Twilight

by Brendan DuBois

  Stewart gave a snort of disgust, flipped through the dials again. “Not to worry, the woman says. Chaos is set loose upon the countryside, and neighbors are killing each other because of their place of origin. Help will get there eventually.”

  As the nearest UN representative, I kept my mouth shut. I knew the history of peacekeepers and peacemakers over the years, from Rwanda to Liberia to Bosnia and now the United States. Most times the UN were just like overworked police: by the time they got to you, the best they could do was bury the bodies and tidy up the countryside. But Stewart was leaving me alone. He just went back to his radio consoles.

  “Ah, first real good bit of information” he said, moving the dial slowly with his thick fingers. “Hear that?”

  I strained to listen but could only make out the hiss of static. “No. I don’t hear a thing. Just white noise, that’s all.”

  Stewart grinned. “Yeah, and that’s good. One of the worst militia stations was broadcasting on this frequency, inciting people to rise up in arms and fight the oppressor, whoever the oppressor of the hour happened to be. They went off the air during the armistice but came right back again a few days ago. Real vile stuff—I’m just glad to hear them silenced. Gives me the idea that maybe somebody saner is gaining the upper hand.”

  “Where were they located?” I asked.

  He kept fiddling with the dial. “About three miles down the road. So maybe things are clearing up. OK, just one more station, for the hell of it. Let’s hear some of your countrymen.”

  And then came a cultured voice that I recognized from one of the morning news shows on the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. Hearing that older gentleman’s voice on the boring and bland and wonderful CBC suddenly made me so homesick that I wished I had never even heard of the UN or UNFORUS.

  “ … UN headquarters in Geneva is reporting that the general armistice has been successfully reestablished in the states of Michigan and New Hampshire, and that negotiations are continuing in the states of New York, Vermont, Kentucky, Tennessee and Texas. Scattered outbreaks of violence among militia units and supporters of the UN intervention are also continuing in those states, sources said. Meanwhile, hearings on the UN intervention and the terrorist attack on Lower Manhattan and the aerial bombardments last spring are continuing at the American Congress on Capitol Hill, while the President of the United States continues to remain in seclusion at the presidential retreat at Camp David. In national news, the Prime Minister stated today that Canadian military units will remain on duty at all border crossings to the United States for the foreseeable future. The opposition leader, Mister MacDonald, stated that—”

  Stewart switched off the station and said, “Well, I think things are about as good as they can be right now. Having the armistice take effect again in Michigan and New Hampshire is good news. Hopefully, they can straighten out the mess here in a few days or so. Even if our glorious President sits on his hands and says and does nothing.”

  “Based on what you’re hearing, when would be a good time to leave?” I asked.

  “How does dusk sound?”

  “Not any earlier?”

  Stewart started fiddling with other switches on the radios. “The militias like to split their activities between daylight and darkness. I’ve found out that around dusk and dawn is when they’re on the move, getting ready to go home. That gives you more opportunities to slip through and make it to the highway—if that’s where you want to go.”

  I shifted my weight on the table. “Yeah, I’m still looking at the highway. Eventually the UN’s going to have to regain some sort of control, and the interstates are their best transport operation.”

  “All right,” Stewart said. “Like I told you, the interstate is about—”

  A phone rang, startling me. Stewart turned in his chair. The phone rang three times, and then stopped.

  “Who could that—”

  He held up his hand so I kept my mouth shut. The phone rang again, five times, before stopping. And then it rang five times again. Stewart’s face seemed to turn gray and his body also seemed to sag in the chair.

  “Coded call, right?” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “So the militias aren’t the only ones using codes,” I said. “Who’s calling you?”

  “A friend who, like me, isn’t associated with the militias.”

  I asked, “What does this code mean?”

  Stewart rubbed at his beard. “It means two things. The first is that you’ve got to get going.”

  I knew I should have stood up but I felt frozen to the chair. “And what’s the second meaning of that call?”

