“What about your friends in Fort Wilfrid? They’re only about ten miles away. Could you use the shortwave to call them and ask for help?”
Imran shook his head.
“No…inside the walls of Wilfrid we are protected. The godfather does not spend resources dealing with problems outside those walls. He would not help me, even though he considers me his friend. If he were to try and control the atrocities that took place around him, he would soon run out of what he needs to protect himself and his own community. If we can make our way to Wilfrid, we will be safe. Until then…we are on our own. It has always been that way for me.”
The bandits were shouting again – repeating the same threat of using the grenade launcher.
Mac covered his mouth as he felt yet another cough forming in his lungs. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, waiting for the cough to pass. He then turned to Imran.
“I want you to ask them for proof they have that RPG. Tell them you are carrying a shit load of valuables and you aren’t willing to just give it up without a fight, but you will give it up if you have to. They got to put up or shut up. While you’re telling them that, I’m gonna make my way around them, ok? So you shout what you’re telling them. Be loud about it. Be convincing. I want them shooting off that launcher. Now if they don’t fire it off, then that means they are bluffing and we have ourselves a good old fashioned firefight. Spread out – at least ten yards apart from each other, and light them Muslim bastards up.”
Imran nodded to Mac as the former Navy SEAL began to crawl slowly away from the truck, his form disappearing into the darkness. Imran stood up again to shout back at the bandits what Mac had instructed him to say.
Reese nudged Dublin while they waited for a response.
“You make sure to stay close to me, ok?”
Dublin offered him a small smile.
“Right back at you.”
Cooper leaned down next to Imran, a slightly confused expression covering his face.
“Now what are we are supposed to do if those bandits out there do fire off a rocket? I don’t recall Mac saying anything about that. He just said he wanted them to, but why?”
The group again went silent as they contemplated the question. Imran appeared to be the most troubled at the plan that now appeared to have been hatched unwisely.
Bear peered out at the darkness, hoping to see where the bandits were gathered. He was unable to do so, but soon heard one of them yelling back at them. The big man looked down at Imran so he could know what was being said.
“He says they are preparing to prove to us they have what they say they have. They also want us to know they have many more they can launch. If we don’t give up after they fire off the first rocket, the next one will be fired at us. They also say…they say that Allah is with them and that we will be punished for our crimes. That if there are women with us…that they will be raped. If there are children…they will be killed along with the rest of us. Their throats will be cut, and their blood offered as sacrifice. He says we are not innocents, but rather sinful participants in the war that is now coming - a new jihad on the Alaskan infidels and that no friend, no godfather can stop Allah’s demand for justice.”
Cooper Wyse chuckled.
“So these fellas are the friendly sort, huh?”
Imran continued to interpret what the bandit was yelling back at them.
“He also says they saw the dog that was with us, and that they will very much enjoy eating it over a fire before the night is done.”
Cooper’s eyes narrowed as his left hand removed the second six shooter from its holster that hung from his left hip.
“They just threaten my dog, Imran?”
Imran gave a slow nod.
Yes…they will eat Brando.”
Cooper glanced down at Brando and then back to Imran.
“I didn’t think Muslims ate dog.”
Imran shrugged.
“These Muslims, they are the worst of the worst, they make their own rules.”
Cooper Wyse’s eyes glared out into the darkness.
“Ok then…”
Bear half whispered, half hissed at hearing Cooper’s sudden seriousness over Brando being threatened.
“Those Muslim scumbags can shout out how they’re going to kill all of us and you sit there laughing it off like it’s no big thing, but as soon as they mention your dog, you bring out that second gun of yours and look like you’re ready to kill every one of them? What the hell is that about?”
Cooper continued to stare ahead while calmly answering Bear’s accusation of his seemingly misplaced priorities.
“I could give a mouse fart in the wind about some grubby wanna be bandits making threats against other people, but you don’t threaten to eat a man’s dog. That kind of thing, well…that just ain’t right.”
A flash of deep orange-yellow light momentarily illuminated the night forty yards behind the group followed by an arc of fire that sped off before ending in a much larger explosion a hundred yards or so further away to the right of where the group was hunkered down behind Imran’s truck. The explosion lit up the area for a few seconds before darkness once again fell over them.
As soon as the full return of that darkness was complete, several rapid fire gunshots were heard to their left. Reese noted at least six shots were fired, followed by a momentary pause, and then four more gunshots, replaced by a prolonged silence. Reese whispered one brief word to the others.
“Mac.”
No further shouting came from the bandits. No sounds of movement - just silence within the inky blackness of night. The few minutes following the last of the gunfire passed very slowly for each of them crouched behind the transport vehicle.
