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medicine, food and water. I hope we have the key to that truck outside. If we do, we load the truck with everything we can and we get out of town. Things aren’t going back to normal.”
Tracks’ face is impassive, like a carved ebony statue. “Okay Bronte.”
T HE WOMAN NEARLY KNOCKS HIM DOWN as she runs into him. He drops the axe and tries to keep his footing as his back hits one of the kiosks that abound in the mall’s center.
“I’m a firefighter—it’s okay, you’re safe,” he hears himself saying, while patting the woman’s back. Abruptly the woman calms down and relaxes in his arms a moment. He can tell she isn’t a big woman, tall but not big. Her head is just beneath his chin and is a rich chestnut brown. He can smell her shampoo.
“Sam, oh Sam,” yells a voice, another woman’s. Over the woman’s head he sees a brown-haired teenage girl in a cheerleader’s outfit throw herself into Sam’s arms. Both young people look overjoyed.
“You found her, Sam?” Mills can’t believe the kid’s luck. He didn’t really expect they would find her, yet alone alive.
“No, this is her best friend Natalie,” he answers.
The young woman looks up from Sam’s chest. “I was with them when we all got separated. I panicked. I have no idea what happened to Liz.”
“So Liz is her name? Your girlfriend I mean…”
“Yes sir, she has reddish-blonde hair in a bob, and is wearing a cheerleader’s outfit like Natalie’s.” Sam’s voice is bleak, and a good part of the joy of a moment ago appears to be gone.
“I’m sorry Sam. I wish I was her,” says Natalie. “I feel terrible.”
Sam pulls her close again. “Never wish that. I care for you too.”
“Oh Sam, do you think she’s dead?”
The woman in Mills’ arms stirs, and takes a step away from him. “Listen, I’m glad you guys are here, but there are some Goths not far away. They were holding us prisoner. Shouldn’t we get out of here?”
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Oh man is she a looker … Mills is struck dumb for a moment. Her mascara has run, and there might be a wrinkle or two, but she is lovely. Even wet, her hair has a bit of a wave to it. What do I do? The choices are tough no matter which way you look. Keep looking and imperil two more lives or give up and leave another person for dead? Either way I’m going to feel like shit.
Sam speaks up. “I can’t ask any of you to look for her. I’ve already asked too much of Mr. Mills there. This whole place may collapse any minute now. Maybe she’s waiting outside? Shouldn’t we get out of here and look?”
Mills makes a quick decision. “Get them out of here to your car, Sam. I’ll meet you on the far side of the mall, outside Penney’s.”
“Are you sure?” says the woman, taking his hands in hers. The way she’s looking at him makes him feel ten feet tall.
“Yes, now please go. Hurry!” He looks down briefly at her hands as he lets them go. Yes, no ring! He picks up the axe. “I’ll see you all on the other side.”
“Wait, what’s your name?” the goddess wants to know.
“Adam Mills… And yours?”
She laughs, eyes sparkling. “I’m Kathy. We’ll be waiting.”
He is still smiling as he sprints into the mist and smoke.
I NEED TO PEE. Trish doesn’t really want to open her eyes, but sunlight is coming through a window hard and unrelenting. Also, somewhere not too far away she can hear people talking, maybe a TV. She groans and sits up, trying to remember what’s happened. Where am I? I’m in the Halfway Tavern with my good friends Hank and good ‘ole Jumping Jerry.
She is reclining on an old cot, dressed in a man’s button down shirt, with a blanket pulled over her. It’s a little room, hardly more than a closet really. A small window is the source of the sunlight. The TV noises are coming through the door, probably in the next room which is the kitchen where she met Hank and Jerry.
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The urge to urinate comes on stronger now that she’s upright. I have to get up and get moving. She slips out of the cot and as she stands the shirt comes down to her thighs. That should be good enough to make it to the bathroom to wash and change. She looks around and spots her purse and sports bag. Her clothes from yesterday are in a pile near the door beside her shoes. All she had in the sports bag were assorted toiletries, a change of panties and her outfit she wore last night—hardly appropriate attire, and she’s wearing those panties now. I’m not about to wear any of those bloody clothes again.
