Free Range Protocol- Tales of the Tschaaa Infestation

by Marshall Miller

  He looked at some photos and his eyebrows raised. He then scanned another document. “Seems to me that—according to these reports—you did quite a number on them. As we sometimes said in the Marine Corps, you ‘cleaned their clocks’.”

  Abigail averted her eyes. “I am sorry…” she began, but the Prophet cut her off.

  “Sorry? Why? Because you protected a young innocent, using the unique talents you possess, along with the skills you have been taught? Please explain, my daughter.”

  “I broke bones and caused severe pain. I hurt fellow followers of God.” Abigail hung her head. “And I enjoyed it. I enjoyed punishing them for their evil. Only the Lord should pass judgment like that. Jesus preached forgiveness.”

  The Prophet looked at the photographs. “A broken arm, a fractured jaw, several ribs. They also attacked you, did they not?”

  “Yes, Prophet,” Abigail mumbled.

  “Abigail. Look at me, now.”

  Her eyes snapped to the Prophet’s face, for she was trained to obey.

  “Listen well, my favored daughter. You acted out of righteousness. Not false righteousness, but true righteousness. You saw harm, a wrong being done to a young innocent. You stepped in with a feeling of what was right and confronted those who were doing wrong. They then attacked you, an Avenging Angel, whose purpose is to protect the faithful. By attacking you, they brought on the punishment they received. Punishment provided by an instrument of God, and your Prophet. As Jesus Christ Our Lord did to the money changers in the temple. The enjoyment you said you felt was actual the feel of righteousness, imbued from the Holy Spirit unto you. So, you have nothing to be ashamed of. Understand, daughter? Nothing.”

  Abigail sat still, not knowing how to respond. She could feel his emotions, his certainty. She began to feel more certain that what she had done was not selfish, but had been what was necessary.

  “Do you understand, my dear?”

  “Prophet, when you explain it, everything becomes clear. Thank you. I feel better about what I did.”

  Prophet Smith stood. “Come here my child.”

  Abigail stood and he hugged her. When he did, she felt warm, safe and loved. She hugged him back, and began to weep a bit.

  “There, there, my dear. No reason to cry. The Lord gave me, your Prophet, the ability to explain things so that you may learn about the Holy Spirit, and God’s Love. I receive the Holy Spirit, then can pass the teachings and goodness on to you. Though in this instance, God communicated directly to you through Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit.”

  Abigail looked up to him. “Really? You mean, the Holy Spirit…touched me that day?”

  Prophet Smith smiled. “All things are possible to God, through Jesus and the Holy Spirit. As the Prophet, I am infused with the Holy Spirit. So, why cannot God chose to touch you directly? All things are possible to the faithful.”

  She hugged him again before she knew what she was doing.

  “Oof! I was told you are becoming strong. Here. Step back, please.”

  He looked Abigail up and down.

  “You are keeping your scheduled doctors’ appointments, aren’t you?”

  “Yes sir. The doctors have helped a lot. They have especially helped me understand, as I have become…more of a woman.”

  The Prophet chuckled. “Ah yes, puberty. All young men and women must deal with the onrush of feelings, hormones, and bodily changes. Even Prophets must deal with such changes, such manifestations from when we were banished from the garden.”

  “Prophet, may I ask you a question?’

  “But of course. You are my daughter. Ask away.”

  “Is there a chance, despite me being…contaminated, exposed to radiation, that I may someday bear children?”

  Prophet Smith paused for a moment, then sighed.

  “Through God, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit, anything is possible to the faithful. But remember that you have been given a special mission. You as an Avenging Angel have been chosen to protect the faithful, especially the children. So, God may decide that it takes precedence over you having children. If that is so, please do not be angry with God.”

  “Angry with God? Never!” Abigail blurted back. “Thank you again, Prophet Smith. You have lifted a burden from my heart.”

  “That comment will keep me satisfied and content for the rest of the day, Abigail. For I know I have completed a primary function of being a Prophet… unburdening people’s hearts. Oh, and Abigail. I have something for you.” He reached in and pulled out a lapel insignia of a cross and stripes.

