Amerika

by Brauna E. Pouns

They jammed aboard an elevator, more than twenty of them, to travel down a floor. “Unhook the respirator,” Alan told Nurse Tate, who by then was wide-eyed and trembling, terrified by this mysterious journey and the multitude of people surrounding her. “It’s slowing us down; we’ll be all right without it for a while.”

  The elevator doors opened as Alan and one of the newcomers steered the gurney. Four of the most able-bodied Exiles now engulfed the unhappy attendant, and somehow in the confusion he did not get off the elevator at their floor but was last seen heading for the basement.

  “Down that way,” Alan called, guiding his little army toward the back door.

  “This isn’t the way to ICU,” Nurse Tate protested.

  “Trust me,” Alan muttered.

  “Are you ... is this an escape?” she asked. She was having a hard time keeping up as the newcomers formed a tight circle around the gurney.

  “Weren’t they great.” Alan gestured to the Exiles.

  “That’s about the best work a bunch of bedridden folks have done in a long time.”

  “I don’t want to be part of this,” Nurse Tate protested. “I’m getting married.” She saw another nurse coming toward them, an elderly woman with a kind but puzzled face. “What’s happening?” she cried. “Where are all the guards?”

  “Something’s going on outside,” the older nurse said. “A lot of people. It’s all very queer. These aren’t visiting hours at all.”

  “I’m going to find a guard!” Nurse Tate cried, and fled wildly down the corridor.

  Alan saw Devin’s eyes flutter open. He was fighting to come up from the drugs. “Devin, you with us?” Alan whispered. Devin tried to speak but only mumbled. “You’re doing fine, boy, just fight to stay awake,” Alan told him, hoping he could understand.

  They emerged onto the loading dock. An ambulance waited there, with an Exile, Rick, dressed in an orderly’s white uniform at the wheel. Some other vehicles had been commandeered, too, to carry the Exiles and anyone else who wanted to join them. When they saw this waiting convoy as they emerged from the hospital, the Exiles and townspeople sent up a great cheer. Alan and two Exiles quickly got Devin off the gumey and into the ambulance. Rick was about to shut the rear door.

  “Hop in, doctor,” Rick said.

  Alan smiled. “I can’t go,” he announced.

  “You’re crazy,” Rick said. “When they get this unraveled, they’re gonna fry your brain in that place.” “I have to try to do something for the others. Justin Milford’s in there,” Alan said, reaching across Rick and closing the ambulance door. “Get going,” he said,

  and clapped the young man on his shoulder. “Thanks. I’ll see you in Milford.”

  Rick ran to the driver’s side of the ambulance, put the van in gear, and pulled away. Alan watched it a moment, smiling, then turned back to the hospital, his smile faded, his face darkened.

  There were now a couple hundred people on the grounds of the hospital, forming a human chain around the building. The ambulance, siren blaring, approached the line. It stopped.

  “Excuse me,” Rick said urgently, leaning his head out the window.

  The chain accommodatingly parted, and the ambulance continued on toward the main gate. Along the way, Rick noticed the people, many sitting down with makeshift signs that read free devin milford. As the ambulance approached the gate, the guards automatically opened them. Even the protesters assumed that the ambulance had some official purpose and gave it room to pass, not missing a beat in their chants for Devin’s freedom.

  Andrei was awakened by Captain Selovich, an aide he had “inherited” from Samanov.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Colonel. An urgent call from Chicago.”

  Andrei feared calls in the middle of the night, especially if they came from Moscow. From Chicago, and his aide Mikel, the news would probably be no more than an annoyance.

  “Yes, Mikel, what is it?”

  “Sir, in Milford, a group of Exiles and townspeople have taken over the sheriffs office. They have armed themselves, and are in control of the town.”

  “What has the local SSU done?”

  “Commander Gurtman is on the phone now, requesting permission to put down the rebellion with maximum force. As an example to any others who might be so inclined.”

  “Tell Gurtman that it is my personal order that he and his men remain at the barracks,” Andrei said firmly.

  “But sir . . ”

  “Mikel, I will hold you personally responsible if those troops leave the barracks before I give specific orders allowing them to do so.”

