5 Years After

by Richard Correll

  “I have hostiles!” A voice on the radio blurted out, “About a hundred coming in from the north.”

  “Why didn’t we see them before?” Molly wondered aloud as she climbed out of the truck, burdened by two bags.

  “It’s tough to pick them up at night,” Rodriguez grunted as she pulled the last bag off the truck and headed for the West Virginians. “The heat seeking doesn’t work on them. Their skin is too cold.”

  “Hostiles closing fast.” They could hear the voice. He was on top of one of the Bradleys’ as he shouted into his radio. “I repeat closing fast!”

  They traversed the parking lot distance in a single minute. Molly glanced back and could see a mass of bobbing heads and hands in the darkness. How did they get here so fast? She could feel her breathing stop as she saw them. Like a moving mass in the darkness. They were so close now she could hear their feet dragging on the ground.

  “Okay, girl, be safe.” Rodriguez gave Molly a quick hug and nodded to the West Virginian captain. A soldier stepped forward and grabbed the bag the soldier had been carrying. “I gotta go.”

  ”You’re not going to make it!” Molly’s eyes were so wide they were easily visible in the darkness. “You can’t go back. You won’t make it.”

  “That’s where my people are.” She turned to the captain. “Take care, sir.”

  “You too, soldier,” The captain spoke in a thick drawl and then turned to shout at one of his Bradleys.’ “Sergeant, let’s give this soldier some cover fire.”

  “Yes sir!” an Afro-American voice replied.

  The fifty-caliber machine gun sounded like a drum being pounded on by a strong man in a rage, a second fifty-caliber spoke and then a third from Rodriguez’s unit as she ran hard across the parking lot. A single hostile approached within twenty feet of her in the chaos. He was wearing black jeans and a white t-shirt that had been torn to shreds years ago. Rodriguez dispatched him with a squeeze of the trigger of her semi-automatic. A second, an orange-haired girl in tight pants, clawed at Rodriguez and had the back of her skull blown out by the close range impact.

  “C’mon Rod!” Half a dozen voices screamed from the M-35. She reached the truck and was pulled off the ground into the cargo bay by her platoon-mates. Seconds later the M-35 spewed a large cloud of diesel, the gears grinded and the truck began to move.

  Sanderson’s Humvee followed suit with the Bradleys’ bringing up the rear, the commanders of both vehicles letting off large bursts with their fifty-cals.

  The movement of the Army group allowed the Virginians to pack up and move out. Molly started breathing again when she saw Rodriguez’s large form tumble into the truck. She then dropped herself into the M-35.

  “Move out!” The captain drawled and the engines came to life. From where she was seated Molly watched dozens of heads swivel away from the retreating army unit to the Virginian forces. It was like they all had the same idea at once with a sudden cry of rage, the hands pressing forward and the feet lurching in their direction.

  “We need to get a move on,” a younger southern voice spoke from the truck radio speaker. “There are more hostiles on the way.” Molly realized what only made sense: the Virginians had a sparrow in the air as well.

  “That is affirmative, Corporal Calhoun,” the captain’s voice came on. “Sergeant McPhee, if you would be so kind as to lead the way.”

  “Yes sir,” McPhee replied and a Bradley headed south, followed by the Humvee command vehicle and the M-35. Calhoun’s Bradley brought up the rear providing cover fire. The machine gun paused for a minute as the sparrow landed on the command hatch of the Bradley. While Calhoun retrieved it Molly thought it looked like a scene from Snow White and Seven Dwarfs.

  Molly watched the small town pass by. Abandoned, burned-out cars that looked like the husks of giant dead beetles dotted the roadway. They passed the large train yard with its hulking metal monsters silently rusting in rows. Here and there, a few candles lit the upper windows of boarded-up and reinforced buildings. Yes, some people really did live out here. The reporter in her almost begged the truck driver to stop. Damn, the stories those people could tell. She watched the flicker of the candles until they faded into the night.

  “Y’all see that?” A young voice asked in the darkness of the truck. “There’s light in the windows, people actually live here?”

