Resistance: The Gathering Storm r-1

by William C. Dietz

  The four-wheel-drive differential was already engaged, so all Hale had to do was put the pickup in gear and head north along the two-lane highway. Local ranchers had left tracks in the snow, but judging from the way they were partially filled in, it had been at least six hours since the last vehicle had passed.

  As Hale looked to his left he could see snow-covered range land, the Absaroka Mountain range beyond, and a strip of cold winter light that divided the ground from the pewter gray sky. The heater was on, but hadn’t made much progress warming the cab, since all of its strength was directed up onto the slightly foggy windshield. It was a familiar scene—and one that was reminiscent of Hale’s childhood.

  The truck was equipped with an AM radio, and it wasn’t long before Hale was listening to “Long Gone Lonesome Blues” by Hank Williams and His Drifting Cowboys. The music carried him north past ranch houses set back off the road, barns shingled with snow, and bare-branched trees. He came to a gravel road marked only by a mailbox mounted on a rusty old plow and that—according to the instructions he had been given—was the point where he was supposed to turn right.

  So Hale put the wheel over and soon found himself on a well-churned road that ran straight as an arrow along a barbed wire fence, and pointed toward the rise beyond. As the truck sent waves of slush rolling right and left Hale began to feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

  He often played the part of a hunter, as well as the hunted, and knew the feeling well. Somewhere, perhaps from the pile of snow-frosted boulders two hundred yards to the left, eyes were watching him. And unless he missed his guess the lookout had a radio, and was already in the process of reporting the new arrival.

  A discipline Hale understood and was respectful of.

  As the truck topped the rise Hale saw a collection of buildings that lay beyond. Some were old and weather-beaten, clearly part of a ranch that had been there for a long time; others had the bright yellow-orange glow of new lumber. They looked like military-style barracks and that made sense, since even though government officials frowned on it, the property had been rededicated as a boot camp for Freedom First volunteers. Once trained, they would be sent north into stink land, or if Montana was overrun, the fighters would remain behind to carry out hit-and-run raids against the Chimera. Missions Hale not only approved of, but thought the government should sponsor, rather than playing defense so much of the time.

  A pole-gate made from a freshly barked log blocked the road, so Hale brought the truck to a stop, as two men dressed in deer hunting outfits came out to greet him. Both were armed with Bullseye Mark IIIs rather than deer rifles, which suggested that they had other game in mind. One of the sentries kept his weapon ready as Hale cranked the window down and the other man sauntered over to greet him. He had a craggy outdoorsy sort of face, half of which was invisible behind a thick beard. A wisp of vapor drifted away from his mouth as he spoke. “Hey, bud, this is private property. If you’re looking for Custer, then turn around, and head back. The first right will put you back on the highway.”

  “Thanks,” Hale replied neutrally, “but I think I’m in the right place. Assuming this is the Freedom First training camp that is. I’m here to volunteer.”

  The sentry frowned. “You got stink eyes… Anyone tell you that?”

  “Lots of people,” Hale replied nonchalantly. “Yellow eyes run in the family. My father had ′em, and his father before him.”

  The man looked doubtful, but nodded anyway, and he pointed to a parking lot where about two dozen vehicles were parked. Some were covered with snow, and clearly hadn’t been driven for a while, while others were bare.

  “Put the truck over there, bud,” the sentry said brusquely. “If you’re carrying weapons, lock them in the cab. Follow the signs to the admin building. Ask for Mr. Munger. He’s in charge of recruiting, and just about everything else around here.”

  Hale thanked the man, waited for the second sentry to push down on the weighted pole-gate, and drove through. Then, having turned into the parking lot, he chose a spot between a late-model sedan and an old flatbed truck. Hale was carrying nothing more than a .45 semiautomatic pistol, which was consistent with his cover story and small enough to put in the glove box.

  He got out of the truck and crossed the lot, then followed a trail of hand-painted signs to what had once been a one-story log home, but now functioned as the “Administration Building.” Somewhere off in the distance the steady pop, pop, pop of gunfire could be heard, suggesting that some of the trainees were on the rifle range.