  “Will the colonel explain?” Mikel stammered.

  “No, the colonel cannot explain!” Andrei snapped. Then he calmed a bit. “Mikel, I do not need a massacre in Milford at this particular moment. We have already had one of those, as you will recall. The SSU force is confined to barracks until you hear otherwise from me.

  “Yes, sir!” Mikel said smartly.

  Andrei hung up the phone, returning to bed, and perhaps to his dreams of Kimberly.

  The riot police arrived only minutes after the Resisters roared away with Devin Milford.

  Helen Quint, the head nurse of the psychiatric unit, was soon on the scene, as was the hospital administrator, a nervous man named Rose. They had confronted Alan Drummond, but their efforts to get at the truth were frustrated by the stunning news that, on top of everything else, the new governor-general’s wife was on her way for an unannounced tour of the hospital, complete with television coverage.

  “They cannot enter my unit,” Helen Quint declared. “Just stonewall it.”

  “How am I going to do that?” Rose was incensed. “What if they want to see it?”

  “We don’t know they’re even interested in the unit,” Quint said.

  “Don’t be naive, Helen. You’ve been around as long as I have. This Milford man arrives and the next thing you know we’re having an impromptu tour.” Rose fidgeted nervously. “This smells like a power play to me and I don’t want to be caught in the middle of it.” “I’ll take the responsibility. I’m sure Deputy Andrews will back me up,” Helen insisted.

  Rose walked toward the door. “You do that, Helen.” Alan Drummond stood at the doorway watching. He felt only scorn as their panic mounted. “I know Peter Bradford,” he said. “He’s a decent man. When he finds out what’s going on here . .

  Rose walked up to Alan. “I have nothing to do with that unit. I’ve never even been inside it. Nobody can blame me—”

  A secretary interrupted him and spoke to Alan. “Doctor, they’re coming up the driveway.”

  “There’s really no need for me to be here,” Rose said, and walked out the door.

  Helen tried to fight the panic inside her head. She wasn’t sure what she should do.

  Alan watched her closely. “You’re not going to win this one, Helen. Not now, not here,” he said quietly. The truth of his words fed his confidence. “It’s turning,” he continued. “Do you realize this is the first time I’ve seen someone like you lose in ten years ... the first time . .

  Helen walked to the door and stood in front of Alan. “It’s not over. We’ve done breakthrough work here. Breakthrough!”

  Alan smiled slowly. “We’ll see.”

  She ran out the door; Alan remained in the doorway. A huge sigh of relief escaped from him, then he laughed, permitting himself the luxury of his victory.

  Amanda was both frightened and determined. Ever since she had heard that Devin was here, perhaps being drugged and brainwashed, she had known she must come. And yet, as she approached the steps to the hospital, she knew she was afraid of what she might find.

  General Fred Sittman was at her side, and two armed guardsmen flanked them: people of their importance could not move without protection. Amanda wasn’t sure if she was relieved or frightened by her armed guards.

  They were flanked too by Jeffrey and his camera crew, burly men carrying bulky cameras, restless, relentless men who barged in wherever th
ey pleased. Even in the New America, the spirit of “Sixty Minutes” still lived.

  Amanda saw the little white-coated knot of officialdom that loomed ahead: a nervous man in bifocals, a tough-looking woman, and a couple of unhappy security guards.

  And off to the side, a black man, a familiar face, smiling, but one that stumped her for a moment, in this unexpected setting.

  She stopped and stared at him, and watched his smile widen with delight. “The first lady of Heartland, I presume,” he said.

  “Alan? Alan Drummond? Is it really you?”

  He held out his arms and she flew to him. They embraced—as the hospital staff grew nervous—and she whispered, “I’ve come to get Devin.”

  “We got him out early this morning; he’s okay.”

  Amanda felt dizzy with relief; she held on to Alan for support. “Thank God,” she said. After a moment, she began to smile. “Well, I guess that ends the tour,” she said.

