American Blackout (Book 3): Gangster Town

by Tribuzzo, Fred

  Fritz joined her in the dark room.

  “No good to hide,” he said.

  “I’m not. I wanted to think.”

  “My fault. I said we had to do something. How stupid. We tried to break up a fight we knew nothing about.”

  “My dad once told me of a Good Samaritan who saw a woman being assaulted in a bowling alley parking lot. The good guy came to the woman’s rescue and was attacked by both the man and the woman. As far as we know, the woman didn’t end up dead. Today, people were slaughtered.”

  “Should we say something to Predator? Sister Marie?”

  Cricket thought about it and shook her head no.

  “I don’t want to talk about what happened to anyone.”

  Fritz came to her and wrapped his arms around her. “Agreed. We’ve witnessed awful things. Today’s near the top of that list. I’m sorry I got you into this.”

  Cricket thought of the vampire they had met in the woods sucking on the blood of a live dog. They’d never let anyone hear that tale, either. No one had to have that story, those images in their heads, they both believed.

  She had failed the second time in a single day. The first was with the child in her vision, a newborn carried off to an unknown fate in some lonely mountain. She needed to rest and pray, to seek forgiveness, slow down, and prepare herself for her baby’s arrival in June.

  That night after dinner, Cricket told Becca of their meeting with Father Muslovsky. She and Sister Marie argued for decency, common sense, the country’s founding, and religious liberty. But Cricket had to force herself into battle after killing strangers who had been battling each other for reasons unknown to her and Fritz. She felt an emptiness inside the ideas she had cherished for a long time.

  Becca finally said, “We can’t be going off in all directions—one person believing one thing taught by their religious beliefs, another person believing something the total opposite. And then we have fights, our energies diverted. We have to survive this time. It’s a time that offers us opportunities to forge new relationships with one another, to form community, not competing camps. The time of superstition is over. You’re good people. Without God, you’d be even better people.”

  “Young lady,” Sister Marie firmly addressed her host and the resident atheist. “You wouldn’t have your rights as a woman without the Judeo-Christian tradition. Without this beautiful religion, all the terrible things over the ages—like the strong riding roughshod over the weak, slavery across all peoples—would still be occurring and on the same scale. You wouldn’t have the wherewithal to fight against it.”

  Becca looked bored and was ready to depart, saying flippantly, “The Enlightenment, that is modern science pulled away from Christianity.”

  “Some individuals did, but the Enlightenment never would have existed in a universe without the Old and New Testaments. Don’t you understand, the ability, even the necessity, of going against your own culture to argue, debate, to heavily criticize your own belief system, even one’s religion, is a remarkable gift of Western civilization? But if you wish to destroy Christianity, know that you’re destroying the soul of our country: life, liberty, pursuit of happiness.”

  “C’mon, Sister, all through history slaves fought to be free.”

  “True, but often as soon as they achieved victory, and got the chance, they’d enslave the enslavers, and the whole mess would keep rolling on: ‘You enslaved me for a century, and now I’ll enslave you for a thousand years.’ There would be no universal crusade against that evil institution until the nineteenth century, started by very devout Christians who could no longer abide by putting their fellow human beings in chains. They were not only ashamed, but remembered the words of Christ on all people being equal in God’s eyes, the high and the low, loving your neighbor.”

  “I’m tired, Sister. So here’s my final thought: it’s time to say our goodbyes to a very helpful fairy tale. We thank you and the church for getting the ball rolling, but now real people will rule their own lives, not one governed by an imaginary creator.”

  Sister lunged for the throat. “Around the world, the reality of slaver and slave was as right as rain for thousands of years. That institution would never have even been questioned, would never have even entered our consciousness for condemnation, without the New Testament.”

  “Thank you, Sister, for your service,” Becca said, and rose from the table. Sister Marie had more to say, but Becca just cut her off. “We can talk more tomorrow on the way to the courthouse.”

  Lying in bed, Cricket felt hollowed out by the day and by a discussion that she couldn’t add to or defend. She had let Sister down by not intervening. Her very best friend had to struggle by her lonesome. There was no comfort in tomorrow’s being a better day, words her husband had spoken before falling off quickly into sleep. She lay atop the covers, and Becca’s words haunted her, the awful remarks made worse by the late hour and being unable to sleep. But the worse thing was that she hadn’t come to her friend’s defense.

  Part III

  WHITENESS

  28

  Courthouse

  In the back of the ’49 Ford sat Becca and Cricket, winding through downtown with no other cars. A few people wandered; others looked about with a hunger that couldn’t be satisfied. And there were lots of cops on foot. Fritz was flying the river from Cincy to Louisville and up to Pittsburgh looking for slavers. For the first time since she had gotten in the Piper Cub under her father’s guidance, Cricket didn’t look forward to the next flight.

  Cricket was quiet about Father’s confession regarding the Visitor, which would only confirm Becca’s assumptions about religious folks’ living in the swamp of superstition. She stuck to the line that Becca had nothing to fear from the priest and his congregation, and everything to gain by being good partners with the Christian community.

  “Sister Marie says that we’re a thinking person’s religion.”

