s here for dinner.

  No sense ignoring the thing. Please be a dolphin or a whale… He turns to face the creature head on.

  No, not a dolphin. Not a whale. Definitely a fish. But the fish Noland feared, a tiger shark? No. This fish looks like a dinosaur. This fish is the size of a bus.

  It’s a Great Fucking White.

  A factoid pops up on Noland’s mental computer monitor: when Great Whites bite a human, they’re sampling the person, not sitting down for dinner.

  But he won’t survive a sample bite.

  Vincent or Bud will kill him in the hospital.

  Noland uses his fins to stay still in the water.