Max Ryker- The End Begins

by David Wayne

“No, you look, man. Hogwogs are supposed to be shot on sight. You’re still standing because my companion here has a soft heart, an affliction I don’t share. So you got lucky. You get a mulligan—but only one. I’m going to watch you leave through the scope on my rifle. You so much as turn around, and I’ll pick you off. I’m good for at least two hundred yards. I suggest you cover that ground as quickly as possible—before I change my mind.” I nodded in the direction of the city. They didn’t hesitate and scurried off quickly. I watched them through the scope of my rifle. They hadn’t walked far when they accosted an older couple and began the same con.

  “See, Max? Not everything has to be settled with violence. You did the right thing; they were just hungry and desperate.” She was beaming at me, so I kept my true thoughts to myself.

  “Mmm-mmm,” I grunted.

  I was taking us to Parlay Park, a twenty-acre, state-protected woodland—a half mile from the city. We would camp there. It would afford us an unobstructed view of downtown, and should be empty. That close to the city, people would push the rest of the way in rather than camp.

  “Once we find a good spot, we’ll hole up on the edge of the park and scout the entry gates by field glasses. As it gets dark, we’ll scoot down for a closer look,” I said.

  She wasn’t happy. “I don’t want to sleep in a tent if we can find better accommodations, Max.”

  “Me neither, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

  She blew out a deep breath. “You’re being too paranoid. I don’t understand why we don’t just head down into Atlanta today. It’s early. Let’s case it for an hour, and if it looks safe, we’ll go for it.”

  “No, I want to get a closer view of the entry process, and that requires us to wait until nightfall. I have to be absolutely sure it’s safe before we take the plunge.”

  “I think you want to camp,” she said abruptly.

  I let the glasses dangle around my neck and looked at her. “Why on earth would I want to camp?” I asked.

  She was looking at me funny. “I don’t know. You tell me,” she said, raising her eyebrows.

  “Don’t go getting weirdo on me, Sis. Now, moving along. I see what looks like a good surveillance area about a thousand yards up. Let’s head toward it.” I picked up my backpack, and she followed suit.

  “Max, if you want to camp alone with me, on our last night together, just say so. Don’t make up transparent excuses,” she said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You’re worried if we go in, we might end up sharing a place with other people—and you’d rather spend our last night together alone, in private. I’m okay with that. I’d just prefer if you were honest about your feelings.”

  Deep breath, long sigh. She did likewise, but louder and more exaggerated. I wouldn’t let her draw me into some silly argument. I needed to stay focused.

  Chapter 56

  The western edge of the city was heavily patrolled along US 41, running north and south. I made a mental note of the border patrol pattern and would use that information to sneak up later. Most entryways into the city were blocked by semitrucks and heavy construction equipment. Migrants were funneled toward four major arteries that led into downtown. Each of the four portals contained long lines of impatient-looking people, forming straight lines at the gates, but farther back meandering into the shape of a serpent’s tail. A hundred feet of metal fencing ran in each direction of the portals, containing hand-painted signs on large sheets of plywood that read: Atlanta Safe Zone. Beneath that, in slightly smaller letters, it said: ’Wogs Shot on Sight.

  We were located about a half mile from one of the main entry booths. The gates contained armed guards, but I couldn’t tell if they were military, national guard, or militia types. I zoomed in close with the field glasses, but it got blurry. I would have to wait for a closer view.

  I scanned left of the line. People attempting to enter between the official portals were collected on flatbed trucks and hauled to one of the four allowable passageways. Occasionally, guards would detain a refugee, who was held until a prison-type truck came by to collect them. I also witnessed the guards shoot two people on the spot—presumably Hogwogs.

  Just before dusk, we set out for a closer view. A tree overhanging a small, single-story building provided the perfect opportunity. We climbed it and perched ourselves on a graveled roof, less than a block from the Highway 72 entry gate.

