by Debra Tash
We met little resistance in the first ring. That evening, we camped along the Charles River. Late that night, I stood watch, the city of Boston lying across the icy skin of the river. There were no lights, no burning fires, only darkness, the pitch of a moonless night. I kept my back straight, my mind alert. Tomorrow we would secure one more ring, then proceed to the city’s heart. I would listen well, follow orders, and fight. I pledged to keep to the mission and leave everything else behind. And with tomorrow would come my penance when I would finally pay for my sins.
By mid-morning, the second ring had been secured. Our battalion crossed over the Longfellow Bridge with the objective to secure the financial district. Biting my lower lip, I watched the tap, studied the layout of our assault, red lines intersecting along streets I couldn’t quite remember. Our family had never gone into Boston all that much, and never to the financial district with its narrow avenues forming canyons between the skyscrapers. For us it had been visits to the New England Aquarium, walks along the Freedom Trail passing the old North Church. The glass towers where money was made never held much interest for my family, even before the collapse.
Again, the transport stopped and we were ordered out, weapons locked and loaded. I made certain I had a full magazine in place as I marched down the ramp. We were massing on the Common. Its baseball field had long been abandoned, the lake choked with debris and ice. Trees were winter bare. Footpaths no longer cared for were covered with snow. Icecap Center, the immense bunker manned by the local militia under where Mother’s farmhouse had stood, provided us air cover. They had been working with the revolution since the beginning. Icecap Center controlled thousands of drones that now flew above us in the cloudless blue sky.
Not long after we’d arrived, the orders came for our advance, quickly dispersing units to the streets. I followed whatever direction was given me through the tap. We swept past the Granary Burying Ground on Tremont Street at a good clip. Not used to the weight of a full pack, I fell to the rear even as bursts of gunfire began to strafe our position. Bullets clipped my body armor, struck the snow-covered pavement around me, splintered trees and chipped buildings. Instinct drove me to find shelter as our platoon radioed for air support. I scrabbled toward a concrete eave overhanging an entrance. Pemberton Square. A tall skyscraper stood before me as I cowered inside a doorway across Beacon Street. My hands shook and I swore under my breath, “Shit. Shit. Shit.” I cursed myself. “Idiot.”
Another round. I spun to face that direction. Thermals. I made them out on my vid. The bastards’ hiding place revealed—several of us fired at once even before the drones arrived. It kept the enemy at bay just long enough. Blessed air cover. Small armed drones, three feet if that in length, fanned out along Beacon. They spewed bullets as they sailed upward along the skyscraper’s face. Some drones were hit, taken down in action. Turned into small fireballs, they tumbled from the December sky. But more than enough found their mark, whirling around shrubbery, trees, shooting through windows. Like a swarm of bees, they moved from behind and out ahead of us, breaking off to hunt down targets.
Just when I thought we were clear, a cry came over the tap. “DHS Rovers! Two o’clock! Rovers!”
I looked eastward, but saw nothing but thousands of our predator drones dotting the sky. The blasts. More small fireballs fell to earth. Crashed into buildings. Shattered into sparks that flared before their flames melted away the snow and their fire drowned in ice water. Larger, with more power, the DHS rovers were obliterating their smaller counterparts. Shaped like overstuffed rockets, they had a much larger wingspan. Eight feet or better from nose to tail. Where were they coming from? We’d taken down every DHS base in a fifty-mile perimeter around Boston. What kind of range did those things have?
“Move!” I heard my orders. “Forward!”
Rifle clutched in both hands, I advanced again as glass and steel rained down on us. A jagged piece caught my cheek. It stung as it cut my flesh. Rocket launchers were being set up along the route to bring down the rovers and take out pockets of resistance. But not quick enough. We were still being shot at. From above. From either side. I squeezed off rounds as sweat ran down my face. Tears clouded my vision. My hands were raw from clutching the rifle so tight. Battered by the kickback, my arms hurt, and my sides. A bullet nicked my left hand, tore off a chunk of it. Dear God, help me.
