by Dennis Fueyo
Abu added raising a finger high, “Whether Christian, or Muslim, it is God Himself who commands you, both the living and the dead, and casts you out into hellfire.”
Invigorated by the incantation, they reached the Bridge Tender Marina and limped over to the dilapidated mall. The scene laid out across the landscape froze their feet.
And consumed them in grief.
Part 6: The Ballad of Clark Stone
To: Andy Ochoa, Fort Dix Commander of Operations
From: Jonathon Stone, Executive Director
As a personal favor, I ask you to take one of our birds and head south near Myrtle Beach. James radioed this afternoon, the team reached Wilmington. Whether they succeed in pushing back the jackers or fail, I expect James to turn south staying on mission. Admiral Melbourne and I encouraged Emelia to stay with him. Therefore, they will likely be traveling together.
Intercept her between Wilmington and Myrtle Beach, and bring her back.
We have detected several ships moving down the Eastern Seaboard into Carolina waters. I have no doubt these ships are the Coast Guard cutters stolen from Maryland. They will be retrofitted with 5” cannons. Smaller boats thus outfitted with the 20 mm guns. These pose a serious, significant threat to the tribal regions. I have asked for support from Rhode Island and Florida. Florida has gone dark. Rhode Island cannot intervene. My sister, Eva, may be responsible for this.
Therefore, you will not have support. However, I trust you have the skills, capacity, and resolve to complete this request.
In good faith, your friend,
Jonathon
Chapter 14
Sheila Briggs and Lou Frasier carried Elder Richard Buttonwood’s body to the main road and lay it next to the line of farmers, nurses, scientists, and teachers killed in the bombardment.
“Let’s say goodbye to James,” Lou said. “He’s over there with Sam.”
She lifted her foot forward to comply and fell limp into Lou’s arms awash in grief, leaving a bloody handprint on the back of his camouflaged stomper tee shirt.
James Laramie lay on the ground, propped up by Sam. Tom Mason wrapped both palms around the sergeant’s weak right hand in a tight grip. The left hand was gone. Emelia Stone stitched two enormous lacerations careful to keep his intestines from spilling out. James cracked his eyes open and smiled at Abu Zaid and Shaquan White, standing over him in disbelief.
“Hey, guys, you’re alive. Good,” said James as he stroked Emelia’s hair, blood caking dirt and perspiration into it. “Mel, don’t cry, we needed to be here. I die with no regrets.”
“Shh, quiet now, James,” she consoled. “You need your strength. You can make it through this.”
He hacked up sputum with a crimson tinge. “You would think I could. Dr. Mason and I have seen worse. Figures. All those mutated beasts from hell and I get slammed by a shell fired from a U.S. Coast Guard cutter. Sammy”— James waved his fingertips—“come closer.”
Sam did not know James, and in another life, he would have killed him. The tension between stompers and tribes screwed tight enough to bang piano keys on. In this life, James and Tom, Sam’s dad, were friends. Sam fought in filth next to his own friends many times. The word, friend, was holistic and sacred.
Sam lowered an ear to the sergeant’s lips.
“You and your father have been played.”
First, Sam looked at Tom bewildered. Then, he could not understand why his dad remained stoic. “Dad, I take it you had your suspicions?”
“Jonathon Stone let Mel go too easily,” replied Tom.
“They told you the jackers had to be stopped”—James twisted his only index finger to point at a nearby shattered water purifier—“to keep the water trade open.”
Emelia pleaded, “James, don’t do this now. Rest.”
“I’m dying, Mel. I will rest soon enough.” He coughed blood over his lips, and she dabbed it away. “My mission was to continue south. Head to Atlanta. We are in a race against someone else. Not the jackers.”
“Who, then,” asked Tom. His demeanor was calm. Sam began anticipating the same answer.
“Jonathon controls Fort Dix,” James said, “but his sister, Eva Stone, commands in the shadows of Washington D.C. She…” He gasped for air and forced on: “She’s appropriating discretionary funds for her endeavors.”
Sam asked, “What’s in Atlanta, James? What was your mission?”
“Find”—James squeezed Tom’s hand hard enough to turn fingers white—“Atlantians.”