  From this closer vantage point, two things were immediately clear. The armed guards were a mixture of people. I saw men and women wearing military fatigues, cop uniforms, survivalist camouflage, and street clothes. The common thread, besides carrying automatic weapons, was they all looked beefy, aggressive, and not a bit friendly. While this indicated the federal government wasn’t in full control, the guards all carried similar army-grade weapons—implying their influence. The second fact was an entry protocol was being utilized before folks were allowed in. It didn’t take long to ascertain what those requirements were.

  Entry into Atlanta was a three-step process. At the first gate, you got a visual once-over and your ID was checked. That information was entered by hand into a big book. Surprisingly, a good number of people were turned away. Apparently, if you looked like a Hogwog or had no ID, you got the boot. Once past gate number one, people were split evenly into five random lines, each separated by orange construction cones. At the second gate, people were peppered with questions while the attendant jotted down a few notes on a yellow pad. Based upon the answers received, people were handed the notes and then separated into specific lines at the third gate.

  As night started coming on, I still hadn’t figured out the criterion used for entry through the third and final gate. Then a priest and two nuns walked up and handed their paperwork to the guard. The attendant read it and then fetched a priest from their side of the wire barrier. The priest asked the party a few questions and then nodded at the guard, who opened the gate and attached bands around their wrists before waving the party through.

  “I get it now,” I said, startling the sister, who was fidgeting next to me.

  “What?” she asked. “I’m bored.”

  “Give me a minute,” I said, returning my gaze to the lines. It all made sense now. At the third gate, people were separated roughly by profession. The line containing young, buff males and some women was military and law-enforcement types. The line containing nerdy-looking folks was professionals, like doctors and engineers. Another line was for the working class, and so forth. For some lines, they brought over an expert, who asked a few questions to authenticate their claimed profession. Like with the priest. They were using color-coded wristbands as identifiers. The military types were given blue bands, the professionals yellow, and all others received red. Except for the very first line. They received purple bands. That was the group that caught my eye.

  The purple line was small. Only ten people stood there. It also moved at a much slower pace—questioning was more thorough and was performed by two people, instead of one. The minute a purple-banded person walked through the gate, they got immediate respect from the soldiers on the other side. That was the VIP line—the one I intended to pass through. The final thing I noticed was only blue and purple bands were allowed to keep their weapons. Everyone else had to surrender theirs before gaining entry.

  “I get it now,” I said, sitting up and putting the glasses away.

  “You’ve said that already. I’d like to hear it if you’ve got the time,” she said. “But let’s get off this stinky tar roof first.”

  I briefed her as we walked back to the campsite.

  *

  Our camp was several hundred yards in from the edge of Parlay Park. We had spied no one setting up earlier in the day, as I’d suspected—no one was camping by choice. We built a nice robust fire and shared an MRE and a helping of stale rice. Breakfast would consist of our last MRE and then that was it—we had no more food. It was a small dinner, but I wasn’t hungry anyway.


  It was nine thirty, past our bedtime. When you’d hiked all day in the hot sun and had no TV or light to read by, there was no desire to stay up late. Early to bed and early to rise was our lifestyle. To my surprise, the sister sat down next to me, very close—a somber look on her face. I stiffened.

  “Geez, Max, I don’t bite,” she said.

  The sister had a two-and-a-half-foot arm reach. I learned to keep a three-foot distance so she couldn’t slug me. It was just math. “Just don’t hit me.”

  “Why would I hit you?” she asked.

  “You know, we’re a month in, and most of the time, I’m still not sure why. You get angry, you rant, you swing, usually at me.” I tried to laugh, but nothing came out.

  “Am I really that bad?”

  Her sadness was killing me, but I’d steered away from serious conversation all day. I’m no good at that shit. There’s no way I could have a good-bye conversation with her. I didn’t know what to say or how to say it. Pick a cliché, a fish out of water, whatever. I’d stutter, stammer, and say the wrong words. I’d mean well but would end up hurting her feelings somehow. Max and his two left feet.

  “Max, I asked a question. Am I really that bad? Tonight’s our last night together, you know?”

