by John Grit
A nine-year-old girl looked up at her mother and asked, “What’s happening?”
Though infected by the small ray of hope as much is the others, the mother answered, “It could be the beginning of everything, or it could be the beginning of nothing.”
Chapter 18
News the government might finally be coming to help sparked excitement that spread fast. People began to gather on the porch outside and in the yard out front, adding to the buzz of voices inside the house.
MacKay stood. “Will you join me in my study where we can hear each other speak?” She motioned with her hands that she meant for all of those in Nate’s group to follow her. Samantha refused to leave Caroline’s side, so she came with them.
The walls and floor of the study were of polished hardwood. One end of the room consisted of a continuous bookshelf, covering the entire wall. MacKay sat down behind her desk. There were not enough chairs for everyone, so Nate, Brian, and Tyrone stood.
MacKay winced when her wounds pained her, and she shifted in the chair, moving her left arm to a more comfortable position. “What’re your plans? I’m asking though I fully understand that you may not believe a word you just heard on the radio.”
Nate rubbed his chin and glanced at Deni. “What do you think?”
She bit her lower lip and thought. “I would feel a hell of a lot better if I heard it straight from Donovan. But I don’t think we should risk going to town to ask him to his face.”
Brian looked up at the ceiling.
“What do you think?” Nate asked, looking at his son.
“She’s right as usual,” Brian answered. “Not that it matters what I think.”
“It matters,” Deni interjected. “That’s why he asked.”
Brian scratched the back of his neck. “Probably should wait to make sure it’s safe before we move back into the home and start farming again. Of course we can’t stay here either. It might not be safe for us or them. I mean, if they’re lying and still want us dead, we’re trouble magnets and will just bring more death and misery to these people.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” MacKay insisted.
Nate spoke to MacKay, “It looks like we’re going back into hiding until we’re sure it’s safe.”
“I think I’m going to head back to town and chance it,” Tyrone said.
“You’re not doing this just because you think I’m too old to handle hiding out in the woods, are you?” Atticus asked.
Tyrone tilted his head and looked at the man who raised him. “I was thinking of going back alone. After a week or so, I can get word back to you that it’s safe. That is if I’m still alive.”
Atticus snorted. “And what the hell am I supposed to do if word comes back that they killed you?”
“Why,” Tyrone answered, “stay with the Williams family. Stay alive.”
“Bullshit.” Atticus nodded to Mrs. MacKay. “Pardon my language. No, I think I’ll go on into town with you. The good colonel says he wants volunteer deputies. I suspect that’s one thing you have on your mind. You’re still thinking of the townspeople. So I might as well go ahead and volunteer too.”
Tyrone’s chest deflated. “All right then. We’ll both go. You’re too old to argue with.” He turned to the others “It seems Atticus and I are going to be the litmus test. Either they’re telling the truth or they’re not.”
“If they’re lying bastards, it’s going to cost you,” Brian warned. His face turned red for a second. “Of course I realize you know that already.”
MacKay nodded and leaned back in her chair as if she had made a decision of her own. “If you two are going into town I might as well go with you.”
Everyone stared at her in puzzlement.
“Well,” she said “I’m tired of being pestered about these inflamed wounds. If the military is still providing civilians medical care at their clinic, it’ll give some credence to the words they just broadcasted over the airwaves.”
~~~
First Sergeant Henry Kramer had no idea where he was. Fighting a raging fever and delirious, he stumbled out of heavy woods and onto a dirt road. His entire shoulder had swollen to three times its normal size and had long since stopped hurting much. He suspected it was too dead and rotten for nerves to send pain signals to his brain. The bullet wounds weren’t that serious, but days of wading through swamp water and not being able to keep it clean, as well as having little antibiotics, had created a perfect environment for infection. He suspected it was too late for even a fully equipped hospital to save him.