  At least he hoped that was what it was.

  Two more men were waiting for Hale inside the admin building. Both wore wool shirts, faded jeans, and sidearms. One was chewing on a wooden match. His eyes were nearly invisible inside a convergence of wrinkles. “Mornin’,” he said conversationally. “Please turn to the left and put your weight on the wall. Lester here wants to feel you up.” It was an old joke, but still sufficient to elicit an appreciative guffaw from Lester, who ran a pair of rough hands over Hale without finding any weapons.

  Having passed that inspection, he was ordered to take a seat in what had once been a spacious living room. It was still homey, with a dark green rug, worn overstuffed furniture, and a crackling fire in the river-rock fireplace. The walls were covered with a variety of black-and-white photos. All of them were of the same man who could be seen fishing for trout, kneeling next to all manner of dead animals, and sitting atop a succession of fine-looking horses as he looked out over some vista or other. The ranch’s owner then? Yes, Hale thought so, as he took a seat.

  Hale was scanning old copies of Field & Stream when a man dressed in a tweed coat, corduroy trousers, and highly polished brown cowboy boots came out to meet him. Hale recognized him as the man in the photos. “Hello,” the man said. “My name is Munger. Homer Munger. And you are?”

  “Nathan Leary,” Hale replied. “Glad to meet you.”

  Munger had a thin, somewhat ascetic countenance. “We’ll see about that, Mr. Leary,” he said grimly. “Many hear the call—but few are chosen. Please follow me.”

  Hale followed Munger back into what had been the home’s master bedroom but was now furnished as an office, complete with a large wooden desk, lots of bookshelves, and a military-style two-way radio that occupied most of a side table. An extremely detailed map of Montana covered most of one wall. Munger had circled the desk, and appeared ready to sit down, when he spoke. “Atten-hut!”

  After years in the Army, then SRPA, Hale very nearly snapped to. It took an act of will to frown and look confused, straighten up, and assume the sort of sloppy brace that a brand-new recruit might. Munger nodded approvingly and smiled.

  “Sorry about that, but the Grace administration doesn’t approve of our activities, and they continue to send spies from time to time. Soldiers mostly, men who look the way you do, and almost always pop to attention.” With that, he took his place in the chair. “Have a seat, Mr. Leary, and tell me about yourself.”

  So Hale told Munger about losing his parents, growing up on a ranch in South Dakota, and drifting from job to job. All of which was true as far as it went. The only lie being his failure to mention his time in both the Army and SRPA.

  Munger listened intently, interrupting occasionally to ask questions, but allowing Hale to do most of the talking. Finally, as the narrative came to an end, Munger formed a steeple with his fingers.

  “So, tell me, Mr. Leary, what makes you think you have anything to offer Freedom First?”

  Hale shrugged, but when he spoke his voice carried an undercurrent of menace.

  “I grew up outdoors, and I’m a pretty good shot, and I hate the stinks.”

  “Montana is full of good shots,” Munger observed dryly. “My mother can bag a rabbit from a couple hundred feet away with a .22—and she’s pushing eighty. What we need are exceptional shots. More than that, we’re looking for men and women who are willing to go where the U.S. Army won’t, and hunt stinks until they get the
mselves killed. Which is what happens to 90 percent of the people who work with us. So, tell me, Mr. Leary, are you that kind of man? And are you willing to make that kind of sacrifice?”

  Hale looked directly into Munger’s eyes. “Yes,” he said unflinchingly. “I believe I am.”

  Munger was silent for a moment, as if considering what he had heard. Eventually, having reached a decision, he nodded his head. “All right, Mr. Leary, fair enough. We’ll put you through the wringer and see if you can take the pain. Then, if you’re still here three or four days from now, the real training will start. Take your gear over to Bunkhouse 1, find an empty bed, and make yourself to home. But get lots of sleep—you’re going to need it.”

  * * *

  Bunkhouse I was empty when Hale entered, although half of the sixteen beds had been claimed, judging from the personal possessions on or around them. Were the other recruits being put through what Munger called the wringer? Yes, Hale thought so, as he put his duffel bag on a bare mattress and went about the process of making it up using the bedding piled on the foot of the bed. The result was way too Army, so he pulled the corners out, and let the covers hang civilian-style.