  Stewart looked right at me. “It means a militia unit is heading right here, right now.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Stewart got up and I followed him as he raced down the stairs. He talked over his shoulder at me as we went into the living room. “Because of who my daughter married, I’ve been on a list. Big deal. Half the county is on a list of some sort, especially those of us who fed or hid refugees from the cities when the shooting started. But we tend to know each other and we try to keep track of what’s going on. And part of keeping track is giving out a warning when the militias are on the move. Jerry.”

  The boy looked up from the television. He didn’t say a word.

  Stewart said, “Red alert, son. Take the dog and go down into the cellar. All right? You know the drill.”

  Jerry nodded and said, “Tucker.” The English springer spaniel leaped up and followed him out of the room. I heard the noise of feet and paws slapping on wooden stairs.

  Stewart said, “Poor guy’s seen more crap in his nine years than some people have during their entire lives.”

  “I’m sure,” I said.

  “And I’m sure of one other thing, and that’s that we’ve got to get you out of here,” he said. “C’mon, not much time to waste.”

  We went into the kitchen and Stewart filled my water bottle, which he passed over to me. I put on my coat and slung my blanket roll over my shoulders. He said, “Sorry it can’t be dusk. OK. Here’s the directions. Back past the barn, go over the electric fence. Don’t worry, it’s not turned on. By the fence is an old bathtub. Used it for a while as a watering trough. From there, head up the hill. You’ll see the path. Get up the hill, keep on going straight. The trail will widen some. When you start coming down the opposite slope, you’ll spot the highway in the distance. Maybe ten, fifteen minutes away. Just try to keep moving in a straight line. You can’t miss it.”

  I held out my hand. “Thanks. I owe you a lot, Stewart, a hell of a lot.”

  He ignored my outstretched hand. “Remember we’re out here, OK? See if you can’t do something about that. And one more thing.”

  Stewart brushed past me, went to a closet beside the door leading outside. He opened the closet door, reached up and pulled something down off an upper shelf. Then he brought it out and presented it to me.

  A scoped rifle with a leather sling.

  I shook my head. “I’m UN. I’m not supposed to carry—”

  “Yeah, and our Declaration of Independence promised us life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, and see where we are now. Look, you said this morning that you didn’t want to go back to the militias. Fine. But for God’s sake, man, take something so you can defend yourself.”

  It took about a second for me to make up my mind, a second filled with memories of the Aussie television crew and Sanjay and the dead German pilot and Gary, the executed schoolteacher. “OK. You’ve convinced me.”

  “Fine,” Stewart said. “Listen up, ’cause we don’t have much time. This is a Remington .22 semi-auto.” In his other hand he held a small box of ammunition, which he now popped open. He undid a screw assembly under the barrel and said, “Simple way of loading. Tube magazine, here beneath the barrel. Takes twelve rounds. Load them in like this, sliding in, one right after another. Then replace the tube.”

  Which he did before handing the rifle over to m
e, along with the cardboard box in which the cartridges rolled around like tiny marbles. I put the box in a coat pocket and continued listening. “Little knob there by the trigger guard, that’s the safety. If you see red, it means the safety is off. Action there on the right. Snap it back once and you’re ready to go. Then just keep on pulling the trigger. Savvy?”

  I shouldered the rifle and went outside to the gray-green and muddy lawn. I felt someone tap me on my shoulder. Stewart was smiling and now his hand was extended.

  “OK. Now that you’re on your way, good luck,” he said.

  I squeezed his hand, feeling the roughness of his skin. “Thanks again. And I certainly won’t forget you. Not for a moment.”

  “I know,” he said. “Now get your ass in gear before the bad guys show up.”

  He went back inside and closed the door. I moved as quickly as I could, slipping my way through the mud. I went past the barn and reached the wire fence. I hesitated to touch the wire, seeing how it was secured to each post by an electric insulator. If it was on, it sure could give me a tingle, I thought.

