George stepped into the compartment of a ladder from which to stock warehouse inventory, and an attendant slowly raised him about twenty feet in the air. He remembered when the meetings were small enough for him to address a crowd from ground level or even a haystack. How he missed those days, with Max and Margaret and Hans. Now, he was the only one left to lead. He hoped—he prayed—that he would make a good leader.
There were people still streaming in through the front doors of Covington’s. It was a department store with good quality and good prices. Better yet, the owner was sympathetic to the FCP, and had offered his property to accommodate the occasional meeting. A bold and generous offer, in light of the rock concert catastrophe.
So, amid aisles of clothes, chips, toys, fishing rods, and tires, the members took their places in the thousands. Despite the massacre two weeks ago, this was the largest turnout ever for a Wednesday meeting. And the Athenian knew why.
“I think most of you have arrived, and I want to thank you for summoning the courage to attend this meeting.” The awkwardness of the venue was distracting for George as he spoke into his mike. “As you know, we’ve taken precautionary measures since the concert to protect ourselves—we can’t afford to lose hundreds of lives like that again.” There were whispers and uneasy shufflings among the crowd, and eyes scanned the ceiling and entrance.
“But let’s get down to business. As we at the FCP anticipated, the grays are proving to be, for the most part, incompetent at waging war. Last night, the vaunted Order of Tiamat was soundly defeated in Colorado by an Aztec army group. Thankfully, I can report with relief that the European American Legion, an organization based in Arizona but affiliated with the FCP, has assured me that the invading Aztlanders are treating non-gray Americans with respect and even kindness. I needn’t tell you that this policy of good will and brotherhood exercised by Aztec soldiers may be fleeting, however.
“Of greater concern to me are developments to the east. Today, we learned that an Islamic armada is plying toward our east coast. Apparently, it departed a week ago. But with a silenced and partisan European news service, and fumbling U.S. news teams dominated by grays, it’s no wonder we just learned of this unhappy turn of events. In fact, the only reason we have forewarning of their invasion at all is because a U.S. fleet, manned, of course, by grays, was swept aside by a reconnoitering Muslim flotilla early this morning. There is no doubt in my mind that at the heart of the Islamic fleet are countless troop transports wherein pace a million warriors eager to spill our blood. And I’m not exaggerating. With their population, fielding a million soldiers is nothing to them. Perhaps they’re sending two million, or three.” George stared down at the nearest group of onlookers, and tried to look stoic as Aleksandra’s eyes met his own.
“So, what do we do?” he asked the crowd. “That’s what you all came here to discuss, tonight, correct? Well, I will recommend a plan of action devised by me and the former leaders of the FCP several months ago in anticipation of these events. But first, I’d like to split into our small groups, and discuss among ourselves whatever options our individual members would like to put forth. So, go ahead and find your group leaders—group leaders, please hold up your signs to expedite this—and we’ll reconvene in half an hour.”
No sooner had George given the order to lower the inventory ladder, than his ear vibrated.
“Juan Guerrero . . . Juan Guerrero . . . Juan Guerrero.” The caller ID automated voice repeated, and George, wide eyed, took the call.
“George!”
The Athenian heard a familiar voice.
“Rick? Who is this? Who is this?”
“Yeah, it’s me, Rick! I’m calling from Guerrero’s phone—the grays ripped mine out of my ear—I’m alive! Oh God, please tell me Cathy and Blake are okay, man, please tell me they’re ali . . .”
“They’re fine! Don’t worry, Rick, they’re great—just worried as hell about you. Aleksandra and I set them up in the apartment right next to hers. We’ve been taking care of them great—everything’s fine. But—holy shit, man—it’s so great that you’re alive. And you’re with the ‘Tecs? What the hell happened?”
Even in the company of the president of Aztlan, Rick couldn’t fight back tears.
“So they’re alive?” He asked again, his face big with a trembling smile. He could feel the strong hand of Laurence on his shoulder. And then it was gone, as the black man retired to a corner, weeping.
