by Trent Reedy
“We’re not all dead,” Sweeney said from the back.
Mr. Robinson spoke in a deep, kind voice. “And if we’d stayed in Freedom Lake, the Brotherhood would have eventually got to Jaclyn Martinez, the Shiratori family, and even Eric Sweeney here. They’d run all our lives.”
“Right.” I kind of laughed. “So you’re saying it’s a bargain price. One dies so we can save five?”
“I wouldn’t put it exactly that way, but —”
“I’m sick of having to make these kinds of exchanges. I’m tired of choosing who gets to live and who dies.” I slowed down and swerved into the other lane to avoid a big hole in the road. “I wish I would have died at Boise.”
There was a little silence, then Mrs. Pierce spoke. “I was twenty-three years old when I went to Vietnam as a nurse. I had barely been out of Idaho. The only time I’d left the US was for a couple fishing trips in Canada. During my nursing training, I imagined what it would be like over there. I knew it was a war, so I tried to mentally prepare myself for treating bullet wounds. Cuts. But I never could have imagined the things I saw in Vietnam.
“I was stationed at the 312th Evacuation Hospital in Chu Lai, right in the thick of things, so of course we treated American soldiers, but we also had a Vietnamese ward. This one boy came in burned up so bad, I couldn’t tell if he was one of ours or one of theirs. He was so young, so small, but somehow that boy had the strength to hang on for over a week. When he died, I didn’t think I could handle much more. My friend Sharon Lane, a fellow nurse who came in country with me, helped me stay strong and focus on our duty of helping whoever came through our unit. A couple weeks later, she was killed by a rocket attack.”
Mrs. Pierce was quiet for a moment. “That was over fifty years ago. I still wonder why I got to live and go home, but she died. Sometimes I can still hear that burned boy’s cries, or the cries of hundreds of others just like him. Sometimes my dreams are shaken by the roar of the rocket that killed Sharon.”
She put her hand on my shoulder, and I jumped a little. “We don’t get to go back, boys. Not completely. But in time, we can figure out how to … put some of those old memories away. We can develop ways of avoiding thoughts or situations that pull us back to the nightmares of our past. I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but you hang in there. It is possible. We’re going to get through this.”
We drove on, reeking of blood, sweat, and death, into the morning.
Sergeant Crocker monitored Brotherhood radio bands for as long as we were in range. At first there was a lot of chatter and confusion about a US attack. They tried calling for reinforcements from Brotherhood units that had been deployed to prepare for the Battle of Spokane, but there were none to spare. Then they radioed, looking for Cal. Then for me. Then they found that pickup we’d shot up, and someone who’d seen our convoy must have ratted us out, because they put out a call looking for two school buses and a large RV. There was a lot of stuff about “US collaborators” and “shoot on sight.” After a while, we were deep into mountainous terrain, and we began to lose the signal.
I silently thanked God that the Brotherhood didn’t figure out something was up until we were south of Coeur d’Alene. We bumped our way east along torn up I-90, then headed south along the east side of Lake Coeur d’Alene on Highway 97. That road was sometimes right up by the lake, and a few times, we had to slow way the hell down at places where half of the road or more had collapsed into the water. It reminded me of the Abandoned Highway of Love back in Freedom Lake.
Farther south, the land bridge over the Harrison Slough was bombed out, so we had to take a huge detour all the way around Thompson Lake, including some time on some pretty shaky trail-type roads. Finally we got back on Highway 97 and headed south onto Highway 3. As we neared the town of St. Maries, we started trying to reach Cal on the radio. When he finally answered, he sounded down, worn out, sad, but he said they were okay.
The fuel truck pulled out from behind an aluminum maintenance shed where Cal had been hiding east of town, and as we’d planned, we followed the signs to the local golf course. The course looked like it hadn’t been kept up since the war started, and the whole thing was beyond rough. We drove our convoy right onto the back fairway, where we’d be hidden away, surrounded by trees. As a precaution, we parked our vehicles like walls around a space about the size of a baseball infield.
