by Anthony Puyo
The Captain takes off his peaked-hat, lying it on the desk. His thick, blond strands bounce out of their suppression, neatly combed back. He grins before talking. It is his subtle way of breaking the tension that he, himself, built. He’s meticulous and tension building is one of his many psychological tactics.
“I wanted to know why you weren’t friendly to us? It’s obvious you needed support with all these, conditioned, people here. So excuse me for saying, but I find it all bit strange.”
Allen’s eyes begin to jerk around, Don’t tell him shit! “Do any of you got a cigarette?”
Hawks, who has a keen eye for reading people, is not easily fooled. He raises a finger up, gathering attention to it. The Captain then whistles a falling bomb noise accommodating his reaching finger into his chest pocket, pulling out a pack. “I don’t smoke, but here you go,” he says with an award winning smile.
Allen reaches for the drag, finger shaking. “Why do you have a pack if you don’t smoke?” Tiny beads of sweat begin to form on his forehead.
Hawks sits back in his chair, nodding his head towards Sergeant Brimm who lights the man’s cigarette, “For interrogations—Are you hot, Allen?”
Dammit, control yourself. “Huh? . . . Oh.” Allen wipes with his forearm, “I don’t understand. The whole cigarette . . . interrogation thing.”
Hawks smiles. Always one step ahead. He was waiting for Allen to respond so he could explain.
“While interrogating, I found out the usual methods: punching, beating, water-boarding, depriving food—sleep, even the more morbid ways: sharp things underneath the nails, gouging an eye out, cutting an ear or finger off, electrocution of the testicles—were all successful in gathering the information I needed. But as time passed, I searched for new methods. I don’t know why. Boredom I suppose.”
Allen’s cheeks vibrate with every word the Captain speaks. His whole face begins to perspire, lips trembling. He tries hard to hold it together.
“I was amazed at the results!” Robert conveys, “What I accomplished with some ingenuity and perseverance.”
The Captain leans forward in his seat. He lasers Allen with his eyes before talking in a whisper. “I found that if I just gave a cigarette—one of those cancer sticks in your fingers, I was able to gather more information with that, than I would if I had sliced a squared piece of flesh from a man’s rib cage.”
The Captain chortles, thudding back in seat. Allen gives a couple of breath laughs to keep up his crumbling bravado.
“Amazing isn't it?” the Captain settles down, wiping a tear out of his eye. He got quiet, looking over Allen who’s now just a mound of melted wax. The moment got awkward—purposely.
Robert, began to speak again, “With all this experience, I now select my interrogation methods by what kind of mood I’m in . . . and tonight . . . I’m in a good mood. So is there anything you would like to tell me—Allen?”
Nervous, Allen takes a big hit of his cigarette. The gig is up, Allen; you schmuck! “If I tell you,” he pauses, looking shameful, “You got to promise you won’t hold it against me?” he exhales a large cloud of smoke.
The Captain signals for Brimm to shut the door. “You have my word.”
Allen points at his large ash. Hawks obliges by giving him a tray from his desk. “There’s food here. Lots of food. Water too. The hospital must have got their shipment the morning everything happened.”
“If there is so much food in this place, why do so many down there appear hungry? Hawks knows the answer, but he couldn’t help himself.
Allen sighs, “We stopped sharing. The fridges were stocked in the kitchen, and we helped who we could. But more and more people kept showing up. We figured it wouldn’t be long before we ran out. So we hid it.” Allen’s voice changes to more defensive tone. “It was us who found it. We shouldn’t have to share if we don’t want.”
“I’m not judging.”
“Those people are lucky we let them in in the first place.”
Hawks listens with intrigue—thinking. There is a suspicious glare in his eyes.
A silent moment passes.
“Allen . . . I must say,” Hawks adjusts in his seat to a more comfortable manner, placing his feet up on his desk, “I don’t find it possible.”
“It’s the truth. I swear it!”
“Someone would have found it by now.”
