Last Call America- Last Call Before Darkness Falls

by Debra Tash

  “Cut our rations,” Poole explained.

  The two nodded. The one soldier handed back the captain’s peek and saluted.

  As we pulled away, Poole said, “In there.” He jammed his thumb back to a locker perched on top of the large dividing console. “Get out some grub and let’s eat.”

  I crawled over, flipped it open, and looked inside. “Did you raid our cellar?”

  “Sure enough, Honey Beck.”

  With my stomach still rumbling, I pawed through the contents. Poole wasn’t much on nutrition. I pulled out a couple bags of chips, two waters, and a package of cookies. “You should have been a thief, not a soldier.”

  I gave him an open water bottle. He slugged down almost half of it before stopping to take a breath. After wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he said, “I should have been a lot things. Would have preferred anything to this.”

  “Then why aren’t you something else?” I asked as I tore open a bag of barbeque potato chips.

  He laughed. “You kidding me? Once they ‘peg and hole’ you, you can’t change. You start your assigned occupation.” Poole held out his open palm. “I’m confiscating my fair share. Give some over.”

  “They never ‘pegged and holed’ me or Christina,” I told him as I tipped the bag and dumped a handful of chips into his open palm.

  He pushed them into his mouth, crunched a few times, and swallowed. “All your school records. The data points. They collect them and tell you what you have to do. No one has a choice.”

  “There weren’t any data points collected on us.”

  He shook his head. “No, ma’am. Everyone has them.” He licked his fingers and held out his hand again. I put the bag on the console beside him and opened up the ranch-flavored chips for myself. He dipped in and took a helping out of my bag. “Hell, Beck, you go through school and they measure everything about you. From your posture to your facial expressions. To every which way you twitch and scratch. They collect it all. Done it ever since the Feds nationalized education so they could fit you in your work slot when you’re old enough. ‘Bright new united world, with our new place in it.’”

  “Phftt!” I gave him a raspberry for reciting that idiotic mantra drilled into everyone now.

  “Phftt!” he gave me in return.

  I crossed my arms over my chest and tipped up my chin. “We were homeschooled.”

  “Couldn’t have been unless your folks didn’t give a damn that you’d have no occupation when you grew up. The Feds started in on homeschooling years ago. If your kid doesn’t go through the system they don’t get slotted. Maybe they expected all you two would be doing is working in that diner.”

  “I got into Harvard. Two years into a Communications major when I was called home because our dad fell ill.”

  His brow creased. “Someone had to change your records. Make them up. You could never have gotten into Harvard without that happening.” He finished off his water and nearly both bags of chips, then asked, “How about those cookies?”

  I did the same thing I had done with the chips—set the open package on the console for him to pick through. I sat back in my seat again, a single thought chasing me. Maybe someone had changed our records. Someone deep on the inside. Someone who had abandoned me and never turned back to give a word of comfort since I was three years old. Someone I had hated nearly all my life.

  After our last stop, we crossed over the state line of Massachusetts, and by late afternoon were driving north, deep into southern Vermont. I had never been to Vermont, a place I’d heard about from my father, a state where my mother’s family had lived, toiled, and died since before the first shot had been fired at Lexington. It’d been a wild, untamed land back then, too harsh for even the Native Americans to claim. With its steep mountains covered with trees and icy blue streams, it must have been an incredibly harsh place to carve out a life. And now it seemed devoid of people. The small towns and homes we passed along the road appeared absent their inhabitants.

  A sharp clink caught my attention. Another, then a flurry of them as Poole jammed his foot on the gas.

  Thrown back against the seat, I pulled myself erect and yelled, “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Someone’s taking potshots at us!” One more clink, then silence. “Where the hell are we, Beck!”

  Lips pinched tight, I held up the map and concentrated, trying hard to figure out if we were going the right way. So many of the street signs had been torn down, carted off, and used for God-only-knew-what. I squinted as I tried to read the small print. “Just turn on the GPS.”