  “That’s crazy, man.” A Hispanic voice seemed to be verbally shaking his head.

  “Guess they must work on the trains or something,” a voice that sounded east coast offered.

  “Might just be their hometown,” An older Georgian accent slowly answered.

  “For real?” the Hispanic voice asked.

  “Some folks grew up in places like this and they never left,” the poetic Georgian accent continued. “Everybody out here is practically kin. You live in the house your grand-dad built. Your children grow up and inherit the house after you pass on. That is the cycle of life in these parts.”

  “Huh,” the east coast voice exclaimed softly while listening.

  “Out here, roots grow deep,” the Georgian voice concluded. “Roots like those make it hard for folks to leave. After all, this is their home.”

  An almost respectful silence fell upon the truck as they rolled through the town that refused to surrender and be uprooted. Thoughts moved on among the men to family, friends both living and dead. In the dark, silent journey thoughts traveled back in time to the place where they grew up. How large the backyard had seemed when they were so small. The wonders of their childhood that made a trip to the corner store seem like an exotic adventure. Their friends, their first loves and soul mates. Each man would then wonder: were any of those people still alive? Was that home still there? The darkness could offer no answer.

  “So, little lady,” a young southern voice asked. “What kinda questions will you be asking the General?”

  “Oh. just the usual reporter stuff.” Molly was purposefully vague.

  “Like what?” The voice persisted.

  Oh, you have to be kidding me. She almost snorted in disgust. You send one of these grunts to find out the questions I am going to ask beforehand so you can prepare answers? Seriously, this is the oldest play in the book. She smiled in the dark. Confident no one would see it. Okay, then.

  “I plan to ask the General about his economy,” she began.

  “Is that so?” The voice couldn’t hide his excitement at getting her to open up.

  “First I want to talk about his GDP and how it relates to his capital expenditures and whether he considers himself to be a traditional economy or a normative economy.” She spoke rapidly. “Then of course, I’d love to get his opinion on the non-determinants of supply. Then of course, his take on the equilibrium price in the circular flow of goods and services.” She paused and then continued. “Look, I hope I didn’t offend you by keeping it simple.”

  “No,” the voice replied after a second, “No, not at all.”

  Molly closed her eyes and prepared for a catnap. That ought to hold them for a while. She placed a protective hand around one of her bags. It was still going be a long drive through the night. The occasional bass thump of a hostile hitting the large steel bumper of the M-35 was the only other sound as the diesel engine droned on down the road.

  At the outskirts of Weston, they turned south on the I-79. Molly listened to muffled snoring as she sat alone with her thoughts. What will you ask this man? She had a laptop and notepad full of ideas, thoughts and theories. All of it boiling down to one question.

  Who are you, General Beauregard? She closed her eyes again. Who are you deep down inside?

  “Excuse me, ma’am.” A gentle hand was shaking her shoulder.

  Her eyes pried open and she instantly thought of her coffee, returning to bed to start her day on her terms. This time, the pre-dawn shadow outline of a face was looking down at her.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.” It was the Georgia-accented man in the still dark before dawn light. “We
just arrived, time to rise and shine.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, sitting up and then observed. “You said some interesting things last night.”

  “It weren’t nothin’,” he said slowly. “I just understand those folks in that town, that’s all.”

  “How so?” She picked up her Louis Vuitton and the bag she kept close to her last night. He picked up the bag that contained her clothes.

  “Everybody needs somewhere where they feel they belong.” His voice was a poetic whisper.

  “Do you think you belong here?” she asked, not making eye contact.

  “I do,” he answered. “After all of this I haven’t got too much left, not much kin, at least.”

  “Sorry.” She turned to face him. In the dark it was hard to tell but she sensed he had one of those honest faces, the perfect person to gain your confidence and spy on you. “You aren’t regular army, are you?”

  “No ma’am, not regular army.” He seemed un-offended by her line of questioning as they approached the rear of the truck. “I have done some service in the military, though.”