***
“When the wars are over, I want to become a professor at an American university.” Aleksandra pushed long blond hair from her eyes, then bit into a chocolate chip cookie.
“Well, Blake and I think you’d be a wonderful professor.” Cathy smiled. “And thanks so much for helping take care of us these past couple weeks.”
“Not a problem. But what are your plans, Cathy? Are you going to continue teaching?”
Cathy poured herself coffee in hand-painted Italian china, took a sip, and pondered. “I haven’t decided yet. I may go back to school and work on an M.B.A. or J.D. Of course, I have another obligation to tend to as well.”
“Have you told Rick?”
“No . . . but I will when I see him in person.”
Blake had become bored listening to the women converse, and had taken to shadow boxing.
“When’s dad getting home?” he moaned.
“Soon, honey. George should be bringing him home from the bus station any minute now.”
“Good. Hey, I bet he got to fight a lot when they had him prisoner, Mom. I bet he got to beat up a lot of bad guys.”
“I’m sure he did.” Cathy and Aleksandra nodded at Blake.
“Well, I’m gonna be tough like dad someday. Mom, I need a punching bag to punch. George holds his hands up for me to hit but he’s hardly ever around.”
“I don’t think there’s room enough here, sweetie. When your daddy gets home maybe he’ll bring you to the gym with him when you want. Would you like that—to go train with the big guys?”
“Oh, yeah!” he said.
“Make sure you keep up with your reading, too, Blake,” ordered his mother. “You want to have a strong body and a strong mind.”
“I know, Mom.” He sulked. “Hey, have you ever heard of the minotaur? George read me a story about him last night—he’s like this half-man-half-bull monster and he lived in this maze and this guy had to go down and kill him and . . .”
There was commotion outside, and the sound of a suitcase touching cement. Blake was already at the door, tugging furiously at the latch then flinging the door wide.
“Dad!” he cried, as firm hands cupped beneath his arms and lifted him off the ground.
Rick held Blake with one hand and swept Cathy in with the other, so that all three were embraced. Tears were running, and George and Aleksandra stepped back, smiled, and watched.
Fingers interlaced in gloves, Rick and Cathy walked through January snows. The park was silent, the sky was gray. Painted metal animals, large coils riveting them to the ground, were vacant and frozen. Icy flakes covered their brown painted saddles, and their large, expressive eyes were lonely. The monkey bars and slide were twisted metal and chipped paint. Untenanted, the play area was strange—forgotten.
“Kind of forlorn around here.” Rick sighed.
“Well, I think it’s wonderful—you’re here.” Cathy looked into his eyes and they kissed.
Above, the gray clouds were low lying and passing quickly. Following Cathy’s finger pointing upward, the two watched as the sky flowed by.
“See—it’s like a stream. Too bad we can’t see our reflection.” She smiled.
“Yeah, it’s like we’re looking at it upside down,” he murmured, a little uneasily.
A wind stirred, and then gained vigor. One of the animals, a toothless lion, jostled and squeaked on his coil.
“These animals shouldn’t look so sad,” Rick commented. “In five years there’ll be tons of little Muslim kids playing on them—the children of
colonists.”
“Well, that might not happen. I’ve been praying a lot lately to the Blessed Mother, and I have a good feeling about things. Blake and I prayed so hard for you to return, and God answered our prayers. Maybe he’ll answer another.”
“Who knows.” Rick stooped and picked up a handful of snow, then watched it drift between his padded fingers like white sand. “I wouldn’t bet on it.”
There was silence, save for the sound of the wind and the rusty squeaks of riderless animals.
“Well,” she hugged him, “at least we have each other. We’ll run away to Canada, or to Mexico, right?”
He stared hard at the toothless lion.
“Poor guy needs some teeth,” he said as if far away.
“Honey, we’re going to escape, right? Isn’t that still the plan?”