“No. There were a few nosy people. We got rid of them before they could ever be a problem. And we kept everyone else away from it.”
The Captain’s mind is working, he heard every word that came out of Allen’s lips and molded a plan around it.
“Who, along with you, knows where this food is?”
“There’s eight others. Three of us are always on guard around it. The other four should be by the front entrance of the place, where your guy found me. It’s easy to spot us. We all wear red bandanas, like this one,” he lifts his arm, “always around the bicep.”
Hawks taps the table with his fingers. “Well let’s go get your friends and see this food nirvana? Let them know it’s okay. Your secret safe with us, Allen.”
19
Midnight Train to Insane
It’s half past nine in the evening. Another long day that rode like a rollercoaster for Craig, his family, and the rest of their friends. They tried to leave—find a place to call a home. A place where they could survive off the land with no violence . . . but it wasn’t to be. Fate lead them down another path. One that would feel closer to hell than heaven when it was all said and done. But they were survivors. And no matter how bleak things were about to seem, they were going to hang on with all their might.
As always, they sit together. Except for Jack. He’s on the second floor somewhere with the Captain’s men. It’s a more natural fit for him—for everyone else too. Since he and the group didn’t see exactly eye to eye.
The lobby of Fresno Regional, resembles more of a military hospital that’s laid up close to a battlefield. There is groaning, moaning, despair and plenty of sickness. It has become a cesspool of lost moral.
Craig and the others talk about the current situation and what to do about it.
“I don’t like it here. I especially don’t like the Captain. Something about him is foul,” Bodo says, sitting up against a lobby pillar.
Craig adds, “Yeah, I know what you mean. He has that dictator thing going on.”
“Pshhh, military; It didn’t take Jack long to disappoint.”
Chet interrupts, pointing with his chin, “Speak of the devil, what are they doing over there?”
The Captain and a few of his men get out of the elevator with Allen. They walk over and talk to the five who wear red bandanas on their biceps.
“They seem worried, and the woman with them, looks terrified if you ask me,” Bodo remarks.
Chet replies, “Maybe we should follow them, see what they're up to.”
Bodo sighs. “Bad Idea. They’d spot us. Then we’d be in for it.”
Craig jumps in sarcastically. “Come on, Bodo, you don’t have them stealth skills?”
“Shit! They see this big nigga from a mile away. A body this large, this beautiful, ain’t made for hiding. It’s made for showing. You should go with your skinny ass.” Bodo sighs again, “Shoot. You so skinny, you can fit in a crack in the wall over there, get all the info.” The group laughs.
Chet with a smile, “That’s not a bad idea, Craig. You look harmless. Even if they spot you, you can say you were going for a walk or something.”
Craig rolls his eyes. “Yeah! That will work! It’s a nice night for one! . . . Bullshit.”
Bodo injects, “He ain’t gonna do it. He’s scarred,” meaning scared but pronouncing it different purposely.
Craig stands up with confidence. “You daring me?”
Chet’s face lights up, “Double!”
Melissa gets in, “Hey you two, stop badgering my husband.”
“Oh come on, Melissa? Let him be a man,” Chet chortles his wo
rds out.
“He is a man . . . All man. You two stop trying to bully him.”
The men giggle, resembling children on a blacktop getting scolded by a supervising teacher.
Craig has a moment. “I’m going to do it.”
Bodo smirks. “We were just playing, man. Chill out.”
“No. I really want to do it. I want to see what they’re up to.”
Bodo and Chet glance at Melissa. She daggers at Craig. A moment of silence. “Stupid Idea.”
“I can do it. Trust me.”
Silence again. Melissa is debating it.
Bodo and Chet look at each other with raising shoulders.
“Well . . . I guess, if you want. But not because you need to prove anything.”
“No, honey, I want to. And I’ll be fine—don’t worry.”
The guys in the group, tip their heads in approval. It’s a surprise to Melissa. Maybe Craig is changing like he said, she thinks. The hero of the apocalypse? Who am I kidding. She grins at her thought.