  “Congratulations, Avenging Angel First Class.”

  “Prophet, I am junior to many others. Why am I being promoted?”

  “Because you demonstrate superior characteristics and abilities. You are willing to confront evil, and injustice to the innocent at any time, any place. You understand your mission as an Avenging Angel. I have heard reports that you are more than willing to take the lead in any endeavor, as well as lead by example.”

  “But I am barely fourteen, Prophet Smith.”

  “You are wise beyond your years. I have need of that wisdom, ability, and loyalty.”

  Abigail looked at the insignia. ”I swear I will not let you down, Prophet Smith.”

  The Prophet grinned. “I know you won’t. I’ve heard you are also superior in all of your studies—especially in languages.”

  Abigail blushed, then had a slight faraway look in her eyes. “My mother was a Romanian linguist. I think I inherited my abilities from her. She was already teaching me Russian, Romanian, and my father’s Norwegian, when…the explosion happened, after the rocks began to fall.”

  “Your parents would be proud of you. They are proud of you, because I know they are watching over you, even as we speak.”

  Abigail’s mouth formed in a wistful smile. “I’d like to think that, Prophet. They loved me, as I loved them. I get many of my looks from my father’s Norwegian heritage, which may explain my strength. I know I am stronger than most people my age, and some who are older.”

  “No one has heard from your Uncle Buck, since he brought you to us.”

  “Yes Sir. But if he is still alive, I know he loves me too. His love for me is why he brought me to Deseret. He knew you would take care of me, ensure I was well and healthy. The fact that Deseret was been spared from many of the attacks by the Evil Ones and their demons shows me that he was right. Most of this safety is due to you, Prophet Smith, I know.”

  Prophet Michael Smith than hugged Abigail once more, and then kissed her on her forehead.

  “I try my best. Abigail. With our faith in God’s protection, the Tschaaa are held at bay. Now, I must take my leave, for a Prophet’s work is never really done. Feel free to stop by again if you wish to speak with me. My door is always open to you, daughter.”

  “Thank you, Prophet Smith. Please pass my best wishes to your wife.”

  “I will. Ester will be glad to know you are thinking of her.”

  Abigail left the Prophet’s office with a smile on her face.

  After she left, the Prophet’s face became impassive. He called Alice into his office.

  “Please get Doctor Shaw on the line. And send for Agent Hall.”

  “Yes, Prophet Smith.”

  The most powerful man in Deseret sat at his desk, his fingers steepled.

  “Prophet, Doctor Jones is on line one.”

  “Hello, Doctor. I just had a most productive meeting with Abigail Young…Yes, I did notice how strong she is, and that she is growing and filling out so nicely. I take it most of this development is due to your treatments and tweaks?… Splendid. Out of all the Twenty, she seems to be responding the best to your care…Yes I agree, her genetic stock was excellent, superior…Good, I will be waiting for the full report…Please realize just how pleased I am at what you have accomplished, and that you will be personally rewarded….Yes, this is truly God’s work. Now if you will excuse me, I have someone coming in for an appointment. God be with you,
Doctor.” He hung up the telephone and looked at the nondescript man in dark glasses who had just entered his office.

  Agent Hall was not too big and not too small. He was a fit average man, which meant that he could easily lose himself in any given group of humanity. He was also one of the best trained and most efficient killers in Deseret. He worked for Prophet Smith—and no one else.

  “Agent Hall, in this file are three names. They had the misfortune of attacking Abigail Young, after she called them out for being bullies. Once they have healed sufficiently, you need to bring them for a private meeting to my office, just you, me, and them. Understood?”

  “Yes sir, Prophet Smith.”

  “There are certain people who are to understand that molesting the Chosen of the Prophet has dire consequences. If these three appear to be unable to grasp this concept, they need to disappear into the Unoccupied States. Never to be seen again.”

  Agent Hall’s mouth showed a slight smile. “Of course, Prophet Smith. It would be my pleasure.”