  “Amanda,” Alan said quietly. “There’s more.” They had stepped a few feet aside. General Sittman and the others were watching this encounter with curiosity and, in some cases, anger. Jeffrey was scribbling notes and his crew was filming silently.

  “What do you mean, more?” she asked.

  “The psychiatric unit, where Devin was. I. . . think you’ll need to prepare yourself for what’s here.”

  He didn’t tell her about Justin. He wanted her to go into that evil place because it was right, not because she knew one of the victims. Besides, he feared that if she knew what lay ahead, she might turn back.

  Amanda summoned her courage a second time. “All right, Alan, if you say so.” She turned to the administrator. “You’re Mr. Rose?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Bradford, and I want to welcome you to People’s Acceptance. We believe we’re one of the—” “Mr. Rose, I want to tour that unit,” she said, and pointed to the door that said psychiatric unit—keep out!

  “No, you can’t go there,” declared Nurse Quint. “It’s classified~-off limits.”

  Amanda turned to Fred Sittman. “General?” “Folks, the lady can go where she pleases,” he said. Quint turned to the security guards. “Stop them!” Fred Sittman’s two guardsmen put their hands on their holsters, and three more guardsmen, armed with rifles, fanned out across the corridor.

  The hospital security men stepped back. “I believe they have clearance,” one of them said.

  With the national guard leading the way, and Jeffrey’s camera crew close behind, Amanda, Sittman, and Alan Drummond marched toward the forbidden unit. Rose, the hospital administrator, walked unhappily in their wake.

  Alan led them into a dimly lit ward with a double row of beds packed close together. It took a few moments for Amanda’s eyes to adjust. She started uncertainly up the aisle, clutching Alan’s aim, then she cried out in horror as she saw the unconscious man on the bed nearest her, then the man next to him, and realized she was looking at two dozen men, with IV tubes in their arms, pale, shrunken creatures who seemed more dead than alive.

  “My God!” she cried. “Alan, what . . . what is it?”

  The camera crew switched on its lights; the glare illumined the gaunt faces of the patients but did not stir them from their trances.

  Alan put his arm around Amanda. “This is where they start them off. When they first get here, they put them on various drugs, which prepare parts of the brain for conditioning: the films, the tapes, the individual therapy.”

  The cameras were on Alan now as he softly explained the chamber of horrors.

  Amanda walked over and looked into the subjects’ faces. They stared without focusing. She shrank suddenly from the horror of it. “We’ve got to stop this!” she cried. “How do you stop it?”

  She ran to the nearest IV machine and twisted its knobs. “How does this work?” she demanded.

  Rose, the administrator, suddenly confronted with fights and a camera, blinked back like an insect flushed from under a rock. “I don’t know,” he stammered. “I’ve never even been here before.”

  “I’ll show you how to cut them off!” Fred Sittman was consumed in righteous anger. He ripped the lines from the nearest machine and sent it crashing to the floor. Then he crisscrossed the ward, tearing out lines, breaking bottles, knocking over IV machines. The cameras kept rolling and Amanda began to quietly sob, her head against Alan’s shoulder.

  He led her to the door. “There’s more,” he said. “I’m sorry but there’s more you have to see.”

  She dried her eyes and followed.

  They walked along a narrow corridor with several small doors opening off it. Alan nodded to an attendant, who unlocked one of the doors. It, too, was dimly lit; at first they saw only a small, padded cell, then they saw the figure crouched in the "corner.

  “No, no, no,” she whispered, before she even recognized the ravaged creature huddled in the shadows.

  It was Justin, what remained of him. The tall, confident .boy she remembered astride his motorcycle now weighed barely a hundred pounds. His skin was ashen, his blond hair and ragged beard were streaked with gray. He was clad only in shorts, he looked tiny and withered. His eyes were open but empty as he huddled in the comer, his face to the wall, holding himself.

  “Justin!” Amanda cried. She was frozen with fear and disgust for an instant, then she crossed the cell with quick, determined steps and knelt at the boy’s side. Slowly, she put out her arms, but it was like embracing a statue. He showed no sign of life or recognition. “My God, my God,” she whispered. She sat on the floor beside the boy, trying to get his attention, trying to embrace his stiff, ravaged body.

