by Joel Shaw
"Don't talk like that. Haven't we had enough problems without you wishing something on us?"
She saw a pile of brush along side the tracks and pointed. “That’s my landing zone," she yelled at Amber. "Get ready."
"We're ready, aren't we Redwing?"
Sheila jumped, missing her brush pile, she landed on the granite stones of the railroad bed and rolled. She was quickly up and running alongside the train.
"Oh that hurt. Come here Redwing, good boy." Redwing made the transition without incident and was soon on his own three feet. Amber tossed the gear and jumped, hitting the stones feet first, she put on the brakes and ended up head over heels.
"That's not so easy. Ouch." She rubbed her bruised hips. "You're right. That really hurt."
Sheila looked down the tracks at the disappearing blue train. "I'm glad that's over. Let's take a look around town. Let's start right here on...what's this? Fifth Avenue South. I guess we can just wander up and down these streets until we meet someone who is willing to talk to us. What do you think?"
"Sounds good. Let's go. Come on, Redwing." Redwing was happy to be back on solid ground.
Amber stroked his stringy, matted hair. “We have to give Redwing a bath. He must be carrying ten pounds of dirt in his fur."
"Look at us." Sheila was standing in front of a large broken plate glass window studying their reflections. "I do not believe we look as bad as we do. Look at your hair. Look at my hair!”
"Look at your clothes." Amber tried to straighten her hair. It was useless. It was so matted, the strands clung to each other like tar on feathers. She barely recognized herself. Not a squared inch of clean fabric showed.
Sheila was no better, maybe worse, due to the dark blood stains on her boots, pants cuff, and shirt sleeve. She looked as though she had been working in a slaughter house without a bib. "We are going to scare the hell out of anyone that sees us. You know that don't you?"
"I'm amazed that Redwing likes us. No. I guess that's why he likes us; we smell soooo bad." They laughed loudly, their laughter bounced down the empty street like empty tin cans in a wind storm.
They stood motionless, listening. It was quiet; too quiet. The broken facades looked like the set of a zombie movie long after the production company and left town. All the storefronts had been vandalized, smashed and broken. There was some evidence of fires begin started and then extinguished, like a ghost fire department was caring for the town.
"Do you believe in Zombies?" Sheila called from the corner of 5th Ave and West Saint Germain street. "Check this out." She was pointing at a fortified building in the middle of the next block. "Looks like D.B. Searle's has survived a few zombie attacks. Look at all the bullet holes. Wow. Look at that." Sheila could see the branches of a palm tree waving at them from the roof of the fortress. "I wonder if anyone is home."
"Let's go find out." Amber coaxed Redwing up from his brief rest and proceeded to the front door of D.B. Searle's.
#
Chapter - JERRY FINDS LELAND AND HAROLD
Jerry ran through the leaf-bare forest toward Quarry Eight. He was sure he would find Harold and Leland there. Where else would Harold go to hide? He slowed to walk as he skirted the fence surrounding quarries one and two, wary but not concerned.
As he passed number two quarry, a short convoy led by Roland's polished Humvee was exiting the main gate. That was unusual. They didn't needlessly burn fuel; something was happening. The agents seldom strayed beyond the confines of their compound. There weren't many of them stationed in this remote location, a fact that had struck Jerry as being a little odd due to the quantity of water they were guarding. He wondered if Walt was with them, daring them to find Harold. Whatever. They weren’t watching him.
He ran downwind of quarry two, across the meadow, into the stand of dormant Red Oak trees bordering the hidden quarry. He stopped near the entrance to the quarry to catch his breath, then moved silently between the boulders and slipped under the canvas door.
Harold and Leland were startled. Leland sprang to his feet.
"It's me, Jerry."
"How are you two doing?"
Harold looked at Jerry with blank eyes, saying nothing.
"My dad was just telling me about a dream he had a long time ago."
"The time for dreaming is over." Jerry hesitated, waiting for his words to sink in. "Faye asked me what Harold has been hiding all these years. I had to tell her.”