Brando was the first to sense something approaching from the left – the same direction Mac had earlier snuck away to. The Doberman did not growl, but rather wagged his short, cropped tail. Though he looked every bit his seventy five years of age, there was just a hint of satisfied lightness in Mac’s steps as he made his way back to the group.
Cooper Wyse’s eyebrows rose slightly as the right corner of his mouth curled up into the faintest of grins. He wasn’t one to impress easily, but on this night, Mac Walker had done just that.
Imran, as he was with Bear’s feat of strength earlier, was far more open and expressive in his admiration for Mac’s action against the Muslim bandits.
“Did you kill them all? By yourself? Praise God for you, Mr. Mac Walker!”
Mac brushed aside the compliment and admiring looks, and pointed to Imran’s truck.
“You need to see if you can get that thing running Imran. Those bandits up there had communicators. They’re might be more of them on their way here. We need to get ourselves to Fort Wilfrid and hope it’s as safe a place for us as you say it is.”
While Imran moved quickly to the front of his truck and raised the hood to try and determine what had caused it do stall, Dublin stepped toward Mac and placed her hand on his shoulder.
“How were you able to shoot at them so accurately Mac when it’s so dark out?”
Mac put his right arm around Dublin’s shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze.
“No – it wasn’t. At least not for a few seconds, and that’s all I needed. As soon as they fired off that launcher, I could see where each one of them was standing. There were five total. I hit the first three right off, all head shots. The last two, they hit the dirt and were trying to crawl away. Dumb as they were, they were crawling right next to each other. Made things pretty damn easy for me. Had to wait until the rocket detonated, and once that happened, there they were plain as day. No more than thirty yards away from my position. Four shots fired. Three found their mark. Last one missed but I didn’t need it. Both dead.”
Imran called out from under the truck’s hood.
“Got it! No problems! Easy fix! The redundant check valve in the fuel line was hit by a bullet! I can just bypass it and we should be good to go again! Give me five minutes!”
Bear looked over at the others in the group.
“What the hell is he going on about?”
Cooper Wyse, who had returned his two six shooters to their respective holsters, tipped his head in Imran’s direction.
“Sounds like he’s saying we’ll be good to go soon. If anything mechanical needs fixing, Imran there is the one to do it.”
Imran had ventured back to the truck cabin where he again looked behind the seat and came out with a roll of something silver in his right hand.
“Duct tape! Best quick fix in the world!”
With that big grin and a task allowing for the use of duct tape, Imran looked at that particular moment like he could quite possibly be the happiest man on earth. Within a few minutes, the small man was back behind the wheel of the transport vehicle and turning the ignition key. The motor fired up, and then stalled. Imran looked back at the others and nodded.
“It’s ok – just a little air in the injectors. No worries. Princess is almost ready.”
The ignition was turned again and the motor came to life and this time remained idling.
Bear and Dublin again joined Imran in the cabin as the others crawled up into the truck bed. Within minutes, as the lights of Wilfrid quickly drew closer, they passed a large, neatly painted green and white metallic sign on the side of the road with the following inscription:
WELCOME TO WILFRID – THE LAST REAL HOMETOWN ON EARTH
XXII.
Imran slowed the transport truck as he neared what appeared to be a checkpoint with two guard stations bookending each side of the road. Two men, both carrying M-16s, held up their hands for Imran to stop.
Imran rolled down his window and offered his all too familiar smile, calling out to each man by their names.
“Hello again, Jackson! Timothy! Good to see you! I have arrived with my guests. They have been invited by the godfather himself.”
The taller of the two guards, Jackson, peered into the truck cabin at Imran, Bear, and Dublin, while the one called Timothy stood toward the back, looking into the truck bed. Jackson was just under six foot, and appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He had a round, cleanly shaven face, with friendly, brown eyes, and small scar that crossed the bottom of his chin. He and his wife had fled the suburbs of Vancouver and took up residence in Wilfrid nearly six years ago. They welcomed their first child, Jackson Jr., into the world just four months ago.
“Nice to see you, Imran! We’ve been given notice to expect you to bring back some friends. Do they have names?”
Imran, still smiling, pointed to his right.
“This is Dublin Meyer, and Bear…from Alaska. In the back we have Mr. Mac Walker, Mr. Cooper Wyse, and Mr. Reese Neeson…of the radio program.”
Jackson smiled warmly back at Dublin and Bear and then looked down at a paper printout that he had removed from inside his winter jacket.
“Ok, thank you, Imran – names all check out. Those are the ones we were expecting to arrive. Say, was there some kind of explosion out there? We saw the flash, but that was it. Then you all arrived here about ten minutes later.”
Imran’s face grew serious.
“Yes – bandits. And they were well armed, Jackson. AK-47’s, and a functioning grenade launcher.”
