Lee Harden Series | Book 5 | Unbowed

by Molles, D. J.

  Is this really what we’ve come to?

  “Sir?”

  Griffin snapped upright, realizing he’d been slouching, staring down at a man and a woman who had died, toppled over each other. He blinked away the haze of confusing thoughts and focused on the speaker.

  Lieutenant Paige stood watching him carefully. And, perhaps, carefully ignoring the bodies all around them. Willful disregard. Not out of callousness, but out of necessity for one’s sanity.

  Griffin tried to speak, but the first syllable was a phlegmy croak. He cleared his throat. “Yes, lieutenant?” he said, oddly formal.

  “We secured the north end,” Paige said, his tone blank. The recitation of a report. Nothing more. “That was the last of the resistance.”

  “Casualties?”

  “Two wounded, one dead. Fifteen confirmed kills.” Paige hesitated, then added, “All of them were armed.” As though he needed to absolve himself of wrongdoing.

  Griffin nodded. “Anyone make it out?”

  Paige sniffed, and his eyes betrayed him, taking one single glance downward. He hauled his eyes back up, as though to keep them from processing what they saw. “Yeah. One vehicle got outta Dodge when we closed in on where they were holed up. We fired on it, but if we hit whoever was driving, it wasn’t enough to make ‘em stop.”

  “Any idea where they were heading?”

  Paige shook his head. “North. That’s all I saw.”

  They stood, not exactly avoiding eye contact with each other, but not holding it either. Maybe they didn’t like the look of each other in that moment. Or maybe they didn’t want to see the fact that neither of them felt much about any of this.

  Academic.

  Griffin noticed Paige’s demeanor shift as his gaze went over Griffin’s shoulder. A flattening of the lips. A heavy-lidded focus, just short of a glare.

  Footsteps behind him. Griffin didn’t bother to turn. It was like he could smell the newcomer, or knew who it was by the sound of his feet. A certain, stomping, authoritarian quality to the tread. Self-assured and self-righteous. Boots that would pick their way through the bodies like you might casually navigate yourself around bags of trash left to rot.

  The footfalls came to a stop, just to Griffin’s right. He still didn’t look, but despite that, an arm pressed into his view, the hand holding a satphone with the screen lit up green and heartless, the antenna extended alertly.

  Griffin didn’t immediately take the satphone, but instead dragged his attention around to face Mr. Smith. He looked into the other man’s eyes and saw something different. Not the willful suppression of emotions for the sake of mental preservation, but instead the complete lack of them. Or, at least, the lack of any negative ones.

  Mr. Smith looked vindicated. Satisfied.

  The Cornerstone man arched an eyebrow and shook the phone like an impudent customer might shake an empty glass at a waiter. “It’s the president.”

  Of course it is.

  Griffin let his rifle hang from its strap and took the satphone. He pressed it against his ear. He could feel the leftover warmth and oily residue from Mr. Smith’s own face.

  “Yes, Mr. President?”

  “Griffin,” Briggs snapped, as though he’d been put on hold for an inordinate amount of time. “What’s going on?”

  “We’ve subdued the town of Vici, in Oklahoma. We have reason to believe that Lee Harden came through here. There was some…minor resistance. It’s been handled.”

  “Has it now?” Briggs growled. “Because Smith tells me there’s still an assload of insurgents standing around. Why are they still alive?”

  Griffin’s core tightened. Still no strong emotion. How could you have a physiological reaction with absolutely no mental connection? But the connection was there. Way down inside.

  “Well, sir, those that fought back have been killed in the fighting. We sustained very minor casualties. The rest of the town has been gathered, but they’re unarmed and cooperative.”

  “And did any of them join the fight?”

  “I just told you, sir. They’re unarmed and didn’t fight.”

  “But they didn’t help you either, did they? They didn’t try to suppress their own townspeople when they were firing on your troops. Did they?”

  “No. It appears the vast majority of them were just hiding and waiting for the fighting to be over.”

