by David Wayne
“His two compadres started picking over our women, like they were rummaging through a clothes rack in a department store, looking for something that would fit. One snatched a girl by the arm. She was maybe fifteen. Her father ran over and was shot point-blank. That’s when pure hell broke loose. A dozen baddies came zooming up on motorbikes and dune buggies. We were armed, but not heavily. A lot of our men toted hunting rifles. The ones who hadn’t brought firearms had learned from our previous skirmishes and carried walking sticks or two-by-fours or whatever they could find along the way. In the end, we were no match for their automatic weapons and seething hatred. We never stood a chance, Max. They slaughtered us,” he said. Sister had fetched some water, and he drank greedily from the cup, water spilling down his face and shirt. He didn’t notice.
“Finally, the remaining handful of us ran north, along the riverbank. We scattered through the tall grass and into the woods. They followed, hunting us down. They collected the women and shot the men as they zipped past on their dirt bikes. Three miles upstream we regrouped. There were only nine of us left. Nine. I was covered in blood and body matter. Everyone was. We lost three more traveling the woods and back roads before arriving here in Atlanta. A group of fifty people left Birmingham, and only six of us survived it,” he said. He grew short of breath and began visibly shaking. His rocking became faster and faster. He started chanting, very low, almost under his breath, “So much brutal death, so much brutal death.”
I watched him, unsure of what to do. I’d seen men break before, and it was exceedingly unpleasant. Then he started talking again.
“The time has come, Max. Armageddon is here… the beast is everywhere,” he said, clinging to my arm, desperate. “What has happened to humanity? Rape, murder, pillage—”
In midsentence, he grasped his chest, cried out, and fell over. He was moaning loudly, clutching his chest, legs twitching while lying on the cold stone floor.
“Get some blankets and a wet rag, quick!” I yelled to Susan. I placed my fingers on the father’s neck, checking his pulse. It was an act; I was only pretending to help him. He was having a massive heart attack, and there was nothing that could be done. Susan would want to think we did everything possible, which we were—nothing, because nothing could be done. I held his hand, watching life slip away. I saw the pain and agony drain from his eyes, briefly replaced by peace and serenity. He seemed to look upward, toward the heavens—and a faint smile appeared across his lips. That small glimmer of the old Father McGeegen provided me some relief. I took solace knowing the last picture of the gentle priest would be one of tranquility, and not terror.
I flung my arms around Susan as she approached. Fear and panic consumed her. “Let me go, let me go. We have to save him,” she cried out, pulling forcefully against me, trying to break free of my hold.
I held on tightly. “No, shhh, no. Father's gone, Father's gone, shhh,” I whispered in her ear, but she continued to struggle. Then she screamed—a loud, agonized, outpouring of pain and suffering. It was not just for today, but for all that we had seen before. All that had built up and now pushed her to the breaking point.
I guided her over to a row of faded green cots that were set up along the sidewalls of the sanctuary. I laid her down gently, covering her with a thin blanket. I sat on the stone floor and held her hand.
“Nothing is sacred. No one is safe. The world has gone crazy.” She talked this way for some time. Everybody was being pushed past the point of their endurance.
Chapter 67
We spent a restless night in an old house, secluded at the end of a cul-de-sac. We awoke early and headed down toward the food line. It was early, just past daybreak, and the morning air was chilly. The food line was already long, people eager to receive their bowl of watered-down oatmeal. I thought about Marty’s “warehouses full of food” BS. What he didn’t say was that thousands of people plow through massive amounts of food like ants on a sandwich. In five weeks they were already down to soupy oatmeal.
There was a separate, much smaller line, for purple banders. The VIPs were entitled to superior food and amenities. Some things never change. We stood in line with the real folk, taking our turn like everyone else. It was becoming quite clear the purple band was a coveted status, yet less clear what value they provided to the people who suffered.
