Tumultus

by D. W. Ulsterman

  Freight train, Freight train, run so fast

  Please don't tell what train I'm on

  They won't know what route I've gone

  When I am dead and in my grave

  No more good times here I crave

  Place the stones at my head and feet

  Tell them all that I've gone to sleep.

  When I die, Lord, bury me deep

  Way down on old Chestnut street

  Then I can hear old Number 9

  As she comes rolling by.

  When the woman finished, the godfather stood up and clapped, bowed toward her and began clapping again. Soon, most everyone else in the club followed the godfather’s example and began clapping as well.

  “That’s Nancy Briggs. Sweet thing from Long Island New York. About the shyest little lady you’ll ever meet, but the voice of an angel. Took me months to get her to sing in front of anyone, but now we can’t keep her off the stage. Lovely woman.”

  Imran tapped the top of the table to get Mac’s attention.

  “Mac said he might sing for us tonight. He plays guitar.”

  The godfather smiled down at Mac as he snapped a finger.

  “That’s right! Imran mentioned that to me the other day. So tell me, Mac, will you do us the honor of singing something for tonight? Whatever you want – singer’s choice. Maybe it’ll be the deciding factor in me helping you out with convincing the Russian to take you to Manitoba. How about it Mac – see if you sing and play as well as you fight? Maybe a little Dean Martin?”

  Mac looked to the stage and then back to the godfather.

  “I don’t sing Dean Martin. No offense – not my style.”

  The godfather smiled again as he leaned down to tap Mac’s shoulder.

  “That’s ok! Whatever you want, Mac. Like I said – singer’s choice.”

  Reese urged Mac to sing, and was soon joined by Dublin and Bear. Even Cooper Wyse added to the request as he tilted his head toward the stage.

  “C’mon, Mac. Let’s see what you got.”

  Mac shook his head no.

  “Don’t have a guitar. Can’t sing without a guitar. Sorry.”

  The godfather motioned for Marcini to come to the table.

  “Marcini, go get Mac the guitar from upstairs.”

  Mac began to feel as if he had walked into another trap.

  “Yeah…I mean NO. I play acoustic yes, but I don’t know about singing for everyone. That was something I did for the people back in Dominatus. Now…”

  Mac’s voice trailed off as the godfather sat down again, his right arm reaching out to grab Mac’s wrist.

  “Mr. Walker, I appreciate your uncertainty. I know this place has to seem odd to you. I know I seem odd to you, but at the end of the day, we’re just people like you had in Dominatus. Trying to survive and prosper as much as we can while the world around us chokes on its own brutality. How about another little side wager between us? You get your old ass up there and sing a song, and I guarantee you I do my best to ensure you get use of the train.”

  Imran’s eyes locked with Mac’s, urging him to agree to the terms.

  Mac looked to the others and found they too were expecting him to accept.

  “Oh, hell, fine then. Get me a guitar and I’ll sing for my supper and that goddamn train ride.”

  Marcini returned carrying the guitar the godfather had him retrieve. Upon seeing it, Mac’s eyes widened as he took the instrument form Marcini’s hands and gently set it on his lap.

  “Is this real? A Gibson L-2? They stopped making these over a hundred years ago!”

  Mac’s hand brushed the guitar strings.

  “It’s real. One of the few things I have left from my family. Was my grandfather’s. He brought it to America in 1935 when they fled Italy before the war. Mr. Walker, I would be honored to have you play it for me. I, unfortunately…I never learned.”

  Mac turned the guitar over in his hands, then began to lightly strum the strings and adjust the tuning before abruptly pausing.

  “Is it ok if I tune it? She needs just a little love.”

  The godfather took another sip of his wine while managing to simultaneously nod his head.

  “Of course, as long as I get to hear you play it.”

  Mac became momentarily lost in the tuning of the guitar. It was the finest acoustic he had ever touched, let alone had the opportunity to play. The aged wood had a dull, light colored sheen to it, and it smelled of a world and a way of life too long forgotten in this modern era of global governance. Mac regretted his earlier judgment against the godfather’s character. The man wasn’t insane, simply nostalgic – a yearning for a better and simpler time Mac understood all too well himself. A time when those you once loved were again alive, and well, and still part of your own life.

  Mac rose from his seat with the guitar clutched in his right hand as he made the short walk to the stage area. Even before he put his feet atop the raised platform, the audience inside the nightclub was cheering for him.

  Turning to face the microphone, Mac felt a twinge of pain shoot down to his lower back, causing him to wince.

  “If it’s ok with all of you, I’d like to sit down here while I play. That little demonstration we had for you earlier has me all tuckered out.”

  Again the people of Wilfrid cheered and clapped for Mac as Marcini placed a stool next to him.