  I tried to tell her what was on my mind, but I couldn’t talk—I sensed impending disaster. Like a cursed sailor at sea, watching a monster wave rushing in to crush his ship. He’s unable to alter the outcome, so he takes those last few moments to accept the inevitable. I’ve felt this before, when a job went bad. In the face of impending death, I’d felt no emotion—just the sinking feeling I’d fucked up and must pay the piper. But tonight, I felt the burning stab of tears about to spill, ones I couldn’t prevent. I jumped up and turned away, hoping to hide what I could not control. My emotions were overwhelming me. I felt shame and anger toward myself for this. I didn’t know what to do. Like a child caught with his hand still inside the cookie jar, I was frozen in indecision.

  “I have to go to bed, Sister. Good night,” I mumbled, and tried not to run toward the tent.

  I pushed my face fully into the pillow and let my weakness take its course; I had no choice. I burned with humiliation, but the pain in my heart was stronger, its force greater, the loss unbearable to consider. The shame I felt was eclipsed by what I could not bear… what I could not consider…the thought of her being gone.

  Finally, I lay silent, the uncontrollable waves of emotion subsiding—leaving me shell-shocked and feeling numb. I saw her shadow moving around in the flicker of the bonfire; she was building it up. This had to mean she’d decided to sit alone and contemplate my actions—the wrong reaction in response to what had been an innocent question.

  Instead of sitting down, her shadow moved toward the tent, her figure backlit against the brightness cast from the fire. She entered the tent slowly, tentatively, as if unsure what to expect. She was wrapped in a blanket she held tightly around her. I closed my eyes and waited, unsure of what was about to happen.

  She placed her hand on my leg, gently, hesitantly. I could feel its comfort. “Max, I have come to you,” she said, her words whispered and soothing. I wondered if that was the last time I would ever hear her voice in the dark. I forced my eyes open, her choice of words piercing through my mood. I sat up slowly, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. The bright fire cast light against the fabric of the tent, so I could see more than her outline—but I needed a second to focus and adjust to the dimness.

  She sat cross-legged and close. Her hair was loose, with one long strand cascading down in the front and the rest slung over a bare shoulder. I could feel a slight tremble where her hand rested on my thigh, while the other held the small blanket around her shoulders and midsection. A shameful lust shot through me. Waves of searing desire invaded my mind and body.

  The shocked emotional numbness of moments ago was now replaced with a different kind of shock. She wasn’t wearing anything under the blanket.

  Chapter 57

  “We need to finish our stories, Max. The full, unabridged versions. I’ll start,” she said, but didn’t wait for my reply. “After I left Markus at the pond, skipping home from a night of handholding and my first lover’s kiss, the sun was almost rising, but it was still dark. I didn’t eat dinner that night, I just picked over the meal. My stomach was full of butterflies, and I was nervous about sneaking out and meeting a boy for the first time.” She cast me a glance that indicated she’d made an important point, so I nodded. “Before going to bed, my belly was grumbling. I should’ve had a bowl of cereal, but I had this craving for hotdogs, with mustard and ketchup—washed down with ice-cold milk.” For a moment, she floated off, the pause filled with shame and regret. I could relate; my ghosts shared those same characteristics.

  “I went out on the porch, wanting to catch the first full sunbeams of dawn. I fell asleep into a dead slumber. I dreamed of Markus and the perfect world we’d build—but was awoken by screams and horrifying yells of agony. I’d left the hotdogs on the stove, and the water boiled out. The hot pan caught our old wood house on fire. The place was filled with thick smoke, and I couldn’t see anything. My parents were trapped in the back bedroom; I couldn’t save them. I ran inside, but the blaze was too hot. The ceiling was caving in all around, and the fumes choked and gagged me. I don’t know how I fell asleep. I just don’t know.” She looked at me as if to test my reaction. She was searching for judgment and condemnation. I offered neither. “The newspapers reported the story as Romeo and Juliet gone bad, star-crossed teenage lovers doomed by fire. The sheriff was an angry redneck, potbellied and semi-bald, constantly chewing on an unlit cigar. After taking my statement, he said, 'Young lady, maybe if you’d learn to keep your britches pulled up, your folks would be alive today.'"

