Last Call America- Last Call Before Darkness Falls

by Debra Tash

  “What the hell happened?” I demanded, impatient.

  “Homeland Security. They bought all this ammo just before they militarized the other Federal agencies and took over the local police departments. Even as far back as when DHS was first formed after 9/11, there was something about the way they functioned. Then there were the reports. Contingency plans for different scenarios. Currency collapse. Shortages and runs on the banks. Control. How insurrections be could stamped out quickly. Finishing off our educational system, but taking it over completely. All about control. Jim and Susan, along with Dan, tried to get me to see what was happening, to make me understand the Department was recruiting.” She took in a deep breath. “They were looking for certain profiles. What was happening was bad. Really bad. That it was all leading to…” Maggie shook her head as if she were still in denial. Her tears caught in the lantern’s light. “Dan disappeared.”

  “Susan’s”—I cleared my throat—“I mean, Vera’s husband. What do you mean he disappeared?”

  She straightened her spine as if to steady herself. “People were disappearing. Their files wiped off the system…almost as if they’d never existed. People who were questioning too much. Why were we collecting data on everyone? Emails. Social Media. Everything. Why did the Department purchase armored vehicles? Expense accounts for non-existent personnel. Infiltration by certain groups ignored by our superiors. People who showed they were having doubts were disappearing. Just like Dan. They were being handled. It was after that I finally believed what Jim had been saying about… Well, I believed, and then I knew, he and Susan would be next. And you.” She had to pause again, her fingers trembling as she held the photo album. “It was only after that I understood I had to get the three of you out of the system. That I would stay behind. Buried in the Department. Somehow trying to undermine it.”

  “Bullshit,” I snarled. “How do you expect me to believe that?”

  “Because you’re here,” she answered, her tone steely. Maggie squared her shoulders. “I set it up on the inside. Jim and Susan took you out for a ride one Saturday while I stayed home to catch up on work. The accident happened in Arlington, Virginia. The three of you were listed as deceased. Everyone in my section gave me their condolences. Sorry for my loss. But I knew the three of you were safe. New records. New names. Except for your first—Rebecca. That was my mother’s name.” She got up from the bed and pointed to the album. “There’s the proof. The three of you lived another life. The one you had before is in there.” She stood a moment more, turned, and left me alone.

  For several long moments, I hesitated, feeling a terrible squeezing pain in my chest, a shortness of breath. My gaze slipped from the album to the closed door, my mind searching back to peel away the shroud covering distant memories. I held the album, sliding my fingertip along the plastic’s edge. The photo of the quartet was replaced with one of Maggie, her belly ripe and round. I kept moving my finger, turning the pages of this electronic record. A baby picture of me, my first birthday, a video of the adults singing “Happy Birthday To You.” Maggie finishing off the recital with “Becky Baby.” Then their blowing out the solitary candle. Laughter as I took a fistful of the white pastry and pushed it into my mouth. Hot chocolate in the farmhouse kitchen. Me—maybe two years old, maybe close to three—with Maggie putting a handful of marshmallows in my mug over Dad’s protests. Shared photographs and videos of my life up until I was three.

  “No,” I moaned. “No!” I dropped the album on the bed, stood, and walked to a corner of the room, where I pressed my back to the wall, and crossed my arms over my chest. “No,” I said, my voice small and wretched. Nothing that I had believed was true.

  I stood a few moments more, feet planted, gaze set on that sheet of plastic atop the bed. A cold November gust blew outside, rattling the window.

  That room across the hall, that room…

  The chill air bit my hot cheeks as I sucked in a deep breath and willed myself to move, stopping by the bed to gaze at the album.

  I left it there, snatched the lantern off the nightstand, and crept out the door. I went the few steps to the room opposite mine. My hand trembled as I turned the knob. A stale scent escaped as if the air inside had been trapped for years. My heart stopped a moment as I lifted the lantern and let its light spill inside the room.