“The Atlantians?” Sam pressed, “What are those?”
“Not what, Sam. Who.”
Emelia and Sam looked at each other. Confusion, dense enough to have gravity, weighted down on Sam’s back. He asked, “Did you know about this?”
“No, Sam”—Emelia reeled—“I swear it.”
James heaved a breath and said, “My mission. Find them.” His eyes rolled upward in pain, chest becoming still.
“James!” Sam jostled him, raising his voice against the quiet sergeant’s ear, “James! Do not die, we need you, stomper man!”
“He was the only one alive when we got here,” Tom tearfully remarked. “One tough son of a bitch.”
“Gone, James is gone.” Sam rested a palm on James’ face. “You treated Dad with respect and honor. I will never forget you, James Laramie.”
Sam stood up and hugged Tom tightly. Emelia cried into James’ shoulder, muffling her sobs. Tom bowed his head, holding a swamp stomper cap over his chest.
“He was a great friend,” reminisced Tom.
Sam checked in with his mental writing board. Emelia studied tribes; daughter of Jonathon Stone, Fort Dix administrator; send a small team to infiltrate and recover information on Atlantians; use the guise of helping Divers to defend against jackers; beat jacker master Eva Stone to Atlantian information.
The outcomes formed next: Jonathon and Eva are enemies; or united, using opposing forces—jackers against Divers—to reach the same goal. A third, less likely scenario etched on the board. The master plays Eva and corners Jonathon; Jonathon, in desperation, sends a team to infiltrate and recover information; the master fears Atlantians.
All scenarios maintained one common thread. Emelia knew more than she proclaimed.
Sam slammed his pack on the ground and jutted a finger out. “You betrayed me, Emelia!”
“What?” She retracted behind Tom and Lou. “I did not, Sam!”
“You lied!”
Tom held out his arm and stayed Sam. “Son, this is how Arnold Stone operated. Eva’s following his path. I believe Emelia, she didn’t know.”
“She’s one of them!”
“In name”—Tom held Sam from charging forward—“but not in spirit. More than you know.”
“I trusted you,” said Sam pointing at Emelia with an angry, trembling finger, “what happens now?”
She stepped forward and lifted her chin high. “My mission was to protect this tribe. I intend to do nothing else.”
Sam paced in a circle, thinking. Strategy, tactics, variables all crunched in his mind’s calculator. He looked at his dad. Broad shoulders, like him. Eyes and nose, the same. Work ethics, core beliefs, family values, identical. The few differences, once vast, shriveled under their similarities. “Dad, you were right.”
Tom exhaled a joyous sigh.
“Listen up,” Sam ordered, gathering the mourning crowd. “Daisy Chauncey is in charge now. You do what she says, when she says, without question. Understood?”
Nods affirmed his directive.
“Unless she says differently, you follow my orders. I say shit, you make a pile. I say attack, you squeeze the trigger. Do you understand?”
Several in the crowd acceded, “Yes, master hunter!”
“Your family comes first”—Sam stared into every eyeball he passed—“and those without family are jackers. You have your brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers. And if they are all dead, you have the Divers. We are a community, and we are family. Never forget!”
“Orders, master hunter?” asked Abu.
“Get started on your core emergency functions. Come to me if you need guidance.” He gave Emelia one final stern look. She saluted, softening his frown. “Our discussion is not finished, Emelia, but we have to prepare to fight. Go with Abu and Juan to check traps.”
She smiled, saluted again and left with the two spotters.
“Dad, take Lou and follow Shaquan to the chemistry labs. See what you guys can fix. We will not last long without antibiotics and sterile equipment.”
“You got it, Sammy. I do want to send James off first.”
“Agreed,” Sam said and respectfully bowed. “Wait for me, please, I will join you.”
Tom saluted and motioned to Lou and Shaquan. Tilting back to Sam’s ear, he whispered, “I’m so proud of you, Son.” He then turned, sighed again, and departed.
“Sheila,” Sam cocked his head to her, saying, “position patrols around the north end. They will try the Cape Fear River next.”
“Coast Guard cutters”—Sheila stepped closer and leaned in—“we need to solicit help?”
