Last Call America- Last Call Before Darkness Falls

by Debra Tash

  “It’s creepy.”

  “Just a little too creepy. And a little too convenient. Bring up the plot map, Doc,” Poole ordered.

  The screen centered in the middle of the dash came to life, pinpointing our target, that small office. If we brought down the computers, we would have complete control of the base.

  The hangar door began to open, slipping upward to reveal a row of MRAPs to one side, a line of Humvees opposite. There were empty spaces, one for an MRAP, others for the five Humvees, and still no one in sight.

  “They’re inviting us in,” Poole observed. He tapped the device behind his ear. “Doc, you doing a thermal scan?”

  “They’re blocking it.”

  “Have you been blocking theirs?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re not hiding anything, are we?” Poole adjusted himself in his seat. “Kill it and let them count heads. We have the same number of warm bodies sent out from here this morning. They’ll just think we’re letting our guard down as we come home to roost.”

  Poole waited a minute for Andrews to turn off the scramblers before driving toward the hangar, our entourage close behind. Just as we got to the entrance, he cut the engine. Poole turned it over a few times, let it rest, and flipped off the headlights.

  “Doc, signal we’re having engine trouble.”

  “They must have forgotten to check the oil,” Andrews said and chuckled. “Done.”

  Poole opened the driver’s side door a crack, and signaled to those with him to stand ready. I unlatched my seatbelt and grabbed the rifle stowed beneath my seat. “Just remember, Beck, fire only on my signal.”

  After a few moments, a solitary figure emerged from what looked like an office at the rear of the hangar. A bit portly with a beer belly, the young man wore fatigues and appeared to be unarmed. Poole slipped out of the MRAP. He made sure to stay clear of the light as he let the other man approach, close enough until the captain had his opponent in range. Stretching out his arm, Poole latched onto his prey and pulled him into the shadows behind the MRAP’s open driver’s side door.

  With a pistol pointed at the man’s head, the captain calmly asked, “How many on base?”

  “Th-thirty.”

  “In the command center?”

  Eyes wide, the man strained to see the gun next to his temple. He answered in a jittery voice, “No-no one. I wa-was…only one on watch. Went between the two buildings. The com-computers are running the base. The men”—he sucked in a deep breath—“in the barracks’ mess for Thanksgiving dinner.”

  Poole spat. “Turkey and pumpkin pie.”

  The captain gave his men orders. Three went with Dr. Andrews, along with our prisoner. They would secure the computers in the command center while the rest of us were tasked with storming the barracks.

  We broke into two units. Poole kept me under his watch as we scurried forward, holding ourselves low with rifles held ready. Once we were positioned, Poole gave the command to move, a coordinated attack as we kicked in the front and rear doors at the exact same time. One group swept forward from the other end of the building, making certain all was clear, while we stormed the mess hall.

  The men were seated four to a table around the room. They snapped to their feet. Poole fired a shot over their heads. They raised their hands. Despite the tension knotting my stomach, it still managed to rumble as I got a whiff of the generous Thanksgiving meal laid out on the nearby buffet. Fresh roasted turkey, yams, salad, rolls, cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes, even stuffing, a feast I hadn’t seen the likes of in over two years.

  “Who’s in command?” Poole barked.

  An older man stepped forward, his hands held up like the rest.

  “Second Lieutenant Rogers.”

  Poole aimed his rifle at him. “Do you surrender?”

  “Who the hell are we supposed to be surrendering to?” Rogers snapped.

  “The same damn people you swore to protect.”

  There were whispers, questioning looks from the men who had just moments before been enjoying their Thanksgiving dinner.

  I spotted an empty seat, dinner half-eaten on a plate. Someone had gotten up from the table before we’d entered the building. Scanning the room, I saw that everyone else had remained at their table. And our second unit had joined us in the mess. They must not have encountered anyone hiding in the barracks. I spotted a side door slightly ajar. My head spun with a quick calculation.

