by Rod Rayborne
No one spoke, afraid to sound like they were contradicting the Major General as he paced back and forth looking for someone to vent his rage on. Then a voice behind him caused him to spin around. The voice was low, almost inaudible.
"What was that? One of you gutless wonders have something to say? Say it!"
No one spoke. But enough of them turned to look at one lowly Private to give Owen a mark to focus on. He walked up to the man, a thin man whose uniform looked one size too large for his gangly frame.
"Who are you?" he demanded, seeing him for the first time.
"Sir, I asked him to join us, Sir," an uncomfortable looking officer standing next to him said. "He approached me this afternoon saying he had an idea where the Beckman bunch hole up. I thought you should hear it from his own mouth. If I acted out of turn, I apologize."
"Now that's what I'm talking about! You did the right thing, Sergeant." Owen turned his bull neck around, surveying the rest of the men and women in the room.
"You see ladies and gentlemen, I'm not an ogre. You got something for me, something actionable," he turned and looked significantly at the man who had spoken up, "I'm more than willing to hear you out. How am I going to get anything done if my officers are too piss in their pants scared to speak up?" He turned to look at the newcomer.
"What's your name, son?"
"Rodriguez, Sir. Diego Rodriguez."
"You a Mexican, son?"
"Porto Rican parents, Sir. Born here, first generation American."
"Well, Diego Rodriguez, first generation American, let's hear what you got for me. I hope it's good. For his sake." Owen indicated the NCO standing next to him.
"Colonel Beckman isn't just a lone wolf, Sir. He's a third generation Marine. Twice decorated for valor in Iraq, Purple Heart in Afghanistan. Saved a company from a surprise attack by a bunch of Taliban. Got his left leg blown off below the knee. Wears a prosthetic now. Got the Congressional Medal of Honor..."
Owen held up his hand. "Yeah, yeah, a real true blue American He-ro," he laughed. "How is it you know so much about him? You aren't perchance a spy of his sent to lure us into an ambush are you?"
At this the man standing next to Rodriguez spoke up forcefully.
"Sir, no Sir! Rodriguez has been with this company for three months. Signed up in November of '28. I looked him up myself before bringing him here. He's legit."
"So far, so good," Owen replied. He looked back at Rodriguez. "First question is answered. Now tell me how you came across your information."
"Well Sir, Private Bennett is a friend of mine. Was. Was a friend of mine."
"Private Bennett? Is that name supposed to ring a bell?" Owen looked at the man standing with Rodriguez.
"The radio man, Sir. Hooked up your Ham. He ran a few days ago..."
"Oh yes, the AWOL. You say you're a friend of his?"
"Was, Sir. Until he ran. Wished I cold have shot him myself. Was. But before he left, he told me he had something hidden in his footlocker. I didn't think to look for it until last night."
"Get to the point!"
"He had a short-wave radio sandwiched between his socks and his jockey shorts."
"And…"
"I'll get it for you, Sir."
Rodriguez made as though to walk out but Owen held up his hand.
"Yeah, good man. Get it for me later. Get on with your story."
"ok, well I turned it on and started playing around with the buttons and dials. That's when I heard him."
"Heard who?"
"Him, Sir. Colonel Beckman. He was talking up a storm. That's how he's reaching people. By radio."
Owen turned to his radioman.
"How come you didn't mention that, Parker?" he demanded.
"I've never heard it, Sir. But we focus on the 20 megahertz range. Maybe he's on another frequency."
"Listen better! You can't figure these things out for yourself? Maybe I ought to replace you with this guy. Seems to know his way around a radio better than you do."
"Yes, Sir. I mean no, Sir. I mean I'm sorry, Sir. It won't happen again."
"Damn straight it won't happen again," Owen said, turning back to Rodriguez.
"So what did he say?"
"Sir, I don't exactly feel comfortable saying it in front of all these people. Maybe in your private quarters?"
"Nonsense!" Owen bellowed. "We're all on the same team here. Get on with it."