  “Oh, while I have you here, on the subject of the Unoccupied States, is it true they have formalized in having a female President?”

  “Yes Sir. I am finishing up a full report from my sources on her and the supposed plans being formulated for the reconstituted government in the former Central States of America, plus Alaska.”

  “Good. That is what I like about you, Agent. You always are a step ahead.”

  “I aim to please, as they say, Prophet Smith.”

  Prophet Smith leaned back in his padded chair. “Keeping an eye on the border we will share with these States may be a worthy mission for The Twenty. Especially if the States are a source of malcontents. I have worked too hard to secure Deseret and its people, and to make sure our Squid acquaintances leave us alone and live up to their side of the bargain.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Now, you have a nice day, Agent Hall. I will be awaiting your reports.”

  “Yes. Prophet Smith. May God shine on you.”

  “And on you, Agent Hall.”

  The Prophet sat staring out his window. It was surprising how simple, yet sometimes hard it was to do the Lord’s work. He buzzed Alice over the intercom.

  “Alice, please call my wife, let her know I will be home shortly. Then make reservations at our restaurant. I think we deserve a night out.”

  “Yes, Prophet Smith.”

  Michael Smith, Prophet and President of Deseret, sat calmly for a few moments, savoring what he had accomplished. Truth be told, he had always felt a rush from doing the Lord’s work. He looked out his window once again.

  Everything was coming together so nicely, he thought. Woe to anyone who fucked it up.

  NEW SAMURAI

  Ichiro Yamamoto crouched behind a couple of driftwood logs on an expanse of beach near Tokyo Bay. A descendant of a long line of Samurai warriors, this night he was dressed like a ninja assassin, all in black, with just his eyes showing. In his left hand he held a Masamune katana sword, one of the finest of blades that had been passed down through generations of the Yamamoto family and clan. Like many before him, he was an expert in the use of the blade.

  In fact, there were those who said he could be recognized as the best swordsman in all of Free Japan, if he put his mind and body to the task. For it had been said that he had the fastest reflexes in all of the Japanese Armed Forces. However, not always had he been so respected among his fellow countrymen.

  As he crouched and calmly waited, his mind went back to what had been the beginning of his development as a warrior, a path that had led him to this beach on this night…

  Almost twenty years prior, he had stood with his head and eyes downcast, as his father Akira Yamamoto berated him once again. This had become an all too often occurrence in his household.

  “Again, Ichiro, you are sent home for fighting,” his father said, in the deep voice and sharp and clipped language Japanese fathers had used for centuries to scold wayward sons, and military officers had used to chew out subordinates for unworthy acts. In the past, traditional Japan, the scolding and chewing had often involved physical blows from the superior to the subordinate. In modern, post-World War II Japan, that form of correction had fallen out of favor with many. But, this was before the stones began to fall from the sky.

  Thus Ichiro’s post-war Japanese father did not beat or slap him. However, in Ichiro’s mind, it might have been better. For his father was making him feel that he was unworthy, and should be cast out from the family he loved and revered.

  “You fight with your classmates on an almost daily basis. Your teachers say you will not—or cannot—sit still, concentrate, or pay attention to lessons. You seem to have boundless energy that is completely unfocused, which disrupts everything about you.”

  The elder Yamamoto clenched his jaw. “Maybe it is partly my fault. Because of my past work, we were all exposed to deprivations of the Fukashima reactor failure, as well as other radiation sources. Maybe you were made…unclean. Unstable.”

  Ichiro began to sink lower in despair, into his shame. He heard a familiar voice from the entrance way into their home.

  “Akira-San. It is Takeo, your younger brother, come at your request.”

  “Back, here, brother. Back here with Ichiro.”

  Uncle Takeo came in wearing a traditional style kimono, often seen on Japanese television shows, but rarely worn by the average modern Japanese. In some ways, he was very retro.

  He stood ramrod straight in front of Ichiro, fixing him with a steely gaze.

  “So, the miscreant stands before us, brother. What should we do?”

  “That is why I called you. I am at wit’s end. But I know you are adept at, shall we say, forming rough iron into excellent steel.”