Even before all the engines had been shut off, people were scrambling out of the vehicles. They jumped from the rear emergency exit on the buses and ran down the steps up front. Men and women hurried to the trees to relieve themselves. Some came off the buses crying. Others looked pissed. Everyone was all-out fried and exhausted.
A warning buzzed at the back of my mind. We didn’t know who was out here or how the locals would react to a big convoy rolling through their area, and tons of our people were stepping out into the woods, breaking rules one and two. But in that crowd of frightened families, there was only one person I wanted to see. I’d worried about JoBell all night, even fantasizing about her shouting my name and running into my arms as soon as she saw me.
Instead, I saw her first. She was leaning against the cab on the fuel truck, her rifle propped up next to her, hugging herself as if she was cold as she stared off into space. When I finally reached her through the crowd of people, she kind of fell into my arms with a groan.
I kissed the top of her head as she rested on my chest. “You need some sleep. We all do.” She started shaking with sobs. “Hey. Hey. JoBell. We’re okay. We’re going to make it. We’re together.”
Cal joined us. “We had kind of a rough time getting here, Danny.”
By instinct, my hand slid off JoBell’s back, headed for my rifle. “Are you guys okay? The fuel?”
Cal shook his head. “It ain’t that.”
“Grenke?”
“He’s fine.” JoBell stood up straight and wiped her eyes. “He’s useless, but fine. We passed this house fire on the way. The building was a total loss, but Cal slowed down to see if we could help. Out front like six assholes with guns were dragging this family through the yard, all laughing. Drinking. The mother’s shirt was ripped off. She was screaming. Cal and I were getting ready to take them out, but Mr. Grenke threw a fit, saying how our orders were to get the fuel truck to St. Maries without stopping.”
Cal kicked a weed. “We tried to convince him that we had to do something, that the three of us could take the assholes out quick, firing from up on the road. He wouldn’t go for it. He freaked out.”
“Cal and I weren’t sure the two of us could take out all six of them. We worried they’d overtake us. Take our truck.” JoBell started crying again. “And so many people are depending on the fuel.”
“You did what you had to do,” I said.
“I’m so tired of making these kinds of decisions,” JoBell cried. It was the same thing I’d said on the drive here.
“You made the right choice.” I hated the words as I said them, but they were true. “Better to save this whole convoy, even if it meant, you know.” Why couldn’t I believe people when they said these kinds of things to me?
“It’s like I’m a scale that has to keep so many lives in balance,” JoBell said. “They shot the father as we drove by.”
Sergeant Kemp found us. “This is a security nightmare. Everybody going all over, and we don’t even have a head count. Anyone could get picked off. We’d never know until it was too late.”
“It looks like the old lady’s way ahead of you.” Cal pointed to the middle of the crowd, where Mrs. Pierce was pulling aside different people and giving them instructions. Others she was motioning to sit down or take a knee around her. She was setting up a meeting.
“Sergeant Kemp,” she called out as the crowd gathered and started to quiet down. “You’re the ranking soldier. Would you please organize an armed party to form up a security perimeter? Keep it tight, close to the buses, so you all can hear.”
Kemp moved toward the center of the camp, l
ooking more like a pirate than a wounded man thanks to the black leather eye patch Dr. Nicole had found for him. Me, Cal, Sweeney, Becca, JoBell, and TJ were first in line for guard duty, but when Crocker volunteered, Kemp told him, “Sorry, Sergeant. You know what you gotta do. Monitor that radio. Try to stay awake, buddy.” Finally, enough guys volunteered or were voluntold by Kemp to stand guard, and we had a solid perimeter.
“Well done, everyone,” Mrs. Pierce said. “I know it’s been a long night, a tough night, but we’ve stuck together and made it this far. All indications suggest the Brotherhood doesn’t know where we are. Now we —”
“But that could change any time.” Mr. Keelin had his arms around his daughter, Cora, who held a blanket-wrapped bundle that must have been the body of her daughter. “We need to fuel up and move on. We won’t be safe until we get to the school.”
Mrs. Pierce looked at him sadly. “We all need to rest. If there’s trouble, we won’t handle it very well if we’re exhausted. Sleep the best you can through the day. We’ll roll out at sunset.”