“I don’t know anymore, Cathy.” He pulled her close. “Guerrero wants us to make a stand with him against the Muslims. He’s got the sense to know that they won’t be content with just the east coast. Five, maybe ten years from now they’ll be pushing out west, toward Aztlan. He knows that now is the best time to try to repel them before they get a foothold.”
“But what does that have to do with us?” she asked.
“He wants us to help. He’s already got about five thousand white troops marching with him from the European-American Legion, which is an organization kind of like ours. With every town he passes through, he picks up more volunteers. He’s got lots of ex-U.S. military guys—the ones who wouldn’t submit to treatment and were dishonorably discharged a year ago. Most of the Hispanic Americans in this country are flocking to his standards.”
“But I don’t want you to fight, honey. Damn it, we almost lost you already—and it was a miracle, a miracle that you came back to us. Don’t do this to us. Don’t . . .”
They embraced, and her tears were warm on his nose and cheeks.
“George thinks it’s best to ally with Guerrero. Mexico and Canada will be overrun eventually anyway.”
“But Canada’s so big—we could hide out there for the rest of our lives and probably be okay.”
“Probably. But honey, I’ve fought this long . . . I just feel like I have to finish the job.”
“But even if you manage to beat the Muslims, which is like unimaginable, do you really trust the Aztecs? I mean, do you think they’ll just pick up and leave?”
“No one knows. Guerrero claims he only wants the states signed over from the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. Which is basically like a third of the U.S. But everyone knows he’s also got designs on Texas and some other areas too.”
Her eyes glistened. “Oh my God.”
“It’s not so bad,” he comforted. “If he keeps his word, it’s better than losing everything. And we’ll have our lives, if we win.”
She was silent, and for the first time since she and her husband stepped into the chill air that afternoon, there was a frown on her face.
“Well what’s this Guerrero character going to do with the whites and blacks and Asians living in the states he gets?” she asked.
“I don’t know. At worst kick them out, I think. Even if they have to pick up and move east it’s better than getting enslaved or killed by the Muslims, you know?”
“Yes.” She sighed. “Our people are so weak.”
“I know—it sucks having your fate determined by stronger countries and peoples. I guess, other than pretty recently, whites aren’t used to that.” He laughed weakly.
“Let’s forget everything for a while. There’s a lake down at the base of that hill that Blake and I found. Wanna check it out?”
“Sure.”
The couple booted through the white tracts, then down a gently declining hill. There were dead, gray trees all around, their nude branches pained and linear.
“Ha, it’s frozen,” Cathy said amusedly as the lake came into view.
“Looks pretty cool,” Rick murmured, and kissed her cheek.
“Honey, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“What, did Blake punch a hole in the wall already or something?”
“Not that I know of.” She chuckled. “But, Blake is going to have a baby sister or brother in eight months.”
Rick’s eyes flashed electrically, and the face that had been rigid and impassive was abloom with startlement and joy.
“Oh my God, Cathy, congratulations—that’s awesome!” He gripped her tightly, and they kissed.
“I thought that would get your attention,” she whispered in his ear. “Remember I missed the concert because I wasn’t feeling well? I thought I had caught something from Blake when he was sick the week before. Turns out I wasn’t sick, after all.”
He was silent, and for the first time since he and his wife stepped into the chill air that afternoon, there was a smile on his face.
Chapter 43
George turned the key in the ignition, and the engine vivified huskily. He always liked driving in cold weather—vehicles performed better. Today, he might need that extra performance.
“Okay,” he leaned around and addressed the men sitting in the cabin and pickup bed, “Ken, slide back the glass so they can hear this, too.” The glass partition separating cabin and pickup bed was pushed open. “Now is everyone clear on the plan?” He touched his hip and his chest in a nervous gesture—his pistols were still there.
“George, man, you’ve reviewed it like a billion times—let’s go,” a voice called from the back.
“Okay . . . I know.” He rolled his eyes as he pulled on to the highway from Covington’s parking lot. Two other pickups followed him.