“Well, I’ll just wash up and cross that bridge when I have to,” she murmurs to herself. The door opens easily and she steps into the kitchen. Jerry looks over his shoulder at her. A thirteen inch TV is in front of him. A small Hispanic woman is on screen saying something while several buildings burn behind her.
“Good morning sunshine. Want coffee or something to eat?” She grins. “Yes to both, Jerry. Thanks. I’m just going to the little girls room.”
“Great. Hank called up his son, and there’s clothes for you to wear right there on the counter.” He points to her left. “I think he got the shirt and pants sizes right, but I’m not sure about the shoes.”
There are three different shirts, two pairs of jeans, a pair of shorts, several pairs of socks and three pairs of panties. “Thanks again, Jerry. I’ll go change right now. Where is Hank and his son?”
“They went across the street to the store to pick up a few things.”
And to check my story. “Okay, well, I hope they are careful.”
“They took your gun just in case. We never did get through to anyone at either the sheriff’s department or the police.”
“All right. I’ll be right back.” She gathers the clothes in her arms.
“And I’ll start cooking,” he says with a grin and a waggle of his eyebrows.
There’s a 25” TV on in the bar. She stops a moment beside it and turns up the volume. The view is from a helicopter flying parallel with the interstate. She recognizes the area and realizes that what she is seeing is only a mile or two from where she is now.
The reporter, a guy named Chuck, is in the helicopter apparently talking with the anchor, Denise, in the studio. “Denise, there are scenes of horror taking place on this highway from as far south as the Skyway to the 54th Avenue North exit ramp that we are over right now. Jesus, will you look at that.”
The camera pans in and focuses on a young woman running from a massive pile-up of cars. Four or five people are staggering drunkenly
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after her. “Why are those people chasing that woman? And look Denise, there is a wrecker, but no sign of the driver. I can see two or three cars have been towed into the grass of the median strip.”
“Do you think you could help the woman, Chuck?” asks Denise, and Trish notices her speaking from a small window on the right of the screen.
There is silence for a moment almost as if the unseen reporter has been stricken dumb. “I’d sure like too, Denise, but it’s really not quite safe enough. Maybe one or two of you back behind the lines can call a first responder to come help.”
Denise’s face has flushed, and she makes a few choking noises. The in-studio camera pans. A tall, slim black woman stands before a weather map, holding a pointer. “We’ll be right back with your local weather after a word with our sponsors…”
Trish hurries into the bathroom.
H E PARKS THE CRUISER behind some derelict buildings near 16th St N and 5th Ave N. To his knowledge no one noticed, but with the break of day… Oh well. He just needs a few moments to concentrate, to think. The police band radio is very busy with traffic, but his interest is only in what’s going on, not in helping.
He reaches into his sports bag, fumbling past his folded spare uniform shirt and pants, some snack-size bags of potato chips, a city map and finds it: My hideout gun. He holds a mini-revolver, almost six inches long and weighing only 9 ounces. It’s a .22 magnum, five shot ‘Black Widow.’ He leans over and straps the gun to his right
ankle and pulls the cuff back over it. Most people don’t notice the slight bulge. “Just in case,” he says to himself. “I’ve just given myself five extra shots in case I need them.”
What next?
Making tough decisions has always been difficult for him. I made it through the academy on guts, he liked to tell himself and others.
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Nobody carried me . Of course privately, he has begun to admit that he might have a problem. That Keller guy was right. I am scared and I do panic. Only, I’m unpredictable when I panic. Sometimes I get pissed and forget I’m scared.
My only friend is a nerd mechanic who thinks I’m a hero. He is, at the moment, only a block from that friend’s work center—He liked to call it a chop shop. I think I’ll visit my pal Larry Crawford’s chop shop. That’s what I’ll do.