"He said some things about you, Sir."
"About me? What did he say about me?"
"Sir, he said you were a coward. Sir."
There was a low rumble around the room and Owen twisted to see from whom it was coming. The room fell silent and he turned back to face Rodriguez. Squaring his shoulders, he said, "Go on."
"Well, Sir, to be perfectly honest, he called you a sniveling coward. Sir."
A few chuckles sounded. Owen turned again, his ears growing red, pink suffusing his cheeks. Immediately he did so, the room grew quiet again. One woman held the back of her hand over her mouth, snorting twice, tears wetting the corners of her eyes, her body convulsing spasmodically. Owen stared at her stone faced until she crawled her way back to sanity, then he turned to Rodriguez again.
"Any more?"
"A little bit, Sir."
"Let's have it."
"Sir..."
"LETS HAVE IT!"
"Yes, Sir. Well, he said you're a tyrant."
"That's not so bad. That it?"
"He said you don't know your right hand from your ass."
"That's enough."
"And he said that you we're demoted once because…"
"I SAID THAT'S ENOUGH, GODDAMN YOU!"
The room exploded into laughter, Owen wheeling around to face his officers once more, fire in his eyes. They fought to control their laughter, some looking down, examining their shoes, painfully biting their tongues. Owen swung back towards Rodriguez, fists clenched.
"You'd better not be shitting me on any of this or so help me God you'll pay."
"There's one other thing, Sir. Colonel Beckman said something about a protest coming, Sir. Constitutionalists. Headed to Anaheim. A big protest. Call themselves the Freedom and Liberty party."
"That's a little redundant, don't you think?"
"Sir?"
"Never mind." He turned to the officers behind him. "See, didn't I tell you losers they'd hang themselves if we just gave them enough rope? This is perfect. A little attention there will work wonders in quelling dissent elsewhere."
Owen looked at Rodriguez again.
"And Beckman is going to join his people up with the militia group to face us?"
"No, Sir. He said he wants to meet with them to discuss a better way. Non-violent resistance. I don't think he's behind the clashes we've been having. Not the violent ones, at least."
"He's a liar. Beckman is a tactical man. These people are too stupid to figure out how to challenge us on their own."
Owen looked at the three officers standing closest to him who'd wisely kept their mouths shut while the others had been tittering.
"Get some men down there. Anaheim. Find out when and where this big protest will arrive. Round them up. If they put up a resistance, gun down the whole lot of them. You got that?"
"Gun them down?"
"What part of what I just said do you not understand, Sergeant? I'm not telling you to go in there guns blazing. I said if they put up a resistance, you're to defend yourself. With extreme prejudice, should that become necessary. Now, do you understand what I'm asking of you or do I need to put it in simpler words?"
"Understood." The man said. He saluted crisply and together with the two officers next to him, walked out of the room.
Owen turned to a soldier standing at attention near the door. He pointed to Rodriguez with his thumb.
"Take this man to the Mess. He gets anything he wants to eat tonight. Got that?"
"Yes, Sir!"
Owen looked at Rodriguez. "You like army life, son?"
&nb
sp; "Yes, Sir. We're doing what has to be done to secure our country."
"You were a Private when you walked in here. You're a Corporal now. Don't disappoint me, Rodriguez."
Rodriguez saluted crisply.
"I won't, Sir." Then he turned and walked out of the room, the other soldier in tow.
Owen looked at the rest of the officers gathered around the room. They glanced in every direction except his.
"Get the hell out of my sight," he barked, pointing at the door. They jumped and made a mad, Keystone Cops dash out of the room.
Chapter Sixty
T he morning sun on his left, Hershel ran towards the south. Rabbit was cocooned in a wrap Herschel had made for her from a blanket he had grabbed from a gurney on his way out of the hospital. He'd tied it to his back, pulling the corners to his front and knotting them together. Twisting in to his front, he gently placed Rabbit inside. Only her head was exposed, bobbing with his every stride.
