We Are Them

by L. K. Samuels

  “Okay! Enough!” Lenny’s eyes widened. “Hey, is only money.”

  Sarah grabbed my hand again. “Spencer, we’re deserting our ship.”

  “I’m not really the captain. It’s not our duty to go down with a sinking vessel. I moved closer and could see that her eyes were becoming watery. “Besides, that’s why they have lifeboats.”

  “But must we abandon everything?” Sarah asked tearfully.

  “No. We’re not surrendering. We are leaving to bring back reinforcements. We need to tell the world what is happening here. We shall return and fight. That’s what General MacArthur promised to do in the Philippines. He kept his promise.”

  “I know.”

  “Okay. Are you coming or not?” I asked point-blank, reaching out my hand.

  “I don’t know.” Sarah backed away.

  “There’s nothing left here,” I said. “We must retreat before we are trapped. I am no William Travis or Jim Bowie. I have no command to obey, no honor to defend, no courage to shed. We’re just ordinary citizens.”

  Both Tommy and Lenny looked away.

  “I know how feels.” Lenny looked down. “I lost a country. I know how it hurts.”

  Sarah nodded and then shook her head. “I need to get a few things first.”

  I turned to Tommy. “Start packing.”

  As Tommy rushed to another room, I followed Sarah. She was lying on the bed face down, crying. I sat down next to her and wondered what to do. I put my hand on her shoulder. Like an idiot, I started to talk. “We must leave soon.”

  “Isn’t that what you do best?” Sarah snapped. “Don’t you? Always escaping from something. Usually, it’s me. Now it’s the whole damn town.”

  “What?”

  Sarah turned around and faced me. “You heard me. You always take the path of least resistance.”

  “No, you’re wrong.”

  “When did you ever take a stand?”

  I thought about that question for some time. There was that time when… No, I just ignored the person. Well, when I faced that bully on the bus, I… No, somebody came by and stopped him.

  “Can’t think of one.” She stared at me. “Can you?”

  I got up and walked out. She had made up her mind and that was final. I had a backbone. I had courage. I just never had a good reason to display it. If she did not want to come along, well, then that was fine with me. We had nearly divorced anyway.

  Back in the living room, Tommy had amassed a dozen banana boxes.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “You said to pack.”

  “You cannot take all of the banana boxes from the garage.”

  “These are not from the garage.”

  I stood there in silence and made a quick calculation. If these boxes were not from the garage, and if all of his vehicles had been impounded, then…

  “Okay, I’ll bite. Where are they from?”

  Tommy looked up. “The attic. They won’t take up much space,” he pleaded.

  I looked up too and noticed some cracks and bulging in the ceiling. Not again.

  “They won’t take up much space,” Tommy pleaded.

  “You cannot take these boxes along. We don’t have room.”

  “Then I’ll stay here.” Tommy folded his arms and sat down.

  “Fine! We can make room for five boxes.” I wondered if this was what most parents would do to disobeying children.

  Tommy stood up and turned his back to me. “You realize, you’re forcing me to leave behind my most precious belongings. I’ve collected these things all my life. They’re my dearest of old friends. Very good friends.”

  He cried a little as he tried to determine which boxes to leave behind. Poor Tommy, trapped by his belongings. I wanted to label him a materialist, but that would have been an injustice. He really treated his tools and junk as treasured friends. I supposed everyone did that to a certain degree. Nobody wanted to leave behind the things they loved, their families, and their comfortable surroundings.

  * * * * *

  It was past midnight before we started out. Sarah carried out a few suitcases and threw them into my truck. Tommy had already filled up most of the vehicle’s back section, and struggled to squeeze in more. The rest of us traveled light. Lenny brought a coat and a handful of candy bars. I brought nothing except a backpack, certain that our exodus would be short-lived.