  “That old line about Christianity’s being a thinking man’s religion is so pathetic,” Becca said. “You’re as bad as any other religious cult.”

  Yesterday’s big mistake that had caused an “accident” had slowed Cricket’s reaction time. To her knowledge, her father had never set in motion events like she and Fritz had. She had awoken with anger toward her husband of four months, and tried to cover up her emotions with excuses about having a hard time getting out of bed, blaming it on her pregnancy, and the old standby, “I’ve got a really bad headache.” She also wished she hadn’t promised to accompany Becca to the courthouse.

  Cricket finally responded to Becca’s attack. “Without the church’s help, you’ll invite more chaos, more evil,” Cricket countered. “Not just the Coyotes, but the gang violence that’s popping up everywhere in the city. What’s your goal?”

  “My goal is for this city to not only survive, but be a model for others when the lights come back on. People across the country will see all the work and progress we made, even with our backs against the wall.”

  Did she really believe this crap? Cricket gave her attention to the passing scenery of broken windows, businesses burned to the ground. A few more folks had ventured out, walking the streets, staring at the fat, warm old vehicle passing by and actually going the speed limit, a condition that Becca insisted on. They passed deserted restaurants, a boarded-up movie house.

  “For God’s sake, Becca, I’m a Christian, too!”

  “Yes, I know. A Christian who saved me twice. So, I’m making an exception with you.”

  Cricket had heard about being the exception before, especially from the Brazilian. That aspiring goddess had also seen Sister Marie as exceptional—part of a new trinity, one in which all three women had the power and purity to rule over others.

  Becca shrugged and looked out the window. “There’s room for exceptions when you’re running things. And I like arguing with that nun.”

  “What about Father Muslovsky’s people?”

  Becca faced Cricket. “I want them to kee
p their religion to themselves. I don’t want to hear about their God or their good works. You can do lots of good work without clinging to a fantasy.” She smiled smugly. “Ultimately, when they’re locked inside their heads, I want them doubting their religion, feeling the shame of being freaks, society’s outcasts. Pariahs.”

  “I won’t be saving you a third time,” Cricket said, almost as though she were pouting. Becca laughed out loud. Cricket felt hurt by this woman she had considered a potential friend. But now she was writing her off for good. She was growing up and didn’t retaliate, knowing the importance of keeping a roof over their heads, especially for the girls. Cricket brought up the scratches on the girls’ dresser. That was important. The girls were more important to her than anything else.

  Becca had no idea about the condition of the dresser and said to ask her mom, who was always busying herself with decorating. “Maybe that lunatic in the basement got upstairs. Maybe he made the scratches.”

  “Was he a Coyote in his day job?” Cricket asked.

  “I have no idea. Let’s call it a crazy person.”

  “Crazy is not what I heard from the victim of a biting attack. This guy was singled out for something he said in class.”

  “We can’t all go our merry way in life anymore. We have to think of the greater good all the time. I went to the university here. I know many of the professors. They know that their job now is to guide their students. Perhaps the professor was just trying to help him get focused.”

  “And so he was attacked?”

  “Cricket, we’re not just surviving here. That’s not the mindset. Many of us are actively forming a new relationship with the world, with each other. Our professors are teaching what’s important for not only our survival, but our ability to sustain a fairer and more just world.”

  “Great, like the old days, before the world went dark, when college kids chased off campus or attacked speakers they didn’t like.”

  Becca shrugged and looked away, sniffing, “A case of passionate people going after the bigots.”

  “Becca, they were speaking, not gunning people down.”

  Becca’s breath fogged the window as she spoke, and then she turned to Cricket with a new face, like she had broken through the ice of her own ideas. Her features had softened.

  “When did you lose your mom?” Becca asked.

  “Ten years ago. Cancer.”

  “I lost my mom almost twenty years ago.”

  “What?” Cricket took Becca’s hand. “Fighting with a parent, being mad when you don’t get your way, isn’t a real loss. You should know that.”

  “Mom became Elaine. Self-centered, old-fashioned, mean towards the things that mattered.”

  “You knew what mattered at ten?”

  “Absolutely. My dad taught me that certain people were getting screwed over all the time because they were different. Blacks, gays, single moms. He said his job as councilman at the time was to bring justice.”

  “Did he?” Cricket asked.

  “He tried. The forces against him were too powerful. That’s why he worked his ass off and got elected mayor. I’m following in his footsteps.”

  “All people need help right now, Becca. We have to work together. Father Muslovsky is helping you to do that job.”

  Becca again laughed. “You’re relentless. Okay, here’s what we do: Father M. brings over his sermon; I correct it and make it relevant to the world we live in. It’s a world with a lot of challenges. So, the first thing we take care of is all the inequality. We’re doing that right here in Cincy. Unfortunately, our first female president is not on the same page as we are. She’s not the one who’s going to be reshaping the world when the lights come on.”

  “I thought you’d be impressed having the first woman president?’

  “She’s a traditionalist. We’re making new traditions.”

  “We’ve got great traditions, like the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, the end of slavery. She’s the leader who’ll finally make this country work for everyone.”

  “How can you trust her? She’s already a traitor to her own religion.”