It’s either that or try to join the mayor’s party over near the Pier and the Vinoy. It sounds like something really interesting is developing there. I’m interested all right, but I ain’t going alone. Maybe Debbie can come too…
“There’s nothing like a sure thing.”
He laughs a little and then starts the car back up.
O FFICER YATES BLOWS A STREAM OF SMOKE and leans with his arms braced on the roof of Talaski’s cruiser.
“Is that what they call a cheroot?” Keller wants to know.
“No,” says Talaski, “It’s what they call a piece of shit.”
Yates smiles faintly. “They say some hotshot Reserve Lieutenant got a bright idea.”
Talaski and Keller stand and watch as some last minute changes are made to convoy’s orders. All the vehicles are lined up, but most interesting is the tractor trailer that someone has fixed with a ram. They’ve even been allocated a Humvee complete with three soldiers and mounted M-60 machine gun.
Yates continues, “Apparently he knew the cruise ship was in port and decided to confiscate it. This was all only an hour or so ago, but he reported everything to his commander and the mayor and they went nuts. It may look like we’re trying to save people and protect the city, but these bastards got plans.”
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“You’d think we were escorting the President,” says Talaski, stifling a yawn. He takes a long swallow of coffee from a Styrofoam cup. “Damn this tastes like moose piss.”
“They’ve loaded two school buses and a city bus also,” says Keller. “All to take the privileged elite to their escape: A fucking cruise ship!”
“Without that ram, I bet we wouldn’t make it two miles. The news media has panicked everyone now. Terrible things are happening up on the interstate.”
Keller nods. “The urge to just run away and save yourself is strong. But where the hell can we run to? You think we’re getting on that goddamn cruise ship?”
“I want to see what’s happening. Besides we’re safer with these guys for now, anyway.” Maybe.
Keller laughs, seeing Talaski roll his eyes.
“Well, let me introduce you to Corporal Ramos,” says Yates as he motions with a wave of his hand. He leads the way toward the three soldiers standing by the Hummer that’s part of the convoy. One of the soldiers, a Hispanic guy, is wearing a starched and pressed uniform and a beret.
“Get a look at this guy,” says Keller, nudging Talaski in the ribs. Talaski knows he is referring to the Hispanic. “What is he… a Latin Errol Flynn?”
Yates laughs and Talaski grins. The guy does have the resemblance, from the dashing good looks to the pencil thin mustache just edging his upper lip. He has to know.
“Corporal, this is Officer Talaski and his friend…” says Yates, and trails off.
The Hispanic guy steps forward, extending a hand to Talaski. He appears to either ignore or not see Keller. “I am Corporal Alvaro Ramos.”
Talaski nods and takes Ramos’ hand. “This is my friend Matt Keller.”
Ramos cuts him off, and barely glances at Keller. “Very good, we are in a situation when even civilians may prove useful. I want you to have no doubt who is in charge here. Me. I will tolerate no disobedience or disrespect. We are the soldiers here. If you pay attention and look to me, my men and I will protect you.”
Talaski turns to Yates. “What kind of bullshit is this?”
Ramos tan face flushes, and he steps in between Yates and Talaski. “If you have a question about something I’ve said, Officer, you will address it to me. Officer Yates knows his place.”
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The other two soldiers walk up and flank Ramos to either side. Both have M-4 carbines, a variant of the M-16, but the barrels are only pointed at the ground.
Talaski fights down a snarl. As it is, it’s certain, he isn’t hiding his contempt very well. He contents himself with a simple, “Heh. I was merely expressing my distaste for my friend’s taste in cigars, Sergeant.”
Ramos looks puzzled, but apparently decides to let it slide. “My rank is corporal. If you stand with your vehicles, I’ll send your passengers to your cars.”
Talaski snaps off a salute with his left hand. “We’ll be waiting, Corporal Ramos.”
Ramos frowns, turns on his heel and walks away. The other two soldiers follow him.