The hospital was miles behind him, his long legs and angry determination putting plenty of distance between them. Angry at himself because he had heard about fallout long ago, should have remembered it when the blast occurred but didn't. Angry at the circumstances that placed him here now, that was taking the life of a girl who'd never had a chance to live. Like most people, he hadn't paid much attention to the finer nuances of politics, especially of the disaster movie variety. He had enough to worry about in real life. He didn't need to complicate it further by adding an apocalypse to the mix.
He ran at a steady pace, careful not to overexert himself, bouncing on his soles rhythmically and taking deep, steady breaths. The city was becoming less ruined the farther south he went. Less obstacles, intact roads, upright vehicles.
The doctor had been right. The explosion must have happened to the north of the city. Perhaps in the North Hollywood area. He was nearing Downey, twenty seven miles to the south. He had a clear idea what he had to do. If he had been in Simi Valley, he would need to be running north. Burbank and it would be east. But he was on the south end of LA. That meant San Diego. Maybe even Mexico. He would go as far as he had too to get Rabbit to safety.
The further he went, the more people he saw. They were moving south as he was, caravans of tired, filthy, hungry looking people, some shirtless, some not. The farther from downtown they got, the cooler the temperatures became. He guessed the temps had dropped to the mid eighties.
The crowds walked in a daze, some shouting directions to people from rooftops, standing on car hoods or RV's to be better seen. They pointed south, exhorting the throng to keep moving. In other places stands had been set up, selfless individuals handing out bottled water and sandwiches wrapped in paper towels that others were preparing as quickly as they could at nearby tables.
Hershel made his way to a stand near him just as an argument broke out between an angry man and one of the sandwich makers. The man had grabbed a dozen of the sandwiches and was reaching for more when Herschel approached him. Taking him by the scruff of his neck, he pushed him backwards. When the man swung at him, Herschel cuffed him on the side of his head. The man sat down on the ground, dropping the sandwiches on the hot asphalt.
"Put them back on the table and leave," Herschel said quietly.
"It's ok," The sandwich maker said. "He can have them."
Ignoring the man behind the table, Hershel stared at the man on the ground.
"I said put them back."
The man stood and placed the sandwiches onto the table. Then he grabbed one and dashed out into the crowd. The man behind the table nodded.
"How long you been doing this mister," Hershel asked.
"Table's been here three days. I been here two."
"Ain't you got no place you got to get too?"
"Mister, I have no where else to go. I live right over there." He pointed to a house behind him. "I haven't seen my wife or kids since the Blow. They were in Santa Barbara. I don't know where they are now. Nothing else I can do but wait. Wait and pray."
"Good man."
The man reached into a cardboard box next to him and pulled out a plastic bag. He quickly pushed the extra sandwiches the other man put back onto the table into the bag and handed them to Hershel.
"Take these. You'll need them. Wish I could do more but..."
"Done enough. I'm grateful. Trying to get the girl out. She's sick. Gonna take a year at this pace. She ain't got a year."
The man grabbed Hershel's arm, looking down, straining to remember something. Then he looked up, a sudden thought lighting his face.
"I remember something. Heard it once a long time ago. About the kind of bomb knocked out all the power."
"If it's all the same to you, I don't want to talk about that. I got to get going anyway."
"No, wait. You can drive south faster than you can walk, right? That's what it was. New cars are too sensitive to the power surge these bombs produce. Burns out their delicate computer parts. Something like that. But old cars, trucks, they don't have computers in them. So they should still work. Have to be old though. Like fifty years or more, I think. I could be wrong. But I think that's what I heard. Worth a try at least."
"Mister, if you're right, I owe you. Thank you for the sandwiches. I hope you find your wife and kids."
He shook hands with Hershel. Then he turned and started passing out sandwiches again.
Clutching the plastic bag in his hands, Hershel twisted away from the table and jogged forward through an opening in the crowd with renewed hope.