  Mac eased himself down onto the stool while resting the guitar on the top of his thighs.

  “You know, just a little over an hour ago, I was thinking to myself how insane this place was. How stupid and silly all the old cars and everything…well…you know how you got this town set up. I’m starting to get it now, though. I really am. When I was younger, I wasn’t much for talking. Sure as hell not for talking in front of a bunch of people like you. I’m old enough now though…plenty old enough, that I know I’m running out of time to say the things I want to say. I kinda wish I had taken that time to say those things to people who deserved to hear it before it was too late.”

  Mac paused as he gathered his thoughts, while all of the faces seated in front of him watched intently for what he would say next.

  “You see, you live long enough, you realize just how many people you loved are no longer with you anymore. Maybe back when they were still around, you let all the other things get in the way of letting them know how much they meant to you. Or, you let your fears, or arrogance, or resentment, speak for you because the words just seemed like too much trouble. I don’t know. I really don’t. I’m just an old man now, sitting up here, talking nonsense. Or at least for some of you, it comes off sounding like that. I promise you though, some day, you’ll understand. At least some of it – you really will.

  “The one you all call the godfather, sitting right there, he promised to help us get where we need to go if I sing you a little song. Now I ain’t played much since…since Dominatus was blown to hell by the drones a couple years back. We made them pay a price for that though. We fought back. I was told most you already heard about that.”

  Mac was interrupted by a smattering of applause that soon grew in volume. There was no love for the New United Nations in this room. He waited for the room to go quiet and then continued.

  “Now a long time ago, I was just a kid from a middle class American family in a small, Mississippi River town of Carville, Louisiana. I grew up riding my bike, and trading baseball cards, and getting into just enough trouble to keep things interesting, while trying to keep out of too much trouble so my dad didn’t take the belt to me. Back then I sometimes thought how dull and boring my life was. How annoying and overly strict my parents could be at times. I dreamed of being free of all that. Free of them. Free of that life.

  “Now it seems most my dreams are filled with wishing I had that life back…had my parents back. What I wouldn’t do to see my mom and dad just one more time. Tell them thanks. Tell them I loved them. Goddamn do I miss them something terrible.”

  Mac paused again as he looke
d down at this feet while his fingers began to strum the guitar. When he looked back up, he spotted Dublin wiping tears away from her eyes, and felt a momentary pang of guilt for making her cry.

  “I have new family these days though – those of us who walked out of Dominatus alive. I’m doing my best to protect them, at least as much as a tired, used up old man can. So I guess I should sing you a song. Again, I apologize if my playing isn’t so good. Even at its best, it wasn’t much. And I know I can’t sing for shit, but whatever. Here’s a song I remember my dad singing along to in the car on the way to what he called our secret fishing hole just outside Carville. It was just a small nothing pond tucked away among the trees just off a little gravel road where you could hook into a decent sized catfish now and then. If we caught some fish, we’d bring ‘em back to Mom and she’d fry them up for dinner while Dad would keep telling her we were eating for free because I’d brought home the catch of the day. Every time he’d say it, the taste of that fish just got better and better.

  “Seems like the older I get, it’s those little memories that grow bigger and bigger in my heart. I’ve done a hell of a lot of wrong in my life, but it’s those memories that keep reminding me of the right I’ve done too. Maybe some of you can relate.”

  Mac began to pluck more forcefully at the guitar strings, the chords soon enveloping the nightclub. His eyes closed as he raised his head just slightly, his mind focusing on the lyrics of a song that was much more memory than music to him, his roughened whisper voice reaching back to the people and places of many decades ago as he struggled to inhale enough breath from cancer-laden lungs to sing into the microphone.

  There is… a house… in New Orleans,

  They call the Rising Sun.

  And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy,

  And God… I know… I'm one.

  My mother was a tailor.

  She sewed my new blue jeans.

  My father was a gamblin' man,

  Down… in New… Orleans.

  Now the only thing a gambler needs,

  Is a suitcase and trunk.

  And the only time he's satisfied,

  Is when he's on a drunk.

  Oh mother, tell your children,

  Not to do what I have done.

  Spend your lives in sin and misery,

  In the House… of the Rising… Sun.

  Well, I got one foot on the platform,

  The other foot on the train.

  I'm goin' back to New Orleans,

  To wear… that ball… and chain.

  Well, there is… a house… in New Orleans,

  They call… the Rising… Sun.

  And it's been… the ruin… of many a poor boy,

  And God… I know… I'm one…

  And God…I know…I’m one…

  XXVIII.

  Imran arrived at the guest house to take Mac and the others to meet the Russian whose train they hoped would transport them across the many miles of difficult terrain and Muslim-controlled territories of Canada.

  All but Cooper were inside the house when Imran arrived. The rancher had taken Brando to the backyard area so the dog could relieve himself before getting into Imran’s transport vehicle.