“But won’t we draw more attention to ourselves driving around at night?” said Mr. Grenke. “Everybody will be able to see our headlights.”
“I think we got enough night vision glasses,” I called out. “We could drive with the lights off. Go full blackout. We’d probably have to slow down a lot, though.”
Kemp nodded his agreement.
“I’m with Keelin,” Mr. Grenke said. “Let’s leave now. We have to keep moving.”
“We’re much more likely to be spotted in broad daylight,” Mr. Shiratori said. “Yeah, people might see our headlights moving through the dark at night, but a lot more people will be asleep then, and we have a better chance of getting by unnoticed.” He was sitting next to his family and Jaclyn Martinez. Jackie must have cried herself to exhaustion. She looked like she was almost in a coma now, and she let Mrs. Shiratori hold her.
“We gotta stick to the plan,” said Brad Robinson’s mom.
“The plan?” Mr. Keelin pointed to his dead granddaughter. “Is this part of the plan?”
“We should also take this time to mourn our loss and lay the child to rest,” said Chaplain Carmichael. “I’d be honored to conduct a funeral service if —”
“I’m not leaving her!” Cora Keelin held her dead daughter tighter. The baby’s feet had come out of the blanket and dangled beneath her.
“Well, we can’t take her on the bus,” said Tucker Blake’s grandmother.
“Easy for you to say!” Mrs. Keelin fired back. “When your grandson was killed, you had the comfort of knowing his body was in a proper grave. Now you want us to just dump baby Portia out here?”
“We can dig a good grave,” said Cal’s old boss, Lee Brooks.
“No!” said Mr. Keelin. “We are taking her to the school, and we are taking her now! We’ve got a map on the bus. I say we just go. Who’s with me?”
“I’ll go. We could be like an advance party,” said Mr. Grenke.
“We are absolutely not splitting up!” Mrs. Pierce yelled. “That is not an option! We’ll take the girl’s body with us and bury her at the school, but first we will wait here until dark.”
“So you’re just going to decide everything now, Tabitha?” Mr. Grenke said. The guy looked like he was ready to fight, his arms all back and his hands in fists. Skylar put his hand on his dad’s elbow, but Mr. Grenke wouldn’t stop. “This is exactly the kind of shit we all risked our lives trying to get away from. You’re worse than Nathan Crow!”
We hadn’t even been on our own together for a day and already we were falling apart. I was the one who had made sure we left so suddenly after Jaclyn’s parents were hung. I had to do something. “Shut up, Mr. Grenke!” I said.
“No! You don’t get to talk to him like that,” said Mrs. Keelin. “This isn’t all going to be run by a kid.”
“I know!” I had to shout to be heard. “It’s going to be run by Tabitha Pierce! I’ve got the firepower to back her up, and I’ve got a lot of people with me, people who’ve been fighting and living on the run like this a hell of a lot longer than any of you. So, cut that ‘kid’ shit. I’m eighteen, and I know what I’m doing.”
“It won’t be a dictatorship,” Mrs. Pierce said.
“Respectfully, Tabitha,” said Mr. Shiratori, “that’s what a lot of dictators say. I agree with your strategy, and I’m with you. But I can’t blame these people for being scared. They’re being threatened with machine gun persuasion.” He pointed at Pale Horse.
“Coach, it ain’t like that. I only —”
“They’re being told to obey the biggest guns,” Shiratori continued. “A situation that we have all risked our lives to escape. How do we know that it won’t always be like this?”
“We will elect a council,” Mrs. Pierce said. “We will have a democracy. I promise.”
This was all kinds of jacked up. We were basically on a military operation, out here in a war zone, trying to keep a bunch of civilians safe, and there was barely any chain of command. Maybe it would be better if we got to the Alice Marshall School faster. Or maybe the key was to make sure we had one solid commander in charge. Right then, my bet was on Mrs. Pierce.
