by Lee Brait
cool his lungs.
He was half way there now. The loose soil piling up beside him. This time it was a deep in color, dark crumbly brown and rich with details. It even seemed to smell dryer in the noon light. Fat juicy worms, clumps of fibrous root and silver and gray pieces of stone. It was the same soil, but so different to the silvery monotone pile he'd built under the moon light.
A rattly buzz erupted behind him. He spun, startled and raised his shovel, ready. It circled around and then back and landed on the shovel handle. It flexed its double wings, casting holographic hues of green and blue against the dark veins that ran through the transparent surfaces. It raised and lowered its chunky thorax as if in some primeval greeting. The stout fluorescent blue abdomen quivered with each gesticulation. He flicked his shovel up. It didn't budge. And again. It stayed put. It would be easy to swat it, remove the inconvenience. He inhaled and emptied his lungs at it and watched it fly away. Linc liked dragonflies when they were not buzzing too close to his head.
Linc stood for a moment and straightened his back. He hadn't realized how hard he'd been digging, nor how much his back was tightening. He stepped out of the hole and stretched. Pulled out his phone and turned the radio on again.
Three adverts in a row for closing down sales and one for emergency supplies. Then a news bulletin.
"With fresh produce spoiling on shelves, supermarkets are urging customers not to panic. James Hill of the American Grocers Association says all fresh produce is being carefully screened before it goes anywhere near a supermarket shelf and while stocks of canned, processed and dried foods are running low, stocks will be fully replenished within two weeks so there is no reason to hoard goods."
"The latest survey from the consumer institute shows prices of canned goods have increased by an average of 65% in under one week. Prices are expected to settle again once normal supply resumes."
"Plans are underway for the fastest military withdrawal in history. With six hundred thirty thousand troops in the various combat zones, commercial airlines will carry most of the troops back to American soil. The first flights are planned for LAX in two days time."
Then John Mayer started singing about waiting for the world to change.
Linc had never understood terrorists. To kill yourself performing some atrocity, some act of vengeance against the child of somebody who never did anything to you. All in the name of Allah. Wasn't Allah supposed to be all about love? If it was such a glorious way to die, then why didn't the leaders lead by example?
Bombings sort of made sense. They didn't but they did. Bombs were what they knew. The tools of their trade. When being attacked by terrorists you expect bombs. But food contamination? Since when did terrorists do that? Since when did terrorista breed and distribute hepatitis and E. coli?
And what could they have to gain from it? The greater the food shortages and the longer the airports were closed, these things make removing the troops from their soil harder and take longer. How could they want that?
Who could benefit from these things?
It wasn't the farmers, having to dump their crops. Not the supermarkets who paid for the produce rotting on their shelves. Not the federal reserve, not this time. At this rate food would be more valuable than gold.
Survival gear was killing it and canned goods were selling out. But transport seemed like the biggest winner. They would certainly be busy at work now. Every truck they could muster would be full around the clock. "Keep the troops fed," Howard would say. It was his mission statement and he was a great CEO and leader. Supplying the troops was the main motivator, but people at home had to be supplied too. And he wondered what would happen with the foreign and domestic aid distribution side of the business. If the attacks kept up foreign aid would arrive soon and they would be the ones to distribute it.
Howard the humanitarian; he would be in his element. They would be overwhelmed with work but he would lead them through this if anyone could.
He bashed and hacked at a root until he realized. It should be soft. Easy to dig. He'd already dug it. He was deep enough. He was at the bottom. The keys... the body.
They were gone.
It was a body. It was buried in a grave. It can't be gone.
He shoveled some more and cleared the loose dirt out to the corners, found the outline of the bottom layer.
There was nothing but hard soil and roots. He must have made a mistake, must have got confused somehow. He had been through hell today and not slept for thirty hours. Was his mind playing tricks? Did he forget to roll the body in? But it would still be here. A body doesn't walk away by itself.