  “Good morning again! I hope you all slept well after last night!”

  Mac gave Imran a short nod as he walked into the kitchen for a drink of water. His throat was sore from the several bouts of coughing when he awoke in the morning. He had enjoyed several hours of uninterrupted sleep though, which he was very thankful for.

  Bear was eating the last of an apple, while Dublin and Reese were sitting together on a couch in the home’s main room. Dublin rose to greet Imran, giving the small man a hug.

  “Good morning to you, Imran. Cooper is in the back, but we are all ready to go.”

  Imran nodded as he began to help the others bring their packs and equipment to his truck. When Reese stepped outside and felt the sting of cold air, his body involuntarily shivered as the temperature bit through his winter coat.

  “Wow, a lot colder than yesterday.”

  Bear, who was only wearing an off-white sweatshirt and jeans, clapped Reese on the back as he walked toward Imran’s transport truck.

  “Toughen up, pansy. Just a little cold.”

  Brando ran past Reese to the driveway where he watched Mac place one of the backpacks onto the truck bed. Cooper soon joined them as well.

  “No godfather this morning, huh?”

  Imran shook his head at Cooper.

  “No – he has other business. There was some kind of incident very early this morning. I was told to stop off at the medical center before heading out to the Russian. He wanted to show us something.”

  Cooper’s mouth curled down into a frown as he looked back at Imran.

  “Any idea what it is?”

  Imran said no, but that they needed to be there soon. He didn’t like to keep the godfather waiting.

  Mac and Dublin again joined Imran in the front of the truck while Reese, Bear, and Cooper Wyse, along with Brando, sat down in the back. Imran pulled slowly away from the guest house and made his way back onto Wilfrid’s Main Street, where he turned right and drove for another half mile before turning left into an alley that ended in front of a small building sheathed in silver metal siding. A sign was placed over the entrance door that read “Wilfrid Medical Center”.

  Imran exited the truck with the rest of the group following him into the medical center building. Cooper paused to tell Brando to stay before hopping down from the truck bed. The first room Imran entered was a small reception area where a friendly woman in her forties, with short black hair and bangs that hung just above her dark eyes, smiled warmly at Imran and the others as they walked through the door.

  “Good morning, Imran! I was told to expect some guests today. Quite a bit of activity going on downstairs. Go ahead and let yourself in – there’s security that’s been posted, but they know you’re coming. Last door at the end of the hall on the left, in case you didn’t remember.”

  Imran smiled back at the woman and told her thank you, before motioning for the group to follow him through a second door that opened up into a long, narrow, well lit hallway.

  “This is what we use as a hospital here in Wilfrid. The first door here is an examination room. The second door on my left opens up into the procedures room. The door to my right here is a trauma room. Where we are going though is downstairs – the morgue.”

  Mac’s face winced.

  “Lovely.”

  Imran and the others reached the end of the hall where a tall, uniformed man stood holding an M-16. Imran simply nodded to the man and walked past him through another door that revealed concrete steps downward to yet another door constructed entirely of plated steel, at least three inches thick, and painted white. There was a code box on the door’s right side which Imran quickly pushed four numbers into. A loud buzzing noise filled the confines of the stairwell followed by the door opening inward.

  “Not only is this our morgue, but it can be used as a bomb shelter if needed. We are nearly thirty feet underground now.”

  Imran led the group down another narrow hallway before stopping at another door on his left. That door too had an armed man standing outside of it. He nodded down at Imran and then looked at the others before indicating they could open the door.

  The small room was just above freezing. In the middle was a single, stainless steel autopsy table that was surrounded by three men. The godfather was the first to turn around as Imran and the others walked in.

  “Good! Glad to see you made it on time. Hello, everyone. Hope you don’t get squeamish easily, because what you’re about to see is the stuff of nightmares. Gonna keep me awake at nights for months.”

  The godfather tapped the shoulder of the man to his left who was wearing a white medical jacket. He was about six foot, mid-fifties, with neatly combed grey hair, and a white goatee.

  Dr. Michaels, these are Imran and his friends. They’v
e been visiting us the last couple days. Maybe they might know something about this… thing we got laid up in here.”

  The man introduced as Dr. Michaels nodded his head in greeting while offering a thin smile, but said nothing. The godfather then turned to the uniformed man on his right, who was not much taller than the godfather, though much heavier – almost fat. A round, red face sat atop a very thick neck while a pair of almost coal black eyes peered back at Imran and the others.

  “And this is Cap, my head of security. Spent, what was it, Cap – twenty years as a Canadian Mountie?”

  Cap nodded once.

  “Twenty one years, yeah.”

  The godfather motioned for the group to come forward to look at what lay atop the autopsy table.