It didn’t help. Anyone wearing a baseball cap or just plain cap was arrested and beaten; there were reports of siblings simply gunned down. Like 10/12, huge pyres consumed baseball memorabilia. The new sporting goods factories were bulldozed by BTs while siblings trailed, like an infantry following a tank division, ransacking the buildings.
The higher the pyre, the louder the cheers.
Baseball fans fought back. They wouldn’t be blamed again. The vidnews screamed non-stop about sleeper Miners cells, touting John Hazel as a ringleader along with Singh and Sun Yen, both in custody. BT attempts to crush the miniature Fenway Park were met with stone-tossing fans, who stunned the guards and stole their weapons. Wrigley Field was another battleground, bodies burning in the newly planted ivy while fans fought BTs with bats. More weapons were stolen.
Kill Allahs signs leaped onto the sides of buildings. Then there were the stunned soldiers, their memories desecrated. They quickly joined the baseball fans, forming small brigades. BTs and soldiers fought house to house in Philadelphia. Reports said parts of Manhattan were infiltrated; a firefight raged at Rockefeller Center.
The vidnews played this up, linking Miners and soldiers and fans in one horrible alliance. Captured GIs were sent to makeshift camps. Pennsylvania Avenue, fenced off as a sacred shrine to Islamic treachery, became a detention center by desperate authorities. Hundreds, thousands of soldiers were rounded up.
That was just the first twenty-four hours.
42
Gunfire crackled outside Azhar’s tiny cabin, heavy vehicles rumbling to a halt. Waking from the wary half-sleep, Mustafa slid under the bed and grabbed the thin knife he’d been hiding for whomever came for him first. Mufti’s people. Abdullah’s people. He wouldn’t die alone. The two familiar large bodyguards kicked down the door, flipped over the mattress and shoved him out the door.
They let him keep the knife, a good sign he felt, tossing him into a dark SUV and tearing into the forest ahead of exploding tank shells.
“Where’s the Son?” Mustafa retied his shoelace for something to do.
“We don’t know.” The driver shrugged.
“Then where are we going?”
The bodyguards exchanged vague looks. This was the extent of the plan. In an emergency, get the Captain. Mustafa tipped his head wearily against the seat. A week of waiting. For this?
“What do you think about America?” one of the bodyguards asked after a while, making conversation.
“What happened?”
The bodyguard in the passenger seat shook his head. “You don’t know?”
“They took away my mobile device.”
“The rebels tried to kill Grandma again.”
Azhar swallowed hard. “And?”
The bodyguard passed his cell phone over the seat. A presenter on The Truth news program ranted about the vicious treachery of the Crusaders slandering the Mufti and his son with this false video.
“They wish any pretext to begin another war, so let it be,” the old, fat Mufti said calmly, talking from behind his large oak desk. “I love my son and my son loves Allah. These are lies and those who defile our people with their filth will be destroyed. Allahu Akbar.”
Mustafa stared hard at the crowds across the Islamic Empire cheering the destruction of the baseball stadium. Angry Crusader soldiers marched, chanting Death to Allahs. Massive Islamic armies ran forward in battle. Crusaders ships sank and their planes blew up. Churches burnt. The last war? Or had this new one already started?
The bodyguard took back the phone.
“Now you know,” he said simply.
Fighters roared overhead. The SUV took a wild turn ahead of some popping noises. The back window shattered and Azhar covered his head, kneeling on the floor. They bounced down a rocky ramp toward a small airfield. Something exploded nearby. Azhar prayed, then stopped. Who was listening?
A blue Cessna waited impatiently, guarded by a tank, its turret swiveling menacingly. Three armed guards in white robes angrily gestured for Akhar to hurry up the steps.
Aboard, two more white robed guards shouted to buckle up. The plane began taxiing as the tank fired several shells at an approaching armored truck. Azhar ignored the seat belt warning and simply gripped the edge of the chair as the plane took off and twisted southeast.
What is today, he frantically searched his jumbled mind, not bothering to ask the guards, who were watching the firefight at the airport below. Tuesday. Yesterday I washed my hair. Mondays and Thursdays. Today could be Friday, no no, Tuesday. I’ve decided it’s Tuesday so then it will be Tuesday. There must be something I can control.
