“Dad taught me to fly, shoot, and hunt. Mom taught me to ride horses, and Lee Ann is relentless about me getting back in the saddle. When Mom died, I lost the desire to ride. Too painful. Flying and boys kept me plenty busy.”
An hour later and a lifetime of stories, they left the warm bar and walked into a blizzard.
Becca looked up into the storm. “The last one, I’m told. Then spring arrives.”
“You’ve got a weatherman on the payroll?”
“Actually, one local weatherman has all the basic instruments at home for measuring the barometric pressure, wind speed, things like that. He knows his clouds.”
Cricket laughed and howled into the snowstorm before Becca pushed her into the back seat of the waiting car.
“Maybe I’ll take you to my secret hideaway.” Becca draped a leg over Cricket’s.
“Sorry, I need to get back to my husband and the rest of my life.”
“Oh, come on, you’re more advanced than that?” Becca rested her arm across Cricket’s waist and leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.
“You really don’t like my husband?” Cricket gently pushed Becca away.
“You’re right, I don’t. He’s a goofball.” Becca moved to her side of the seat. “Hell, I don’t like most men. Angel’s the exception.” She gave a huge horse laugh, much to Cricket’s amusement.
“He’s not a goofball. And I love him very much.”
“I think he’s keeping you stuck in the old world, my dear. A place and time that are never going to be illuminated again.”
“I guess I’m in love with the old world. Your words. It’s not perfect and not always pretty, but we live in the most amazing country on God’s green earth. I got the God’s-green-earth thing from my uncle Tommy.”
“Wow, Cricket, a lot to unpack. I think we’d both have to stay drunk to be friends in this old world of yours. What do you think?”
“I think that if you not only allowed Father Muslovsky to have his freedom to say whatever the hell he wants but actually attended church once in a while, we could have our differences and be friends, and not have to get drunk.”
From the back seat of the old Ford, Cricket aimed her attention at the world passing by. Candles and lanterns burned in some windows, yet the snow had made a dark world even darker.
Becca’s last comment made Cricket lose her humor. She had heard old-world/new-world stuff once too often from New-Age pagan queens, radical atheists, and deadly jihadists.
Cricket said, “You can’t shut up about politics.”
“It’s life. I think Aristotle had something to say about it.”
“Quoting a dead white male?”
“I do whatever I have to do to make progress, like right now, trying to make progress with you.” She laughed, patting Cricket’s leg. “Besides, politicking goes on all day.”
“It’s not everything,” Cricket maintained.
“Sorry, it is.” Her next horse laugh happened just as the driver’s window shattered and his head exploded, spraying the bodyguard on the right with brains and scalp.
Cricket shoved Becca on the floor, and the car crashed into a storefront, shattering the plate glass.
“Follow me!” Cricket demanded. The other bodyguard was out of the car, shooting wildly into the dark street. Cricket climbed over the front seat and snatched the dead driver’s AR-15, and opened the door as more bullets struck the car and Becca screamed.
“What can we do?”
“A lot. I’m not dying here.”
She had Becca climb over the broken glass and had her take cover at the farthest corner, away from the shattered window. It was a pro golf shop that had been mostly cleaned out except for a painted mural of Tiger Woods full of bullet holes. She pulled the shooter’s fire onto her by immediately shooting from the corner of the window, well beyond the car and catty-corner to where Becca was balled up, covering her head with her arms.
A short scream was followed by silence. The second bodyguard was dead.
Cricket went to the door and could see a tall man across the street, stooped next to a mailbox. The next time the man shot, she returned fire, and his rounds came after her and ignored the car. Soon the store’s remaining glass had shattered completely. She went to look and take aim before a barrage of fire erupted. More than one shooter, she realized.
She spotted an empty golf bag, dragged it to the door, and leaned it against the frame, exposing its side as if it were a person. The bag took several hits, and she shoved it onto the ground with her foot. The falling object excited the shooters, and they hammered away. She saw a door leading to the stockroom, office, and restrooms and considered whether she and Becca could make their escape through the back of the store. But what if in the dark they found locked doors or windowless rooms?
The cold of the night seeped under her turtleneck; her legs were even colder. She didn’t move her head, didn’t strain to hear the hushed but excited voices closing in. She had only a split second to aim and fire before they would shoot back at her.
She ensured the safety was off and the magazine full—twenty-one rounds. A good number, she thought.
She heard clear voices: “Take the car. I got the shop.”
Cricket appeared in the broken doorway, AR-15 firing away, before she even spotted them. It was best if they heard from her before they ever saw her. Her first bullets were wide of the targets, which were two men in camouflage, guns sputtering bullets because now they had been surprised and it was their turn to dread the passing moments.
Her bullets nailed one attacker, who yelled and fired at everything except her. But all good things must come to an end, and they spotted her. The one who had already taken a bullet was bent over but standing. Both men stood in the middle of the street, close enough for Cricket to see their faces.
A car came barreling down the street in the snowstorm, distracting the shooters long enough for Cricket to nail both men—several bullets apiece, equal treatment. The men screamed and remained standing until the fast car kicking up snow mowed down the assassins.