  Molly stepped off of the truck to helping hands and the sunshine. The Georgia man handed down the bag he was holding when she turned to face him. “It was very nice meeting you, mister…”

  “Beauregard, ma’am” He bowed slightly. “General John C. Beauregard.”

  Bastard, she thought. You got me. There were some self-satisfied smiles around her and she returned them. Okay, you win. This time, anyway. The General jumped off of the back of the truck and landed in front of her, a clear display of male athleticism for her entertainment.

  “You must forgive me.” He smiled apologetically. “I had a chance to observe my troops in action and get to know you. I couldn’t resist.”

  “Not at all, General,” She nodded at him. Next time, she would be on her toes.

  “You’re not going to ask me all that economic mumbo jumbo that you said last night, are you?” His voice was a little louder to include the troops that he had been with last night. “I do declare, that sounded confusing.” There was laughter from the soldiers as if on cue. It probably was.

  “I promise not to.” She was picking up her bags. “Can I get a day to sleep and prepare before we begin?”

  “Indeed, ma’am.” The southern gentlemanly behaviour was both comical but curious at the same time, “Gentlemen, the lady’s bags.”

  Hands reached forward. She handed over her clothing bag. “Thank you, I’m a big girl. I got the rest.”

  “Are you sure, ma’am?” A big man asked.

  “My Louis Vuitton never leaves my side,” She answered and started to make her way to the hotel room to a smattering of polite laughter.

  The room was old south all the way. It was French-inspired furniture from an era that craved instant dynasty. A time of strife and struggle viewed through romantic filters with privilege for a few on the backs of the many. Molly suddenly was aware of her black skin.

  You’re feeling it, aren’t you? You try and try to be Molly Hunter but then it comes back. Sometimes it’s a hot flash on your skin and other times it’s a cold reminder that the world is made up of fences and glass ceilings. You stay in your place, now. Don’t even think about coming into our world. And if you even try to better yourself…..

  The Air France Boeing 747 had just landed at Andrew’s air force base from Brussels after an overnight flight. The rise in the price of jet fuel had drastically cut down on the amount of commercial planes in the air. Andrews air force base was more than capable of being a safe landing spot for the few flights still around. The loss of most commercial air fields on the eastern seaboard had created the necessity. Molly had slept well in first class, the special Air France reclining seats made for a very comfortable slumber. Ultra black French coffee was the perfect luxury to get her motor going for another day. The exotic fruit and omelet held her stomach at bay.

  It was when she was standing in customs that the feeling first began to nibble at her conscious. She shifted her weight and looked ahead down the line. It’s funny how you don’t need to scan the room to find it. It’s just there.

  The look…….

  She was a medium sized woman with squat hips and a permanent frown on her white, waxen complexion. Dark eyes that should have been scanning the room were fixed on Molly, the woman’s gaze shifted for a second to Molly’s Louie Vuitton carry on and the lines on her face grew deeper. The eyes turned a shade angrier. Who do you think you are?

  “Step into the back room.” The mouth barely moved.

  “Is there a …..”

  “In the back room, now.”

  In the second sentence Molly heard the Kentucky accent and thought about her interview with the Deacon and the Mayor regarding hate in religion. Molly collected her passport, took a deep breath and followed the security guard.

  There were no questions, coffee or discussion. A room with a few chairs and an aging television propped high in a corner of four white walls helped her mark the time. Twice the woman walked in and regarded Molly with a slight upturn of her lip.

  “Is there a problem?” Molly kept her tone crisp and even as she made eye contact.

  “We’ll get to you.” The woman replied with a tone on the frigid side as she turned toward the door.

  “I just would like to know….”

  “Are we gonna have a problem here, miss thing?” The woman upped her volume as she turned on Molly in front of the open door.

  “I don’t know, are we?” Molly made cold eye contact as her voice lowered.

  You think you’re somthin’, huh? Molly didn’t need to hear her say anything. It was all on her face as she slowly elevated her chin for the stare down. The room took on a pin drop silence as they both eyed one another. Molly didn’t blink. We can do this all day, miss security. Molly watched her lose patience and slam the door as she left.