  I knew that space, every inch of it. The pink-flowered wallpaper, the brass bed with its ruffled skirt. Memories of a spring morning with sunshine passing through the dusty panes of glass of the wood sash windows. Sunshine that pooled to form a warm splash of light on the dark wooden floor. I could feel the scratchy yarn of the hook rug against the soles of my feet. I could see all the toys piled inside the basket. I reached hold of my Raggedy Ann, still propped against the ruffled pillows of my bed. I could smell it, dusty with age, the familiar scent of my favorite dolly. I remembered the night when I realized she’d been lost. But here she had waited…all these years. I held that doll to my heart as I backed out of the room and clicked the door closed, while silent tears slipped down my cheeks.

  I returned the lantern to the nightstand and finally sat again on the room’s double bed. This place had once been home—at least, a vacation home—one that had been a sanctuary set deep in the sweet green mountains. The kitchen with its iron stove, the hearth, and the old wooden table, all of it had seemed bigger, sketches of another time remembered from a small child’s point of view. My head bent down, and that doll pressed even tighter against my chest as I sobbed. It hurt. Such emptiness, a struggle against reality that wounded me.

  The springs squeaked as someone sat beside me. A warm hand rested on my back, moved in comforting circles. Exhausted, I leaned against the presence, sank into that human warmth, smelled the musty masculine aroma. Strong arms wrapped around me, strong arms that pulled me into that rich bouquet. Gave me the sense I’d be protected. It would be safe like it had been a million years ago on a sunny spring day.

  The kiss, the crush of another’s mouth against mine…Poole, the taste of hops on his breath as he exhaled.

  But instead of pushing him away, I drew him closer, my arms pulling free to embrace the strange comfort of his need, with the doll, that remnant of childhood, still in my hand. His mouth, wet and hot, moved to my neck, his tongue sliding against my skin as his hands slipped beneath my shirt. Rough and calloused, they moved upward along my back.

  “Captain!” A reprimand, not a title, the tone sharp and biting.

  He released me, my teary gaze focused on his face. How dark his eyes seemed, like blue shadows.

  “Captain!”

  He stood and walked toward Maggie, who waited in the open doorway. Poole paused, his voice husky as he said, “We are adults, Maggie Sweetheart.”

  She gave him icy silence in reply.

  He dipped his head to her. “Sorry, ma’am, for abusing your hospitality.” Footfalls sounded as he returned to his own room.

  Maggie leaned forward and latched onto the door handle. “You are adults and he will be back. You can lock it. It’s your choice.” She pulled the door shut.

  I went over, the doll now held to my tear-stained cheek. Without hesitation, I turned the lock, went back to bed, crawled under the piled comforters, and cried myself asleep.

  The scent of coffee greeted me the next morning as I walked into the kitchen. Poole was seated at the table with an open box of cereal and a can of condensed milk in front of him. He had already finished breakfast, as evidenced by the empty bowl pushed to the side. His gaze latched onto me as he picked up a mug and took a sip. “You look like hell.”

  “Thanks. You look like shit.” I pulled out a chair and grabbed the other bowl that had been placed on the table. Leaning forward, I took the box of cereal, shook it, and peered inside. “Empty.”

  “Wasn’t full.”

  “It hadn’t been opened,” Maggie said from the doorway leading into the living room. “Yo
u want something to eat, Rebecca?”

  “Coffee’d be fine.”

  She poured herself a cup, then took the pot over and served me. She joined us at the table. “We’ve finished our research on you, Captain Poole.”

  “Who and for what?”

  “As I said when you first came here yesterday, there may be a network to help you. Well, there is one. With nodes all over the country and in every state. I shared your file with them last night. The Feds slotted you as a leader, Captain Poole. Interesting assessment, considering some of your less-desirable characteristics.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “You’re narcissistic. An opportunist.” She looked to me. “Last night was evidence enough.” She turned her attention back to Poole. “It’s all in your file. Self-righteousness with a sense of entitlement. Clever if you want something. Manipulative. And when wronged, you never forget.”

