by David Wayne
I asked about my boss. “Any word from Warren?”
He stared at me blankly. A nice way to say he was dead. I was going to ask about his family and then thought better of it. “So, Jimmy, give me the poop. What’s happening out there?”
He spoke casually, but his insouciant attitude was a front. He wasn’t in Atlanta to kiss babies and shake hands. He answered my question with a question. “Tell me what you know. What’s up with this Citizens group?”
“You haven’t checked in yet?” I asked.
“Nope, and I’m not going to. My orders are reconnaissance only.”
“So you’re not here to run the Atlanta operations?”
He shook his head yet remained silent.
That meant things were worse than I suspected. My secret hope was the feds had seen the supernova coming and had time to prepare. “So the government got sucker- punched just like the rest of us?”
He gave me a blank stare. He wanted me to talk first, tell him what I knew. I decided that was fair enough; he was the commissioner and had my trust. “Not much to tell, really. They’ve only been organized about six weeks and are trying to piece together some basic semblance of law and order. But get this, Farty Marty is running the show,” I said.
His eyebrows shot straight up. “As in Martin Meissner?”
“Yepper, the one and only.”
He rolled his eyes. “Great, how’d he get that spot?”
“Claims he’s the highest-ranking official to stroll into Atlanta. Of course, he’s ready to close that door before anyone of higher rank shows up. Very anxious to form an interim government and secure his power. His second-in-command is a Major Alice Senko, from the air force.” Jimmy had removed a small pad and was jotting down notes.
“What do you know about her?” he asked.
“Nada. Seemed competent enough. Who knows?” I said, checking out my surroundings, a force of habit. He noticed and smiled.
“What else?” Jimmy asked.
“That’s about it. He wants me to sign on, says he needs a Call Guy. Offered me a seat at the big boys’ table. Head of security, number four in the government, blah-blah. What he really wants is black ops, someone willing to do whatever it takes to keep him in power.”
“You sign on?” he asked casually, but the question was anything but.
“Yeah, right. Can you envision a fuckwad like Martin Meissner having direct control of black ops, without adult supervision?”
He shrugged, but his face showed relief. “You going to stick around, maybe reassess your options later, after things shake out?” he asked.
I decided to hold back some cards. “Dunno. Your turn.” I decided to withhold the information about Anniston Army Depot, like I had with Marty. That was an ace I wanted to keep in the hole.
He stared at me a second before accepting that was all he was going to get. “Susan seems like a nice lady. A real looker,” he said.
I nodded, because what he said was true. Now it was my turn to stare and wait.
He held up the flask, buying a moment to gather his thoughts. I reached for it. Guys don’t need words to communicate. He handed me a cigar from a pouch around his waist and lit me up. I gave him a look that said get to it, and he did.
“I’ll share what I can. When you sign on, you’ll get the unabridged version.”
I smiled at his assumption but remained quiet.
“The government was caught off guard by the supernova, but not entirely. It was supposed to miss us, but somehow it got nudged off track, and earth became its bull’s-eye.” He took a pull of whiskey. I let my raised eyebrows ask the obvious.
“They were tracking it, but just like a hurricane, it can follow a predicted path and then suddenly take an unexpected turn. What can you do?”
“How much time did they have to prepare?”
His shrug said move on.
“And the feds?”
He sat silent a moment. “The government is running on a shoestring from a nuclear bunker in the Midwest,” he said, letting out a bellow of Cuban smoke. That narrowed it down to two locations. Jim was dangling details.
“Conditions there are an organized version of what you’ve got here—people straggling in, dazed and confused. We’re focused on rounding up military personnel and assets while securing critical resources like gas, food, etcetera.”
“I’d say you’re a tad better off than the rest of us. We’re focusing on staying alive,” I said. “How far along are you?”
He hesitated, taking a long drag off the stogie. “It’s a clusterfuck, Max. To say the situation is precarious is an understatement. The state of our country, our future, is unclear at best.”