“No time.” Sam rubbed his chin and tilted close to her ear. “Worry not, Sheila, if you wish to duck out. No one will blame you, least of all, me. I like Barry Trenton; he is a good man and a friend. Do not misinterpret what I say, you know how to fight. I would prefer you to stay, but you have a family elsewhere who have been through a lot already.”
“If the jackers got their filthy hands on military ships, in addition to the weapons James described…” Sheila lowered her eyes. “Well, the weaker I make them here, the better.”
“God bless the Britts.”
“Amen,” she said, saluted, and circled to depart. As she bounded off, Daisy approached wearing a gleeful smirk.
Sam nodded. “Ma’am.”
“And what does my gung-ho elder want me to do?”
“Ma’am, you are in charge now.”
“That is what we call in the contractor business a load of bullshit, son. I prefer being second in command. Makes you the one responsible when things go wrong, bless your heart.”
The phrase rang something familiar.
“Elder,” Sam asked, “has Suzy Lancaster checked in?”
∆ ∆ ∆
Shaquan White and Tawney Martin prepared the High-Performance Liquid Chromatography instrument for one last batch of antibiotics. Tawney flushed the column with methanol, retrieved sterilized collection tubes, and ran final diagnostics on the software. Shaquan precipitated out the antibiotic from the remaining batch of raw filtrate. He spun down the tubes, cleaned the pellet, and resuspended it in a pure buffer.
His back ached. Legs spasmed. Red veins webbed his bloodshot, sleepless eyes. Sam Mason’s health weighed his thoughts. His hands shivering, he passed the mixture to Tawney and said, “Make it count, baby.”
“You should get some sleep, honey. You’re swaying on your heels.”
He kissed her gentle lips. “I got to check on Sammy.”
She secured the large tube, turned, and held his cheeks. “Shaquan, the master hunter needs to process this. It takes time. You don’t always need to be the hero—where’s his daddy?”
“Juan took Doc Mason and Lou Frasier diving. Giving them a refresher.”
“Aren’t they afraid the jackers will sail back this morning?”
“They’ll be ok. Doc Mason and Lou have a way of sensing things.” He ran a hand down his brow and said, “Don’t ask me to explain. They’ll be all right.”
“What about Abu?”
“Covering the river with Sheila Briggs.”
“They are an item, aren’t they?” Her lips curved upward.
“Baby, you behave!”
“You sure you want me to?”
He backed up and replied, “Damn, you look good! Later, ok? I promise, got to check-in, though.”
Tawney slapped his rump, sending him out the lab into downtown Wilmington still donned in a lab coat and safety goggles. Snickering at his folly, he tucked the goggles into his breast pocket and began navigating streets east towards I17.
Blocks alternated from well-kept structures to ramshackle husks, and back to hospitable dwellings. Residents cooked outside domiciles and bartered essential items: shoes, soap, and underwear. A community shelter passed out bowls of soup to a line of hungry tribal denizens. Many wounded. Some pawed at him seeking clinical help. He disrobed his lab coat and quelled the urge to assist the neighborhood, focusing on Sam.
Finding a bike near Greenlawn Park, he cycled north to avoid funeral pyres and navigated a maze of half-submerged suburban homes, finding solid ground on College Road. Passing the old university, he noticed spotters and guardians busy fortifying the area for a final stand. Homeless filed into collegial buildings seeking shelter, many receiving a weapon before reaching the door.
“Shaquan!”
He braked, recognizing the voice. Whipping sweat beads off his face, he responded, “Yes, Elder Chauncey?”
Daisy Chauncey approached with brisk steps, bouncing as she spoke. She wore her glasses for the first time in memory and pulled her puffy red hair back in a bun. It looked like an enormous red dust ball contrasted against her dirt-stained, dark blue overalls. “Elder, what a label. I swear I’ll never get used to it. Where you heading?”
“Over to I17.”
“Let him be, son.”
“He’s been through so much. I got to be there, you know? He needs his friends more than ever before.”
“Sam’s gone. Any minute now, the boy’s going to burst into a tornado of death. They’ll kill him, but not before he takes out, at least, a hundred of them jackers.”
