by JK Franks
“You and your friends breached the perimeter of a U.S. military base. You were lucky our river patrol didn’t shoot you. They had standing orders to do just that.”
“Why didn’t they?”
She ignored the question.
“You are from Albany, Georgia?”
“Yes, I was on a business trip when the lights went out.” He wondered how long ago that had been now. “I’ve been trying to get home ever since.” He then asked the question he and she seemed to be avoiding. “How are my friends? Are they . . . ”
“What did you do . . . in Albany?”
He realized now a compact but solidly-built black man had stepped into the room and was leaning against the room’s door. “I . . . I owned a car dealership, Ford’s . . . Porter Auto Group.”
The man stepped forward, the deep singsong voice was familiar. “Are you related to the other man or the boy you were captured with?”
“No, we were strangers until a few weeks ago. Just happened to be traveling in the same direction and became allies and friends. How are they doing? Did . . . did they survive?”
“Why the river? Surely you knew it was dangerous?” the sergeant asked.
Steve hesitated, he didn’t want to seem dishonest, but the truth might reveal too much. “We were avoiding . . . other dangers. It was a quick decision by him to be vague, but obviously not the right one.”
The man pressed. “Meesta Porter, what other danger?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“I apologize to you, sir, but I am not giving you that option. What other dangers made you risk all of your lives?”
Steve shrugged, defeated by the man’s words. “We saw your friends herding people into those camps. Shooting broke out, people were killed, and . . . we fled downriver.”
The man got noticeably agitated. “Not our people; not our camps. Is that who shot at you? Our river patrol heard a lot of shooting.”
“No, just some hoodlums or gang . . . we never knew.” He took a cold rag from the sergeant’s outstretched hand. “Wait, what do you mean not your people?”
The man, who Steve assumed was the major, shook his head and turned to leave. “We will talk later.” He nodded at the sergeant before walking off.
The sergeant put a hand on Steve’s back in a reassuring move. “Please try and stand, you need to come with me.”
He had been surprised when he woke that he was not restrained or handcuffed. His assumptions were that they would be prisoners, but here, treatment had been cordial and professional. The major had used the term “captured” though. When will they send us to the detention camps? Maybe when they were all recovered, but that made no sense either. He had seen the troops shooting at people that were already heading toward the camp. They were not concerned with their health; anyone could see that.
Sergeant Lackey had not been lying, this was certainly not a medical facility. She led him through a maze of hallways to the door of a large room with several beds. This area looked to have been hastily converted to a surgical wing. Plastic drapes separated several beds. Most were unoccupied. She paused and drew in a long breath. “Your friends are in here. Mr. Leighton has been asking for you.” Hearing Gerald was alive was such a relief that he found himself grinning, and inside he was exuberant.
Her eyes did not mirror the same emotions; in fact, she was stoic to the point of morose. “Listen, I’m sorry, I did all I could for him. He . . . he needs more extensive surgery but, well, he wouldn’t . . . he isn’t going to make it. The damage is too extensive. His organs have started shutting down. I just wanted you to have a chance to say goodbye. The boy had asked me to bring you when you woke.”
45
Gerald’s pale skin was cold as Steve laid a hand on his friend’s arm. Steve was surprised to see him open his eyes and even more shocked to see JD curled up asleep on a nearby cot. “Hey, man,” he said with tear-filled eyes.
“Wow, look who is back with the living,” the older man wheezed, “Just don’t ask how I am doing, I’m sure that is pretty obvious.” His head nodded slightly to the side. “No idea why they let the kid stay in here. He doesn’t need to see this.” The man’s words were weak and slurred. “They gave me morphine . . . said that was ‘bout all they could do for me.” He gave a feeble lopsided grin. “Hey, that’s some good shit, you should try it. Might help you kick those headaches.”