  Alan knelt beside her, touched her shoulder, but she saw only Justin now, the broken body, the empty, fearful eyes. Gently but firmly she pulled him to her until his head was cradled against her breast.

  “Ah, Justin,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  A people’s militia controlled Milford that day. More than fifty men and women occupied the jail and the courthouse square and guarded the roads into town. They were armed with the weapons seized at the jail, and with others that had miraculously appeared from a hundred hiding places. Even some dynamite had turned up, and been buried in strategic points around the square for possible use against an SSU invasion.

  It was during the morning that Herb Lister burst onto the scene. “What are you people doing?” he demanded. “This is treason. This is insurrection; you can all be shot!”

  Ward and Aiethea Milford had returned to their farm, and Ward’s fellow deputy, Cy Spraggins, commanded the irregulars. “I’ll kiss a pig if we ain’t got space in the jail,” he drawled.

  “Well, then arrest that little prick,” another of the militiamen declared.

  “You can’t arrest me,” Herb shrieked. “I’m the chairman of the Community Advisory Committee. I represent the PPP. I—”

  As Cy advanced upon him, Herb turned tail and fled across the square, but Cy pursued, tackled him, and dragged him screaming off to jail.

  The arrest of Herb Lister raised morale for a time, but the insurrectionists still waited anxiously, wondering what the SSU would do. They were well armed but how long could they hold out against its might? They expected at any moment to hear the clatter of helicopters or the rumble of armored cars.

  Ward, Alethea, and various other exiles were collecting weapons that had lain hidden in various caches all over the town: some beneath the crushed structures of their former camp, some in old basements and attics. They had handguns, a couple of hunting rifles, and a small case of dynamite.

  Over the hill a ways, Billy, Clayton, and Will stood outside the dugout, watching the activity.

  “Don’t get too far from that trapdoor,” Will told Billy. “Don’t know whether they gave up or are just givin’ it a rest. With them helicopters, they suddenly appear and surprise hell out of you.” He patted the boy’s head and started back toward the farmhouse.

  Billy watched him for a moment, then took off after him. “I’m sorry they burne
d the house, Grandpa,” he said, catching up with the old man.

  Will stopped walking. “Wasn’t you. Guess it was more they didn’t like our attitude. Us Milfords have always had an attitude problem.” He put an arm around the boy’s shoulder and smiled into the familiar eyes. “You stayin’ safe is what’s important.”

  “You too,” Billy said.

  Will winked at his grandson and walked away. Billy watched a moment, then headed back to the dugout.

  “I have to tell you, young man.” Clayton smiled. “I am out of stories, and if I have to go back there too many more times, you’re on your own.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a crybaby.”

  Clayton laughed, and soon Billy joined him as they started back down the dugout.

  Will joined Dieter, Alethea, Betty, Ward, and a handful of Exiles as they sifted through the ruins of the farmhouse. Each one found different little treasures partially burned. Will was collecting the pictures of the family from the dining room. They were all damaged, but some were still worth keeping.

  Everyone looked toward the sound of the ambulance pulling up the driveway. Nobody moved toward this strange, out-of-place vehicle. Two Exiles got out of the cab of the ambulance. Dieter recognized one of them as Rick. Rick saw Dieter and walked toward him, his hand extended.

  “Dieter, what the hell happened?”

  Dieter shook Rick’s hand. “You can guess. What are you doing?”

  Rick smiled and looked at the Milfords, who by this time had moved toward the ambulance. He walked to the back of the vehicle, where the other Exile, Enos, had already opened one of the doors. Rick opened the other, and they reached inside the ambulance.

  Devin pushed himself up on his elbow. “Let me try to . . . sit up,” he said refusing the assistance. “Don’t take me out on the stretcher.”

  Enos hopped inside the ambulance and helped Devin sit up.

  There was anxiety on all the Milfords’ faces. So much tragedy had left them wary of something like this. Alethea first caught sight of Devin bending out of the back of the ambulance, being helped by Enos to sit there.

  She rushed to him. “Devin! My God . . .”