Tuesday. Jalak will make Al Kabsa tonight.
• • • •
SHE’D NEVER BE able to hear the word push again. Even five hours later, Zelda still tasted her own sweat dripping down her forehead and over her lips like a waterfall, filling her mouth. Sweat and the pain and the push push push. She should’ve been a better student at Parents Class. Too busy. Doing what? Everyone’s busy today. Zelda pushed the mesh away in her groggy mind and lifted onto her elbows in the empty hallway.
“Hey.” Zelda heard her fuzzy voice. “Who stole my room?”
The nurse hurried past, uniform stained with blood. If they hadn’t stolen her room, she could look out the window toward the screams.
Grandma’s tits, my body aches. Zelda realized her stomach was flat. Flatter. Still fat, but no baby. Where’d he go? She threw up onto the floor. One of the passing nurses shouted for her to be more careful; a resentful orderly mopped up.
She sniffed at the awful smells, recoiling at the moans coming from somewhere. This is a hospital. Moan and puke and scream. Zelda tried sliding off the gurney, but a nurse pressed her back down, tut-tutting and giving her the most wonderful liquid in the history of the world.
“Where’s my baby?” Zelda asked hoarsely between sips through a straw. The nurse wiped her face and hurried off. “Where is he?”
They stole my baby, she decided. Along with my room. And my clothes. Zelda stripped off the white nightgown and stumbled forward, holding onto the wall. She made it a few feet before a nurse and orderly firmly laid her back on the gurney.
“We have more important things to deal with, dear,” the nurse scolded.
“My baby’s missing.”
The nurse gave the orderly a meaningful look and they shoved Zelda back into the gown. Off she went on a ride down the hallway. The screams grew louder.
“What’s going on?”
“Casualties,” the orderly said in a way that suggested that was all the information she was getting. He slid Zelda into a wheelchair, rolling her into a small closet lit by a weak overhead bulb.
“What’s this mean?” Her nipples hurt. “I need a pain pill.”
“We ain’t got any left. Lucky we got bandages after the shit outside,” he said harshly, then sighed apologetically. “Be quiet. You know how?”
“No.” Zelda shook her head.
The orderly laughed and locked the door. She was trapped. She was going to scream, but her throat hurt, too. She sat there for quite a while, most of the time sleeping. The door opened and the orderly laid a bundle on her lap.
“Know what to do?”
Zelda had no idea what he was talking about.
The orderly pointed to her breast.
Oh.
He rolled his eyes and locked the door.
The bundle shifted slightly; she froze. She thought it was a baby but, to make sure, pulled the blanket from its face. Yes. A baby. It must be her baby. The orderly must’ve killed the kidnappers and rescued him.
“Diego?” Zelda whispered. The baby, not understanding English just yet, ignored her.
Was it hers? Zelda lifted the infant to the light. Fuck yeah. Looks just like Pablo. The baby scrunched up its face and cried. Panicking, Zelda tore open the gown and shoved her left breast into the baby’s face. He greedily sucked on the nipple.
You have any idea how much that hurts? Zeld
a rocked the baby, breaking the contact of mouth to nipple and quickly restoring the feeding before he began wailing again. This isn’t so hard, she kissed Diego’s head. Glad one of us knows what he’s doing.
Someone yanked on the door. Zelda wrapped the baby, face and all, in the blanket. A shot blew off the lock. A Black Top pointed a rifle in her face.
“Close the door,” she screamed. Diego joined her.
“What’re you doing in the hospital, ma’am?”
“What the hell do you think I’m doing?”
The Black Top stared sheepishly as Diego regained her nipple. “Boy or girl?”
“Boy. Diego. Junior.”
The BT lifted her visor. She was no more than twenty, “Stay out of sight.”
The BT closed the broken door, which wobbled slightly open. Zelda gently hugged Diego. Little man, you are the bam diggity. But we gotta get our asses the hell out of here.