  Having spotted the cookhouse on the way over from the truck, Hale ambled back to see if he could get a bite to eat and, more important, to look for the Walkers. Because the whole idea was to ascertain if they were present, and then get out. Which he could do by looking incompetent the next day. Then, if the Walkers were present, a SAR team would drop in to pick them up.

  But when Hale entered the cookhouse, there was no sign of the couple. One table was occupied by three men and a woman, all of whom wore the weary look of combat veterans, and none of them offered him a smile. Having checked Hale out and filed him under “newbie,” they continued their conversation.

  A few other people were present as well, singles mostly—including an older man who was poring over some financial records, a youngster with his right leg in a cast, and a retired bird dog who welcomed Hale with a single thump of his tail.

  There was plenty of coffee, and some of the best cinnamon rolls he had ever tasted, but no sign of the people he was looking for.

  The rest of the day passed slowly, as afternoon faded into night, and the recruits arrived back at the bunk house. Some were triumphant, and some were dispirited, but all of them were exhausted. Having introduced himself, Hale listened with interest as the other men described a hellacious obstacle course, a demanding exercise called hide-and-seek, and expressed the universal hope that something really bad would happen to a man named Anthony Puzo.

  Dinner followed, but didn’t last long, because everyone except Hale was bone-tired, and couldn’t wait to log some rack time. So Hale lay on his bunk, listened to the chorus of snores all around him, and thought about Cassie. He hadn’t seen the psychologist since the trip to Denver, yet he thought about her constantly, and was hoping for a three-day pass once his current assignment was over.

  At some point he fell asleep. And when he awoke it was to the sound of someone beating on a galvanized garbage can with a baseball bat.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  “Drop your cocks and grab your socks!” a deep booming voice bellowed. “You have forty-five minutes to shower, dress, and eat breakfast… The last man to arrive at the obstacle course will pull rock duty. So get your collective asses in gear.”

  “What’s rock duty?” Hale asked as he swung his feet over onto the cold floor.

  “It’s something you don’t want,” the man in the next bunk replied. “But better you than me!”

  With that the race was on as the men vied with each other to clean up, get their clothes on, and invade the cookhouse. But Army veteran that Hale was, he knew how to do everything in a hurry, and was among the first to arrive at the obstacle course where the feared Puzo stood waiting.

  Having been an NCO prior to gaining his commission, Hale knew plenty of drill instructors, but had never seen one like Puzo. He stood feet apart, with a much abused baseball bat resting on his right shoulder, and a sizable pot hanging out over his belt buckle. A fringe of black hair circled Puzo’s mostly bald head, coal black eyes peered out at the world from beneath a single eyebrow, and a truly monumental nose probed the morning air as if sniffing for miscreants. “Well,” he growled, as the recruits lined up in front of him. “Look what we have here! Some new meat. What’s your name, stink eyes?”

  Hale returned the hard-eyed stare. “Leary,” he replied, careful to leave off the usual “sir.”

  “Okay, Leeeery,” Puzo said, “you look like a smartass. And I don’t like smart-asses. Give me twenty-five push-ups.”

  So Hale dropped down, hands buried in the slush, and was busy pumping out push-ups when the last man arrived. His name was Carty, and he was a slim lad, with the air of a librarian. He was out of breath, and obviously scared.

  “Well,” Puzo said fatalistically. “Here’s our rock boy… Okay, rock boy, bring me six rocks.”

  Hale was back on his feet by then, and therefore in a position to watch as Carty went looking for rocks. It wasn’t easy finding them under the blanket of snow, and by the time Carty came back with six egg-sized rocks, the rest of the recruits had already battled their way through an obstacle course that included parallel rows of tires they were required to stutter-step through, a narrow beam that spanned a half-frozen pool of muddy water, a nine-foot-tall wooden wall, a rope climb up to a tower from which a trolley arrangement carried them to a platform a hundred feet away, and a slimy crawl through a sewer pipe to the end point beyond. Which was where Puzo was stationed when Carty arrived with a double handful of wet rocks.