I made it all the way to the Haymarket Station without being hit again. Exhausted, I tried to rest a moment, to collect what little scrap of courage I could still muster. Both my cheek and hand burned. Such pain.
Orders came again. “Snipers sheltering in parking structure. Guarded clearance.” We were to clear the structure of unfriendlies while they shot at us from the safety of the concrete parking structure.
“Okay,” I muttered. “Okay, Beck. You bitch. Okay.” I hunched down, braced myself, and scrambled. I managed to penetrate the garage’s interior without getting killed. No cars inside. My guess, there hadn’t been any in there for years. Shots. I studied the thermals on my screen. Who was who? Damn it. In here, guessing would get me killed for certain.
I got it. I got it. I spotted the marks. Finally understood. On every thermal image there was a dot. Green—our side. Flashing white—theirs. Pensive, I hid behind a concrete pillar and waited until a whistle sounded. A warning for me—enemy coming up from behind. I slapped on a fresh magazine, turned, pressed my back against the pillar, and let loose. Hits. Several thermals stopped moving. I looked hard, peering beyond my vid to see the blood, puddles of red, bits of flesh littering the concrete floor. Sickened, I cringed, then forced myself to stay focused. I swung the barrel of my rifle in another direction.
“Structure clean.” Our orders again. “Push forward.”
I moved out of the building and pivoted toward the Haymarket Square. So near to the waterfront now, I could smell the salt of the harbor. Charlestown Bridge lay ahead. Another whole battalion had crossed over moments before. They were moving up along the Causeway. No sign of our drones. We didn’t hold the sky any longer, had no air cover at all. DHS rovers had nearly wiped the area clean of Icecap Center’s predators. Now the rovers were aiming for those of us on the ground. Rockets were sent from launchers. More glass, more brick and debris. Hits and misses and death.
“Tactical. Tactical. Flattop located.”
Flattop? I didn’t understand what they were talking about. Suddenly, a huge firestorm rose above the Bay. A gigantic plume of black smoke with flames licking upward. It all came clear. Icecap Center had located wherever it was the rovers were being launched. They destroyed it, and without a way to control them, the rovers were rendered useless. They began to peel away, fall earthward, collide, smash into buildings, causing even more wreckage.
I saw a familiar figure ahead—the same clothing, the blond hair in disarray. Lois Bradley.
Snipers again, one maybe holed up nearby. I looked at my vid, trying to get a bead on the thermal image. I spotted the son of a bitch, the barrel of his gun aimed straight at Bradley, ready to take her down.
I raised my rifle, aimed, and took out the sniper before he could get off another round.
Bradley looked over her shoulder. She made eye contact with me, her mouth drawn into a thin angry line. Without so much as a high sign, some small indication of gratitude for her life, she rushed ahead toward the waterfront.
Suddenly, I went airborne, flew backward. I smacked into a window, crashed through the plate glass, and hit the floor hard. A shell had exploded inches from where I’d stood. I had no idea who had launched it, where it’d come from. It had blown me off my feet. In that last moment, flat on my back, I saw the sunlight and blue sky outside, the cast of shadows along the snowy street.
In that last moment, such peace. So quiet. In that last moment before I died.
CHAPTER 21
A spring meadow with tall green grass stretched out before me and the air was scented with
a new rain. Such a deep blue sky, and off toward the western horizon were roiling clouds with underbellies painted a shade of heavy gray. It was a place that belonged to a strange and distant memory. Such a mystical place that stood at an open gateway with a vast uncertain land beyond.
They were just as young as they’d been in the photo album Mom had given me that night in the old farmhouse. Maggie, my dad, Vera and her first husband, the four musketeers who once believed they were defending the safety of a nation they loved by preserving a liberty that had been lost a long time ago. Mother laughed as she unfurled a blanket. Her flowing spring dress fluttered in the warm breeze while Dad took out a bottle and opened it even before the rest of the picnic fare was removed from the large wicker basket. He poured clear wine into crystal glasses.