• • • •
AN OLD MAN with wisps of gray hair hugging his dark skull was the last to leave, shuffling sadly down the path with an empty pot. Puppy’d counted forty-seven mourners carrying flowers and trays of food and bottles of wine, but he’d only been there over an hour. Maybe he should ask the two BTs in the shadows down the block how many people had showed up to pay respects.
Who you expecting to catch, you pricks? No one’s left.
Puppy crossed the street, clenching his groin at the BTs and, after a last deep breath, knocked softly and entered the squat house.
Candles surrounded Frecklie’s body lying on the rug. He was dressed in a black suit and white shirt; a crucifix rested in the dimple of a perfectly knotted blue tie. Black shoes gleamed with several coats of polish. Purplish bruises covered the right side of his face. He didn’t look peaceful, just agitated. Puppy wanted to spread his lips in a Frecklie half-smile.
“What do you think?” Beth came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel.
“I can’t imagine what the question is.”
“His tie.” Beth gave him a sharp look and adjusted the tie; Puppy expected Frecklie to sit up, gagging.
“Looks fine.”
Beth fussed with the crucifix before tucking it back inside the dimple, abruptly lifting up Frecklie’s pants leg. “Gray socks are right?”
“Sure.”
“Black would’ve been too much.” Beth frowned and disappeared into her son’s bedroom, returning with a pair of black socks which she held beside the gray. “Yes. Too much.” Beth neatly folded the socks and left them on the coffee table next to a pile of smoked fish. “Eat.”
Puppy wiped his tears with the socks and followed her into the kitchen. Beth dried a dish over and over.
“You need help?”
Beth shook her head and laid the plate in the rack, meticulously washing a fork.
“I would’ve come earlier, but, you know.”
“I don’t.” She mimicked his shrug. He didn’t know, either.
Puppy took the fork and dried it. “I can get him a funeral.”
“Aren’t they illegal? One-stop shopping, pull the body out of the wreckage and burn it on the spot.”
Instant cremations were designed to avoid martyrs and too much attention to the dead. Six thousand and forty-eight, he’d been told during a briefing in Kenuda’s office about the aftermath. No one had an idea what aftermath meant. He, Mooshie and Kenuda were numb. Baseball was gone forever. Possession of any equipment or memorabilia was a capital offense. Treason. Abort a baby, swing a bat, now equal somehow. He couldn’t think ahead to anything. That’s why he hadn’t come earlier. He was wishing it all away and the smoke of the burning bodies wafting from Yankee Stadium made that impossible.
This was worse than 10/12. That was horrible but, like all tragedies, you could believe there was hope, that lessons would be learned. This was the second chance. There are no real lessons after that.
“Cheng will do me a favor.”
Beth laughed listlessly. “I forgot. The famous Puppy, the all-powerful Puppy. Snap your fingers and you can do anything. Can you really do anything, Puppy? Can you bring my son back to life?”
More tears slid down his cheeks. “At least I can get him a proper burial.”
“Proper?” Her eyes blazed.
“Not on a goddamn carpet.”
“I’m lucky they let me get away with that. He was a suspect.”
“What?”
“A suspect. He knew about the weapons stashed in the storage rooms at the stadium.”
Puppy didn’t think he could feel sicker.
“Ruben thought it was to protect the fans.” Beth shouted. “He only told Dale. Bad enough that he’s shot saving her life and she watches him die, but once they dragged her downtown… Go on. Go into his room. See what your friends Cheng and Grandma think.”
Beth pushed his exhausted body into Frecklie’s room. Broken chairs. Ripped mattress. Gaping holes in the walls, the floors. They’d smashed the windows just for fun.
“They did this while he lay in the other room.” Beth calmly returned to the kitchen; he followed, grabbing her arm.
“Do you blame me?”
“Is that all you care about?”
“I don’t have much left. I loved him, too, Beth.”
She stared back through the doorway at Frecklie. “I knew, too, Puppy. Not about any weapons, but I should’ve suspected Hazel. All the things I wouldn’t let my son do and on this, this I look away. But Ruben was so happy. Maybe part of me wanted this to happen. I was one of them, once.”