Robert Hawks’ party gets into the elevator. From a short distance, a sneaking Craig tries not to be spotted. The elevator doors shut. On top, the display arrow points down.
The basement, he thinks. In a hurry, he heads for the stairs.
Craig softly paces down the single flight of stairs, hearing voices up above and down below. He points his ear, trying to focus on what they’re saying.
“Out that way. We’ll have the meeting there,” a trailing voice says.
Craig waits a moment; it should be clear now. He proceeds to go down the last flight. The entrance is blocked off with heavy machinery among other useless things.
Why would they block this, but not the elevator? He peers through the junk. The elevator is not guarded.
Craig quickly makes his way back upstairs and heads for the elevator. A soldier with a radio, guards the doors. Craig approaches.
“Sorry, sir, the elevator is for military use only.”
Craig thinks fast. “I wanted to talk to Jack—the pilot.”
The soldier extends a hand to Craig, as he gets on the radio. “Can you tell the Air-Force guy that a—” He looks to Craig for support.
“Craig!”
“Tell him, Craig, wants to speak with him?”
Craig looks over to Chet and Bodo giving a discrete signal. They quickly walk over.
“Okay, I’m a send you up to the second floor,” the soldier says. The doors about to open. He leans to push the “2” button. Before he can, Bodo and Chet walk up asking random questions. The guard muddled, turns away from Craig. With no hesitation, Craig gets in the elevator and takes the initiative to help himself by pushing the B on the elevator panel.
The doors begin to close by the time the soldier knows what hit him.
“Hey, what are you doing!” the guard mercifully shouts towards the merging doors. The guys aggressively pester, not giving him a chance to interact.
Upon exiting, Craig crouches and scurries through the dock area of the hospital towards the chatter. He’s lead to a double door warehouse area. There, he peaks in the plastic windows of the doors. He sees the military men standing around the eight people who wear bandanas around their triceps.
“So this is where you’ve been harboring all the food?” Captain Hawks says, walking around, observing the place. The men and the woman with bandanas appear nervous. Hawks’ voice had a way of doing that to people. Their instincts told them something was wrong, possibly, very wrong.
Allen replies, “Not all of it. There’s more down the hall in the supply room.” Somehow, he thought this would help their cause.
The Captain walks over to a box. He reads the label. “Jerky!” he says with a smile. He opens it and takes a package out. He pulls a piece out and takes a bite, making a yum sound. “I confess,” he smiles. “This is good stuff,” he takes another bite. “Where’s my manners, would you guys like some?” He asks while pointing the snack to the eight’s faces.
None of them speak. They nod no, looking at one another with timid eyes.
Allen, not feeling comfortable, begins to relay. “Sir, now that we showed you the food, may we go?”
Hawks still chewing on the jerky, answers with a chunk of meat in his cheek. “Where would you go?”
“Back upstairs with the others.”
Allen gazes around into the soldiers’ expressionless faces. He reads the Captain’s body language. He started to feel like a mouse trapped in a cage with a snake. Sensing danger, he adds, “We could leave for good if you wanted. The foods yours, we don’t want it.” The rest of the group murmurs in agreement.
The Captain raises his chin in thought. “That is an interesting request. Now you have me wondering—Why do you make it?”
“We know we did wrong. We were greedy for trying to hide it. So we would like to apologize . . . then go away.”
Hawks fidgets, making subtle sounds, pretending he’s giving some real consideration to the request. “No . . . No, we can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you and your men have committed a crime. A crime against the people, and more importantly, the U.S. Army.” Looking at the eight, he gives an order to his men. “Confiscate their arms.”
The soldiers draw their guns, seizing the group’s weaponries.