  “She made the decision to become a Catholic after a lot of study. I thought you’d appreciate a strong, independent woman.”

  “You’re much more reactionary than I thought.”

  Cricket shut up for the remainder of the short drive, and Becca stared straight ahead. The driver pulled into a parking garage and parked on the first level.

  “I thought you might appreciate our justice system,” Becca said sarcastically, “you being a cop’s daughter. It’s obvious you loved your dad and learned right from wrong. Social justice is even more important now that the lights are out. The worst is coming out in people. Whiteness is a disease that’s infected our society for a very long time.” She paused and studied Cricket for a moment. “I recognized it in myself when I was your age, early twenties. Shocked the hell out of me to find out how racist I really was.”

  “Whiteness,” Cricket mocked, shaking her head. “Sister Marie’s right: ‘You enslave me, now I enslave you. You screwed with me for a long time; now I’m going to screw with you until the end of time.’ What bullshit!”

  “You need to open your mind. It’s a disease my dad was starting to see before he died.”

  The gate to the garage was closed and guarded by two uniformed police officers. Other security men and women with weapons at their sides greeted the mayor and Cricket before escorting them into a lighted hallway. Behind locked double doors, a generator roared.

  They passed an empty office; the only people on their path were heavily armed and guarding staircases and the long hallways. Large oak doors swung open into a packed courtroom and some proceeding taking place. The observers acted like sports fans, yelling and cheering as one attorney made his case.

  Cricket followed Becca and the security people to a roped-off area behind the prosecution’s table. It grew quiet as the prosecutor swooped past the jury box, pointing at the person on the witness stand. The prosecutor was a grinning, long-haired giant, young, and maybe an actor in another life before the lights went out. His big arm outstretched, still pointing, he walked up to the witness, who hung her head in shame, or perhaps preparing to launch her own attack. The atmosphere was that of a Nazi war criminal on trial, or Vlad the Impaler.

  The prosecutor bellowed: “Mother Nature has shown our hubris with the EMP attack, spat in our faces, stomped us into the dirt for treating her planet so obscenely. She rightfully brought us back to the nineteenth century.”

  Except for the big-ass generator giving you a warm, well-lit courtroom in the twenty-first century. Cricket found herself taking sides quickly, and looked at Becca, who smiled at the prosecutor’s words.

  When the woman looked up, she started to speak and was shouted down by the prosecutor and the roar of the mob. Cricket jumped from her seat and saw the look of incredulity on Becca’s face.

  “Let her speak,” Cricket yelled.

  The mob pointed their wrath at Cricket, standing tall in her ankle boots and short skirt, black hose, and Fritz’s turtleneck.

  The prosecutor raised his hand, and the crowd grumbled to a halt. The judge was a black woman whose fierce stare was framed by a brown, red-streaked wig. Judge Maxine Penny watched and smiled.

  In cold droplets, Becca said: “Sit—down. You’re making a fool out of yourself. We just got here.”

  “I’ve seen enough.” Cricket returned Becca’s cold stare and eyed the prosecutor, who was walking over with a big, handsome smile and the start of a beard.

  “And your problem, my dear?”

  “Badgering the witness!” Cricket’s shout was answered by the home-team spectators.

  The judge’s rap of the gavel was as much for Cricket as it was for the mob in the courtroom.

  “Never got to my question.” The big man smiled. “Simply laying the groundwork.”

  A few spectators nearby snickered, and Becca put her head in her
hands. Cricket knew he was right. The witness hadn’t responded because the question hadn’t been asked.

  “Can I proceed?” The bear of a man sneered.

  Becca raised her head and shouted, “Yes, you can,” and the room became drop-dead quiet, as if they were waiting for more from the mayor.

  Becca stared at Cricket, who sat down to a flurry of catcalls and boos from the mob. A long burn of shame started sweat down her back. Becca leaned close: “Shut up and listen. You just made a fool of yourself. Ralph is my best prosecutor. He could’ve had you thrown out of court. Torn you a new one. Wait till the judge comes after you.”

  The judge aimed her gavel at Cricket. The judge’s smile said that Cricket was a problem she’d deal with in the near future. Her eyes then followed the attorney, who walked back to the witness stand, hands at the back of his head, flexing his shoulder blades like he was preparing every muscle for the weight of his next question.

  “Is it common for a teacher of geology to be taking on climate science?” The man seemed sincere, not a bit of snarkiness in his voice. Just the facts. Just the truth.

  “Actually, it is. Geomagnetism affects the earth’s weather.”

  “Did it affect our loss of power?”

  “Well, yes, in that our magnetic field collided with the particles of a coronal mass ejection, producing a solar storm. Then we had the EMP attack.”

  “Anything else affect our loss of power?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “How about global warming?”

  A cheer went up at the mention of global warming, as though a favorite sports hero or movie star had just entered the building. Cricket watched the judge smile with satisfaction, as if she was the proud parent of climate fever. The defense attorney rose and said something, but it was swallowed up by the racket of voices and chairs slammed against the wood floor with glee.

  Standing up slowly, the defense attorney said, “Objection, Your Honor. I fail to see how our present loss of power—”