HE KNOWS THERE IS A DEAD BODY IN THE BACK ROOM, but it doesn’t mean as much to him as it would have. Right now, he feels safe. Tracks’ towering, bulky shape is nearby, standing at a window, looking out. Bronte is busy making a pile of supplies near the door to the back room. And the door to the back room is locked.
“There’s people walking around out there,” says Tracks. “A few are headed this way.”
Daric sees Bronte glance his way and pretends to read the comic he’s holding. So far he has a respectable stack of keepers. Tracks said he could take as many as he wanted.
Bronte says, “Are they…?”
“They dead Bronte,” answers Tracks before the other man can finish. “I don’t think they know we here. They just walking.”
“Okay, well maybe we’ll have to leave sooner than we thought.” Bronte grabs another box.
“Wait, look at this Bronte.”
Daric gets up and goes to stand at the door and look out. He hears Bronte join Tracks at the window. Out front in the street, blocking the way to the bridge is a big Army truck loaded with people in the back.
“Haters,” says Tracks.
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THE MOTION AND THE STENCH of unwashed bodies are making her nauseous. The truck shifts noisily into a higher gear as they make the turn and a stream of oily smoke issues from the upright dual exhaust pipes above the cab. The wind on her face is humid enough to add to the layer of filth that is already making her miserable.
The man facing her looks up at the massive clouds overhead and remarks, “Gonna rain soon.”
She looks over her shoulder, back the way they’ve come, ignoring him. What am I doing, she wonders, not for the first time.
“You never were one to doubt yourself before, Janicea,” he says and his breath tickles her neck.
“Shut up Torenz!” she says with as much venom as she can muster. Some spittle appears on his cheek. We’re packed in like sardines. I can’t move, even if I wanted to.
People are pressed up against her from all sides and… someone is playing with her ass. She squirms and achieves nothing more than another smartass grin out of Torenz. He is her right hand and her lover, of sorts. His skin is a glossy dark chocolate and he has high cheekbones that remind her of an Indian chief. Dreadlocks spill out from underneath a boonie style green hat. He is also wearing blue jeans, a collarless black t-shirt and a twenty-inch gold chain.
Torenz must feel the spit, but he doesn’t react. He maintains a devilish grin.
If I scream, will they stop the truck? I must endure, like I did on that night that changed my life.
It lies across a veil of years, but she can still feel the cool breeze coming off the lake over her skin like a caress. The moon was full and glorious. Ever since then the sound of wind blowing through palm fronds or sea grass can bring it all back. It
was her last date with Bronte. He liked to take her to Lake Maggoire at night to see the moon on the water.
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As long as they stayed away from the trees and closer to the neighborhood, it was okay. Vagrants and far worse slept and did whatever in the trees after the sun went down. Of course, then and now, there are gators in the lake itself…
One night as they sat on the bank, they saw the gleam of flashlights over in the trees. The headlights of a car were also on over in the parking lot about fifty feet from the cops themselves with their flashlights.
“Cops probably rousting somebody,” said Bronte. Janicea couldn’t help it. Pigs are harassing my people. Bronte was no better at telling her no than anyone, so a moment or two later they were standing close enough to hear and see everything.
A tall, too-skinny black man was standing in only a pair of shorts and sneakers in the light of the flashlights. His shirt was on the ground at his feet along with five or six cigarette lighters. There was a small pile of sticks and a pipe on the ground, but no drugs that she could see. He was going to build a fire, I bet.
The two young men were white, probably in their early twenties, wearing suits and holding flashlights. One was taller and more athletic. She noticed even in the light that his complexion was a sallow yellow and oily. Hispanic? Italian? The second guy was shorter with a big head and jug ears. “Where’s the crack, Benji?” The taller, more athletic of the two men barked the question. “We know you have some.”
“No boss man, I ain’t got no crack.” “You know where some is though, dontcha Benji? Come on, don’t play games with us.”
“No sir, I’m clean. Just building a fire to keep warm and keep the bugs away.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it!” shouted the taller man, and she wondered why he was so angry. “Now think about this… if the crack isn’t yours Benji, then maybe we can let you go.”
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