  I took a step back, no longer listening to the exchange. I made it to the door and tried to peek through the sliver of an opening. Quietly. Quickly. I toed the door open just enough to slip out, spotting a discarded cigarette by the light spilling from the mess. My finger tightened on the trigger, senses keen. I heard what seemed like no more than a bare whisper, someone calling for help.

  I spotted my target. A man with a hand-held device cradled in his palm. I aimed and squeezed the trigger.

  The rifle’s retort rang out. A scream. The man dropped the com in the snow as the bullet ripped through his hand.

  The door swung wide as several of our men rushed outside. They grabbed the man I’d just wounded. I went inside, and Poole’s gaze latched onto me for a brief moment.

  He turned his attention back to Rogers. “That’s correct, Lieutenant. Farmsworth is still in the hands of its lawful inhabitants. The unit you sent failed in taking it away from their fellow Americans.”

  Even louder whispers came from those we held at gunpoint.

  Their murmurs tumbled through the room. “So, do you surrender?” Poole demanded.

  Rogers’ lips pinched closed a moment. “We surrender. To our fellow Americans.” He slowly lowered his hands. “This base is now theirs.”

  CHAPTER 12

  The aroma of the vanished feast lingered in the air with its empty promise of more to come. Now that the DHS prisoners were secured, Poole and I sat alone in the empty mess, the last of the Thanksgiving dinner on our plates. He had let the enlisted have the first pickings, a gesture that didn’t leave much for the two of us. I never thought Poole would put someone else’s needs before his own. But when it came to those under his command, the captain seemed more like a patriarch than a superior. So I hung back with him as the stuffing and gravy ran out and the oversized roasted turkeys, fifteen in all, were whittled down to their bones. And now we dined in the deserted mess, dirty dishes, glassware, and cutlery littering the tables.

  “You like breasts,” I said.

  Poole cocked an eyebrow.

  I pointed to his plate. “Well, you picked off all the white meat you could find.”

  He chuckled. “So I have.” Poole took a gander at my plate. “Must say you eat like a bird.”

  “I’d have eaten that entire buffet. But I waited with you for the others to get their share.” I picked up my fork. “Have to admit, that impressed me.”

  “You impressed me,” he said as he picked up his own fork.

  Now I cocked an eyebrow.

  “Come on, Honey Beck, false modesty ain’t becomin’ one of your high moral character.”

  I stuffed a helping of yams into my mouth and savored the taste despite it being as cold as ice. “I saw somebody left the building. I took action. That’s all.”

  “And you went after him without saying a word to alert anyone. Clean shot without killing the man just before he would have gotten out a message that could have fried all of our behinds.” His features sobered, became almost cross. “But damn it, Rebecca, as well as you handled the situation, don’t you ever do that again.”

  “Why? That’s what I came here for.”

  “Sure.” He practically inhaled some mashed potatoes and followed the helping with a slug of beer, the one luxury he wouldn’t share. Poole set down the bottle and cleared his throat. “Well, it’s just that…that…hell. There you were, sitting in the MRAP scared shit
less, and the next thing you do is turn into GI Jane. I don’t want…well, I don’t want…” He shrugged.

  “Me to get killed,” I suggested.

  “Look. Someone’s going to get killed on our side, Beck. Today was an exception. Don’t you ever doubt that. And seeing you put yourself in harm’s way… That man could have had a pistol. Turned and shot you. And then…well, and then, hell…” He jammed his fork into a pile of carefully amassed turkey shavings.

  “You care. It’s as simple as that.”

  “I care about all my men. That’s why you see me eating scraps.”

  “You care about me.”

  “Do tell,” he mumbled and speared a somewhat larger, yet still no better than a shaving, bit of turkey as he fell silent. We ate together, momentarily mute, as I tried to suppress a smile.

  After a time, Poole broke the silence when he found something on his plate. “Damn.”

  “A wishbone,” I said.