The ball that had been growing in the pit his stomach all day tightened. It sapped his energy, consumed him, like the first time Ryan got sick. Like when he got mumps. Linc had stayed home from work to look after him. Ryan could not eat, but neither could Linc. Not until the boy's fever broke and his relief set in. Then the knot slowly unwound and he was able to take a little food.
But no food would pass through that knot now. Not with Ryan and Angie's names on that damned wall. He climbed out of the hole and looked around. He had no idea what he expected to find. A body doesn't get lost under a leaf or a twig. He circled the grave and found nothing. Walked a bigger circle. Nothing. He made the circle bigger, then again.
There was nothing. Just a gray food wrapper. How would that get here? He picked it up. It was a Chili and Macaroni MRE. A meal, ready to eat. Like the army used. Just like all the millions his department had helped ship to the troops. MRE34985CM. That was the code his servers knew this meal by. He turned the shiny wrapper in his hand and felt the plastic coated foil crackle between his fingers and picked up a faint whiff of heat from chilli. He'd never touched one of these before. For him they were normally ones and zeros, crunched in another building by his servers. There was something about holding one in his hand for the first time, even as a piece of trash.
He circled some more and found the box the MRE came in. It was plain and gray, as if putting the worlds most expensive instant meal in a cheap box would make a difference. But perception was reality so even the army played that game.
He came to a small clearing and a circle of charred rocks with a burnt out fire in the center. The coals were cool and left a layer of soot on his palm. Two sets of tracks snaked away between the trees. The area was flat and he supposed a motorcycle would easily cross the dehydrated soil. They must have followed him and hidden down the road, rode in here after he left. He would have seen them if they were here. And heard them.
He followed the tracks for a few yards and his eye was drawn to a tree ahead, leaves bright and green. A clash of color, a patch of blue. A bandanna, captive in the thorns of the Acacia tree. He plucked it off. It was the same kind of bandanna as worn by the bikers at the police funeral. The same as worn by Shane and his flunkies. He threw it down. Ground it into the dirt with his heel and headed back the grave.
It seemed odd for bikers to be eating MREs. Spare ribs and bourbon maybe. But MREs? He wondered where they even got them. MREs had always been expensive, but now they were scarce like hen's teeth and very hard to get without army connections.
He reached the grave, the vacant hole. He had no keys and no way in to the bikers club house.
He would have to figure it out when he got there. He had to find out how many were involved. Find out how big this was, what danger his family was in.
And he owed it to Jim.
Some form of justice.
Once again he drove along Chadbourne Road, north west toward the city. The afternoon sun revealed no detail to be savored like the moonlight had. They were the same rocks and grass and trees as the night before but worlds apart. Now harsh with shadows and glare, stark and uninviting as they whizzed by in the heat.
He crested a hillock and dropped into a small gulley, then turned right onto the main highway into town. He passed a small farm with golden bales of hay and an old red barn, then followed the road to the top of a rise. He cleared the rise a
nd jammed his foot hard to the floor and pulled up short of the rear trailer, short of the truck. It was parked on an angle across the lane with a group of motorcycles gleaming black and chrome on the verge. The rear doors of both trailers were open and a cluster of leather clad men stood around. Probably deciding whether to burn or steal this one. Inside he could see pallets stacked with boxes. Canned goods and MREs in the rear trailer and leather boots in the front.
At the front of the truck the driver slumped face down on the road, his long silver hair melted into the gray tarmac like despair into the afternoon.
A man with ROA on the back of his jacket stood at the rear of the B-Train, a blue bandanna on his head. He turned and aimed an AK-47 at Linc. The faded and oxidized barrel, the splotchy fake mahogany stock, it was an old weapon but very convincing.
"Hands where I can see them," he yelled as he ran toward Linc.
Linc flicked the gear lever into reverse and held both hands above the wheel. The guard ran past the front window, behind Linc and aimed the gun at his head.
"Open the door and keep your hands visible!"
Linc pushed the door open.
"Out of the car!"
Linc turned toward him in his seat and kept his foot on the brake. "My safety belt, I'm stuck," he said.
The guard stepped closer to the car, "out, now!"
Linc clicked the