  The DI examined each rock as if he was sorting through the crown jewels, looking for only the best diamonds. He rejected one submission with a grunt of disapproval, and sent Carty to fetch another. Then, with the élan of a professional baseball player, Puzo proceeded to hit all the remaining rocks so hard that they disappeared into the lead gray sky, and fell for what would surely have been a series of doubles.

  Then, as Carty returned with the replacement rock, it was time for the already tired librarian to run the obstacle course. A process clearly intended to weed him out.

  “It’s for his own good,” the man standing next to Hale said bleakly, as Carty fell off the beam and splashed into the pond. “Ironically enough, he’s going to survive—and we’re going to die.”

  Sadly, that assessment was probably true, Hale realized as the group watched Carty wade out of the freezing-cold water. Because, having been dropped into Chimera-held territory himself, he knew how long the odds were.

  Lunch was a brief but hearty affair, during which Hale had a chance to eyeball some of the more advanced recruits and members of the organization’s small but dedicated staff. Munger made an appearance, but the Walkers were nowhere to be seen, and Hale felt increasingly sure that they weren’t around. Chances were that both had been killed during the long trip from Indianapolis. Anything else would amount to a miracle.

  So as Puzo led the group on a one-mile hike to the makeshift firing range, Hale had already decided to miss at least half of the targets, as the first step of a plan to get himself ejected from the training camp. The sporadic sounds of gunfire could be heard as they came closer, Puzo sent Carty out looking for rocks, and the familiar smell of gunsmoke rode the otherwise clean air.

  The shooting stand was protected by a long slanted roof, supported by six-by-six posts, all set in concrete. Beyond that a long stretch of open land could be seen, with a line of six targets at what Hale estimated to be a thousand yards, all backed by a mound of snow-clad earth. Wind flags hung limply at both sides of the embankment.

  Puzo led his brood in behind the firing line—Hale saw that the person who was currently doing the shooting was armed with a Fareye. A military weapon she wasn’t supposed to have. And the woman was good—very good, as became obvious when she squeezed off the final round and put the rifle down on the table next to her.

  “Good sho
t!” the range master said approvingly as he peered downrange through a pair of powerful binoculars. “You scored five bull’s-eyes out of six shots. Number four was just a hair outside, but still in the kill zone.”

  “That isn’t good enough,” the shooter responded matter-of-factly. “I need six out of six.”

  The sound of the woman’s voice sent a chill down Hale’s spine. “Susan?” he said. “Is that you?”

  Susan Farley turned to look. It was the same face Hale remembered growing up with. She had the same high forehead, the same spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and the same determined mouth. Her eyes widened in disbelief. “Nathan? They told us you were dead!”

  “This is all very touching,” Puzo said sarcastically, “but it’s a waste of time. Let’s clear the line… We have some shooting to do.”

  “But she’s my sister!” Hale objected.

  “And he’s in the Army,” Susan interjected, as her features began to harden. “Or he’s supposed to be. What did he say his name was?”

  “Leary,” Puzo replied, as his eyes began to narrow.

  “He’s lying,” Susan said grimly. “His real name is Hale.”

  Hale tried to turn, tried to react, but the baseball bat was already in motion by that time. Hale saw an explosion of light, fell into a bottomless hole, and suddenly ceased to exist.

  The rarely used interrogation center was located in the basement underneath the admin building, adjacent to a well-stocked armory. Hale was strapped to an X-shaped structure which was secured to a concrete wall. He had been stripped to the waist and was clearly unconscious. Two ceiling-mounted lights were angled to spotlight the prisoner, making his many scars clearly visible.

  Three other people were present: Munger, Susan, and Puzo. They stood in a semicircle, backs to the door, as Puzo lifted a bucket of water up off the floor. Munger nodded. “Let him have it.”

  Puzo grinned sadistically as the cold liquid hit Hale in the face and splashed the wall behind him. Susan felt a moment of regret as the man she had grown up with jerked convulsively and opened his strange yellow-gold eyes.