Harold snapped out of his funk. "What did you tell her?"
“I told her the truth. I told her you built a lid over a quarry full of water years ago."
"Did you tell her where it is?"
"No, she asked, though. I told her I would show her."
"I'll do that," Harold said. "I owe her that much."
"Yes, you do." Jerry hesitated. “There’s something else going on...the agents were leaving the compound a few minutes ago. They were driving, not walking."
"If they were looking for Harold, they would be searching on foot.” Leland surmised.
Harold had something else on his mind. “I’m going to talk to Faye. I owe her an explanation. I need to get this over with.”
Leland looked at Jerry and shrugged. "I guess we could tag along. In case you need any moral support."
"And in case you change your mind and need a little prodding," Leland added.
Jerry noticed that Harold wasn't wearing his camouflage. "Is this a new dress code, or what? You are breaking your own rule.”
"I know. I wasn't thinking clearly when I came out here. "Can I borrow your poncho son?"
"Don't worry about it.” Jerry said. “They aren’t after you. I think there is something else going on."
"It might have something to do with the activity at the warehouse."
"What warehouse? Don’t you guys tell me anything anymore? Harold asked.
"There has been some activity at that warehouse on McLeland Road. Remember that? It used to be the Coca Cola bottling plant.”
“Yes...what about it."
"The ventilating windows are open and there’s an SUV parked outside. Some guy is over there, doing nothing, like he's waiting for something."
"That's all you saw?”
"Yeah, that's it. Don’t you think it's worth checking out? I do." Leland was surprised that his father wasn't taking more interest in the break in routine. He was usually the first to investigate reports of unusual activity.
“Go back tonight and see if you can get a better look.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Leland looked at Jerry. "You wanna go with?"
Jerry nodded. "I'll go. I could use a change of pace."
"Hey, where's Milton? Is he holed up in the library, or what?"
Harold shook his head. "He left town. He was terrified. He packed his duffel and took off on his bike."
Leland laughed. “He’s a good rider, he might make it to the Twin Cities in three days."
"He said he was going to New Las Vegas, he has a friend up there."
"Well, let's head to town, then. I need to get this..." he swept his arm over the quarry water in a symbolic gesture as though saying farewell (or erasing the memory) to the tranquility it had provided for so many years, "...off my mind." He dropped the poncho by the door and exited his oasis.
#
MILTON RESCUES WES
Milton rode North on the bike path, bouncing over the uneven, brokne surface, the heavy duffle bag strapped to his back weighed him down and threw him off balance. He soon realized that is intentions of riding his bike to the hundred miles or so to Duluth was ridiculous. He was thin, but not in shape. He was hungry, too. It was mid-day and he hadn't eaten a thing. Fear had caused him to flee from the vicinity of the quarry. Hunger was causing him to reconsider.What an idiot he had been, in his panicked state, he had packed no food or water. He quit pedaling, allowing his bike to coast off the shoulder into the drainage ditch. He dropped the duffel to the ground and sat on it, staring blankly down the highway. He hadn't be
en this far North in years. He was close to the industrial park which had been silent since the power grid died an unannounced and sudden death.
He sat, catching his breath until a movement caught his eye. Someone had opened a service door of a large warehouse displaying faded, blue letters: P E P S I. He watched as the distant figure walked into the light and stood still staring east as if expecting something or someone. Then he heard a whistle, three short hoots, like a knock on a door.
The man near the warehouse danced a short, celebratory jig when he heard the train whistle. Soon, a weathered, rusted locomotive roll slowly into view several hundred yards down the spur that led to the industrial park. Milton counted the cars as they came into view...thirty flat cars carrying blue, forty foot cargo containers. There was a logo painted on the containers, but from a distance, he couldn't read it.
The train stopped beside the warehouse, blocking his view of the man, and let loose with two long hoots as if to say, ‘Hello honey, I'm home.' Milton was no longer thinking about his stomach, his passion for all things mechanized rerouted his senses. He ogled the rolling steel as if she were a well-appointed woman. He desired to get a closer look at the amazing machine.