  “Because here’s my fucking problem,” Briggs continued, as though Griffin hadn’t spoken. “I have zero reports—from anyone—that any civilian from Oklahoma, Vici or otherwise, called in or made any effort whatsoever to tell us that Lee Harden had come through their town. Their silence is evidence enough of their radicalization. Choosing not to fight the insurgents that lived right alongside them is still picking a side.”

  Griffin looked languidly at the gathering of civilians, painted in stark colors and deep shadows by the glow of many headlights that encircled them. “I have neither the time nor the resources to conduct an investigation into their motives, nor do I have the time or resources to take prisoners.”

  “I’m not asking you to take prisoners, Griffin.”

  “I came to Vici to gain intel on Lee Harden’s movements and what he might be planning to do. At this point, I feel confident in saying that Lee is attempting—”

  “I know what the fuck Lee’s attempting to do!” Briggs nearly screamed, causing Griffin to wince and pull the satphone an inch away from his ear. “He’s trying to swell his ranks and make a move on Greeley! It’s fucking obvious! And those people gave him fighters, didn’t they? Didn’t they, captain?”

  “I have no idea, Mr. President,” Griffin responded icily. “I haven’t spoken to them yet.”

  “There’s no need for you to speak to them.”

  “Intelligence would be valuable.”

  “You’re not hearing me, captain. So pull the fucking fluff out of your ears and listen to what I’m about to command you. I am the motherfucking commander-in-chief! The fucking buck stops with me! I’m the one that gives the orders, because I am the fucking President of the United States of America! You are my soldier, and you do what the fuck I tell you to do!”

  “I’m aware of the command structure, sir.”

  “Exterminate the town.”

  A low hum, like a deep electrical current, trembled up Griffin’s spine, all the way up until it engulfed his head and vibrated in his ears. He’d known this was coming. The humming sensation was not surprise or shock. It was the feeling of descent.

  “That’s not a lawful order,” Griffin said.

  And he assumed that Briggs proceeded to yell at him, but at that moment Mr. Smith snatched the phone out of Griffin’s hand, giving him a withering glare, his lower teeth bared like a growling animal.

  Griffin made no move to retrieve the phone back. He didn’t want it anymore. He had a massive fucking problem, and talking to Briggs was only going to make it worse.

  Mr. Smith was speaking now: “Yes, sir. I’ll get it done.”

  The humming stopped abruptly. Griffin mentally slammed down, no longer descending—he had reached the bottom. The question was no longer hypothetical. It was in his face, right here and now.

  He looked at Paige, but didn’t really see him. His mind was consumed with the two possibilities. Two divergent paths, and he stood at their intersection, trying to determine which way to go, and what the two destinations would look like.

  Defy the order. Yes, it was unlawful. No, there was no oversight. No military tribunal that would exonerate him. There was only Briggs, and his stranglehold on the military that was now more Cornerstone than anything else. He would be labelled a traitor. The destination was this: Griffin on the run, perhaps with others that refused the order, perhaps not. Maybe it would end in a fight between him and Cornerstone, or maybe he would make it out without bloodshed.

  And then what?

  Ally with Lee Harden? Betray his country?

  He could barely even picture it.

  Obey
the order. No, it wasn’t lawful. But that didn’t matter anymore. The order had been given. If he obeyed it, he would die, not physically, but mentally. He would morph. Become something else he never intended to be.

  But he’d never intended to be a traitor either.

  “Sir?” Paige asked, bringing Griffin’s watery focus back into the here and now.

  “Captain Griffin!” Mr. Smith barked.

  Griffin stayed locked into Paige for a moment. Paige had to have known what the order was. He could see it in the lieutenant’s eyes. He could also see Paige’s loyalty—not to Briggs, not to America, but to him. Paige would do what Griffin told him to do.

  “Hey, fuckhead!”

  Griffin turned and looked at Mr. Smith. The man’s face was all contorted indignation and anger. Griffin considered killing him right there. One shot, straight to the dome. Mr. Smith would be no more. Griffin could deny that the order had ever been given. No one knew about that order except Griffin, Smith, and Briggs.