  Too late to doubt Stewart now. I grasped the fence, felt nothing except the coldness of the metal strands, and I climbed over. Nearby was the old rusty bathtub, just like Stewart had described, and there was the path, leading up to a hill, a hill nearly covered by pine trees and a few oaks. I started up the path and began huffing with exertion, the rifle bouncing on my back, the rolled-up blankets tugging me a bit off-balance, the spare cartridges rolling around in the little cardboard box. I puffed some more and then the path leveled out. Almost there, the top of the hill. And what had Stewart said? From the hill, on the other side, the highway would be in view. And from that point, about ten or fifteen minutes to reach the road. Ten to fifteen minutes away from being picked up by a convoy, from being saved and having a good meal and a hot shower, and being able to tell somebody, anybody, what I had seen and what I had done, and to get a world of hurt to descend upon the traitorous Peter Brown—

  I stopped and moved to the left, past some low brush, which I pulled aside. I heard the sound of engines. I dumped my blankets, pulled the rifle off my shoulder and, remembering again what Stewart had said, snapped back the bolt. And then I checked the safety. No red showing. Safe, then. I placed my arm through the leather sling and brought the scope up to my eye, and the house and buildings and muddy field below me came into close-up. A pickup truck and minivan with every window busted out were parked by the house. I breathed in and out, watching what was going on through the small rifle scope, the black cross-hairs sight superimposing itself over everything I watched.

  Five guys in fatigues and carrying weapons were milling around the yard, and one of them started pounding repeatedly at the kitchen door from which I had exited just a few minutes ago. Stewart appeared soon. I could see that they were talking back and forth and Stewart was shaking his head. He stepped out into the yard, talking some more. Two of the guys were leaning against the fender of their pickup truck, ignoring the discussion going on between Stewart and the man I guessed was the leader. The rifle scope shook some as I recognized the guy. One of my escorts, back at the militia camp. Swell.

  The door to the house opened again and Stewart turned round, his face screwed up with anger as Tucker barreled out of the house, followed shortly by Jerry. Stewart pointed to the house but Jerry ignored him and went over to the militia guy, tipped his head back and said something to him. For some reason, the fellow looked embarrassed. Tucker the dog went over to the two guys resting against the pickup-truck fender. One of them bent down, picked up the spaniel’s tennis ball and tossed it down the driveway. The dog went after the bouncing ball with joyful enthusiasm.

  “Careful, Tucker,” I whispered. “You’re playing with the enemy.”

  The militia leader seemed now to be talking louder to Stewart, jabbing his finger at Stewart’s chest, and Jerry was beside him as well, tugging at the militia leader’s coat. My mouth got dry and I thought of the water bottle that I had inside my coat. But I dared not move, not while I was watching what was going on. Now the militia guy was poking Stewart hard, forcing the older man to step back.

  And then it went to the shits.

  The militiaman—by now looking seriously irritated—pushed Jerry away with one hand, causing the kid to sit down hard in the mud. Stewart rushed forward but the militia guy had already unslung his rifle and now he swung it at Stewart, catching the older man in the jaw with the weapon’s heavy stock. Stewart fell down to lie splayed out in the mud as Jerry sat there, bawling. Even Tucker had stopped playing and was looking around him quizzically, as though he could not believe the stupidity and hatred in the human race.

  When the militiaman raised his rifle and aimed it at Stewart, I flicked the little knob on the side of the Remington with my thumb. And shot him.