  He held it to me. “Wish hard, Honey Beck.”

  I didn’t make a move. “You know, the Etruscans started this.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Yes, by wishing on chicken bones. So I’m not sure if a turkey really counts.”

  His brow creased. “Now how’d you come by that bit of wisdom?”

  “Learned it in a college cultural mythology class. The Etruscans thought chickens had some kind of power that made their bones full of magic and allowed them to predict the future.”

  “Chickens foretelling the future, eh? And as a species, do they have one? Seriously. For a chicken it’s whether they’re going to be soup or served up as the main course.” He snorted. “So, Honey Beck, you have just shared the most useless bit of knowledge I’ve ever had the pleasure to hear tell of.” He waggled the bone. “You in or not?”

  I grabbed hold of one side, closed my eyes, and wished hard, praying nobody I loved would be that someone who got themselves killed. Surprisingly, that seemed to include Poole now.

  The bone cracked. My eyelids sprang open. Poole had gotten the bigger piece. “You win,” I conceded. “What did you wish for?”

  “Bad luck to tell,” he said, setting down his prize, then scraping up the last of his meal. “Besides, I’m too damned tired to claim my winnings tonight.”

  I hesitated a moment, leaned across the table, and kissed him. My lips pressed hard against his, lingered as I absorbed his breath, the scent of his skin. Reluctantly, I pulled back, my gaze fixed on his eyes. A deeper shade of blue reflected in them than I’d ever seen before.

  His mouth curled up at one corner. “Was that cranberry sauce I tasted?”

  “Happy Thanksgiving, Jason,” I said as I settled back into my seat.

  By dawn, everyone had moved out of Farmsworth to the base—DHS prisoners taken in the raid on the Distribution Center, and the balance of Poole’s men and civilians willing to serve in the militia. Tina had come with them, even though she’d been reluctant to leave the familiarity of our small town. Still, she dug in, helping by taking an inventory of the base’s provisions.

  Maggie worked with Dr. Andrews for hours, syncing the computers with those in Vermont. By 10 a.m., we met in the command center to listen to President Whitman’s message on the National Feed. To one side was a wall of equipment housed in sleek, polished steel casings that sparkled with tiny flashing LEDs.

  The core of our rebellion—Poole, Sergeant Hernandez, Maggie, Dr. Andrews, Tina, and I—was present. With Dr. Andrews seated beside her, Maggie manned the master console positioned at the room’s center. She worked on the floating screens, see-through images that could be tapped and moved.

  The president was being streamed on one of the vids. The man’s brown eyes betrayed a deep weariness as he droned on about patriotism and American pride. It took him over ten minutes of babble before he got to his real message. “I make a pledge to you, along with the men and women who serve in the Department of Homeland Security, we will find the criminals who stole the People’s food in Farmsworth. These animals killed indiscriminately. And because of that, we are united as Americans. Each and all of us. Firm in our resolve to stop this lawlessness. Be assured, this will be over soon. And the handful of terrorists who caused the difficulty in Massachusetts will be executed. It’ll go no further. We promise you.”

  “End of Feed” flashed on the screen.

  “It’ll go no further,” Poole said with a sweep of his hand. “Feds have any idea we’re here?”

  “Not yet.” Maggie shrugged. “I’ve been feeding them a stream of my own. Everything is fine and dandy with this base as far as they know. Still, he just threw down the gauntlet.”

  “And now you’ll pick it up?” Hernandez probed.

  “Definitely.” Poole grunted. “At least, before they blow us to hell.”

  I sat in a corner next to Tina, my back stiff even though I’d only been seated in the ridged chair for less than twenty minutes. Yesterday wore heavy on me, and a night filled with fitful dreams left me with little rest. I clasped a mug of hot coffee, seasoned with the luxury of fresh cream and real sugar, and willed myself to stay calm as I listened.

  “Reports are coming in of uprisings all along our network,” Maggie said. “They’ve made headway. One militia in Texas captured a base similar to this.”