  “You want them to track us, Beck? Now read the damn map and give me some directions.”

  “It’s old. The print’s hard to read.”

  “Probably smeared,” he said and snorted. “You should never have hidden it in your underwear.”

  I grunted.

  We went another mile before I spotted a road I could recognize from the map. “Turn right—here!”

  Poole yanked the wheel hard and sent the Humvee fishtailing on the slick pavement. “Shit! A little more notice next time.”

  There were more turns, and finally what appeared to be a gravel track leading to a home buried deep inside a forest of evergreen pine trees and sycamores bare of foliage. Poole stopped the vehicle far short of our destination.

  I leaned forward, peering out the front window. Smoke curled upward from a stone chimney, wisps of black against the slate-colored sky. “Someone’s in there. Why don’t you get closer?”

  “You never know if there’s a surprise waiting for visitors.” He pointed to the house. “Want you to exit and stand right in front of the Humvee, arms raised.”

  “You crazy?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll have your back.”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s your family. Not mine.” With his rifle in hand, the captain motioned for me to open the passenger door. “And take off your hat, Beck.”

  I slipped the cap off my head and slowly opened the door. With arms raised, my pants slipped. I grabbed hold with one hand, pressed up against the Humvee, and scooted around to the front of the vehicle, mindful there may be surprises buried beneath that gravel driveway. With my back against the vehicle, I raised my hands high.

  “Becky, baby!” a woman’s voice boomed.

  I looked around but couldn’t find the source of that voice. After sucking in a deep breath, I shouted, “Rebecca Sanders! Father, Robert Sanders! Mother, Margaret Dunn!” Then I gave my birth date.

  “Let her go!” the woman ordered.

  Poole got out, hands held up slightly. “Ma’am, she isn’t a prisoner.”

  “We came here for your help!” I yelled.

  “Becky, step away from the Humvee!” the unseen woman directed.

  I did. That’s when my pants dropped. I tripped over them and fell face first onto the snow-covered ground, knocking the wind out of me. It took a moment to regain my senses. I rolled onto my back as footfalls crunched against the newly fallen snow.

  A woman holding a rifle stopped and stared down at me. My gaze locked with hers. A little overweight, she had graying red hair, and wrinkles mapped her face. She was a woman who could have been my twin except for the years between us. I knew her even though I hadn’t seen her in years.

  A solitary word stuck in my throat. I pushed it out, even as it left a bitter taste in my mouth—“Mother.”

  I cupped my hands around the mug, letting its warmth penetrate my cold fingers. Closing my eyes, I inhaled the rich scent of hot cocoa. I tried to hold fast to the comfort it brought to me. Faded memories of cold winter mornings when the world felt small and safe, a deep, buried feeling as I sat in the kitchen of the woman who had deserted me. My eyes opened slowly as I heard her footfalls.

  She leaned over and dropped in a sprinkling of small marshmallows to top off the coco
a. Sitting across from me at the wooden table, Poole glanced at her, then at me, an eyebrow cocked as he lifted his own mug, sans marshmallows, to his lips.

  A fire burned in the hearth next to the large iron stove. It filled the rustic kitchen with a pleasant warmth. In some deep and forgotten recess of my memory, the room felt familiar. It was decorated with rough-sawn wainscot, and had whitewashed walls. Butter-colored curtains covered the windows. I had changed back into my civvies after peeling off the fatigues, still damp from my fall in the snow. The fire toasted my back. Its warmth added to the odd feeling this place was home, a welcomed shelter from the gray November day outside.

  Margaret Dunn joined us at the table. With hands folded on top of it, she set her gaze on me. She had taken off her winter coat and boots, leaving them hanging with ours on the hall tree by the front door. Dressed in a flannel shirt and stretch pants, her tawny graying hair disheveled, she looked much older than her years. Her eyes, the same shade of green as mine, were bloodshot, and her mouth was pulled taut. The room remained empty of sound.