  I COULDN’T TELL you who was more surprised. Me, the militia guys or Stewart. The report was quite loud and since the Remington was a .22 the recoil was nonexistent. I wasn’t even sure if I had hit the son of a bitch, but I kept on firing, aiming at the running and hiding members of the militia group and then popping a few bullets into their vehicles for good measure. I kept on firing until the trigger suddenly got stiff and unyielding, and I realized that I had blown through all twelve rounds. I did another quick scan of the scene through the telescopic sight and saw Stewart and Jerry and Tucker racing back into the house. I moved the rifle, the view shaking some now as I realized what I had just done. I couldn’t make out any of the militiamen, not at all. Then came a flicker of movement, and gunfire crackled and stuttered from the yard down below me. I moved back into the brush, breathing hard, remembering the quick lesson I had gotten from Stewart. The magazine tube came out with a snap and a twist, and I took the cardboard box of cartridges from my pocket. Two of them fell on the ground and, swearing, I scrabbled among the leaves and dirt to retrieve them. This was no time to waste ammunition.

  Counting slowly—I wanted to make sure I put in the correct number—I reloaded the magazine tube, replaced it in its position beneath the gun’s barrel, and put the few remaining cartridges back into my coat pocket. I snapped back the action and then squirmed my way back to my shooting spot. Through the scope I saw movement down below: a line of militiamen were coming up the hill toward me. I fired three times more and then ducked and crawled out of there as they returned fire in a rapid sequence of loud booms, punctuated by the frightening sounds of rounds coming in over my head and slamming into branches and tree trunks. They sure as hell weren’t firing .22s.

  I paused, just long enough to gather my thoughts and an extra breath or two. Then I resumed running.

  I GOT BACK on the path quick enough. A small rational part of me understood that this wasn’t a good idea, being out in the open like this, but I knew I had no choice. My goal wasn’t to sit in the woods and play at being sniper. My goal was to haul ass to the highway, and if that had been my only intention, I wouldn’t have shot at those clowns back there. That had been stupid. That hadn’t been rational. I should have gone quietly on my way. But, damn it, I was glad that I hadn’t been rational. I was glad I had stayed and had shot at them. And as I’d been shooting, I’d wanted to shout at them as well: “How does it feel, being on the receiving end of gunfire? How does it feel to hide and cower? How does it feel?”

  Somehow, I think they were pissed.

  There were distant shouts back there, and some more gunfire, and I ran hard, branches and brambles snapping at my face and hands. For the first few minutes I was at an advantage, slight as it was. They couldn’t be sure if I was up on the hill, hiding and waiting, trying to snipe at them. So they had to take their time coming up that rise and keep their heads down. I stopped and fired off a couple of rounds into the air, hoping the noise would slow them. My breathing was racing so hard that it felt like I had little razor blades inside my lungs that lacerated me with every step. Then I fell flat on my face.

  I rolled over, saw the exposed root that had
tripped me up. I got up from the cold ground and winced. My right ankle was sore. Damn. Time to slow down, just a bit. I picked up the rifle and continued running at a more cautious pace, making sure I took a few extra seconds to dodge the rocks and tree branches that were now threatening to kill me by tripping me up and offering me to the militiamen I had just been firing at.

  Some more shouts and shots behind me. The path widened as it passed a knoll of gravel and rock, and below me, in the distance and beyond another line of trees, was my Holy Grail, my Place in Paradise, the Prize of Prizes: the stretch of asphalt and concrete that was the interstate highway. To celebrate what I had just seen I turned around and fired a couple more shots into the woods, just to let my pursuers know I was still alive.

  And I kept on running.

  ABOUT TEN MINUTES later I slogged through a drainage ditch at the side of the highway, soaking my legs up to my knees, flailing through some cattails growing in long brown stalks beside the muddy water. I went up the grass embankment, breathing hard again, the rifle slippery in my hands. The highway: two lanes right in front of me, then a grass median strip, then another two lanes.

  And bless every one of us, some distance toward the west were three Toyota Land Cruisers, parked by the side of the road, all painted white and one with the UN flag flapping from a radio whip antenna at the rear. There seemed to be someone standing beside an open door. I actually choked up for a moment, as if I was seeing the familiar red and white maple-leaf banner out there in the distance, offering me safety, offering me sanctuary from the murderous men behind me. I stood, took a couple of deep breaths, and—