  “You need to think real hard about what you’re going to do right now,” Mr. Smith seethed. “Because you were given an order. I intend to see that order carried out.”

  Yes, I have been thinking real hard.

  Paige took a step forward. “Captain.”

  Wasn’t this just how things went? Or was that weak of him to think? Where was his strength and honor? Was it aligned with command and control? Or was it aligned with doing the right thing? When had the two become opposed?

  Civil war. That’s all this is.

  Had General Sherman felt this way when he’d burned his way through the South? Or had he simply done what needed to be done to end a terrible conflict as quickly as possible?

  Who knows what their actions will lead to? How can you be so confident in your decisions when you never know what the end result will be?

  Maybe General Sherman had been conflicted. Maybe he’d felt he was betraying his morals. But what he’d done had crippled the enemy, and brought a quicker end to a hellish war.

  What was strength? Was it doing the hard thing that would garner the best results for all? Or was it sacrificing the many for the few in order to save yourself from future nightmares?

  Was there even a good way out of this? Griffin didn’t think so. But still…there had to be a third option. It couldn’t simply be this or that. It couldn’t possibly be distilled down to such simplistic terms: Betray your conscience, or betray your country.

  Griffin cleared his throat, which turned into a racking cough, like his body had forgotten how to work properly in the midst of a mental struggle. When he regained himself, he didn’t look at either Paige or Smith, but instead at the huddled masses in the center of Vici, surrounded by military vehicles, machine guns trained on them.

  “President Briggs does not want these people to become insurgents,” Griffin stated. “His concern is valid. So we will remove any way they could fight back.”

  “His order was to exterminate the town,” Mr. Smith growled.

  “And we will,” Griffin replied, suddenly exhausted. “Lieutenant Paige. Mr. Smith. Have your troops round up every weapon and every cartridge. We’re taking them with us. Gather all the food. We’re taking that too. Drain the fuel from every vehicle in this place, and then disable the vehicles. When you’re done with that, burn the town.”

  Paige’s face was stricken. “You can’t leave them without food or transport,” he said, quietly. “That’s just as good as killing them.”

  Griffin’s face contorted into a snarl. “Would you rather gun them all down?”

  Paige was silent.

  Mr. Smith stewed, a nasty expression on his face, but he didn’t fight back.

  Griffin drew in a breath that shuddered in his chest. “Do what I ordered. Then burn the town.”

  ***

  In the small hours after midnight, Sam existed in a strange dissociative state.

  Everything was dark. In the bowels of the burned out building, they didn’t dare to flick on a light unless they were huddled in the cloistered confines of the inner office where they’d met before. But he avoided that place. His focus was outward, paranoid, rampant with the conviction that at any moment, the distant rumble of vehicles that he heard scouring Greeley, looking for him and his squad, would suddenly roar down the street outside and they would be surrounded.

  Back and forth his consciousness went, unable to cling to any particular reality for long. The paranoia and fear would spike, and then disappear, and he would just be standing in the dark, wondering how he got there, looking at the approaching end of his life in a dispassionate way, as though it were a foregone conclusion.

  He saw every action of his life, as though looking at a roadmap from a dizzying height, all the choices that he’d made, starting at the very point that a man named Lee Harden had shoved a pistol in his awkward, childish hands, and asked him if he knew how to use it.

  Had he ever possessed any agency over his life? Or did the course of his life follow immovable rails set down for him by fate? Was this destiny? Was this God? Had he ever had a chance to go a different direction, or was he always going to end up in this spot?

  Pickell’s words lilted through the back of his subconscious, an accusation, a confirmation of what Sam had most feared: God has fixed the time of my death.

  Pickell had taken courage from that belief. But for Sam, it was a terrifying concept. That he was simply born up on tides that he had no control over, whisked down the river of life without any control. Just another piece of human debris, floating wherever the river took him.

  “Sam…”

  The word took a moment to make it through his thoughts and into his brain. He knew the voice. Knew what the weak, whispering quality was. It was death. Coming for Pickell, who had arrived at that point in time that God had supposedly fixed.

