Amerika

by Brauna E. Pouns

  “Amen. Tell them that,” Jeffrey said.

  “They can stop ten of us,” Devin said, “but they can’t stop ten thousand or ten million: that’s why we have to unite. But whatever happens, as one man, I won’t accept the breakup of America. I’ll resist, with my spirit, with my life. I can resist because I’ve found the love of my children; their lives are more important than my own. Whatever happens, I’ll live through them, through whatever values and truths I have taught them.”

  “For God’s sake, Devin, just tell them that!” Jeffrey exclaimed.

  Helmut leaped out of the helicopter and raced toward his barracks. An Exile challenged him and he shot the man dead without breaking stride. Inside the barracks, he confronted Alan Drummond, bandaging a wounded SSU sergeant. “Wait, stop!” Alan cried, and tried to wrestle Helmut to the floor.

  Helmut didn’t want to fire and alert the people upstairs. Instead, he crashed the barrel of his Swiss pistol against Alan’s temple, knocking him unconscious, and charged up the stairs, three at a time. At the landing, he saw that the door to his apartment was open.

  Alethea was on her knees, fiddling with the safe; Ken crouched behind her. “Dammit, he always said it was easy to open, no better than a post office box.”

  “Keep trying,” Ken said.

  “Perhaps you’d like the combination,” Helmut said from the doorway.

  They spun around. His Sig Sauer pistol was pointed at Ken. Before either could react, Helmut fired at the cameraman. Ken’s body hurtled forward on impact with the bullet, knocking Alethea down and pinning her beneath him.

  Helmut smiled wickedly, savoring Alethea’s fear, entranced by her struggle to free herself from the weight of the dead, bleeding man that lay on top of her. The beauty of the moment demanded that he not shoot until her hand finally reached Ken’s gun. To shoot any sooner would be to dishonor himself, to forfeit his ideal of perfection. As Alethea writhed and inched across the floor, Helmut realized that he had always known more about the drama of life than most people, had always understood the inevitability of fate. But whence came that groan? The loud, twisting rasp—from the dead man? Helmut swung his pistol at the figure of Ken, and shot into the body, knocking it back from Alethea. Then quickly, deftly, she grabbed the gun on the floor, and finished the drama. Helmut’s head snapped back, his expression unchanged. The gun in his hand discharged into the floor, and he crumpled to his feet.

  Several days later, when Alethea described her grotesque ordeal, she would recall ho groan, no sound, no reason at all, in fact, for Helmut to have shot into the dead man that lay on top of her.

  Devin ran into the room with Alan close behind. The doctor, his face caked with blood, knelt beside Ken, while Devin lifted his sister to her feet. Alethea sobbed and struggled in her brother’s arms, but once again he held her tight.

  “It’s over, Ah, it’s over,” he told her. “Remember when you were nine, little sister. Shut your eyes tight and wish for the last star in the galaxy.”

  Jeffrey burst into the room. “We’d better get going— the marines are here, only they’re the wrong marines.

  The Heartland defense force has just come to rescue us.”

  Alan looked up suspiciously. “Is that good?”

  “It’s doubtful they’ll appreciate our purpose here,” Jeffrey said. “Come on, Devin, it’s got to be now!” Devin nodded to Alan, who came and put his arms around Alethea. “Take care of her, doc. Please,” he said. He tore through the safe until he had the papers he wanted. “Okay,” he said, “we’re in business.”

  In the communications center, Eric Plummer took the paper with the Natnet frequencies, then began spinning knobs madly. Finally he slumped back in his chair. “Ready when you are,” he said. “Certainly a lively studio they’ve got here.”

  “I’ll keep a watch outside,” Jeffrey said.

  Eric smiled, pointing a gnarly finger toward a switch. “See that switch, Mr. Milford? Whenever you’re ready, push it forward and start talking. You’re about to give Natnet a big surprise—and provide a dramatic climax to an old newsman’s long and checkered career.” Then he added, “Be pleasant. No matter what you have to say, people like a nice smile.”

  Devin took a deep breath, groping for an opening line, his greeting to America—and then the door burst open.

  Peter Bradford rushed in, with Fred Sittman close behind.

  “Don’t do it, Devin,” Peter yelled. He was out of breath, disheveled, shaken by the bloodshed he had seen. “Listen to me.”

  Devin turned to face them but kept his hand on the switch.

  “You, get out of here,” Sittman growled at Eric.

  The old newsman stood up, and moved quickly out the door, “Hell of a rowdy place,” he muttered.

  Devin spoke cautiously. “You have a chance to do the right thing, Peter: we can do it together.”

  Peter stood stiffly in the center of the room, his dark hair falling over his eyes. “Your way is over. You can’t stop what’s already in motion. Please, don’t try to broadcast.”