Barely able to stay on his feet, he struggled down the road in a daze. The distant sound of children laughing caught his attention and spurred him on. Approaching a white picket fence that had seen its better days, he saw a white clapboard house, also in disrepair. Six or seven children played ball in the front yard. One five-year-old boy saw him coming and stopped playing. He pointed in surprise. The older children saw what he was pointing at and immediately shepherded every child into the house.
Kramer stopped and nearly fell over. He reached out and held the gate post to steady himself. A man and woman’s voice emanated from the open windows. Kramer could tell they were alarmed, even frightened. The thought came to him that they would probably shoot him as he stood there. Surprisingly to him, the thought did not seem so unpleasant.
When the largest German shepherd he had ever seen came charging from around the house, his survival instincts kicked in. Raising the M4 with one hand, he peered through the sight and centered on the bouncing dog’s chest.
A woman from inside the house screamed, “Don’t shoot my dog!”
He changed his aim, and was about to shoot in front of the German shepherd and frighten it away, when his legs collapsed under him and he fell on his back. Lying there in the dusty clay road, he lost consciousness for a few seconds. He woke again long enough to realize that the dog was not growling or biting, but instead was whimpering and sniffing at his rotting shoulder. Then the dog moved closer and licked at his face. Kramer reached up and petted the dog gently, running his fingers through the gray and black hair. “If I’d known you were friendly, I would never have pointed my rifle at you.”
A man wearing worn-out jeans and a faded, torn T-shirt put the muzzle of a double-barreled shotgun to Kramer’s head. Speaking to the woman, he said, “Take his weapons. Make sure you keep out of the line of fire, because if he moves I’m going to blow his head off.”
“Don’t, Boyd,” the woman pleaded. “I don’t think he’s dangerous. I saw him lower the rifle like he didn’t want to shoot the dog.”
“Will you just do what I say, Amelia? Please.” The man kept his attention on Kramer and held the shotgun to his head.
Amelia carefully maneuvered around Kramer’s prone body and took the rifle in one hand and removed his pistol from the holster with the other. Then she stepped back out of the way.
The German shepherd continued to lick at Kramer’s face and whimper.
“For God’s sake, get that dog out of the way.” Boyd motioned with his head. “She won’t do anything I tell her. Try to get it to go back to the house. If I have to shoot, it’s going to lose its nose.”
Amelia spoke to the dog in a gentle tone, “Go back to the house, Juno.”
The big German shepherd barked once, jumped over the picket fence, and ran to the house, where a 10-year-old boy was waiting with the door open. As soon as the dog was inside, the boy closed the door.
Still holding the shotgun to Kramer’s head, Boyd warned, “Get that big knife on his belt and throw it in the middle of the road.”
She did what she was told. “He’s more dead than alive.” After releasing the waist strap on his backpack, she found the quick release on the shoulder straps and soon had his backpack off. Shaking her head, she said, “I don’t know if I can save him. She pulled a small pocketknife from a front pocket of her faded jeans and used it to cut away the filthy jacket and then remove the stinking bandages. “Shot,” she said
in a matter of fact voice. She looked up at her husband. “Help me get him to the house.”
“Oh no,” Boyd protested. “We don’t know a damn thing about him.”
“Okay.” She stood and faced her husband. “Let’s just go back in the house and pretend he’s not out here. He’s likely to be dead in our hour or two. We won’t even bother to bury him. Wild dogs will probably drag him away tonight anyway. It’ll be a good lesson for the children on how to care for our fellow man.”
“Oh shit!” Boyd pointed the shotgun skyward for the first time. He turned his head and yelled over his left shoulder, “Somebody bring some rope out here.”
The two stood there and looked down at Kramer. Boyd asked, “You sure he’s still alive? He looks dead.”
The same boy who had held the door open for the dog came running with a few feet of coiled rope in his hand. He started to hand it to Boyd.
“Give it to your mother,” Boyd said. “I’ve got to hold this shotgun on him. We don’t know if he’s dangerous or not.”
Amelia took the rope from the boy. “Clear the dining table and wipe it down. That’s where I’m going to work on him.”