I was shocked once again at Susan’s elasticity and her inner strength. Instead of waking up this morning a complete wreck, as I expected, she had come to grips with reality. She was standing strong, and I admired that. We were both shaken by yesterday’s experience, but that horror had to be kept in context—it was the new reality, and had to be faced as such. Otherwise, one would go mad, or have a heart attack, like our friend the father.
“Hey, is that Doug over there?” Susan said while we waited in the food line.
“Huh? Who?”
She frowned. “You know, Pig Doug, Betsy’s dad? The young guy who helped us out?” she said, irritated.
Now I frowned, scanning the crowd. “I don’t see him,” I said, although I didn’t even look because I didn’t care. When the two slave sisters had mentioned their encounter with Pig Man, Susan had been distracted by two Brouder kids, who’d walked in the room. So she still thought of him as a good ole country boy.
She pointed. “He’s standing with that red-haired girl?”
This time I did look, and spotted his pointy head with the beady eyes. “So?”
“So, we owe him, Max. He helped us. You’re the new you, remember?”
He was standing close to a young girl, dominating her. I figured she was his slave. I had mistakenly let that dude go loose, only to hurt again. It was no surprise; it was my bad. I intended to rectify that—and right a wrong.
“Stay here,” I said.
I heard her calling after me, but I was already in the early stages of zoning. It came on hard and fast. I reached in my pocket, retrieving the small piece of solid lead I’d taken from Susan’s kidnappers. I knew that little punch pipe would eventually come in handy. I curled it tightly in my right fist. I watched the punk as I walked; he was glancing side to side, aware of his surroundings. I had to give him that; it was smart to stay alert in this environment. As I approached, he caught my eye briefly but turned away—and then did a double take. A mixture of surprise and fear flashed across his face. That was quickly replaced with a nasty smirk. He stood with a frail young girl; if she was a day older than sixteen, I was eighty.
“Who’s the young lady, Dougie?” I asked, making sure my purple band was hidden behind my leg.
He pulled the girl between us. She looked terrified.
“It’s none of your damned business,” he snarled.
I turned and waved at Susan, and she waved back. I grabbed the girl's hand and lightly yanked her free of his grip. “Go over and meet my friend. She’s real nice. Doug and I have some unfinished business to discuss in private.” He didn’t look over to where I waved. Instead, he reached for the girl, but when I stepped forward, he stepped back. She ran like a jackrabbit.
“So, how’s Betsy?” I asked, noticing he’d taken another step back.
“A big fucking Mexican feller stole her, because you left me tied to that fucking chair.” Apparently, the thought of our last rendezvous pissed him off. I inched slightly forward.
Then he smiled. “He was gonna cut me up, but I told him about the pretty nun, and put those dogs on your trail. Shoulda never fucked with me, Ryker. Yes, sir, he was mighty interested in the sexy sister,” he said, sporting a big shit-eating grin. I crept a few more inches forward.
“I ’spect she’s tied up somewheres, getting her brains fucked out by a bunch of wetbacks,” he laughed. “Payback’s a bitch. What goes around comes around. It’s what they call poetic justice.”
“I think you mean Karma, Dougie boy,” I said, inching closer. I was almost there.
He noticed my forward movements and looked over his shoulder at some guards standing by the serving line. “You a
in’t got no bidness in the Safe Zone, no ways. You robbed me,” he said. Seeing the proximity of the guards gave him confidence, because suddenly he looked cocky—so I took a large step forward. The gap between us was now less than an arm’s length. The metal was burning in my hand; everything was moving in slow motion.
He returned his gaze to me, eyes narrowing. “You sucker-punched me once, Ryker. That was a lucky break for you. In a fair fight, I could lick you, no problem. I’ve never fallen for the same trick twice in my life, so don’t think—”
Wham!
I sucker-punched that bastard hard. Normally, if I were wearing brass knuckles or sporting lead, I’d hold back some; otherwise, the damage is serious—even fatal. Not this time. I gave him the whole can of whip ass. Bapp! He dropped like a rotten apple from a tree. People moved away, not overly concerned, but giving us a wide berth. They’d seen much worse than some dude knocked out. The guards were on us instantly. They came right at me, guns drawn. I flashed my purple band, and they stood down.