  Poole took a sip of his cocoa and pursed his mouth. “Mighty fine. Thank you, Ms. Dunn, for the hospitality.”

  “You’re welcome, and it’s Maggie. Now tell me why you’re here, Becky Baby.”

  I pushed away my mug. “It’s Rebecca.”

  “If you say so. Rebecca.” She leaned forward. “Now tell me, why did you come to Vermont?”

  “Dad left me a letter. In it, he gave me a map and wrote about you and this farm. It said you were high up in the Department of Homeland Security. Said if I ever needed help, to seek you out.”

  Her gaze slid over to Poole. “I take it the captain has something to do with your visit.”

  “I am one of the prime reasons,” Poole informed her.

  “The soldiers stationed in Farmsworth have orders to start shooting civilians,” I said. “They took our food. Now the rations are being cut. There’s sure to be riots again and that’s when the military has its orders to open fire on us. Men, women, and children.”

  Maggie pointed to my mug. “If you aren’t going to drink that…”

  I glared at her, then shoved the mug in her direction.

  She took a taste of the sweet drink, then set it down and drew in a deep breath. “It’s happening all over the country now.” She focused on me again. “We saw it coming years ago. James, Susan, and me. That’s why they left the DHS after…well…after. And that’s why I stayed.”

  “James? Susan? Who are they?”

  “Your dad’s and Vera’s real names. We were all in the Department together.”

  For a moment, I felt as if the wind had been knocked out of me again. I shook my head and jammed a fist onto the tabletop. “You’re wrong. Dad’s family used to own a fish joint in Boston. He grew up in the restaurant business helping them. Never did anything else. That’s why he and Vera opened a diner in Farmsworth.”

  “Your father, like the rest of his family, served in a government post. He was no different from them. Su—I mean Vera, was the same. We all served the State.”

  A shrill beep sounded as I sat there stunned by what she had just confided, something I could never believe true of the two people who’d raised me. Maggie pulled a small, thin rectangular device from her shirt pocket, studied it a moment, and looked at us. “Hold on a minute.”

  She picked up a flyswatter from the counter, dragged her chair to a corner of the room, climbed on it, and whacked a tiny black dot on the wall. Maggie brought the flyswatter and chair back to the table. “Weenie TD.”

  “Like in a weenie STD?” Poole asked.

  Maggie spurted as if she were trying to suppress her laughter. “Has nothing to do with sex, Captain.” She held up the flyswatter for our inspection.

  Poole and I strained to see what was on it.

  “Maggie Sweetheart, looks like a little old fly with broken wings.”

  Eyes narrow, she glared at him.

  “Poole Sugar, here, is mighty fond of nicknames,” I explained, intimating his drawl.

  “Geez. Does he always act like a sexist putz?”

  I hesitated a moment, then nodded.

  She let a chuckle escape. “It’s a Tactical Drone. Has a long technical name. In the Department, we dubbed them ‘Teeny Weenie Tactical Drones.’ Got shortened over time to ‘Weenie TD.’”

  “Why would one be in your house?”

  “They’re sending them all the time. Monitoring me since I retired from the Department a few years ago. When I get an alert—wham!” She scraped the drone’s wreckage onto the tabletop.

  “And when the signal’s cut?” the captain probed.

  “It isn’t cut. The equipment I have picks up the transmission portal and immediately replaces it with archived footage. Mostly me soaking in the bathtub or on the can. I’m giving Stevens, the ‘watch bird’ assigned to me, something scary to look at in the home office. When the drone has run its clock, he sends another one. Swat. About once every other day. Not enough to really get annoying.”

  “Why whack them if you’re replacing their signal?” Poole asked.

  “If I don’t, they have the ability to reset themselves on their own and override me.”

  With his finger, Poole dabbed what was left of the device on the tabletop. Bits of the drone stuck to his skin. He examined it for a moment, then asked, “Why the monitoring?”

  “I know too much.”

  He flicked off the tiny shards. “Then why are you still alive?”