  Devin kept smiling, as if he had all the time in the world. “Are you offering me a deal, Peter? No prison? No brainwashing? A nice peaceful exile in Milford— doing some farming and getting by ...”

  “There are worse things,” Peter said coldly. “Thanks for the offer,” Devin said, and tamed back to the microphone.

  “Damn you,” Peter’s voice broke 'with frustration and anguish. “Devin, why is it always the hard way with you?” Peter raged. He walked out the door.

  Devin looked back at Sittman, a menacing presence in the small room.

  “Do you think it’s possible to kill an idea, General?” he asked.

  “People have died here today,” Sittman said. “Somebody has to pay. If you go on the air, it’ll damn well be you. I can get you out of here, to your boy.” Devin rubbed his beard. He knew he didn’t have much time. “Some of those people died so I could make this broadcast. They thought it was important. I can’t let them down.”

  Devin looked at the old soldier for a long moment, then drew a breath. “I’ve waited ten years. What I’ve found is there’s always somebody who says, ‘Do it later.’ It’s time to say, ‘Do it now.’”

  “Get up. Now. Leave this room.” Sittman’s broad, pitted face was dark with anger. “I say do it now,” he challenged.

  “I can’t,” Devin said, sighing. “I could never forgive myself.”

  He turned back to the console and pushed the broadcasting switch.

  Outside the transmitter room, Peter heard the shot. Even though he didn’t move, it was as though the bullet had struck him. People ran past him to the broadcasting room, drawn by the sound of the shot and by the instinct that great tragedy had occurred. Peter did not even try to brush away the tears. He walked slowly, pushed past people in his way and headed down the stairs. For the car and driver that awaited him, for the loyal troops who would obey, for the world he could understand and control.

  The air was crisp, the sky perfect: bright blue and cloudless. The simple unadorned wooden coffin rested on two sawhorses beside an empty grave in a comer of the family cemetery.

  The Milfords were banded together. Billy, tall and solemn in a dark suit, stood between Will and Aiethea, with Ward and Betty next to them. Jackie stood next to Betty, holding the hand of Justin next to her in a wheelchair.

  Amanda stood behind the wheelchair, holding herself apart, in her own private tragedy. In her heart she thought she had lost both the men she loved. Peter was not there, nor was Marion.

  Kimberly, Alan, Dieter, Clayton, and some other Exiles were gathered to one side. Will’s sad eyes sought out Kimberly, who gently led the mourners in “Rock of Ages.” Even as they sang a dark sedan stopped on the road and Andrei Denisov, alone and in civilian clothes, got out and took a place just inside the gate, discreetly removed,

  Andrei hoped he would not be unwelcome; he took that chance because he felt he had to be here. He believed he had seen something
begin in those past months, an American saga perhaps, and he believed this funeral was a milestone in that saga, a milestone but not an ending.

  As the Milford family and friends sang, Andrei studied them, their faces, their strength, and he noticed too the people who were arriving. The funeral had not been publicized—the family had insisted on that—but these people were coming, over the hills, from all directions. Some were Exiles, others were well-dressed people who might have been from anywhere. They ringed the grave, staying a respectful distance, saying nothing. The Milford family seemed not to notice, or simply to accept the swelling crowd.

  Their voices rose, soared, echoed through the little valley, and when they finished singing the hymn, Will stepped forward, clutching an American flag. With the help of Jeffrey and Dieter, he unfolded the flag and draped it over the casket. That done, the old man faced his family and friends. He walked silently over to Billy and tousled the boy’s hair.

  The military barracks had been abandoned by the SSU troops, on orders from Colonel Denisov. Everyone assumed that the Heartland Defense Force would eventually move in, but, perhaps out of deference to the residents of Milford, General Sittman had not yet sent in his troops. So the fortress lay intact but deserted. Except for Eric’s van.

  Upstairs, in the communications room, Billy sat in front of the microphone. Sometimes the words caught in his throat, but mostly there flowed a clear, light voice.

  “My father . . Billy began, and then his voice broke. He squared his shoulders and started again.

  “My father died because he believed that what he stood for was more important than his life. My father gave me life. He gave me my physical life, and then he gave me a reason to live the rest of my life. I didn’t have much time with him, in these last few weeks, but that time was more precious to me than all the rest of my days.

  “I remember he said to me, ‘These are hard times, but each of us will find the best or worst in ourselves, and that will be our immortality.’” The boy’s voice broke, but then he continued. “I think my dad found his immortality, in what he taught me and others. He said that everybody has to die, so dying isn’t what’s bad. What’s bad is having lived for nothing.

  “My dad lived for something. He lived for himself. He lived for his ideals, for the America he loved. He lived for me—and for you.”

  Devin Milford achieved his goals. He had left a legacy that his son and his son’s children would inherit. A legacy of American spirit that was priceless.