Hershel was sleep walking now, no longer able to run. He was tired, hadn't slept in a day and a half, carrying Rabbit's forty pounds the entire time, first on his shoulders, then in the wrap and now in his arms. She had thrown up twice more in that time. She didn't heave; there was no effort, bile simply slipped out, no longer food, just a greenish liquid that stained his t-shirt. She was a rag doll in his arms. Her heartbeat was faint.
In the miles he had walked, he had seen nothing that matched the sandwich maker's description, no car or truck old enough to be unaffected by the EMP. Still he looked, if for no other reason than to keep himself awake. Though he had not seen the sun since the Blow, the last two days had been brighter than the previous two and while hot, had left him with the hope that the worst of the disaster had passed. Temperatures were dropping. His white tank top was dry, his lips cracked, flaking.
Hershel knew that if he simply gave up, if he found a cool place to rest, to wait, Rabbit would eventually pass away in his arms. He could hold her till then. And when she was gone, he could bury her, say a prayer over her grave, move on. He doubted now that she would recover. She was pallid, like a ghost, a foul odor drifting up from her still form. She was as good as dead already, he told himself.
But he couldn't bring himself to quit, to let go her only chance to live, to have a life as long as his, to one day make her own way in the world, just as he had. She was given to him to take care of, to keep safe. There had to be a reason. Nothing else made sense to him. As long as she lived, he would keep trying.
The crowds had thinned out, grown confused, some turning back towards the city. He was in Downy now. The homes had grown larger, more plush, the suburbs richer. Now there were even fewer chances of finding an old car. Giant sized trucks, monster SUV's, sporty foreign roadsters lined the streets. Less damaged, there were people still living here, sheltering in place, trading with each other. Few paid any attention to him or his dying cargo. When he tried to talk to one woman, she turned and walked back into her home. Another man warned him to keep on moving if he knew what was good for him.
Money still had a way of twisting people's attitudes, even now when money meant nothing. Their fine homes reassured them that they were still better off than their fellow man. Especially one lowly black man and his sickly, possibly contagious, charge. Some stood outside their homes, rifles in hand. They were determined to protect their property, their neighborhoods, from outsiders. They'd banded together, blocking roads, armed men sitting
astride cars they pushed into roadblocks, advising passersby to just keep right on passing.
He skirted whole blocks at a time, even back tracking when he had no other choice. They're only trying to protect themselves, their loved ones, he told himself. He couldn't blame them. But every step he took not south, sent his heart in that direction instead.
He came to a park, burnt out, trees toppled and sat down on the curb. Too exhausted to go on, he knew if he could just get an hour of sleep, maybe two, he would be strong enough to go on. He looked down at the still form in his arms
He held his fingers under her nose, could feel a touch of breath. He laid her gently on the seared lawn and shucked his pack off. Pulling out his canteen, he opened it and let a trickle of water wet Rabbit's cracked lips. She didn't respond, didn't cough, didn't swallow. He stopped, afraid that she might drown if the water was going down the wrong way. Or perhaps the water had reached her stomach.
Hershel drank himself, sparingly. He wanted to gulp it down, could have finished three, four bottles if he had had them to spare. But he didn't. He twisted the cap back on and pushed it into his pack again. He started to lay down then, using the pack as a pillow, Rabbit still in his arms when he saw the truck. Brown, rounded corners, four tires with white walls still on the asphalt. He staggered up, unheard sounds escaping from his mouth. Lifting Rabbit, he reached down and grabbed a strap on his pack, hoisted it and began to run.
Chapter Sixty One
R odriguez sat on a long metal bench along with two dozen other soldiers as it rumbled along La Habra Heights moving toward 57. In the last three days, Owen's militia had been increased by another six thousand, two hundred and eighteen men and women. They trudged in from Camp Pendleton near Oceanside where nearly nineteen thousand had survived the conflagration and we're subsequently deployed to help reinforce the greater Los Angeles forces as well as other existing bases along the coast of New California. Along with a company of technical reinforcements from Long Beach, topping out LA's troop strength at just north of eight thousand, four hundred plus. And still they trickled in.