How these two strangers could have become so close in just a few weeks was a mystery. Steve knew few details about him. Where was he born? What was his faith? The minutiae that is the fabric of most friendships was completely absent here. What he did know was the man’s character. He had saved JD and then saved him. He had put himself between danger and them time after time. “I’m sorry, Gerald.”
“Not your fault, Steve. They had us in a shooting box. It was a trap. I should’ve seen it coming.”
Steve couldn’t find his voice. The man was dying, but here he was trying to absolve him of the guilt he was carrying. Gerald closed his eyes, and Steve thought he was asleep. He wiped his eyes clear and looked at the sleeping form of JD. The boy had a small bandage on his neck, and Steve could just see the edge of a larger wound dressing on his back. Unlike Gerald, he had no tubes or monitors attached. Hopefully, that meant the boy’s wounds were not life-threatening.
Gerald’s drowsy voice pulled his attention back. “He’s doing fine.” He waved a hand lazily in the direction of the sleeping child. “Going to have a nasty scar, but neither shot punctured through to anything vital.”
“That’s good. I hate that he was injured, though.”
“Me, too. Kid’s a trooper. Barely a complaint. Look, Steve, I don’t know how much time I have, but try and bear with me. Listen, I’m not sure what is going on here, but it’s more than we imagined.”
“Yeah, I gathered. Surprised they haven’t locked us up by now.”
“Some of them want to, things seem to be . . . uncertain here. I think that is why we are being kept here instead of up at the main base hospital. The commander of this unit seems to want to keep our capture under the radar, which might be a good thing. My feeling, Steve, is that you will get home, not sure what you will find, but . . . stay alive.” He closed his eyes briefly before continuing. “Look . . . to have a life, you must live. The secret to getting old is simply just not dying. I am going to meet my sweet bride, and I’m ok with that.” He took a labored breath before continuing.
“What I am asking you is not fair, but I have to, Steve. . . I want you to please take care of that boy—you are all he has. He looks up to you; said you don’t treat him like a child, he likes that. Get out of here with him, find your family, then get to my place on the lake. Trust me. It has all you guys will need. Can you do that for me?”
Steve nodded numbly, the cold reality that this man was telling him goodbye and giving him a mission. “Of course I will, and thank you.”
Gerald reached a trembling hand beneath the bed covers, then handed Steve a small, battered notebook. “I’ve tried to keep this updated, it’s an old habit of mine. It’s my notes and a few more survival tips. It might help you guys. One more thing, Porter. Get in touch with that man on the radio. His frequency and times are written near the back.” His voice started to fade, and Steve thought he might be going back to sleep. Then he spoke again in the familiar, confident tone: “Listen to me, Steve. This . . . this is important. It will be up to people like you and him to take this country back. To give these kids a chance at all. Some hope for a better tomorrow. Can you do that . . . will you do that?”
Steve fought the urge to offer an easy answer. He knew his friend didn’t want to be placated. He wanted a commitment. He also knew what this request meant. “I’m not a fighter, Gerald. I’ve never been. But . . . I would never have thought I was a survivor either, not until now. I will do my best. I’ll do what you ask.”
The older man nodded, his strength obviously ebbing. “Hope is a hunger, Brother. It is something those in cha
rge cannot allow to feed. All you have to do is help light the flame. Like hope, fire exists only to feed, and the fire of a patriot is all that can stand against the darkness of tyranny. Help light that fire of rebellion. Others will be ready to take up the call. Please take my place to help them.”
They sat there together in the large, empty room. Gerald growing weaker and weaker. Steve felt a small hand on his back and realized JD was standing there with him. Gerald motioned the boy to come sit beside him on the bed. They all seemed to realize the end was coming. The man’s eyes were beginning to dim. The thought of being without Gerald frightened him. Steve didn’t know if he could let go, but he knew that was simply being selfish and weak. Gerald was not family, yet in many ways, he was closer. Gerald reached out and took hold of JD’s hand and told him one final story.