Jackson’s eyes grew larger as he processed what Imran was telling him.
“Bandits? This close to Wilfrid? AK’s and a grenade launcher? That’s certainly out of the ordinary. I’ll be sure to send a group out in the morning to look over the site Imran, pick up any weapons that are still working. We got double security going, so no worries for now. We’ll be watching out for all of you. Just enjoy your time here at Wilfrid.”
Jackson nodded to the other guard, Timothy, and then waved Imran past the check point. The road past the checkpoint was noticeably smoother, having been recently re-paved. Bright yellow painted lines divided the lanes, and multi-colored plants were spaced out evenly on both sides of the road every forty feet or so.
Imran pointed into the darkness on either side of them.
“This whole area has motion sensors and hidden, in-ground lighting that comes on if anyone attempts to sneak into Wilfrid. The sensors are calibrated so that smaller animals don’t set them off, but a person would. Very good system. I helped design it! Now if you look up ahead, those lights you see that are all in a row…those are actual Boston street lamps from 1954! The godfather obtained a bunch of city surplus containers that were sitting on a barge tied up in Lake Michigan, of all places! He had them delivered all the way back here. There were street lights, signs, bricks, even a couple of false store fronts. It was a remarkable find! Very expensive to transport…but in the end, worth it.”
Dublin and Bear marveled at the world that was revealed to them under the old world lighting of Wilfrid’s meticulously paved Main Street as Imran’s truck passed slowly by Mitchell and Son’s Hardware, the Wilfrid Library, a large, three story, red bricked building with a sign above the massive wooden double doors that read,
“Wilfrid Schools – Great Minds For A Better Future”.
In the back of the transport truck, Mac, Reese, and Cooper were standing up in the truck bed, leaning against the canopy and staring at the same buildings Dublin and Bear were. Mac’s mouth was left open like a child’s on Christmas morning as he stared at a world that reminded him of his long ago childhood growing up in Carville, Louisiana in the 1960’s.
“Son-of-a-bitch.”
Cooper clapped Mac on the back.
“It’s different, that’s for sure. Hell, you’re old enough you’d fit right in here, Mac!”
Mac didn’t bother to respond as he continued to be amazed at how well this modern day Wilfrid had re-created what used to be small town America.
Reese pointed to a row of cars parked outside a brightly polished, silver train car that had been transformed into Mel’s Diner.
“Look at those cars. That’s a Cadillac. And there’s a Buick. The silver one on the end there…not sure what it is, but it’s beautiful.”
Mac followed to where Reese was pointing and smiled.
“That’s a Continental Mark II. 1956. Rare car. And you’re right – she’s a beauty. Back when American-made still meant something. Hell…back when American meant something.”
Imran turned off of Main Street and onto what the signage indicated was Acorn Drive, which was clearly a residential street that had meticulously maintained yards upon which large, equally pristine, two-story Craftsman styled homes stood with warm glowing lights peeking out through lace-curtained windows.
“This is one of our better neighborhoods. Beautiful homes here. Very nice street, and close to the school.”
Dublin was peering intently at the yards, her experience and love of plants telling her something was not quite right with the uniformity of the grass, shrubs, and trees.
“Imran – is that grass real?”
Imran gave several quick shakes of his head.
“Oh no…too cold up here most of the year to grow grass, or most plants outside…what you are looking at is all artificial. Even the trees are fabrications. Very good fabrications…but fabrications nevertheless. People do like to add or remove plants though, or change the color of the grass a little…you know, personalize their yards that way.”
While Dublin was impressed with how realistic the grass and plant life looked, she would much rather be able to work real earth, and grow real things in that earth, as God had intended.
“What do you do for food, Imran? You must have some kind of greenhouse facility?”
Imran smiled again and nodded.
“Yes we do! Twenty thousand square feet of growing space. Every kind of edible plant you could imagine! It is owned by the same family that owns the Wilfrid Market. Very nice people. Hard workers.”
Imran slowed the truck down and turned right into the very last home on Acorn Drive. A single porch light illuminated the driveway and walking path to the home’s covered porch entry that was framed by two very
large, white, square pillars.
Bear peered through the truck windshield toward the house and then looked over at Imran.
“What are we doing here?”
Imran was already opening his door to step outside onto the home’s flawless, red bricked driveway.
“This is the Wilfrid Guest House. You will be able to stay here for as long as you like. Rest. Clean up. Have something to eat. There are five fully furnished rooms, three bathrooms, a fully functional and stocked kitchen, a formal dining room, living room, study, and music room. This used to be the godfather’s residence – and he loves his music. I will be back here tomorrow at noon to pick you up and take you to the godfather.”
Tumultus Page 17