  He looked to his left, and in the darkness could just make out the forms. Pickell, laying against a support column, Marie sitting cross-legged beside him, her hand the only visible motion, gently stroking Pickell’s head. A cold comfort for the dying.

  Sam moved his feet. They seemed to be made of concrete blocks. He tried to move quietly, but seemed unable. They scuffed loudly through the charred debris of the burned out building. He knelt, his body shaky and weak.

  “Yeah?”

  Pickell’s eyes were just dark, liquid spots. He thought Pickell was looking at him, but he couldn’t be sure. He reached out and placed a hand on Pickell’s leg.

  Pickell appeared to strain, a minor movement in the darkness, as though he were trying to lean forward against the pain of his stomach wound. Then Sam felt Pickell’s fingers grasp his hand. They were ice cold and clammy with sweat.

  Their fingers wrestled around each other until Pickell managed to establish an awkward grip, and pulled Sam closer.

  “Listen to me,” Pickell whispered.

  “I’m listening, buddy.”

  “Don’t let this take you down. You’re fucking…” a wheeze, a painful inhale. “You’re fucking Sergeant Ryder. Don’t you fucking forget it. Lee trusted you for a reason. He knew. He knew you could get it done.”

  What the fuck am I supposed to get done now?

  “Don’t worry about me,” Sam husked. “You need to rest.”

  Pickell shook his head. “Don’t be dumb, Sarge. I don’t need rest anymore. This is my exit.”

  Sam felt himself get unreasonably angry. “You shut the fuck up. You’re not exiting until I tell you that you can exit. So you just shut your fucking mouth and rest.”

  Pickell let out a sigh. His hand squeezed Sam’s. “You’re ridiculous, Sam.”

  Sam’s mouth felt gummy. His spit turned to slime. He blinked and felt the coolness of tears on his eyelashes, and thanked the darkness that no one could see it.

  “Exit stage left,” Pickell said, nonsensically. “I’ve done all I could do. This is all good. It’s all a part of the plan.”

  “I don’t believe in a plan.”

  “Do
n’t take it away from me, Sam.”

  “I don’t…” Sam trailed off, feeling his throat constrict.

  “It’s what I need to believe in. Let me have it.”

  “Okay, Kosher Dill. You’re right. I’m sorry, buddy. Sometimes I just struggle with the plan. That’s all.”

  “Well…” a thready chuckle. “I’m not so much a fan of it myself right now.”

  “Then don’t go along with it.” Sam squeezed his hand hard. “Fight back. You’re captain of your ship, remember that? Bloody but unbowed.”

  “Yeah.”

  A silence took them, and it lasted so long that Sam felt a stab of panic that he was holding the hand of a dead man. But when he squeezed again, Pickell’s fingers moved under his.

  “Sorry,” Pickell murmured. “Don’t know where I went there. What were we talking about?”

  “You fighting back. Staying alive.”

  “Nah. That’s not for me anymore. I’ve run my race. I’m good with it now.”

  “That’s bullshit. You can’t just give up.”

  “Hey, man.” Pickell’s voice was quieter. Just syllables on a breath. “It’s gonna be alright. I…” Another lapse of silence. Then: “Oh, God.”

  “What?” Sam sidled closer, gripped Pickell harder. “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Hey. Pickell. Talk to me.”

  Another faint wheeze of a laugh. “Man. We had it all wrong.”

  “What? What did we do wrong?”

  “It’s all wrong. But…it’s alright, man. He knows.”

  “Who knows?”

  Silence.

  A sigh.

  “He knows we fuck it all up.”

  “Who? Lee?” Sam shook Pickell angrily. “Are you talking about Lee?”

  “Hey, guys,” Pickell said, his voice calm. Barely there. “Guys.”

  “We’re here, buddy. We’re all here.”

  “It’s like…It’s like a fungus.”

  Sam frowned at the dark shape before him, wished he could see Pickell’s face. He clenched his teeth against any more words. All he could do was let Pickell speak. It was the only thing he could give him.