I started to speak, but he cut in. “I could really use a number two,” he said. “I’d be thrilled to have you for that spot.”
I took a puff. “What are the chances the government can pull it all together? Actually have a United States, post Event?”
He scratched his unkempt beard. “I’d say a seventy percent chance of having some semblance of a country, at least at some point. The brass estimates are higher, but the shirts always overshoot. Who knows?” he said with a shrug.
“How long until the government reaches out to the rest of us?”
He frowned. “The official line? Within three to six months, we’ll boot out the Martys of the world and install our own people.”
“What’s your take?” I said.
“I’d say we’re just as likely to end up with a bunch of regional power cities, like Atlanta, or individual country states. Obviously, the feds would be the most powerful—by a long shot,” he said, giving me a very serious look.
“But not powerful enough to control everything?” I asked.
“That’s one scenario. There’re others.”
“Such as?”
He puffed his cigar back to life. “We could come close to mass extinction from starvation, disease, war—or a combination thereof. Right now, it’s a crap shoot; the outcome is unknowable.”
For a few moments, neither of us spoke. For field operatives to stay alive, they must stay firmly rooted in reality. Outcomes are dictated by ground conditions. Plans are nothing more than guidelines that hope for optimistic outcomes. Only politicians working in air-conditioned offices think otherwise.
Jimmy blew a smoke ring, and we both watched it float until it disappeared. “I threw in because the feds have some serious juice. If I didn’t think we had a real shot at pulling some semblance of America back together, I’d probably disappear to some mountaintop and live until I died. You’re chewing on those same thoughts right now, am I right?”
I shrugged, but he knew that’s exactly what I was struggling with.
“You can bring Susan with you,” he said.
I nodded. That was a definite plus.
He handed me a cipher from his waist pack. “Leave a coded message with Marty on how I can find you. I’ll be back in an official capacity… at some point.”
“How do you know he’ll pass on my note? Maybe he’ll trash it.”
“Because you’re going to write him a glowing recommendation on why he should stay on and run Atlanta. He knows you and I are tight.”
I laughed. “That’ll work.”
We shook hands. “Think on it hard, Max. If the country's going to survive, it will only be because good people do the right thing.”
He walked away but then turned around. “Either way, leave the message. I’ll find you.”
The last comment gave me comfort. I now had more options.
Chapter 69
I awoke tired from a night of restlessness. Normally, killer sex knocks me out and provides a deep sleep. Not last night—my belly was torn over what to do. Stay in Atlanta, throw in with the federal government, or go somewhere isolated? These were the thoughts battling in my head as we headed toward the breakfast line.
“Nice morning, isn’t it, Max?” she said, grabbing my hand and entwining our fingers. She was humming softly
, letting our arms rock back and forth between us. Man, what I wouldn’t give for a piece of that peace.
It was odd living with a woman—almost like playing house, but the grown-up kind that included nudity and naughtiness. For her, it was a brand-new world of wonderment. Like a kid turned loose in an arcade, where all the machines were set to free—she wanted to try everything.
But sex with Susan was different. I’ve slept with all kinds of different women, from all over the world. At its best, it’s like an intense game of one-on-one basketball with your best bud. At its worst, it’s not much better than yanking your own chain. Done smart, you sneak out in the middle of the night. Done wrong, you pass out drunk and must deal with the morning after. In any case, the feeling afterward is easy to describe—an intense desire to haul ass. But with Susan, I wanted to stay and snuggle up, caress her skin and smell her hair. I loved waking up next to her. The orgasms were different, too. They were deeper and more intense. After, I felt completely drained, physically and emotionally. Shit! When did I start thinking like a Danielle Steel novel? My minded drifted back to last night’s wild adventure, that was—
She yanked my hand. “Stop with the sex thoughts, Max. Enjoy the beautiful day. We’re holding hands, two lovers in love.” She laughed at her own silliness, and I joined in.