“What’s going on here, sir?” the young guard asked, the deference in his voice obvious.
“We’ve got a ’Wog who snuck in. I chased him on the outside a few days back, but he got away. He’s a really bad one,” I said.
“Should we Code Eight him, or toss him outside the Safe Zone?”
I wasn’t sure what Code Eight meant, but I got the drift. “Well, son, if a snake sneaks into the house and you throw him out, he just slithers right back in. Now, you cut the snake's head off and, well…”
“We got ya, sir. He’s Code Eight.”
I watched them tote Dougie off to bye-bye forever land. I didn’t wave. I returned to Susan, who was almost at the head of the food line. Several people grumbled at me, as if I were cutting line. I ignored them. I noticed the redhead wasn’t standing with Susan.
“Max, what happened?” she asked, voice laced with concern.
“Doug had heatstroke. Thankfully, the guards were close by. He’ll be fine.”
“Who was the girl?” she asked.
“A friend. She went to get Doug some help,” I said, placing my arm around her.
She looked at me suspiciously and then dropped it. “Gosh, I’m famished,” she said, turning back to the food line.
I whispered, “It’s because you’re having too much sex.”
“What?” she said, looking around, afraid someone heard.
“Yeah, I hear it can make you go blind, too,” I said, pinching her rear.
She giggled, swatting at my hand. “It will not.”
*
During breakfast, I fed her selected bits of information on what I’d learned at yesterday’s debriefing, minus the part about me getting caught impersonating a CIA agent and being half choked to death by beefy militiamen. I told her about Marty, and my ingrained distaste for the way he did business. I didn’t mention the job offer. I let it slip my mind. She asked a few questions, but wasn’t overly interested in details. She did ask one hard direct question, but it was one I anticipated—and had prepared for.
“So, you did join up with the new government, right? You’re going to participate in helping rebuild, and not duck your responsibilities?” She was moving into one of her sister poses, but I cut it off at the pass.
“I offered, of course. They’re assessing things right now, talking to various people. No decisions have been made. Understandably, they have to be very selective in the beginning, otherwise…” I said, throwing up my hands. “We’ll see. If they think I bring value, they’ll come a-calling—and I’ll do what’s right for us.” I made sure my tone was light; I didn’t want to oversell. It was only a half fib, because the operative statement was, I’ll do what’s right for us.
She stood there unconvinced, or at least not entirely sold. I gave her my best whaddaya-want-from-me look. The truth was, I hadn’t decided on a course of action. Marty was a prick and an asshole who couldn’t be trusted. He was maneuvering things based on his self-interest; that much I was sure of. Hell, it wouldn’t surprise me if he was trying to become King Marty. I needed to change the subject. “So, I guess you’re my woman now,” I said nonchalantly.
She turned to me, wearing a cross between a frown and a smile. “I’m no one’s woman. I’m Susan.”
“But I said the L word.”
“Then you deserve a gold star and a cookie,” she said, eyebrows raised. “I prefer to think we’re now in a relationship and we have a special bond. It’s a beginning of something, Max. We still have much further to go.”
“I agree. It’s important that a relationship push boundaries. I have bunches of fantasies. I want to dress you up as a naughty nun and—”
“Max Ryker! That’s not what I meant. We just had relations last night, and you’re already touchy-pinchy-pervy guy. At least pretend like you care past the physical,” she said, taking on one of her looks, one I didn’t buy.
“So?” I said.
“So what?” she asked.
“Are we having sex after breakfast, or not?”
She didn’t answer right away. “Of course we are. I’m your woman now.”