The four stopped as if sensing someone else’s presence. Heads turned in unison as they looked in my direction. I don’t know what they could have seen. No longer flesh and blood, I seemed to not exist. Yet I experienced everything, the warm kiss of the wind, the cool strips of grass underfoot, the sweet fresh scent of that meadow.
Again, their heads turned as they looked off to the western horizon just before the sun set. A farewell was etched in the pure white light as it drew into brilliant rays that lit the dark shadows beneath the approaching storm. It invited, coaxed…urging me to move on from the spring and be part of that sunset. The battle had ended here with a spiritual truce. No want, no need, no war, no one to rage against, struggle ceased in that glorious light, and in its depths waited a solid peace.
Mother held up her hand and shook her head, sending her short auburn curls to dancing. Lips pursed as she blew me a kiss. It touched my face and passed through me as it broke apart into a thousand pieces. It carried a message that whispered on the back of the spring breeze. “Forgive, Becky Baby. Forgive and let go.”
I wanted to say, I had. That I’d let go of the blame for the emptiness that had been the puzzle of my childhood. That missing part I never acknowledged that vanished one day when I was three years old. But as I looked at their youth bathed in that beautiful light, I knew they weren’t begging forgiveness from me. They had found grace, and for whatever lay ahead, I needed to find my own. One last gesture as they raised their glasses. The wine in their goblets allowed the crystal to magnify the dying sunset and splinter it into shards. They raised those glasses and bid me farewell…for now. It left me with a deep hunger as the last light of that blessed day faded and the world fell into darkness.
“Rib…wake up, Rib. Please, please, wake up.”
My eyelids fluttered open. Sight fuzzy, I was unsure of what I saw…a small baby chick, all ruffled yellow fuzz. Its small peeping sang in my ears. “Tiny?” I croaked, my lips so dry and cracked. “Tiny. Where?”
“I’m here, Rib, right here.”
My eyes opened wider. “You’re a chicken?”
She giggled, such a beautiful sound…her laughter. “It’s Henry Jr.”
I tried to press myself upright but it hurt too much to move.
Settling back, I realized I was in the sick bay over at Charon base under Hadley airfield. Lying in a hospital bed, I had tubes running into either arm.
My brow creased. “How?”
“A trooper found you out there. He called in a medvac. It took almost a day until they finally ID’ed you.”
“Time?”
“Three days, Rib. I’ve been here ever since they brought you in.”
My gaze slipped over to the chicken running around on my chest. “Henry Jr.?”
Again the sound of her giggling. “David sent him to me. He found him in a coop outside of the city. All on his lonesome.” Tina frowned. “David’s still out there fighting.” She tapped Junior, who shrank into a dot and blinked out. “A hologram. They would never let me bring a baby chick in here. David knew that our Henry was probably in a stew pot by now. He got me this chick as an early Christmas present.”
I finally could focus on her face, the dusky glow of her complexion, the light glittering in the depths of her dark brown eyes. Light like a sunset I’d seen, one that kept swirling in the far recesses of memory. “Tiny?” I wept. The warm salty tears stung my cheeks.
“Rib,” she said as if my name were given in prayer. Tina placed a soft kiss on my forehead, then sat up and looked over her shoulder. Without speaking, she stood and pointed to me.
“I got word,” a man said with a voice I recognized, and for some forgotten reason, feared now.
My sister stepped back as Poole came to my bedside, taking her seat as he gently picked up my hand and held it in his. “You’re back, Honey Beck,” he whispered, a wan smile playing on his mouth.
He looked worn…a deep concern mirrored in his eyes. Distrust bubbled up inside me as Poole gingerly touched my cheek with the back of his other hand. “Already healing. Can hardly see them.”
“See what?” I asked in a voice so strained I could barely hear myself.
“Your wounds. Especially the one here.” Another tender stroke to my cheek. “Rapid grafts. Amazing. There won’t even be a scar.” His eyes were glossy now. He seemed to be holding tears at bay. Gray eyes. Ones I’d looked into, knew well, yet still…something.