The boy glanced at Kramer for a second and then ran back to the house without a word.
“Come over here and hold the shotgun,” Boyd told his wife. “I’ll tie his hands.”
A few minutes later they had Kramer on the dining room table and Amelia was cleaning the festering shoulder. “Bullets went all the way through and didn’t even hit any bone. Problem is the last wound wasn’t taken care of properly and there’s too much dead flesh now.” She shook her head. “We still have some fish antibiotics, but I’m afraid it would be a waste on him. The dead flesh needs to be cut off. I’d have to cut his entire shoulder off to save him, and his chances of surviving that kind of surgery here are slim to none. I’m a veterinarian, not a surgeon.” Anguish contorted her face, as if Kramer were someone she knew and not a perfect stranger. “And this dining room is no ER.”
Boyd put his hand on her shoulder. “Well, don’t be upset about it. You didn’t shoot him. Might as well give him something to put him under. No need for him to suffer.”
She gave him a look that would have wilted a lesser man.
“Come on. You just said you can’t save him. Does he have a chance or not? If he doesn’t, why put him through more suffering?” Boyd could see wheels turning in his wife’s head, as she grasped for anything that might save this man who had just appeared out of nowhere and neither one of them knew.
Her eyes lit up. “The National Guard just started a clinic in town. We can take him there.” When she noticed that most of the children were standing around gawking at Kramer’s shoulder, she shooed them out of the room. “You kids go to your rooms and stay there.”
“I’ll take him,” Boyd said. “If you go, they’ll probably ask you to volunteer to help at the clinic, since you’re a veterinarian, and that’s as close to a doctor most people have seen in over a year.”
“They have people doctors there.” She started on Kramer’s shoulder. “The ride to town in the back of that old dead axle wagon will probably finish him.”
“I can tie him across the back of the mule,” Boyd quipped.
She didn’t bother with another wilting look. “Throw a mattress in the wagon for him to lie on.” She looked up. “Hurry. I’ll be done in a minute or two, and you might as well be on your way. If you don’t linger in town, you can be back by dark. You know how dangerous traveling at night is.”
~~~
Tyrone stopped the pickup on the country road 50 yards from the roadblock, keeping his hands on the wheel. A soldier approached their pickup with caution. Atticus and Mrs. MacKay kept their hands in sight and nervously waited.
The soldier stopped in midstride. “I hope you men know you’re not wanted anymore. All charges have been lifted. We don’t need any unnecessary trouble.”
Tyrone stuck his head out the window. “That’s what we’ve been told. We have a woman who needs medical assistance. Is the downtown clinic still open?”
“Yeah.” The soldier walked up to the driver side and looked through the window into the cab. “Who did that to her?”
“One of your people,” Atticus answered.
“A soldier did that?”
“No. Actually he was CIA or something,” Tyrone corrected Atticus.
“Damn sorry thing to do,” the soldier commented. “Take her to the clinic. Then go on to see Col. Donovan. I’ll radio him and let him know you’re coming.” He started to walk away, then said, “Don’t worry. What you heard is true. Things have changed. I have no idea what Washington’s up to, but you’re not wanted anymore.” He shrugged. “But hey, I’m just a ground pounder; I’m not paid to think.”
“I wonder how long it’ll last.” Atticus didn’t expect an answer.
MacKay spoke for the first time. “Do you know if there’s going to be an investigation into the murder of my people?”
“Uh,” the soldier stuttered, “I don’t know, ma’am. They tend to let things go nowadays. If they investigated everything, there wouldn’t be time to do anything else. Every bit of it was Washington and the spooks they sent down here. Col. Donovan and we soldiers had nothing to do with it. He even offered to resign and refused to follow what he considered to be illegal and immoral orders. He couldn’t see how the people they ordered him to go after had committed any crimes, and he told them so.”
“That sounds like him,” Tyrone said. “It’s reassuring to know he hasn’t changed.”