  “Everything is in order, ma’am.” A man with a brush cut politely handed back her documents without making eye contact. There was a tinge of embarrassment in his tone. “I’m sorry for the wait.”

  On her way out Molly saw the woman again. Arms folded with a passive expression. Their eyes locked and a subtle, silent spiteful moment passed between them. Molly inhaled and saw the emotion behind the eyes. They were so dark, cruel and savoring control.

  Oh, she wanted to say it. Let her bag fall to the ground as she strode over to the woman in long angry steps. That’s right, get right in the bitches face. Molly wanted so bad to hear her own voice go loud and blast the bullshit right out of her eyes. She could almost hear herself now:

  DID YOU STOP ME BECAUSE I’M BLACK, OR BECAUSE I’M BLACK AND FAMOUS?

  But you can’t do that, can you? If you made a scene, it would make the papers. There she goes, playing the race card. You’d try and talk about it to the networks, the eyes would avert, the bodies would shift uncomfortably and pained expressions would be your reply.

  Molly, we thought you were someone….we could reason with.

  Why shouldn’t they feel that way? Have they walked a mile in your shoes? This is white network television. A room full of old men will never grasp what it feels like. It slips through their fingers like sand filling the bottom of an hour glass. Anyway, you know how to handle this shit. She looked at the clean tope carpeting that rested beneath her feet.

  Be the queen…….

  The loneliest chess piece on the board. You watch the game play out, choosing your battles. Carefully you select moments of clarity to others. But you never, ever, ever lose control.

  Be the queen, she reminded herself. Be the black queen.

  She sat in one of the provincial French chairs and started to take off her Merrell Moab hiking shoes. The chair had cherry wood and dark red satin cloth. The chair legs had been cut to resemble some ancient animals’ legs. She never understood this kind of gaudy decorative style. Still, it was another age and another empire.

  Empire……..

  The rest of day
was consumed with a quick nap followed by research, preparation and narrowing down the points she wanted to touch upon with the general. She paused. Was it really wrong what was going on here? People taking a shot at going it alone? She pondered this very curious question while she undressed and headed into the shower. While the water soothed her soul and tired muscles she wondered about Maggie. Her sister was in Toronto on the containment line. Was she always proud to serve as she would say or was it something else? Maggie had always been spoiling for a fight, even as a little girl. It was hard to say to her sister that the time had come to start solving your problems in more mature ways. As she stepped out of the shower, Molly picked up her Blackberry and typed out a message:

  Molly: Hey

  Maggie: Hey GRRL, what’s going on?

  Molly: Just met General Beauregard of the Republic of West Virginia. OMG! He has seen Gone with the Wind waaaaaay too many times. LOL!!

  Maggie: LOL

  Molly: How are you?

  Maggie: Shitty right now…

  Molly: ?

  Maggie: Just met my new CO. He hates my guts.

  Molly: Why?

  Maggie: I called him out on re-opening Pearson Airport

  Molly: Is that the airport right near the containment line? Are they fucking crazy?

  Maggie: Yeah, it looks like it was his idea.

  Molly: This sounds bad. Can you come home?

  Maggie: We know I can’t.

  Molly: We could buy you a new name or something.

  Maggie: You know that one day that would come back and get us both screwed.

  Molly: Maggie, I love you and I’m worried.

  Maggie: I love you, too. It will be okay. Who is this Otto Jay, anyway?

  Molly: I’ll find out.

  Maggie: Awesome. You’re the best.

  Molly: Please stay safe, okay?

  Maggie: Promise, bye now.

  Molly: Bye.

  With her hair in a large towel, Molly heard a soft knock. She walked over to the door and asked, “Who is it?”

  “Room service, ma’am,” a friendly female southern voice answered.

  Molly unlocked the door and opened it wide. A short, squat white woman had a plate of food on a tray in her hands. “I heard about all the fuss that went on today.”