His eyes focused somewhere above them as he began to speak. “Nancy was the most beautiful girl I ever saw. We were both standing in line to buy movie tickets. We noticed each other, and she smiled at me. That was all it took; one smile and I was forever and hopelessly in love. It took me years to convince her to marry me, but eventually, I wore her down and she agreed. They say love makes you weak; don’t believe it. Love makes you whole. We were unbelievably happy—more than we had a right to be. When I held her, I could hear the music and feel the magic. In all our years, we only had one regret, we couldn’t have children.
JD, I’m sorry your family didn’t have that kind of love, sorry you aren’t going to have the perfect childhood. I don’t know what’s in store for you now, but I know you will be fine. You are an amazing kid; you and Porter make a good team. I just wish I could stick around to see what an awesome young man you will become.”
JD leaned down and put his arms around Gerald’s neck.
Gerald whispered something into the boy’s ear, and Steve watched as the dam of tears began to flow from the boy’s eyes, then he, too, began to weep. Gerald inhaled deeply, sighed and then he was gone. His fight was finished.
46
Major Kitma sat across from him at an ancient gray metal desk. The thin, light veneer on the top worn through to a dull brown on most of its surface. The man’s deep, black skin seemed to burst out of the tight-fitting uniform. Steve was still processing the passing of his friend as well as the residual effects of the migraine. The commander seemed in a rush to get the words out as soon as he could. “Did you not know your freend was former meleltary?”
Steve focused on Major Kitma’s pronunciation of the words. “No, he never mentioned it. Just said he was an analyst with the government.”
The large man smiled. “He was that, too, but that was after he served your country. You never noticed the tattoo on his shoulder, no? He was an Army Ranger. From what I gather, back in the day, he was an exceptionally good one. You probably couldn’t have found a better ally to travel wit.”
“Is that why you have treated us so well?”
Kitma shrugged. “It’s part of it. We take care of our own.”
“But you are not even an American, are you?”
“These are strange times, my freend. South African. I was here on an officer exchange program when the event occurred. No way to get back home now. Things on the base have been challenging. Many of the officers of the camp left or . . .simply disappeared. I volunteered to help wherever. Now, I serve as a commander of this unit.”
“I guess I understand,” Steve responded unconvincingly.
“You don’t, but that’s ok. Much here that you are unaware of. Da meletary is having some issues with its commander-in-chief. In particular, her response to this crisis.” The major picked up a cup of tea. The delicate mug lost in his huge hands. “She ordered us to help with the ‘humanitarian mission,’ as she called it. Da Army, your Army, is prevented from carrying out operations on American soil, it’s illegal, in fact. Not without executive order at least. So, she ordered dem, and at first, some of our commanders agreed. She wanted dem to clear da roads and help build aid camps. Then we saw what they were really doing: clearing out the cities. Afterward, meeny of your meletary leaders had some big disagreement on conducting further operations.”
“That sounds like the beginning of a military coup or something,” Steve said
“No, no . . . ” Kitma stared off into space for a moment. “Well…it’s probably not off the table, but I doubt anything so drastic. Right now, we are isolating ourselves. Dey leave us alone; we don’t bodder dem. Just the circumstances of Mrs. Chambers’ ascension to the presidency is, well . . . questionable, as is the fate of your former president and VP.”
“I do find it strange. I mean how does a secretary of transportation become president? Wouldn’t she be way down the list?”
“Yes, Mr. Porter, as I understand it, that is correct. According to the FEMA official who gave us the certification validating her as the new president, she was a designated survivor.”
Steve nodded. “I’ve heard of that. A lower ranking member of the executive office that is held away from the president in case of an attack or something. A continuity of government contingency.”
“Partially true, dat is one scenario. Dis one is what they called a ‘First Secretary Protocol.’ It was apparently instituted in secret, after your nation’s 9/11 tragedy. The first secretary survivor is chosen at the outset of a presidency and doesn’t change without an official order. Madam Secretary was that person. Your military was unaware of that protocol’s exeestsance or the role of FEMA in validating its process. Since dis bypassed most of da known steps of a non-elected succession to the highest office, most of the Joint Chiefs rejected her legitimacy to hold it. So you see, as of now, we are neutral.”