Chapter 68
We’d been in Atlanta four days, and I was getting antsy. Indecision drove me crazy, yet I was being indecisive. We were eating lunch—a slice of bologna between stale bread; I was lucky enough to get two heels. It was served with a half cup of warm water that tasted of plastic container, similar to drinking water through a brand-new garden hose. I drank every last drop of it.
We sat at a wood picnic table that rocked on uneven footing. If you leaned your weight down, it lowered with you. When you lifted up, the table popped back up—very irritating. Our meal companions consisted of a large family of seven. Daddy bear, Mommy bear, and five cubs, all at various growth stages. Normally, that would drive me nuts; yelling, complaining, fighting kids do that to single people. But not here, and not now—because no one made a peep, not a single sound. Food was inhaled and water gulped. You were expected to eat, drink, and leave the lunch area; it wasn’t a social gathering spot. The minute you stood, someone slid in your place. If you didn’t move quickly enough, you got bumped—no apologies provided.
Everything had long lines, like at Disney World in the summertime. You waited forever and then received a very quick payoff at the end. The lunch wait was two hours at least, and the meal lasted less than ten minutes. There was even a line to exit the eating area, which was where we stood now. As we finally pushed through the other side, we were accosted by a serious-looking guard. He handed me a handwritten note and walked away without a word.
Susan became instantly concerned. “What’s it say? What is it?”
I read it quickly, all three lines of it. I was being summoned by His Majesty, requesting the honor of my presence to dine with the big cheeses—the governing board. They would be serving steak. I saw a trash can several feet up and tossed the note into the receptacle.
“What did it say?” Susan demanded.
“The governing board has selected their members and will be in touch if they require my services in the future,” I said, breaking into a happy whistle. “They don’t need me.”
“Why’d you toss the note without letting me read it first? I feel duped.”
“Why would you feel duped? I just told you what it said.”
“I would rather have read it myself, thank you very much.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know you distrusted me so much,” I said, giving her a pout.
She stared straight ahead, shoving a cold shoulder my way. I resumed my whistling. As we exited the gates, I felt the hair on my neck go bonkers. My stomach felt full of bugs flying in circles. I reacted quickly, turning around, scanning the faces—preparing for an unknown danger. I saw nothing. Still, my heart pumped at double speed. Something wasn’t right; I could feel it, but couldn’t find it. Then I spied the culprit; I was being watched from thirty feet away. I ran over to the guy.
“Jimmy J. Jerk, what’s cooking, man?” I s
aid.
“Maxie Pad, how’s the tampon man doing?” he replied.
We embraced with a man hug. One arm slung loosely around the back, the other shoved in between, to prevent full body contact. That was reserved for women only, when you could feel tits squished against your chest—a.k.a. the boobie hug. As mandated by the male code, the hug lasted mere seconds and no longer.
As Susan walked up, we were engaged in man banter—like young males do, but never grow out of. Normally, we end our verbal slugfest arguing the merits of our sexual prowess while proclaiming ownership of the biggest pecker in the world. Given present company, we never made it to the finish line.
I made the introductions. “Susan, this is my friend Jimmy,” I said, causing him to bow like in medieval times. “Jim, this is my… uh… she is...”
“My name is Susan,” she barged in, eyes flaring at me, before shining Jim a smile and shaking his hand. He was doing his best to hold back a laugh, his eyes darting back and forth between us. We made small chitchat for a few moments before Jimmy asked to speak with me privately.
“Sure,” Susan said. “Take my boyfriend, and do what you will,” she said, flashing him a curtsy, and me a nasty glare, before heading off.
We sat down under a tree, and he pulled out a silver flask from his jacket pocket. We shared a few swigs. James Eller was the top dog of an elite group called the Weinstein Commission. No one ever knew who Weinstein was, because he was probably no one. It was a very bland cover name for a very dangerous endeavor. In black ops, the dirtiest of deeds had to be signed off by Jim before they went to the president. He was also what you might call my boss's boss. Jimmy was a stand-up guy; you could trust him. He was a shirt but had worked as a field agent—a very rare credential for a bureaucrat.