A soldier backed a Humvee out of the way, allowing Tyrone to drive on through. They turned left onto Main Street and passed a food distribution center, where food from the farm Nate helped design the irrigation system for was being handed out to the hungry. Signs asking for volunteers to help at the farm or with food distribution were prominent.
Two soldiers met them at the clinic parking lot entrance. One recognized Tyrone and Atticus and waved them on through. “Go on up to the main entrance,” the soldier said. “Col. Donovan is waiting for you in the lobby.”
Tyrone did as directed. Atticus helped MacKay out of the truck. She seemed to have lost much of her strength and stumbled twice.
Donovan was watching through the large lobby window. He burst out of the front door and ran around to the other side of the truck to help Atticus steady MacKay. Two soldiers armed with M4s tried to keep up, their heads swinging back and forth, scanning for trouble, obviously serious about their duty to protect the colonel.
Tyrone was right behind Donovan. “You all right Mrs. MacKay?”
She attempted a smile. “I guess the long road trip has worn me out.”
Donovan saw the red gash on her face, with its fishing line sutures. Then he saw the two lacerations that ran the length of her left arm. “Who did that?” Anger put a hard edge to his face. “Was it one of my soldiers?”
“No,” she answered.
Atticus held her by her right arm to steady her. “She told us it was CIA operatives.”
Somewhat relieved but still angry, Donovan said, “We’ll worry about that later. Let’s get her inside.”
~~~
Dr. Sheila Brant took one look at MacKay’s wounds and barked orders to two nearby nurses. “If I see another laceration sutured with fishing line 100 years from now, it’ll be too damn soon.”
Atticus couldn’t resist. “One hundred years from now? You’re rather optimistic, aren’t you?”
Dr. Brant flashed him a smile. “I see you’re still a smartass.” She continued to examine the wounds, pressing on the edges of the red areas with latex-gloved hands. “I think you got here soon enough. We’ll know more when we get the blood work back.” She looked at MacKay. “This was no accident.”
MacKay seemed to be tiring fast. “No, it was done very deliberately. If you don’t mind, I would like to lay back and rest.”
Concern flashed across Dr. Brant’s face for a second. “Sure. Go ahead and lay b
ack. But I’m not through examining you yet.” She turned to the others. “Please wait outside.”
Donovan’s body guards stepped back to give them some privacy when they gathered in the hallway.
“What happened in Washington?” Tyrone asked. “They seem to have done a 180.”
Donovan cleared his throat. He appeared to be debating whether or not to answer the question. “The Joint Chiefs of Staff and just about every general officer in every branch of the military threatened to mutiny if Capinos didn’t allow a real election soon. Everyone in the military is tired of taking orders from an illegitimate resident who was never really elected by the American people. They’re tired of him grabbing power. They’re tired of him using the Constitution for toilet paper. And most of all, we’re sick of seeing the American people suffer needlessly while our hands are tied and our time and resources are wasted on political bullshit.”
Atticus snorted. “About damn time.”
“How long before Washington changes their shitsoid minds and they come after us again?” Tyrone asked.
Donovan cringed. “Who knows? I’m hoping we have five or six months.”
“Hoping?” Tyrone asked. “Doesn’t sound too reassuring.”
Donovan nodded. “Your ears aren’t lying. I suspect Capinos and his cohorts will try to sabotage our efforts. If we get results that the people can see and experience in their own lives and taste the food we help them produce in their own mouths, Capinos and those he placed in Congress and the Supreme Court aren’t going to stand for an election. They’ll lose in a landslide, and they know it. Capinos is setting himself up for total power and permanent residence in the White House. He’s worked hard to get to this point and he’s not going to give up without a fight.”
“So this is just a reprieve, a postponement,” Tyrone observed. “There’s still going to be some kind of confrontation, perhaps even a military coup.”
“More like a civil war,” Atticus added. “I don’t think the American people are going tolerate Capinos or the military taking over and destroying our Constitution. The shit’s going to hit the fan.”