Steve’s emotions took over. “How can you stay neutral? You are the fucking Army. My country is falling apart.”
Kitma raised his hands in a calming gesture. “Belief me, it pisses us off, too, we have seen what is going on out dar. We don’t like it.”
“If it isn’t Army out there rounding up Americans, who is it?”
“Dem guys, hell, I dunno. National Security Force, your National Guard probably. We even heard a bunch of TSA agents were armed and helping. Imagine that, the pat-down guys at airports now rounding up civilians and putting them in detention camps. Our base commander was away when it all went down. The colonel who is in charge now . . . well, Colonel Willett, he’s now something of a renegade warlord in the government's eyes. He is refusing their orders, and he isn’t alone. Other bases, other branches are refusing the executive order to depopulate the urban centers. Not all of the soldiers agreed. Defending your country and all. Like I said, many, many of da troops and officers went AWOL, probably tried to get home to their own families. Others were purged due to divided loyalties. That is why I serve now as a commander. I have a family, too, back home, but no idea if I will ever see them again.”
Steve rubbed between his eyes as he tried to process it. “Why are you helping us?”
“Officially, we aren’t. Right now, dar is no record of you and the boi, but your friend in there is one of us. He say you saved his life many times. As I said, we’re honoring his service to his country and, by extension, your service to him. We will take care of his remains, but unfortunately, no service for him. Meester Leighton only had one request. Get you and da boi to safety. We will do dis tang for him, oke? He says you are a good man, a patriot. We need more of those. If so, we may talk again.”
The departure from the small outpost hidden away on the edge of Fort Benning was not a quick event. Sergeant Lackey wouldn’t release JD until his wounds had knitted together well enough to travel. Steve used the time to learn what he could about what was going on. The Army had working equipment and communications with much of the world. The major had said they could not give them transport beyond the base, but that the route into Southern Georgia was not being blocked by troops. For whatever reason, those were only around larger towns and major roads.
So much of this was still so confusing. Why would they
want to depopulate the cities? Hell, seemed like that would happen on its own. On the third day of waiting, he was watching the sergeant check JD over. She smiled and said one more day and he should be fine, no signs of infection. The words triggered a recent memory: “Sergeant, we heard a broadcast indicating some outbreak overseas and that the president was using that as justification to move people into the camps. Was that just a ruse to panic people into doing what she wants?”
The worry lines above the woman’s eyes told him he had hit a nerve. She pulled off the latex gloves and expertly hit the refuse container. She glanced at JD who was putting his shirt back on. “That, unfortunately, is not a lie. What she is using it for is manipulation, but from what we are hearing, the pandemic itself is sweeping across the entire continent.”
“Geeze, but maybe the president is right, isolating healthy people so they aren’t exposed might be smart, and if it does hit, much easier to treat. Right?”
“No, Mr. Porter, not right. These camps are already breeding grounds for disease. Thousands have already died from simple stuff we already are familiar with. We hear the radio reports of what is going on. Our drones overfly the compounds and see the cremation pits. You cannot gather masses of people who are weak, undernourished and without hope and not expect to lose many of them to illness. From what I know, there is no treatment for the disease overseas. I’m not sure anyone has a clue as to what it even is or how it is transmitted. All we’ve heard so far is mostly rumor and speculation, but it sounds horrific.”
“Just what we need,” Steve said idly. “Is there anything out there that isn’t trying to kill us?”
She looked defeated. “It’s a dark time, I agree. Perhaps we can make things right again, but the coming dawn seems distant. Look, my job is to follow orders, but lately, even that has been uncertain. Soldiers don’t like unclear directives, so who knows what happens next? You two got lucky. I’m sorry about your friend, but . . . you both just need to take care of yourselves out there, ok?”