  I felt my fists ball up tight and had a vision of them plowing into the bastard’s face. Instead, I rested my hand below her knee and kneaded the soft flesh; it felt moist, almost clammy.

  “The kids at school were equally brutal. I became known as the Burn Queen, and Carrie, after the Stephen King character. I killed them, Max, and everybody blamed me, including my brothers. That’s why I didn’t take them when I came of age. They didn’t want me to. They said I murdered our parents.” She was quiet for a moment, staring at me. Then she looked away. “So, the day after graduation, I joined the Church.” She said this without sadness or tears; instead, she looked relieved. “You’re the first person outside of the Church that I’ve ever shared that story with.”

  She looked at me and waited.

  I could think of no good way to start, so I stole her opening page and just dived in. “At the agency, we call the public our children. That’s because Americans live in a fairy-tale bubble. They think intelligence works like a Jason Bourne movie. It doesn’t—things go wrong, and innocent people die. That’s just the nature of the beast. But let CNN find out we made a mistake and, boom, we’re crucified as the bad guys. Americans are okay with war as long as nobody dies. They don’t have the stomach for terrorism, nor the stomach to do what it takes to end it. That’s where guys like me come in. I was a Call Guy. Our group contracted with any federal agency that required off-radar, black-ops work. At home or abroad. I don’t even know how many people I’ve killed. At least a hundred, probably more. Mostly bad guys, but I’ve had my share of collateral damage and made my share of mistakes.” Now it was my turn to stare and wait for a reaction.

  She gave none, so I continued.

  “All good things must end, as they say, and for me it came in the hot sands of Afghanistan. The mission was called Nightstead. For a week, I baked in the desert on the outskirts of a little town called Jalalabad. A group of Al-Qaeda leaders was meeting in person. That’s as rare as winning the lottery. Terrorist cells don’t congregate; they want to avoid being taken out in one fell swoop—which is exactly what we intended to do. But the bastards brought their families. Twenty-five women and children. I’d been feeling emotional cracks forming for some time, ones I p
retended didn’t exist. I was having nightmares. I was seeing people I’d killed in malls and at restaurants,” I said, drifting off to that day in the desert, the one I’ve relived a million times. “All I had to do was push a little button, and some of the world’s worst actors would go straight to hell. But I couldn’t force myself to do it. I was done. I couldn’t kill anymore, so I split. Dropped my radio in the sand and made my way back to the States.”

  “Is that when you moved to Alabama?” she said, still stroking my leg.

  It was so calming, which was what I needed—because I was about to tell her something I’d never told another human being. “I got the boot first, but had to do a one-week debriefing. Two days before I left, the cell I didn’t take out bombed a school in Kabul. Thirty-five people were killed, mostly children. I was told to leave that same day—disappear off the face of the earth are the exact words.”

  “Is that what you dream about, Max? The nightmares?”

  I nodded. “The nightmares are about that stupid button. If I had only pushed that stupid red button, thirty-five kids would be alive today.”

  I felt a confusing mixture of emotions, but a sense of relief was at the top of the list. Her hand was resting on my leg, and mine on hers. I couldn’t help but wonder…what happens next?

  Chapter 58

  We sat quietly, listening to forest sounds. A hoot owl sang somewhere far off, and its call was answered by a coyote. Were they talking? Perhaps they were sharing their enjoyment of the cricket songs. Whatever they were saying, it had to be more pleasant than the conversation we’d just had.

  I felt lighter, almost cleansed. Together, we’d peeked under the bed to confront the murderous monsters that didn’t really live there. Or maybe they did; they just weren’t murderous. Like a bell ringing indicating class was over, something said it was time to close those topics. Our eyes drifted toward one another and locked. Susan’s body language said what her mouth did not—it seemed to whisper, Speak your heart, Max. Speak what’s in your heart.