  “Pragmatic, aren’t you, Captain? I’m still alive because I know too much. They can call me out of retirement anytime they want.”

  “Will you help us?” I asked.

  “That’s why your father left you the letter. I was always ready to help.”

  “Now what can one person really do?” Poole prodded. “Tell me we didn’t come all this way for nothin’.”

  “You didn’t come for nothin’,” she mimicked. “And it would have been better to ask, ‘What can a network of us really do?’” Once more she leaned forward. “Now tell me, what is it you want?”

  Captain Poole’s mouth curled with a sly smile. “Why, to start a revolution, Maggie Sweetheart.”

  CHAPTER 7

  As shadows covered the landscape outside the old farmhouse, Maggie lit the solitary lantern propped on the kitchen counter and brought it to the table. She’d explained the local utility had cut power to the area months ago. A small generator provided just enough to run her computer and security equipment. She returned to the counter to fix dinner as we continued sharing our thoughts on a plan of action.

  Maggie listened quietly as she opened two cans, fetched a couple of pots from the sink, and dumped in the contents. She set the pots on the stove and turned up the burners. I seemed to remember seeing that cookware soaking in brackish water when we came in, and judging by the results of her efforts, the finished product left little doubt cooking and cleaning were low on the woman’s priorities list. At least the food was filling, if barely edible. And to Poole’s satisfaction, Maggie had given him a bottle of beer to wash down the unpalatable meal.

  When we finished, Maggie showed us to our accommodations, Poole. With the single lantern, she lit the way down the long hall off the kitchen. She sparked another lantern inside the room and pointed to a chest of drawers opposite the four-poster bed. “There’s extra blankets in there.”

  Poole tipped his head to her. “Why thank you, ma’am.”

  “And there’s probably still some antacid left. Check the medicine cabinet in your bathroom if you need any.”

  He put a hand to his stomach, shook his head, and forced a smile. The captain closed the bedroom door.

  Maggie raised her lantern and led me to the far end of the hall. There were faded photographs on the wall and a few painted portraits, illuminated briefly as we passed. She gestu
red to an open doorway as an odd feeling crept up my spine. I paused, sensing something familiar. I looked over my shoulder to the closed door opposite mine.

  Maggie brushed past me and, as she had done for Poole, ignited the single lantern inside the room, sparsely furnished compared to Poole’s quarters. There was no chest of drawers or quaint rocking chair, just an iron bed piled with down comforters on top and a nightstand.

  Instead of telling me where I could find the antacid, Maggie set her lantern beside the one on the nightstand. She pulled a small device from the pocket of her flannel shirt. Tugging on its edges, she drew it into a paper-sized piece of ridge plastic. She took a seat on the bed and patted the spot beside her. “I want to leave this with you.”

  I walked the few steps to the bed. But instead of claiming the place beside her, I stood, arms held tight to my sides.

  She let out a sigh, then tapped the top end of the plastic. It stirred to life.

  “A photo album?” I said as the first picture came into focus. “Mine. And now it’s yours.” She turned it to give me a better view. “First photo is of the four of us.”

  My brow creased as I finally sat beside her. “Four?”

  “James Dunn, your father.” She pointed to a man, much younger than I ever remembered my dad being. Her finger slid to the woman beside him, someone the mirror image of myself. “Me,” she whispered. Her finger moved to the other woman in the photo. “This is Susan Riles. You knew her as Vera. And this is her husband, Dan Riles.”

  My eyes widened, stunned as I stared at the image. Vera or Susan, so young with a radiant smile on her lovely face. “Christina,” I whispered. My head tilted, gaze focused on the man with an olive tone to his skin, sandy hair, and brown eyes behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. I swallowed hard. “H-her husband?”

  “Her first husband. We all met in the Department and became the best of friends. Called ourselves the four musketeers, always fighting for what’s right. One for all and all for one. Seems I showed more talent than they did, and I started getting promoted just as things began to happen.” She paused, her lips pinched closed.