“I can’t believe it, ma’am. He’s still with us.”
“His father can’t shake him out of it. He wouldn’t talk to you boys yesterday, after Suzy Lancaster’s funeral.”
“Today’s a new day, Elder Chauncey.”
“I won’t order you, but I’m going to say one last thing, White, so listen to this dictum carefully. We, the tribe, need you at your best. This is the beginning of something far more sinister. They weren’t throwing rocks and spears, they had RPGs and battleships. I lack Samuel’s ability to predict things, but I can feel it. Wilmington’s on borrowed time.”
“Ma’am, I need him at his best.”
Daisy waved him on. “You be careful, spotter, I’m praying for you.”
Chapter 15
A bullet ricocheted near Sam’s head sending chips of wood over his worn leather jacket. Not flinching, he returned fire. Kneeling in a trash nook, he scoped the pocked landscape waiting for the sniper to move. He fired again. The jacker sniper fell from a dead pine tree over scorched earth. A “Torchwood” sign lay on the ground near the body.
Shaquan saw Sam, dropped his bicycle, and hurried past the remainder of Team Coral. Their faces stained with rust-colored mud and blood shellacked their growing beards. He muscled up the debris pile to Sam’s nook. “I knew you’d stay all night, Sammy.”
“What up, Shaquan?”
“Came to check in on you, man.”
“You need sleep,” said Sam observing his eyes.
“Yeah? How much have you gotten?”
Sam poked at a decaying box of tissues near his feet. “Probably less.”
“You want to talk about it now?” asked Shaquan.
Sam’s eyes welled with lysine. He started to shake. Shaquan saw it coming, Daisy’s prediction.
String drew out the spotter party favor that was Sam, whirling him around to mount the trash pile and charge I17. Shaquan scooped fingers under his belt and sent him rolling down to the feet of Team Coral.
Sam flipped up, snatched his rifle and aimed it at Shaquan’s forehead. “Don’t you ever yank on a master hunter, spotter!”
“Sammy! It’s me, come on!”
Sam shuffled forward, pointing the weapon between Shaquan’s eyes. “Do not get in my way, man!”
“Remember who you are? We need you—what if your
father saw you like this?”
“I don’t care!”
“The whites of your eyes are vibrating, Sammy. What if she was here?”
“What if? Suzy Lancaster is dead, you know that.”
“Ok, you going to make me say it?”
“Say what?” Sam’s finger trembled on the trigger.
“What if Emelia Stone saw you now?”
Sam lowered the barrel. “Unbelievable, is it obvious?”
Shaquan wrapped an arm around Sam’s shoulder and guided him down onto a moldy, torn couch with springs coming out the bottom. “Calm down, Sammy. Come on, Suzy was a close friend. She was my friend too, you know? I’m not saying it was like between you guys, but we hung out. She was cool.”
Cute Suzy, full of joy. So many tried to take it away. The dealer beat her, she scraped vomit and mended rotting wounds. She lost so much when the rain refused to stop.
“Oh God”—Sam dropped his rifle and bawled into his palms—“she was more than a friend. I miss her so much, Shaquan.”
“Yeah, she was good people. Now, Emelia—wow, Sammy. She’s different. You got a future there. Anyone can see it in her eyes, you know, see it between you two. You can do this.”
Sam remained quiet, tears running off his chin.
Shaquan ordered to a veteran Team Coral spotter, “Help me get him up. Let’s go, Sammy. I’m taking you to Bridge Tender. Spotter, can I take the cart?”
“Sure, Shaquan, it’s charged up and ready to go.” The closest spotter griped a curse word under his breath and added, “Get him out of here before he gets us killed.”
The irritable spotter propped Sam against the passenger-side roll bar of the beige golf cart long enough for Shaquan to turn the engine over and hit the acceleration pedal. Motion took over keeping Sam steady on the bar while they zipped off along I17.
Heading south on Eastwood, Sam blurted out an apology startling Shaquan. “Sorry I almost killed you the other night when I tripped the north fuel dump failsafe. Was pretty confident you were clear of the underground gas tanks.”
“You’re sorry for not killing me the other night? What about a few minutes ago when you aimed that rifle between my eyes?”