  As we drove near Lenny’s apartment, I could hear more sirens, gunfire, and screams. Several large explosions lit up the skyline in blue and white flashes. It sounded like a low-budget science-fiction film with poor sound quality. Still, it gave us the shivers, knowing that it was real and that most likely friends of ours were dying.

  I took a route north away from the downtown section, where I knew there would only be one or two checkpoints. As we neared the flashing roadblock, I could see a line of cars filled with boxes, suitcases, and piles of clothes. Everyone was running. What puzzled me most was why they were ordering every car back to town. I just assumed they had no permits. When I reached the front of the line, I showed the half-a-dozen police and highway patrol officials my city identification, along with my exemption card. I was one of them, and I should get preferential treatment.

  “Why are you leaving, sir?” a tall and heavily armed police officer asked.

  “A little vacation,” I said.

  “This late at night?”

  What was this to him? “Well, I had to work late.”

  “Sorry, but nobody is allowed to leave town. All vacations and leave time have been canceled.”

  “On whose orders? I’m the Assistant Director of the DED.”

  The police officer stared at me with a funny look.

  “Big deal. You can’t go anywhere.”

  My face froze. Had they caught me red-handed? Was the word out already? Was I just a sitting duck in a carload of subversive renegades? If only we had abandoned the ship long before it sank.

  “Why not?” My voice crackled.

  “Haven’t you heard? Big Al took a pot shot at Joe Maffini. He missed him in his first attempt, but not his second one. Got him right through the heart. Great marksmanship.”

  “Good God, they’re now eating their own,” I screeched in a high pitched shrill. “What else can happen today?”

  “Sir, you need to turn around and head back to town.”

  “Where is Big Al now?” I asked.

  “That’s the problem. He escaped our dragnet. We have issued an arrest warrant. We have mounted a 200-person strong manhunt for his capture. We’ll find the perp.”

  “But that doesn’t involve us,” I said.

  “It might. We believe Big Al is the leader of a secret army of diehard conspirators. Nobody can leave town until we apprehend Big Al and his many accomplices. We’re officially under a war alert.”

  Sarah leaned next to me and shouted at the police officer. “So, if you catch Big Al, are you going to immediately shoot him?”

  “No, ma’am,” the police officer faced Sarah. “We must first make a positive identification before we can execute him on the spot.”

  “You’re joking?” I asked.

  “No. Orders are shoot to kill, no questions asked. Big Al is on our Ten Most Wanted Traitors List. He’s a dangerous defector.”

  “So, you just going to gun him down?” I asked. “No due process, no trial, no conviction?”

  “Yeah, isn’t that great? Almost like hunting season for wild boar. And boy, he’s a big one!”

  “You can search my car all you want,” I said. “No search warrant needed. Then we can go?”

  “I must follow orders. Just back up and turn around like everyone else. Besides, we don’t need search warrants anymore.”

  “No warrants for anything?”

  “Hey, don’t you just love it?” The guard laughed, moved back, and waved us to turn around.

  I had half a mind to crash through the checkpoint, but they would chase after me in their high-speed squad cars
and helicopters. Bullets would fly along with bigger projectiles. Not a good scenario.

  “What do we do now?” Sarah asked.

  “Go home.” I shrugged. “But at least we learned something important.”

  “Oh?” Tommy asked, looking somewhat surprised.

  “Yeah. I should have taken all of my vacation time long ago.”

  Chapter 17

  Six hours later, the sun rose above the horizon to welcome a Friday morning. A warm breeze scented the air with the sweet aroma of orange blossoms from distant orchards. It was almost the perfect day, except for one minor distraction: Hemet was under siege. Dark, billowing smoke choked the downtown section; roaring fires and gunfire were still breaking out across the city. Police sirens blared in the distance, sounding their alarm across a large swath of the city. Then again, it could just be the usual July 4th celebrations.

  I walked out to the edge of my front porch and tried to ignore last night›s exodus as a dreadful omen. I instead trained my thoughts on surviving one more day. I had to figure out a way to escape our hellhole without serious injuries.