“If we stay together,” Mrs. Pierce said, “we have a chance, a good chance, of making sure that little Portia is the last among us to die from this war. Becca Wells once told me the three rules she and other Idaho soldiers lived by during the occupation. Rule number one: Nobody goes alone. That means you can’t go running off in the woods without someone with you, even to go to the bathroom. More than that, it means we’re all in this together. Rule two: Nobody goes unarmed. Always have your weapon with you. We don’t have enough guns to go around, so we’re making sure our best shooters are packing. If you don’t have a gun, always be with someone who does, and always carry some kind of a weapon. A knife. A stick. Whatever you can find. It’s too dangerous out here with no protection. Rule number three: Always post a guard. If two people are working on something, a third person should be standing by with a gun, watching for trouble. Do those rules make sense?” People nodded. “Toby Keelin? Ryan Grenke? Everyone? Are you still with us?”
Mrs. Pierce had everyone’s attention now, so she continued. “I promise you that I’m not just bossing people around because I enjoy being in charge. If we split up, eventually we’d be out of radio range. If either group broke down or was attacked, the other would have no way of knowing. If we lost a big portion of our group, we’d lose physical resources as well as people we’ll need to help us at Alice Marshall. The school’s location might be compromised. We stay together, okay? For now, we live by the three rules.”
Gradually everyone agreed. People settled in wherever they could to try to sleep, and some food went around, cold hot dogs and other stuff that we had packed in coolers that wouldn’t last long. Cora Keelin was convinced to put her dead little girl into one of the empty coolers for the ride to the Alice Marshall School. It looked like we’d made it through our first big crisis, but I still caught a pissed-off look from Mr. Grenke.
* * *
Since nobody went alone, all guards worked in pairs. Kemp picked the teams himself, which was how me and Sweeney ended up on guard duty together, hanging out on top of Pale Horse. From there I could get a pretty good look over the buses to watch the perimeter of our camp. I didn’t have to stay standing the whole time, but I stood a lot anyway to stay awake. Sweeney leaned with his back against the roof hatch on the .50-cal turret. If any big trouble showed up, we were supposed to charge in with Pale Horse.
Sweeney slapped his own face and sucked in a deep breath. “I hope Kemp finds someone to relieve us soon.”
I looked over to a group of people asleep by the first bus. I vaguely realized Sweeney was still talking. “What?”
“I’ve never been so tired in my life.”
“This ain’t nothing,” I said.
“Right. The torture. I forgot.”
I wished I could.
“The roads were really jacked up,” Sweeney said. “I guess I was kind of out of it on the way from Boise to Freedom Lake, so I didn’t notice it so much. This was the first time I got to see things with a clear head. It’s pretty bad.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. I sat down on the front of the ambulance module and let my legs dangle down over the hood.
Sweeney went on, “I haven’t heard anything from my mom or dad in a week. If the roads are even half as bad in other parts of the country as they are here, it could take them forever to make it home. And if there’s no gas … I know they left Florida, but I don’t know if they made it out of the southeast before it became Atlantica. They’re probably trying to get through a hotter war zone than we’re in.”
When I heard a sniffle and saw him wipe his eyes, I did the kindest thing a guy can do for another dude in that situation. I pretended I didn’t notice. “They’ll be okay,” I said instead. “Your parents are two of the smartest people I know. They’ll find someplace safe.”
We were relieved of duty a few hours later. I don’t even know who took over for me. I was so tired, I was seeing things that weren’t there. It was a perfectly beautiful spring day, and I found a spot in the shade by the buses next to JoBell. I cleared my weapon before lying down to sleep with my fiancée, my friends, and all our guns.
I jerked awake sometime later after hearing Cora Keelin’s screams again. I was on my hands and knees reaching for my weapon before I realized how calm the camp was. There had been no screaming. Nobody rushing around. I hung my head. Another bad dream. That’s how life was now. When I needed to stay awake and do important stuff, I could hardly keep my eyes open. But whenever I had time to sleep, too many thoughts shot through my head. And always the damned nightmares. I crashed again, praying for oblivion.
* * *
After sleeping on and off for a few hours, I finally gave up and staggered in the midday sun toward the center of camp, where someone had put out some cases of bottled water. How old did this stuff have to be? Since the occupation, not much bottled water had been shipped into Idaho. I twisted off the cap and downed the water in seconds.