I tried to remember, tried to dig past the moment to recall a broken pledge. “You,” I mumbled. “Shot…”
“Beck?”
“You ordered them shot. I heard…”
He didn’t let go of my hand even as he drew back.
“That first DHS base,” I said.
Poole sat there a moment with no reaction. He put his other hand atop mine, cradling it still so gently, as he brought it to his lips.
“Please,” I begged with a renewed flood of tears pouring down my cheeks. “Deny you ordered them shot.” I rocked my head back and forth. “Please.”
Silence. Not a word given in denial, no argument, no reason.
Nothing.
“Please.” I wept as he set down my hand, pausing one last moment before he walked out of the room.
A day passed, then another, as my wounds knitted quickly. Early one afternoon, the doctor came in to check on me, an older woman with graying hair, also familiar in some way. She’d attributed my swift recovery in part to youth, in part to the miracle of the rapid grafts that fostered a matrix of my own tissue to regenerate and replace broken flesh. The doctor removed the tubes and saline drip, ordering broth for my lunch. She left me alone again.
Soon, the nurse brought in some broth and set the small bowl on the table beside me.
“Where are the others?” I asked. Her brow creased. “More wounded?”
“A field hospital. And then Boston Medical Center,” she answered. “We’re restricted here to just our personnel.”
I thanked her for the broth, but left it untouched. I lay in that hospital bed with the worse malady of all, a broken spirit. What plagued me could not be easily treated. In my memory was a vivid painting of a soft spring meadow. I’d been there for one moment before it slipped beyond my reach. I had to find that place again, hold fast until its peace sank deep inside my being. Or my sanity would fall into darkness, my soul forever trapped in an unforgiving hell.
With all my will, I pushed myself upright. Dizzy, I paused and sucked in a deep breath as I got on my feet, tottering for a few moments. Another memory of a place of quiet contemplation somewhere nearby. The short hospital gown left me little modesty. I grabbed my pair of jeans, folded neatly on a chair. Seated on the edge of the bed, I slowly pulled them up, then tried my sweatshirt. It proved too hard to lift my arms. So once more, I sat on the bed, dunked my head, and wriggled into the top.
With small tentative steps, I moved forward, gaining confidence as my legs didn’t give out. The chapel I’d seen when I came here to find Mother was just a few doors from my room. The entrance was framed in oak. The dark wood accentuated the space inside. Angular s
hapes of pure color lit from behind gave the illusion of an abundance of glowing sunshine on the other side of the stained glass. There were only three rows of seats, more upholstered benches with low backs than church pews, just long enough to seat four, maybe five together. The room smelled of cut flowers, roses and jasmine, some incredibly sweet scent. Yet there wasn’t a bud in sight.
The front bench was occupied. I thought of retreat, until that person turned to look in my direction as if sensing my presence. Again, a familiar face, the knowing this was no stranger, yet unable to place him at the moment.
“Come and sit by me, Becky,” he said in a soft voice.
As I walked forward, the carpeting tickled my bare feet. I took a seat beside him.
His features were marked with grief, the eyes rimmed in red, with the whites bloodshot. The heavy jowls framed a downturned mouth as he said, “It’s good to see you up.”
“Dr. Andrews?”
“Becky.” He gave me a pat on the arm, sat up, and clasped his hands together as he studied the stained glass panel before us. “Never did much like these non-denominational sanctuaries. Guess I should be happy to find one. Places of worship being pretty much gone. Somewhere along the line we decided we need God only when we end up in the hospital. Ourselves or a loved one’s illness….” He hung his head a moment, swallowing before he went on. “Loved ones you want to keep from dying. Or when you do lose them. That’s when a person comes here.”
“My mother?”
He nodded. “I miss her.”
“You loved her.”
A moment’s pause, and he nodded again as he crossed his arms and let out a sigh. “So here I am.”
I wanted to tell him she was okay now and relate the beauty of that peaceful meadow. But nothing came out because I wasn’t really sure of the breadth and width of its truth. With my head resting against his shoulder, we stayed silent a long while, gazes focused on that tapestry of light.