But I wasn’t full of joy; I was consumed with concern. Should we stay or leave? The thought of working for an asshole like Marty Meissner turned my stomach, even if it were temporary—and there was no guarantee of that. Maybe he’d be successful at setting up a fiefdom, defying a federal power that was weak and far away. The time was ripe, here in the beginning, for a core group to gain power and then never relinquish it. History repeats itself, and that’s what power grabbers have always done—govern for self-benefit, at the expense of the people. If that happened, I’d have to do something about it—and would probably get myself and Susan killed in the process. On the other hand, Jimmy could ride in on his white federal horse, and we could build a shiny new Atlanta. No way to know.
There was also the option of joining Jim out west. That would afford creature comforts unavailable anywhere. Nuclear war bunkers are designed for housing the federal government for the long-term. They provide an environment resembling a crude version of modern life and are completely self-contained. But moving there would also mean diving right back into full-time black-ops work. That thought didn’t give me a boner.
Another option was taking off into parts unknown, maybe Florida, and that option didn’t scare me. I trusted my instincts to keep us alive and safe. But that was rife with its own perils—Hogwogs chief among them. Lots of other downsides to living in solitude, like no doctors or medicine. Susan felt we had a moral obligation to stay in Atlanta, to help rebuild. For me, it wasn’t a moral decision; it was about making the smart choice. For us.
As usual, Susan sensed my bad mood and tried to change it. “Max, move along. You need your exercise. I expect my man to have the energy to service me properly,” she said seriously.
At first I nodded, not really listening. Then it hit me, and I laughed. We picked up the pace, trucking toward downtown, not talking. As we entered the outskirts, we were confronted with what was becoming normalcy: beggars begging, street merchants selling food, water, drugs, and slaves. Thieves and muggers sizing you up as you walked by, wondering if they could take you. Preachers reaching out to those who were seeking, gang leaders recruiting those who wanted a “fairer system,” and people offering to trade sex for food.
We were maybe three blocks from the breakfast line when we passed a grimy-looking skinny guy, fronting a small group of women, most of whom were young— very young. The guy was shucking and jiving, bantering about like a carnival barker. He talked in rhymes and was selling—but we weren’t buying and sped quickly by. You couldn’t fight every bad guy, because you’d be in a never-ending, perpetual duke-out. After we passed them, Susan stopped.
“Max, that one little girl, she looked like Brenda. Did you see her?”
It took a second to process who she meant, and immediately I became concerned. “As in my little friend Brenda? The professor?” I said.
“Yes, as in Brenda, Brenda.”
Without speaking, I returned to the cluster of eight girls. It was Brenda. She was standing in the back, filthy, in a ripped shirt, and shivering in white cotton panties. She was staring at the ground, as if in a trance.
I lumbered over easily, sizing the guy up—a junkie, maybe twenty-eight, no game at all. A low-level dealer—but a dealer of flesh, not drugs. I started to zone, and I heard Mr. Bowie whisper to me, Please, let me dance with this guy. I reached below my pant leg, freeing him from the leather sheaf. Yes, Mr. Bowie, I’d be happy to oblige you. I held the knife at my side, hiding it behind my right leg.
“Yo, ho, you got goods to blow, Mr. Yum sells 'em young,” he sang, smiling at me with shiny gold teeth.
I started strutting. “Yo, dawg, whadup?” I said, throwing up a hand gesture before grabbing my junk. “How much for the young one in the back?” I asked, pointing at Brenda. He turned to look, and when he turned back around, I was on him, shoving the blade straight into his gut—all the way to the hilt. I moved in quickly, catching his weight across my shoulder. Instinctively, he threw his arms around my neck and then fell onto my back. I pushed forward, carrying him past the girls and up the street about thirty feet. I hoped they hadn't witnessed the deed. I sat him down.