The two BTs stood in the doorway, rifles at a casually ominous angle. “We gotta collect.”
Puppy held up his hand. “Just wait. She has until midnight. I have the papers.”
The taller BT nodded at the clock. “Two minutes.”
Beth knelt by Frecklie, murmuring a prayer and crossing herself. Puppy watched the BTs roll their eyes.
He scooped Frecklie up and headed toward the back door. The BTs blocked his way.
“Sir, please put down the body. It must be cremated.”
“Not this one.”
“You have the papers. It’s a memorial service only.”
“I changed my mind.”
Their rifles pointed at his chest.
“Do you know who I am? I’m the famous Puppy Nedick. I saved Grandma’s life. I’m going to be honored in a couple days at Grandma’s House. Now if you want to shoot me and explain what happened, go ahead. You better have a really good story. Otherwise get the hell out of my way.”
The BTs nervously fidgeted with their weapons, finally slowly lowering them onto their hips.
“Get the shovel, Beth,” Puppy said hoarsely.
In the backyard, Beth dug ferociously, dirt flying into her hair. The BTs exchanged worried looks. The shorter one finally said, “Curfew’s starting.”
Puppy and Beth wrapped the boy in a clean white sheet and lowered him into the grave, carefully layering the dirt. The BTs stepped forward. Puppy pressed his nose against the BT’s visors.
“If this grave is ever disturbed, I will find you.”
He poured a handful of dirt into the guard’s pocket. The safety went off on the rifles; Beth grabbed the shovel. The shorter BT broke the staring contest with a poke into his comrade’s ribs and they angrily stomped around the side of the house.
“Do you want to say a prayer?” Puppy knelt beside Beth.
“It always embarrassed him.”
“He won’t know.”
Beth’s nostrils flared. “The point is, he does know. He’s with God now. In Heaven. Up there.”
“Thanks, I kind of figured out the direction.” Puppy smiled weakly.
Beth crossed herself. “Thank you, Puppy.” They stood silently staring at the grave. “What will you do?”
“I figure they’ll take care of me since I risked my ass to save Grandma.”
“You should’ve let her die,” Beth hissed.
“I can’t do things like that.”
She gave him a long look. “No. I don’t think you can.”
Puppy smoothed out the dirt on the grave. “At least you have your shop.”
Beth looked away.
“Guess not. You’re going after Zelda, aren’t you?”
She tossed aside a few pebbles.
“Even after this you still don’t trust me?” he snapped.
“Remember where you are,” she cautioned, sighing. “Yes, I’m going to find her.”
“Know where she is?”
“I followed Zelda that night to the camp. I’ve been there before.”
“During your brief summer training.” Beth just smiled. “When are you leaving?”
“Well, I have no customers anymore.”
Puppy insisted she take his special curfew pass.
“How will you get home?” Beth asked.
“I’m Puppy Beisbol.” Puppy searched on hands and knees for a couple twigs, pulling out one of his shoelaces and making an X shape.
“What’s this?” Beth frowned.
“A cross.”
Managing a wan smile, Beth fixed the twigs into the shape of a cross and planted it into Frecklie’s grave. Beth cried for an hour on his shoulder. When he woke up, she was gone.
• • • •
CHENG’S SECRETARY BLINKED its long lashes disdainfully. “I already told you, Third Cousin.”
“Thrice, I believe.” Kenuda pressed his thick hands on its desk. “This emergency situation falls fully under my area and I insist on being present at any and all meetings. Now where is he?”
The A12 was not intimidated, poking at its computer with two stiff fingers.
“Listen, you impudent little stove…”
The secretary gasped. “That prejudice will be reported.”
“I encourage it.”
Cheng’s inner door opened and Second Cousins Cria and Daniffam walked out glumly. Kenuda brushed past them as if it were his office.
The First Cousin scowled. “What do you want?”
Kenuda slammed the door on the secretary’s leg. “An explanation, sir.”
“First Cousin, I tried.” The A12 managed to press half its face through the door frame.
“Never mind, leave. Well open the blasted door first, Kenuda.” Cheng snarled and waited, arms folded. “I’m a trifle busy this morning.”
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