Rick looked to his left and grinned.
“You look like you’re strangling the wheel, George. Everything’s gonna be okay. Why don’t you just let the truck drive itself and sit back and count your ammo again or something.”
“Naw, I trust my driving better than a machine’s.” The Athenian tried to smile. “Well, you’re riding shotgun—and looks like you’re carrying one too. I hope you’re a good shot with one.”
“I used to be,” Rick smirked, then made a crazed look. “But maybe I lost my aim along with my sanity during my stay at the asylum.”
The men laughed.
“Seriously, George, you’ve got to calm down—this should be a slam dunk. I’ve never seen you so stressed,” Rick said.
“I know, I know. But if one of us gets hurt or killed, for the first time, I’ll feel like it’s my fault. I’m the leader now, and I planned this operation. And the life and death of you guys is my responsibility now.” He grit his teeth and accelerated. The two trucks following him adjusted their speed accordingly.
* * *
“All right,” a tall, sneering gray woman boomed, “we’re going to do this in alphabetical order. When your name is called, come to me at the front and sign your name to my identification paper. The Teratol-7 will be administered via injection to your forearm. The Americanization drug is soporific, so you will be given a room to sleep in. When you awaken, you will be an American.” She smiled, and cracks upon her purple lips flared and wept fluid.
The room was festooned with American flags and red, white, and blue décor. At the front, two nurses prepared their injections at a desk. Toward the back of the room, near the door, sat around fifty somber patients in old metal chairs.
The head nurse looked to her assistant, and grinned. “Shall we begin?” she asked.
“I’m ready to cure a disease,” the other confirmed with a wink.
“Excellent. Well, it’s almost noon—I guess we can start ten minutes early.” She flipped a page and called out, “Sara Abramowitz.”
The nurses scrutinized the crowd and saw pallor and distress.
“Sara Abramowitz!” the nurse said annoyedly, when no one stood.
Hesitantly, a little girl with large, thick glasses approached the front. Her black hair was in a pony-tail, and like the other patients, she wore a medical gown.
“And you must be Sara
.” The head nurse grinned.
“Is it going to hurt?” the little girl asked.
“Of course not, sweetie. Just one little injection from this needle and you’ll be a new person. I’m sure a,” she looked at the sheet, “big eight-year-old like yourself isn’t scared of a little ol’ needle, now, are you?”
“I hate needles,” Sara squeaked, and took a step back, but not before the head nurse latched a claw around her wrist.
“Come now, dear, aren’t you tired of being discriminated against? Don’t you want to be equal with the rest of us? Once you’re an American, everything will be better, because you’ll be diverse.”
The little girl gulped. “If I’m diverse, will my teachers stop picking on me and making fun of me?” she asked, her eyes shimmering with tears behind the glasses.
“Of course they will!” The head nurse shoved her forward and offered the pale forearm to the assistant.
The needle jerked in, and Sara screamed. But it wasn’t from the pain.
There were men in the room—big men—glowering men—with guns. And more were coming in through the door.
“Who are you? You have no business being in this room!” the head nurse shouted aggressively at George and Rick, who were walking toward her. Rick frowned at her reckless temerity and confidence—he had yet to meet a timid or fearful gray.
As they neared, the head nurse stood up to her full, substantial height and crossed her brawny arms. “You will leave the premises now, Aliens!” she thundered. “You are disrupting a federal procedure.”
A glance down at the little girl, the needle still lodged in her tiny arm, face looking plaintively up at him, and all apprehension left George. He seized the head nurse by the throat and with prodigious force slammed the back of her head into the wall. The plaster fractured and gave like an eggshell, and the woman’s face was covered in white debris. She groaned and clattered to the floor. The assistant ripped the needle from the girl and plunged it into George’s hip. Her other hand was on its way to mash home the plunger, and flush the Athenian’s system with the fluid.
The Gods of Color Page 45