“Mr. Yummy’s hurt his tummy,” I sang over my shoulder. “Run away and have a nice day.” All but three of the girls scattered.
I whispered in his ear, “What kind of sick prick sells children?” and then I twisted the blade several times. I wanted to snap his neck but decided leaving him with a gut hole would be better. It’d take most of the day for him to die, and he’d be in excruciating pain throughout. Let him beg for the relief of death.
“Brenda, where are your parents and the others?” Susan asked softly.
She didn’t answer, or even acknowledge she’d heard the question; her eyes were fixated on the ground. Susan tried several more times, obtaining the same result. “Max, you try and talk to her,” she said, stepping aside.
I hesitated, unsure of myself. What could I possibly say to a tormented child that Susan couldn’t say better? I knelt and looked at the little girl, peering into a set of lost, sad eyes. Gently, I raised her chin.
“Brenda honey, this is Max. Do you remember me, sweetie?” I asked, my voice low. I stroked her dirty, chapped cheeks, grasping her tiny hands; they didn’t come close to filling up mine. “I need your help again, Brenda. Can you do that? Remember how you helped me in the van? Can you do that again for Max?” To my surprise, she looked up at me. I could see the faintest sign of recognition flickering through the fog. “I won’t hurt you. No one will ever hurt you again, do you understand?” I said, my voice a whisper, inaudible to the circle of people surrounding us. She acknowledged my question with the slightest of nods, so subtle it was almost imperceptible.
“Where are your sisters and brothers? Does that bad man have them?” I asked, maintaining a soothing tone, controlling the anger I felt. She shook her head no, the smallest shake of the head possible to still be considered a movement.
“Do you know where your folks are?”
Another shake to the negative. “We have to go now. May I carry you? I would really enjoy that.” She stood there a moment, as if I were speaking a language she didn’t understand. I was about to repeat the question when she slammed up against me, wrapping her skinny arms around my neck. I placed an arm under her legs and stood up. She weighed approximately nothing.
We walked toward the city, heading directly to the convention center. That was the catch-all place for the old, the sick, and homeless children. The other two girls, both around thirteen, followed obediently. Susan asked about their parents; both said they were dead. Their stares were blank and lifeless; any innocence that once shined there was long gone. By the time we reac
hed the convention center, all Brenda had said was her parents were murdered and her siblings taken by “other bad men.”
“You girls stay here while Susan and I talk a minute,” I said, setting Brenda down on a planter box. I had to pry her off me. “Watch her for me, okay?” I said to the older pair. They nodded without looking at me. I led Susan out of earshot. She was crying and barely holding it together.
“Max?” Susan said, her eyes begging for what I couldn’t offer.
“We can’t keep her, Susan. We both want to, but we can’t. You know that. We’re not equipped to take on a child. This place is. She’ll be better off around other children and adults trained for this sort of thing.” Susan was staring over at Brenda, and the little girl was staring back. Both were sobbing. I needed to get this over with. Drawing it out was making it worse. “I promise, I’ll use the full advantage of my purple status to make sure she’s well taken care of. We’ll come back and check on her. It’ll be fine,” I said, kissing Susan’s forehead.
“Come on, big girl, let’s go see your new home,” I said, picking her up. “This will be lots of fun, I promise.” Except, once we got inside, I knew that was a lie.
I showed the guard my purple wristband. He escorted us immediately across the convention floor, to an area marked Displaced Children. He placed us at the front of the line.
“I need to see a manager,” I said, using my best authoritative voice.
“I’m Terry Neyman, sir, assigned here permanently. Just ask for me at the door anytime, and I’ll personally take care of you.” The guard was obviously a brownnoser, but in this case, I was thankful for it.
He motioned the head attendant over, glancing down at my band for her benefit. I watched her eyes dart to my wrist and then rise to meet mine. She looked whipped, gaunt, and flat worn-out, like she hadn’t slept, ever. She tried to smile, but the effort was weak.