  Ichiro’s father turned and bowed to his younger brother. “I humbly ask for your help, brother. I am unable…”

  Uncle Takeo cut him off. “Akira-san, we are family! You are my elder brother. There is no reason to be so formal. I know what you want. And what is needed.”

  Uncle Takeo looked back at Ichiro. “For we have excellent iron here. He just needs the right touch of the forge and hammer. Then polished to a bright sheen. Like a great katana sword.”

  He looked at Akira. “With your permission, he will come and stay with me and my wife. Our older twins are away at school, so we will have plenty of time and space to deal with his needs.”

  His older brother attempted to bow again and Takeo instead grabbed his right hand in a firm handshake. “As the Americans say, we have a deal.” Uncle Takeo looked at Ichiro.

  “Nephew, gather your school books, study materials ,and sufficient clothes for a week. That includes your school uniforms. Understand?”

  “Yes, uncle.”

  “Well, jump to it. I do not have all night.”

  That was the beginning of weeks stretching first into months and then into years of extensive training. Uncle Takeo had gone a different route than Ichiro’s father. Rather than leaving the Japanese self-defense to become a nuclear technician and engineer, Uncle Takeo had made the military his career. He was well respected by both subordinates and superiors, having received the nickname of Katana: a sharp and dangerous weapon that may be able to bend a bit—but never to break, and with a deadly edge to him. Uncle Takeo had opened up a martial arts dojo, which catered primarily to young military members and cadets who wanted harder and tougher training than in the official self-defense courses.

  Uncle Takeo did not believe in such catch phrases as Attention Deficit Disorder. He just knew boys will be boys. He knew that many boys and young men just needed form, structure, and hard physical work to help control any inner demons. All young men had the tendency for inner demons, as their hormones began to rage during their growth.

  At the same time, Uncle Takeo soon saw that he had a special student. His nephew had the speed and energy of three boys his age, along with the passion and anger as well. Ichiro was lucky that he had his uncle to guide him and he
lp him reach his full potential. If not, Ichiro may have wound up in jail, then recruited by the Yakuza, who oft times recognized boys who could be turned to the darker side of Japanese culture.

  Ichiro was soon taught to curb his basic instincts, his anger and passion. Many times in the dojo he wound up on his back, with his uncle looking down at him when he failed to execute a move just so, or became too impatient.

  “Ichiro-san. Again, listen. You have fire in your belly, here.” He struck Ichiro in the stomach that was already rock hard. “You have passion in your heart, here.” He slapped Ichiro’s ribs just below his heart.

  “But you still lack reason and control, here.” He slapped Ichiro painfully on the side of his head.

  “A true Samurai was smarter than most, craftier than most. Others may have had great skill with weapons, but a true Samurai also used his intellect to overcome any obstacle or enemy. Understand?”

  “Hai, uncle.”

  Uncle Takeo slapped him on the head again. “Then why do I have to keep reminding you?”

  Before he could answer, his uncle grabbed his hand and boosted him up from the tatami matted dojo floor.

  “Now, again. Then again and again and again. Then maybe my words will sink into that overly hard head of yours, nephew.”

  Ichiro grew fast, and was soon taller than boys in his age group. His size may have been the reason why a couple of military school cadets, who trained with his uncle, felt a need to take the young boy down a peg. After suffering jibes and insults about his supposed exposure to Fukashima radiation, saying he would someday look like Gojira, one made the mistake of pushing him. Ichiro had managed to follow his uncle’s admonitions about staying calm, cool, and collected up until that point. Then he exploded.

  Both cadets were soon on their backs, moaning and holding various parts of their anatomy. But before he could gloat, a Shinai bamboo practice sword slammed painfully across his back.

  “Did I give you leave to fight, nephew? Did I tell you that you had to have my permission before any fighting? Did I? Did I?”

  “Hai, Uncle…” His uncle aimed the Shinai at his head, shifting it at the last moment so that it struck his shoulder instead. Ichiro went to his knees, bowing low.