  For a split second, the thought of staying home and ignoring reality seemed appealing. Obviously, that was an awful choice. I knew that reality would soon come knocking at my door, and it was not going to be a congenial Avon Lady. What really jolted me back to reality was that I was probably the new boss of DED, at least temporarily. Maybe I should go to the office. Maybe it was not too late to stop this civil war.

  “Where are you going?” Sarah asked. She inched closer to me, holding a cup of hot tea.

  “To work.”

  “Have you gone ding-bat crazy?”

  I turned to her. “Probably.”

  “No. You can’t.”

  I placed my hand on her shoulder and assured her I would be okay. Of course, I lied. “They won’t harm me. I mean I might now be the acting director of the DED. This time I might be able to accomplish something.”

  “That’s a laugh,” said Sarah, rolling her eyes. “You won’t be able to do jack shit. You’ll be crushed by the chain of command. It will squash you like a bug. You don’t call the shots at all. Actually, you never really did.”

  “I know, but I need to give it a shot,” I said. “I feel a duty to try something.”

  “I know you would like to be a hero like Davy Crockett. I also know you can be that man.” Sarah moved closer and ran her fingers through my hair, “You’re not a failure. Losers never try. They just complain and blame others. You are better than that. You have tried to resist THEM in your sort of quiet way.”

  Sarah smiled, pulled me even closer, and planted a little peck of a kiss on my cheek. “I understand.”

  I believe this was the exact moment I fell back in love with Sarah. She must have changed or perhaps it was actually me. It did not matter. I gave her a big, long hug, said my goodbyes, and walked to my car. I climbed into my truck and drove off. As I backed out of the driveway, I waved to Sarah. I had a feeling I would never see her again. I knew I was taking a big risk. I had stepped across the battle line, and would soon stand in the Alamo’s blood-soaked soil. I was now committed. I was staying to fight the good fight. I had to do this for myself. I had to prove that I could be a better person, someone worthy of Sarah’s respect.

  As I drove to the office, I fiddled with the radio dial, trying to locate a station that was not jammed, hoping for a news update about what was happening in Hemet. I finally picked up a distant station from some far-away state, but I was hearing more static than music. I kept fine-tuning my radio, figuring something had to be on the national wire services about last night’s disturbances. Instead, it blared the Bad Boys’ song, “Whatcha gonna do when they come for you?” I switched off the radio. Something about that song now gave me the creeps.

  The road blockade near my office was the first hint that our city’s late-night melees were more widespread than I had imagined. At first, I was most concerned about access to the DED parking lot. I informed the armed police that I was the acting Director of the DED and that they should let me through. They seemed unimpressed, but said I could park in a weed-infested dirt lot next to a former bank. I supposed I could live with a small change in my daily routine. Once in the parking area, I could see the police and soldiers herding everybody to a secured area for the thrilling game of identity checks and frisking by blunt hands and cold fingers.

  After recovering from a bit of manhandling, I could sense that most of the city plebs felt violated. Others were in shock and struggled to grasp the magnitude of the situation. Everyone wore a fearful face. My response was different; I had better instincts. I could keep my mind clear and calmer. As more people started to follow me, I began to see myself as a steadfast shepherd, and not a skittish sheep. Although my radar was on high alert, I was no dummy who fell off a sugar-beet truck from Arkansas! I held the position of middle manager for the City of Hemet! I even had a special parking space with my name stenciled on the curb in black letters. If they could not trust me, whom could they trust? This explanation of my self-importance amused the security guards to no end. One even saluted me, but that did not stop them from frisking me.

  When released, I hiked to the civic center and soon realized the gravity of the situation. The whole area displayed the raw reality of a war zone. It still had the vivid images of the burned-out city of Beirut in the 1980s. I slowed down my pace. Everywhere I looked, the storefronts were pock-marked with bullet holes, plate glass windows shattered and broken. I had to dodge large craters in the ground. I stopped at one and glanced down. It was 20 feet wide and eight-feet deep. It looked like it came from artillery shellfire. I silently mouthed to myself: what artillery and who would do that? Something was wrong. I continued my trek and approached mounds of rubble, mostly chunks of asphalt and concrete. I looked at up at several buildings. They were nothing but metal remains, blackened and twisted.