He thought he recognized her lines. She was younger when she last glided into town ten years ago hauling the last of a five-year supply of food for the platoon of Homeland Security agents stationed at the quarries. The arrival coincided with the agents celebration of the completion of their facilities at the quarries at which time they managed to eat and drink a months worth of rations in an all out two-day drunken brawl.
In the aftermath of puking and passed-out agents, Milton had managed to make away with two cases of corned-beef-hash, which he devoured in three days and couldn’t move for three more. His anus puckered at the thought of his most horrible and lengthy episode of constipation.
So, what was the train hauling this time?
He abandoned his bike and duffel in the field. Seeking a vantage point, he proceeded to crawl through the tall grass toward the massive warehouse. Two-thirds of the way across the field he heard another unusual rumble easily distinguished from the sound of the idling locomotive. He laid on the ground knowing his black skin and nappy afro, like dark chocolate on a peanut butter plateau, were a stark contrast to the light brown landscape making him easy to see should anyone be looking in his way. Fortunately, all eyes focused on the approaching five-car convoy. Milton immediately recognized the vehicles as belonging to Homeland Security. The lead vehicle, a vintage black, lifted and customized Humvee flying large white standards from both front fenders. Milton knew who was behind the black tinted windows. It had to be the gargantuan Major Roland Hanson. A chill shook Milton's body. All of his encounters with the Major over the years, though brief, had been unpleasant.
The convoy proceeded out of sight along the far side of the train. Milton jumped up and sprinted another hundred yards forward before falling to the ground, chest heaving from the exertion. After catching his breath, he raised his head for a peek. Two figures worked between the locomotive and the flat cars. Minutes later, the locomotive separated from its load, pulled forward twenty yards to the end of the spur and shut down its engine. A figure dismounted from the locomotive and walked out of sight behind the container laden cars. Milton took an uncalculated risk and dashed another hundred yards to the front of the locomotive where he crouched, peeking between the giant drive wheels at the assembly of men gathered near the warehouse door. The men, all dressed in black were talking to a man wearing a Panama hat and Hawaiian shirt. He couldn't hear what they were saying but the loud swearing indicated a heated discussion. He mounted the ladder on the locomotive and crawled along the gangplank toward the rear, easing through the narrow door into the engineer's compartment. The small rearward facing windows offered him a balcony view of the men assembled around Herr Hanson, now leaning against the fender of the command vehicle. Milton noticed that the white standards mounted to the vehicle's fenders didn’t display the distinctive Homeland Security logo, instead, it had a black silhouette resembling a goose on a white background.
"Black Goose," he snickered to himself. "That's perfect."
Roland was questioning the red-face, white-haired civilian. Milton slid the window open and listened, risking a peek now and then as the volume of the exchange increased...
"Those are my orders, mister." Major Roland Hanson pushed the civilian backwards causing him to fall against the side of the warehouse. The man slumped to the ground and stayed there. Roland whirled like a panther, facing his men.
"Zeek, take your squad and unload the last four containers. Peters, follow me. We're going to check the cisterns and make sure this asshole has the goods promised.
Milton peeked out the window. He recognized Zeek and Peters. They were the same cracker assholes who had searched him in the winter of forty-seven. They were older, and not as lean, but they were the same guys. He remembered that they had pissed in the soup, too.
"I got my eyes on you two." He hissed softly. He noticed that they weren't carrying assault rifles, clearly they were here for another reason. Milton felt his short's pockets. "Damn, I forgot my gun, too." He would have kicked himself if possible.
Milton peeked again at the white-haired man on the ground. He was old, almost frail, with wrinkled, well-tanned skin. His flowered Hawaiian shirt and white Bermuda shorts were stained with perspiration, glasses remained askew on his face. His Panama hat lay crumpled on the ground. Whatever his rank might have been, he had clearly been demoted within the last few minutes. He was waiting for the sky to fall.