Unharmed, Cricket ran to Becca, who was still huddled on the floor.
32
Warriors
The second car, driven by John, brought them safely back home. Fritz and Sister Marie were both up and had been pacing for hours.
“We always know when you’re in trouble,” Sister said. “We can see the smoke signals from miles away.”
“The girls? Predator?”
Sister gave an exhausted smile. “The girls, hopefully, are peacefully dreaming.”
“Predator’s staying at Lunken,” Fritz said solemnly, “looking after the Mustang,” reminding her that it was their duty to keep the world from falling apart by taking to the air in an airplane they both loved. Uncle Tommy, upon seeing it come to their rescue on July Fourth, had cried out several times, “Cadillac of the Skies!”
“Cricket saved me,” Becca said. The simple comment made everyone stop midsentence. “Yeah, Miss Wild Woman told me to keep my ass in the corner, and that’s what I did.”
“More than once she told me to lie flat and keep my ass on the floor,” said Sister, bending down to caress Diesel with both hands along the back of the happy dog.
Becca folded her arms. “O savior of mine, what is it you most desire? A vacation for two to sunny Florida? You and Fritz having your own wing of the house? Well?”
“I want to participate in the trial we watched today. I want to be a material witness for the defense. I want to meet with the defendant. Privately.”
“Aren’t you more worried about the Patriarchs who tried to kill us tonight? Maybe help me devise a plan to take them out. Now that’d be smart.”
“We don’t know who attacked us.”
Becca, head down, was shifting gears. “We’re always going to argue. Even when we’re old ladies. It’s in our DNA. But not tonight. I’m going to take a warm bath, pour myself another drink, and review our exciting day: the judge threatened to t
ake your ass apart.” She winked. “I would have put it back together.”
“Becca, two of your men died tonight protecting you,” Cricket said, “like real warriors.”
“Yes, they did. And their families will be notified and awarded with extra food rations for the next month. And hopefully soon, Angel’s shipment will arrive and the families of the slain men, all good citizens, will avoid going hungry the rest of the winter.”
Cricket said, “So, what about my request?”
“Why not? It’ll make it interesting.” She smiled at Fritz. “Hey, flyboy, I’m sure you could have handled our dilemma tonight just as well as your beautiful wife.”
Fritz shrugged. “Sure. But what’s important is that I have my wife back. That’s what matters.”
33
Lucy in the Snow with Diamonds
Later that night, Lucy and a few dozen slavers circled the Holiday Inn Express east of downtown near the river. The rest of the slavers were camped in a wooded area that served as a campsite in the summer months. Their catch had warm cabins to rest in, but Lucy needed bigger and better digs. Thinking, she fingered a diamond necklace that was too large for her small stature, giving her a child-dressed-up-like-Mommy look that no one dared comment on, let alone stare at. Ajax had promised to keep the gas flowing at the hotel until their departure in two weeks, and that meant hot showers and clean rooms. Ajax had always come through, and so must she.
She didn’t want all the riffraff holed up in the hotel killed, and made it known she didn’t want a big mess. All she needed was a single example. A few of her best slavers had snuck inside and killed the so-called guard on duty and now had a man and woman on either side of the building naked, freezing, and tied spread-eagle to stakes forming a large X.
Her men inside were signaled, and they started shooting and shouting. Some guests came downstairs; most watched from their windows. The little gymnast had a megaphone and informed the onlookers that they had fifteen minutes to leave the premises or this would be their fate.
She expected some resistance, so when shots were fired, rifle teams pulverized that room. The fires were lit, and the howling of the victims was met by howls of the guests. Within minutes almost a hundred guests trudged out into the snow; most were poorly dressed, and they were told to head west on the road in front of the hotel. A few resistors were quickly eliminated. Those who avoided death by fire would freeze to death instead.
An hour later, Lucy had moved in with one of her recent catches, who was given a corner of the room to occupy. She stripped down, left her gun and knife on the bed, and proceeded to shower, leaving on the necklace. She wondered if her catch would have the balls to grab a weapon and come after her. One could always hope.
34
Defendant
Cricket sat across from the middle-aged scientist. Pear-shaped, with light brown hair and kind brown eyes, Beth Grainger, a professor of geology at the University of Cincinnati, was on trial for climate denial.
“Why are you here? You’re not a scientist,” Beth said. “I mean, it is nice of you to want to help, but I can’t count on your expertise since you don’t have any, except for stirring up a hornet’s nest like you did yesterday.”
They were in an interrogation room with a long one-way mirror. A guard stood stationed a few feet away. Cricket said, “The world’s gone dark, and they’re prosecuting you for your views on the climate? That’s a hot mess. I don’t need to be a scientist to go after these clowns.”
“Well, you may make everything worse.”
“What did your idiot lawyer tell you to expect?”
“A slap on the wrist. No more teaching. But there’s no school to teach at anyway. Most of the buildings that are heated are used by the city for survival planning. I get that. I respect that.”