  “Sounds like I am an asshole.”

  She laughed. I didn’t. I had come too close last night to finding out for myself.

  “Asshole or not, you do possess other characteristics. Intelligent. Have a large capacity for compassion. Lead your troops so well your men are absolutely loyal to you. An iron-willed individual determined to reach your goal. And even better, you possess a strong desire to see justice done. At least as we see it.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, Captain Poole, the authorities could never prove you were the one who burned down your family home. But we believe you did. Were you unorthodox in your method? Perhaps. Wanted revenge? Certainly. You are a risk. No doubt. But we have a network with no one to pull it together and lead us. With your profile, you’re closer than anybody we’ve found so far who could do just that.”

  I studied the captain, my eyes narrowing. “I don’t understand. The Feds had a notion he burned down his house. You think probably he did, and I know he did. He admitted it, drunk out of his mind. There’s no reason to trust him.”

  “You brought him here, Rebecca.” She leveled her gaze on me. “Because you didn’t trust him?”

  I crossed my arms, mouth set, attention fixed on Poole. “No, I did.” My resolve softened with my confession. “I still do.” I grunted as I slumped in my chair. “It was because of what he did. The way he hated authority.”

  “And there’s one more reason,” Maggie said. “This man has nothing to lose.”

  His brow creased.

  “Yes, Captain, you have a ‘Tock’ in your file. Like in ‘Tick Tock,’ the clock is running. Yours, Captain, has nearly run out. Seems you haven’t displayed the wholehearted allegiance to the State the Feds hoped to see by now. When that clock runs out, you’ll…”

  “Be handled?” I whispered.

  “Yes, Rebecca. He’ll just disappear.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. Ain’t that somethin’!” The captain put the mug to his lips and took a long sip of coffee. “Then again, Maggie Sweetheart, as you so rightly observed, a dead man has nothing to lose.”

  “Ain’t that somethin’!” she said.

  “So, as I’m as good as dead, what is your network going to do?”

  “They left it up to me.”

  His eyebrow arched again.

  “First, I’m going to show you the bunker,” she said, her tone cool and even. “Then I’m going to die.”

  CHAPTER 8

  For a dead man, Captain Poole seemed at peace as he took his mug to the counter and refilled it with coffee. With a wan smile on his face, he turned to my mother and said, “Lead the way, Maggie Sweetheart.”

  She let out a groan, rolled her eyes, and motioned to us. We followed her through the living room to a closed door. Behind that door was a closet, ordinary, with several coats hanging from the solitary pole and a pile of footwear on the muddied linoleum. Maggie ran her hand along the jamb, pausing near the top. She tapped her fingers as if she were keeping time to a song by her favorite band. The closet’s back wall glided to one side while lights flickered to life, revealing a staircase leading downward.

  Shoving aside the coats, Maggie stepped forward. “Whoever’s last, shut the door behind you.”

  Poole looked at me, then went after her. I pulled the closet door closed and set my foot on the staircase’s first tread. The panel automatically slid shut behind me, sealing us off.

  We must have descended the stairs for two stories or more. At the bottom was an old wooden desk with a dusty electronic tablet on top, a rickety set of shelves stocked with a few cans of peas, and stacks of old papers.

  Poole whistled. “Impressive.”

  Maggie snorted as she opened the desk drawer, shoved aside the stapler and pens, and tapped her fingers along its bottom. The wall behind the desk swung wide, and once more lights flickered on, illuminating the space beyond.

  Poole stood there, mouth slightly agape, eyes wide. Hands on her hips, Maggie whistled. “Impressive.”

  I pushed past them and stepped into the cavernous chamber. The cool air was crisp and clear of dust and age. Rows and rows of shelving were stocked with enough weapons, uniforms, and food to provision and arm the whole population in the state of Vermont and then some.

  Maggie pointed behind her. “That small room you came through was part of the Underground Railroad. Runaway slaves were hidden down there, then sent along the railroad into Canada.”