  I finally reached a cluster of National Guard soldiers with M16’s strung across their arms. They were jittery, probably expecting another attack at any moment. I swallowed, slowed my pace, and inhaled a whiff of oily smoke. Many of the people following me were DED workers. Tommy was among them. Everybody appeared terrified, slowed down their pace and turned dead silent.

  As I entered the civic center through a small opening in a chain-link fence, I witnessed additional destruction. Walls of dirty-white sandbags, topped with barbed wire, surrounded most of the buildings. Itchy-fingered soldiers in a machine gun nest kept a hawk’s eye on my DED workers and me.

  As I moved closer to the DED entrance, I watched a crew of firefighters and rescue workers rushing around like busy bees, shoving stretchers into flashing ambulances. From what I could gather, the authorities had surrounded our civic center with a defensive fortress, along with a column of tanks and armored vehicles. It was like something out of an old-World War II film. I was half-expecting to see General Patton climb out of a tank and bark orders to his subordinates.

  Even here, most walls and buildings stood pitted by hundreds of rounds of ammunition. Most unnerving were the chalk outlines of bodies on red-stained walkways. As I almost arrived at the DED building, I had to maneuver around another series of machine-gun nests, manned with weary soldiers. Behind them stood rows of barbed wire fences supported by a short wall of sandbags.

  I stepped into line and finally showed my ID at the DED gate. It took almost 15 minutes to verify my credentials. I kept scanning for an exit routes just in case I was denied access and faced impending arrest. Luckily, they granted me access and handed me over to two military men. They silently escorted me upstairs. Within a few moments, they dumped me on the third floor and disappeared. As I entered my office, a solemn-faced appeared out of almost nowhere. It was Jack Bellamy. I never felt comfortable around Hemet’s city manager. His round bug eyes were unnerving anyway, but when he became agitated, they popped out and he looked right down spooky. I tried to look away. It was a difficult task. Besides his abnormal eyes, Old Fish-Eyed
Jack appeared exhausted and worn-out. An oversized handgun protruded from his pocket, and I wondered if he had a bullet with my name imprinted on it. To my surprise, Jack had come from the mayor’s office to congratulate me. They had officially promoted me to Director of the DED.

  “It’s only temporary until we can hire a permanent DED Director,” Jack explained as he shook my hand. “I know you will do a splendid job in the meantime.”

  “What happened to Big Al?” I asked sheepishly.

  “He’s not here anymore.”

  “But where is he?”

  “Let’s just say he took an extended vacation,” Jack replied, staring at me unblinkingly.

  “Well, I did all the work anyway,” I argued, trying to smoke out some more information from Old Fish Eyes.

  “Don’t worry about the big guy. He never worked a day in his life. He only looked out for himself and his long lunch hours.”

  “Well, I hope he’s happy now,” I said, still trying to glean more than what was actually being insinuated.

  “I’m sure he is pleasantly resting in peace. We made sure of that,” Jack laughed with a short burst of disjointed, staccato tones.

  This strange encounter reminded me of the Hollywood gangster films from the 1930s. Jack spoke like a tough-talking James Cagney or Humphrey Bogart, willing to rub out leaders from rival gangs. It gave me a chilling sensation. It was as if the government had a direct relationship with the gangsters of yesteryear. There were too many frightening similarities to overlook. After all, the government had the habit of escorting taxpayers to small, confined rooms if they failed to pay protection money. And what about those little conflicts often referred to as wars? It seemed that many of these nasty disputes focused on territorial claims. Of course, Americans were free to vote for either party—Al Capone or Machine Gun Kelly.