Milton waited, uncertain. He wasn't looking for a fight. In fact he had been running from a fight. Maybe he could help the guy on the ground. On the other hand, maybe he should get out now; he didn't owe this guy anything. Hold on. Why not find out what Roland and his geese are doing?
As if on cue, Roland marched out of the warehouse, ducking under the door jamb. The seven-foot monster was tugging on skin-tight black leather gloves as he walked with a determined stride toward the shaking old man. He pulled the old man to his feet with one hand and slammed him against the warehouse wall.
"Where is it, Clayburn?" He demanded.
"Where is what?" Clayburn asked, visibly shaking, cowering under Roland's intense, alpha glare. He glanced from side to side, looking for a way out; there was none.
"Don't fuck with me, Clyde. Where is the water? Twenty-three of those cisterns are empty. They are supposed to be full. Where the fuck is the water?" Roland again slammed the man against the metal wall.
Wes Clayburn was shaking uncontrollably, his bladder emptied, soaking his clean, white socks and canvas deck shoes. He felt his life slipping away. This guy was a psycho, say something before he stretches your neck.
"They were never filled. The well ran dry. They were never filled."
It was clear that Wes was telling the truth. His tone registered sincere disappointment regarding the outcome of his get-rich scheme.
Hanson was not convinced. "Bullshit. What did you do? Sell the water?"
He lifted Wes with powerful arms and threw him against the wall like a basket ball. As Wes recovered, Roland unloaded with a fierce uppercut to his ribcage, lifting him completely off the ground. Wes folded to the ground in a heap of pain, unable to respond.
"You have thousands of cases of bottled water in there. Where did you get them?” Roland was pulling Wes to his feet, preparing him for another flight down the metal runway when Zeek appeared, breathing heavily.
"Major, you need to come with me, sir. Right now."
Roland dropped Wes unceremoniously.
"What is it? I was about to polish my boots with this lying sack of shit."
"Sir. You have to see this. We’ve got two dead brothers in a container near the end of the train. They've been dead for a couple of days, sir. The thing is, there’re not supposed to be on this train. The engineer didn't know they were on it, sir. You'd better take a look."
"I'll be right there." Roland squatted down and spoke to Wes Clayburn with the coolness of a man speaking to a coffined corpse.
"Goodbye, Mr. Clayburn."
#
Wes was incapable of speaking; the pain from his smashed ribs discouraged breathing. He lay on his side in the weeds sucking minute amounts of air through his nose while, with one eye, watched his tormenter take long strides toward the end of the train. If he was going to escape, this was his opportunity. He pulled his legs forward and rolled to his knees. The pain pierced his chest like a fistful of stilettos. He realized he didn’t have the strength or the will to stand, let alone run.
At that instant, a pair of hands reached under his arms and pulled him backward, heels dragging in the dirt. He almost screamed at the sudden movement but stifled it, clamping his teeth on the collar of his shirt as his unseen benefactor lifted him to the locomotive's catwalk and pulled him through the door of the engineer's compartment. Only then did he face his savior, a thin black man wearing tattered, oversized cargo, camouflaged shorts and a faded black T-shirt that would have fit a man twice his size. Black, plastic-rimmed bifocals were held on his head by a piece of baling twine strung from ear to ear through a thick unkempt afro.
Drained from the exertion, Milton slumped to the floor opposite Wes.
"My name is Milton." He took several deep breath before continuing.
"Don't worry, I'm not with those assholes." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the Swans.
"I'm a good guy." He almost broke out laughing. What a ridiculous thing to say; he was a chicken-shit on the run.
"I'll try to get you out of here. Be quiet."
Wes could do nothing but nod in agreement and appreciation. He folded his arms across his chest in an attempt to prevent his ribs from moving, taking short, shallow breaths to minimize the excruciating pain.
Milton returned to his peeking position and watched the next scene unfold. It looked like the entire goon squad was near the end of the train standing in semi-circular fashion at the rear of one of the blue containers. Whatever was going on had their full attention. Milton looked at the custom Humvee, a demon's chariot, parked a mere thirty yards away.