  “That small room,” I croaked, my gaze turning upward as I studied the huge chamber’s concrete ceiling. “What about this one?”

  “Built with the help of the new Underground. And complete with its own electrical generating system.” Once more, she took the lead as she kept talking. “We may not have all the technology the Feds do. They were developing some ultra-secret projects with deadly capabilities. But this will be enough to get us started.”

  I swallowed. It was more than enough from what I could see.

  We followed her through the centermost aisle. The shelving gave way to armored vehicles, stored and parked in four lines, three to a line. Off to the side was what looked to be a lift large enough to carry one vehicle at a time to the surface. At the very back of the chamber was a glass-enclosed area, with a bank of computers and a huge piece of equipment so tall it nearly touched the ceiling.

  “My work space. And that”—she pointed to the colossal device—“is the 3D printer.”

  “Damn,” Poole muttered.

  “Damn is right,” she said. “Can fabricate large ordnance and much more.”

  “You said it was your work space. You can run all those computer systems alone?” I asked.

  “Not alone. It was set up to be a command center. But it was my turf up until now.” She turned to Poole. “So you’ve seen the Bunker. You still game, Captain, to move forward with your plan?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he answered without hesitation. His mouth curled with a sly smile. “Now, let’s kill you and get on with it, Maggie Sweetheart.”

  Thanks to the stores in the Bunker, I walked through the empty house dressed in fatigues that fit me. I tried to seal the place with my other distant memories of childhood. The photographs and old portraits were absent, the walls bare. I stopped one last time to look at my old bedroom. Everything was still there, each and every toy with the exception of my Raggedy Ann doll. She was stowed along with the photo album in the duffle bag I had slung over my shoulder. That house had stood for hundreds of years, was there even before the first revolution had given birth to America. It had been built by an ancestor who had fought with the Green Mountain Boys at Bennington. Apparently, I had come from a long line of rebels.

  Snow fell outside. Heavy and wet, it stuck to the window panes. This snow would be more than enough to cover our tracks. The time had come. I walked along the hallway and out to the kitchen, pausing when I spotted the bag of open marshmallows Maggie had left on the counter. My hand hovered for a moment above the plastic
package. I finally scooped it up and tucked it into the duffle along with my doll. One last survey of the ancient homestead, one last memory, and I was ready to leave.

  The explosion rattled the Humvee. Glancing at the passenger side mirror, I could see the fireball behind us, curling skyward with a dark plume of smoke.

  I shifted and looked at Maggie in the back seat, asking, “Are you sure they’ll think it was a drone strike?”

  “To them I’m dead and gone, Rebecca.” Maggie held up the device she always kept with her.

  My gaze narrowed as I focused on the small screen. Panic rippled through what looked to be an operations center. She pointed to one figure, a man seated at some sort of control panel. “Stevens. The guy who’s been sending the Weenie TD’s. Looks like he tasked a Weasel to the wrong address.”

  “What will happen to him?” Poole asked.

  Maggie shrugged as she slipped the device under her jacket, securing it in her shirt pocket. “Depends on how much the Department really valued me.” Dressed in fatigues, her graying hair tucked beneath a cap, she looked even more tired now, wearied and crushed from all the years she’d been an asset instead of a human being. “Most likely he’ll just vanish,” she said as she looked out the window. “Sorry, Stevens…you were only doing your shitty job.”

  We drove a few miles in silence with the snow falling in flurries, until someone blocked the road.

  “Who the hell is that?” Poole yelled as he leaned forward in the driver’s seat.

  “Stop!” Maggie shouted from the back seat. “Stop!”

  “Masked, and he’s got a gun,” I said as I recalled the snipers. “Hit the gas!”

  Maggie leaned forward and latched onto Poole’s shoulder. “Ski mask or not. Look at that old Tea Party hat and his little-to-be-desired physique. He’s a friend, not a foe.”