Robert begins to pace behind the scared individuals. “I have a plan, you see . . . A grand plan. I’m not sure things are going to work out the way the government wants. We’re going to do our part of course, in executing their plan. If it works—great. I’ll be fine, so will my men. The civilians—ehh—maybe. They are needed in both scenarios, but they are less important. You’re a prime example of why. Your greedy. Selfish. Arrogant. Weak. Now on the other hand, if the government fails, and that is a high probability, I, My men, won’t. This will be our city with our rules. The civilians—our slaves. The strong among them will assimilate, making us stronger . . . But you, you are homeless. The new America has no place for the likes of you, or any others like you. You are defilers who have no respect for your country.”
The scolded eight’s guts turn. Their minds sour. They begin to whimper knowing their fate is near.
Craig hears everything. His heart sinks. Everyone had a feeling on the Captain and his men, but Craig followed with no anticipation of uncovering anything remotely close to what he has. Any doubts he and the rest of the group had about the regime, had now been proven tenfold. But now what?
Craig’s body trembles with fear. He suddenly feels like a seal in shark filled waters. I need to get out of here, or I’m a dead man.
Intensely, Craig Bainy darts towards the elevator before they can see him. He gets in the metal contraption; his salvation. His eyes stretch open. He’s in a panic. The doors haven’t begun to close, and he can hear the voices and footsteps coming out of the warehouse.
He quickly pushes on the first floor button several times. A method that never works. The doors gradually close.
Come on you piece of shit! Hurry!
The soldiers walk out with the criminals, passing the hallway where the elevator is located. The final soldier hears a noise. He squints his eyes and forehead down the hallway where the beeping sound comes from. He sees the arrow-display lighted.
“Captain! I believe we had an unannounced visitor.” The soldier says aloud and urgent, pointing down the hallway.
Robert, who’s in the front of the group, turns. “A spy?”
The soldier shrugs.
Hawks veers his sight over to Allen. “One of yours?”
Allen, still sobbing like the rest of his crew, answers, “There is no one else, Captain.”
“Hmm . . . We’ll catch him, whoever it is. And we will deal with him. I never forget a crime. Nor do they go unpunished.”
The bandana group is led to the bottom of the dock where the trucks would back up when making deliveries. The whole bottom area is a garage, big in size, it leads up to the city street. During non-operational hours, the
garage remained closed with a large metal roll-up-door.
The criminals are lined up against the wall. They knew their fate. Was it just? That is a matter of opinion, but the only opinion that counted now, is Robert’s. Like many other judges in the past, whether they were kings, emperors, monarchs, dictators, they pass down their hypocritical sentences for crimes they themselves often committed. It hadn’t changed. Some would argue, murderers killing murderers is nothing to get teary eyed over . . . and perhaps, rightfully so.
“Cover your eyes with your bandanas if you’d like,” Hawks states.
Allen, lips trembling, “You said if I told you, you wouldn’t hold it against me. You gave me your word.”
“I am not holding it against you. I have already forgiven you. But it’s the law that has not forgiven you. And I have a duty to uphold the law. If I didn’t, I too would be a criminal. So put your bandana on—or not.”
Allen sobs profusely, placing his bandana over his eyes. The soldiers march in line, stopping to face the criminals. On cue they point their rifles.
The Captain yells, “Ready . . . Aim—”
“I’ll be your slave! Please!” Allen begs. “You hear me? I said please!”
There’s no answer. He pulls down his bandana, finding himself staring into the barrels of rifles. His eyes bulge. Lifting his hands high, “I’ll do anything you wa—”
“Fire!”
The soldiers discharge in unison. The criminals fall dead—except Allen. Heavily wounded, bloodied, and gasping for air like a fish-out-of-water, he turns to his side. One of the soldiers aims his weapon, but Hawks waives him off.
The Captain steps over to him. He kneels, making eye contact. “This is just, my friend . . . Rest in peace.” With these words, Robert stands. Reaching for his handgun, he plants a bullet in Allen’s head.
Craig gets out of the elevator, jumpy. He glances at the soldier who’s guarding the door. The soldier is confused by the man’s demeanor. Craig scampers out of sight and back to the group. He finds most of them asleep. His concerned wife isn’t. She was waiting for him. Chet and Charlie are awake too.