  “Now if that don’t beat all,” Poole drawled.

  “They’re asking for direction. What should they do with their prisoners?”

  “You mean, should I give the order to execute them?”

  No response.

  “Can they be trusted?” Poole asked.

  “That base has the same designation as this one.” Maggie glanced at Andrews beside her, then looked at the captain again. “The answer is ‘no.’”

  “So we’re going to be no better than the Feds,” I mumbled.

  “You’ll never be able to trust these agents, Captain,” Maggie argued. “Not ever.”

  “Give that order, Captain,” I said, my tone biting as I glared at Maggie, “and you’re just another government butcher.”

  “You have no idea who these people are,” my mother snapped.

  “And you do?”

  Silence again. It seemed as if the icy world outside the room’s solitary window had seeped through and frozen all of us.

  “For now, we give them a choice,” Poole directed. “Join us or be turned out with nothing but the clothes on their backs.”

  “It’s your call,” Maggie said, her gaze slipping to me. “And your mistake.”

  “Any further orders, Captain?” Hernandez asked.

  “It’s time we spread the word.” Poole fixed his attention on Maggie. “You ready?”

  She nodded.

  I looked through the window at the swirls of white crystals falling from the sky. We were better than the butchers who had mastered us. But we had to be quick in spreading the word that we could beat them back. By what President Whitman just said on the National Feed, we were already running out of time.

  Dark hair tousled, Poole stood ready to speak as he looked into the solitary camera in Dr. Andrews’ hand. The rest of us huddled behind the doctor, crammed into the tight quarters of the base’s storeroom. Maggie was in a corner working a small device, adjusting and readjusting it to make certain the Feed to the intra-web streamed uninterrupted. She’d tapped into the government’s high-speed system that went to every household and establishment across the country, given they had the energy allotment to use it.

  Poole had donned his fatigues. Even faded and dirty, they suited him better than the crisp DHS uniform of red on black. The man hadn’t bothered to shave. His strong jawline was speckled with two days’ worth of growth. Yet even as unkempt as the captain appeared, he didn’t carry himself like a revolutionary from a banana republic. There was a dignity about him heightened by an unflinching resolve and surety of his pur
pose.

  Behind him were shelves full of canned and boxed goods, bins of fresh produce, freezers, and a pair of huge stainless steel refrigerators. The air was scented with spices, oranges, and ripening melons. The aromas caused my stomach to rumble in anticipation of filling it.

  Maggie held up her left hand, counting down with her fingers—three, two, one. Andrews nodded to her, then to Poole.

  “President Whitman just got on the National Feed to tell you that criminals stole the People’s food. And that they’ll be stopped. But did he tell you it’s our food? Each person in Farmsworth. Every family’s. Food that belongs to the Americans living there. Food the Feds stole from us?

  “You have to understand, the real criminals are making us beggars in our own country. And using our own food to do it. Look behind me. Just look. This is only one storeroom in a DHS supply depot. You see that?” Poole motioned to the stockpile of goods. “Homeland Security is being provisioned as if they’re royalty!”

  He pointed to himself. “I’m Captain Jason Poole from the regular army. The same army that should be securing and defending this nation. And, most of all, upholding its constitution to make certain of your liberty.”

  He took a step toward the camera in Andrews’ hand. “Listen to me. I want to serve you—not the government. And all of my men and anyone who follows me are, and will always be, loyal to the American people. Not President Whitman. Or the Congress that serves him.

  “D.C. called your armed forces home from overseas. Drew us back to turn us into your policemen. But are we treated like royalty?” He snorted. “We’re starved like everyone else. But Whitman and the rest of his cronies make sure their DHS gestapo is well-fed. And the new ruling class outfitted those henchman with the latest weapons. To keep the ramble in check. They issued DHS the same orders they gave us.” He pointed to the camera this time. “Shoot to kill you.”