“That mob acted like you were a mass murder. I have an eleven-year-old reading the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. Maybe you should get a copy?”
“That’s too abstract. They’re upset about survival—”
“And you’re standing in their way? Oh, come on. Freedom is needed for our survival. I’ve seen people reduced to beasts, their worst emotions coming out since the attack. Don’t think these animals are going to be satisfied with a slap on the wrist. The judge and the prosecutor are yelling for blood.”
“But how can you talk about the science of climate change?”
“I’m not going to. Well, not directly. You’re right, I don’t know much about the subject, but I’m going to remind them of your rights as an American.”
The woman looked down. Her shoulders lifted with the next breath; she was trying to calm herself or cry.
Cricket reached for the young scientist’s hand. “Look, Beth, I’ve got the go-ahead from the mayor.”
“The mayor wants to help me?” she said sadly.
“Sure, I’m living proof.”
“My attorney said that no trials go forward without her approval.”
“That doesn’t make her a monster. She’s got a lot on her plate. She told me to take up this cause, so she’s definitely reconsidering whatever silly notions are swimming around in that pretty head of hers.” Cricket considered her next question. “Were they after you before the EMP attack?”
“It got worse every year. Not like this. I followed the global warming predictions made for the end of the twentieth century, and when all the doom and gloom didn’t pan out, I put a lot of study into it. I was able to get some graduate students to help out until they were threatened with unemployment.”
A snack arrived for Cricket and Beth, and soon after, a tall female officer escorted them into the courtroom. Beth’s lawyer knew of their new material witness and had insisted he vet Cricket. The judge refused his request. Cricket knew he worried that her testimony might actually benefit Beth, putting him in jeopardy with the prosecutor. It wasn’t rocket science to figure out that this guy had no intention of getting an innocent verdict for Beth.
When the two women filed into the courtroom, the circus began with the mob shouting for Beth’s head and screaming that they’d burn Cricket at the stake. The demands were followed by laughter. Cricket had told Beth that the hardest part would be giving the judge and the proceedings the respect and decorum that she and Beth would be denied.
“We’re taking the high road?” Beth had asked before they walked through the doors.
“Yeah, it’s called the American road. And more people than at any other time in history have traveled down it and found their freedom. You as a scientist deserve your God-given liberties to study and research and show the world your findings, without being punished for it.”
Beth smiled weakly at this, but her eyes answered tenfold in appreciation for what her smile could not.
Cricket sat next to the attorney and avoided staring back at Judge Maxine, who shot her a venomous look. Cricket knew that the judge had warned her to control herself, which left her even angrier at having to act civilized in such a mockery of a courtroom.
Cricket was called to the stand and asked to say her name.
“Emily Cricket Hastings,” she said proudly.
“And I understand you want to be addressed as ‘Cricket.’” Ralph smiled and the room laughed.
Before the first question, Judge Maxine leaned over toward the witness stand.
“I’ll hold you in contempt if you start to disturb this great courtroom of ours. In my court, contempt will get you a year in the island prison downriver.”
A thousand witty comeback lines tempted Cricket, yet she remained civil.
“Judge, I respect your authority and the authority of this court, and any sentence or recommendation the court may hand down. My dad was a police officer. And he taught me to respect the rule of law.”
As it turned out, this was the best comeback line Cricket could have used. The judge burned with hatred.
Cricket spotted Angel in the stands, and she believed the judge had spotted him as well. Angel had a f
ew men with him, and they looked relaxed, comfortable. The spectators still formed a mob, unaffected by the town’s leaders, so it was up to the judge to do the heavy lifting and get them in line. She pounded the gavel, and the room soon quieted down.
“I like hearing the people’s reaction to these proceedings, but we have a lot of material of a scientific nature that needs to be heard by the jury.” She scanned the room, expecting all eyes on her. She nodded at each section. “Now don’t go whooping it up at everything said here. This courtroom will not be one long disturbance.”
Or I’ll take your ass apart, is what Cricket heard, suppressing a smile.
“Mr. Parker, proceed.”
Ralph Parker walked slowly to the witness stand. Cricket wondered if he, too, had put a lid on his behavior. Maybe Becca and Angel would allow a little good cop/bad cop?
“Your credentials, Mrs. Hastings.”
“That’s Ms. Hastings.”
“I thought you were married?”
“I am.”
“Didn’t take your husband’s name?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“So you’re a modern woman after all.”
“I think of myself as traditional and modern.”
“Very good. Your credentials?”
“I’m an American. I’m also a pilot and a hairdresser.”
This response got the loudest boos of the day. Judge Maxine settled into her high-backed leather chair, finger on the tip of the gavel’s handle, rocking it back and forth, surveying the animals banging chairs and hollering. The judge’s smug look said: They’re my animals.
“As a material witness, you need to show that your expertise can affect the outcome of this trial.” Ralph looked astounded. He took a few steps back, squinted at the lights overhead like he was looking at a doomed star. He pivoted back to Cricket as she answered.
American Blackout (Book 3): Gangster Town Page 11