Resurrection Day

by Brendan DuBois

  He heard voices and opened his eyes. Everything was blurry and gray and black, and he blinked a few times.

  ‘Carl? Carl, can you hear me?’

  Sandy and one of the two brothers were looking down at him. He tried to move and said, ‘ah, shit,’ before falling back again. Something big and heavy was pinning his legs. He was on his back in a drainage ditch, rocks and tree branches digging into his back, and in front of him was the overturned shape of the pickup truck, its front end crumpled and tom. Boxes and crates were scattered around on the roadway and the side of the truck was jammed into the ditch, resting on its side, and holding his legs firmly in place.

  ‘Christ, what a mess,’ he said. ‘What the hell happened?’

  One of the brothers had his revolver out, his voice quavering. ‘We was ambushed, that’s what. A charge in the road knocked the truck clear off. Raiders, they must have set it, and they gotta be around. They’ll be here real quick.’

  The other brother came down into the ditch, a handkerchief held to his bloody face, a revolver in his hand. ‘Drew, man, we gotta get the hell outta here. The raiders’ll be here any second.’

  Sandy yelled, ‘We can’t leave!’

  ‘Miss—’ one of them said, and she scrambled up the ditch. ‘Come on, there’s got to be something around here to get that truck off of him! Some rope or a lever, something!’

  Drew ran up after Sandy and the other brother, Sam, knelt down beside Carl, blood dripping down his wrist. Carl took a breath, tried to tell if anything else besides his legs and back ached, but couldn’t.

  Sam said, ‘Your legs broke?’

  ‘Can’t tell,’ Carl said, his voice labored. ‘They sure as hell are stuck, though.’

  ‘Ain’t that the truth,’ Sam said.

  ‘You okay? What’s with your face?’

  Sam said, ‘I hit my head against the steering wheel when the charge lit off. I must’ve broke my nose.’

  From up on the roadway he could hear Sandy yelling at Drew about going back for help. Sam sighed and said, ‘Mister, I’m sorry, but there ain’t no way we’re getting this truck off of you. We’d need a tow rig or a couple of horses. And the raiders—’

  Carl nodded, gritted his teeth at the pain. ‘Yeah, I know the raiders, they’re probably coming. And I also know that this truck isn’t going anywhere. How far are you from the RZ border?’

  ‘Oh, about a half hour, an hour if we be extra cautious.’

  Damn, that hurt, he thought, as spasms raced up both legs. ‘Then be extra cautious. Take Sandy and get her the hell out of here. She’s a reporter and a British subject. She doesn’t belong here. You protect her and get her to Morristown safely, and I’ll see that you both get rewarded.’

  Sam coughed up some blood. ‘That’s a hell of a thing to say, and I’d try to argue with ya, but I can’t. You’re making a lot of sense, and I’m sorry about that.’ He turned away and yelled, ‘Drew! Hey, Drew! Get on back here!’

  The other brother came skidding down the side of the embankment, trailed by Sandy, her face set, her hair in disarray. Carl tried to move again and gritted his teeth. Sandy knelt down by him and he took her hand. ‘Carl,’ she started, ‘look, there has to be a way—’

  ‘Sandy, please—’

  ‘No, no, there has to be—’

  ‘Damn it, shut up!’ he said, not liking the look on her face at all, the shock of being yelled at.

  Drew and Sam stood by, almost shuffling their feet in embarrassment at what was going on in front of them. Carl took a deep breath and squeezed Sandy’s hand tight. ‘There is no time. Do you understand, Sandy? There is no time.’

  She bit her lip and lowered her eyes, tears trembling down her cheeks. Carl continued, feeling the weight on his legs, the weight everywhere, the burden of what he was trying to do and of being with a woman that he was beginning to love and couldn’t even trust.

  ‘You’ve got to get going. These guys will get you over the fence and into Morristown. When you’re in a safe place—like the bus depot—call the local Army station. Tell them I’m here and they’ll send in a rescue squad. I’m sure of it. Tell them I’m an on-duty Army sergeant, and they’ll take care of the rest.’

  ‘But that’ll take hours!’ she said, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  He squeezed her hand again. ‘And the longer you stay here, the longer it will take. Now. Where’s my pack?’

  Eager to do something, Drew came forward, holding out Carl’s knapsack. He reached in and took out the camera and exposed rolls of film. ‘Here’s what you need. Get going, will you? I’ll be all right.’

  Sam spoke up. ‘He’s right, miss, you know he’s right. We gotta get going.’

  Carl reached into the pack again and moved his hand round, feeling for a familiar object. He pulled out his pistol and rested it on his chest. ‘I’ll be just fine. Now, go, Sandy, will you? You don’t belong here.’

  She brought a hand up and tucked her hair back behind her ears. Her voice was a whisper. ‘Oh God, Carl, I think I’m falling in love with you.’

  She kissed him gently on his lips, and he raised his head just a ‘fraction, returning the slight pressure. A moment passed, as he thought about the hidden radio and all his questions about her, but he let it go. There was no time.

  And me with you, Sandy,’ he said. ‘Now. Please.’

  ‘The Savoy, remember?’ she said, her voice still quiet.

  ‘I remember. And Harrods, too. Now get going.’

  The brothers gently grasped her arms, not only to help her get back up the embankment, but also to get her on her way. He watched as they clambered up the steep, grass-strewn bank, and at the top, she made a motion to look back one more time, but the brothers wouldn’t let her wait, and in a moment or two, they were gone.

  ~ * ~

  Even with the sun rising, it felt cold but with some difficulty, he managed to get his blanket roll free from his knapsack and draped it over his chest and waist. He tried to move his legs, grimacing each time he failed. He clawed at the dirt, trying to dig himself out, but the soil was cold and hard-packed, and he ended up scraping the tips of his fingers raw and not achieving anything else. He lay back, breathing hard. He moved the pistol out from under the blanket and put it within easy reach.

  So. He felt cold anger and dismay and sorrow, and he wondered about Jim Rowley, back at PS 19, hiding in the tunnels and hoping and praying that Carl Landry was going to do right and come to the rescue. Sorry, Jim, he thought. Ten years ago you placed your trust in grown-ups, and look what happened. Ten years later, you again trust an adult, and here he lies, an easy target, unable to help you or anyone else among the free people left in this country.

  Another spasm of pain raced up his legs, and he closed his eyes, imagining what was going on elsewhere. Somewhere, the plans were being finalized, the decon camps were being prepared, and the British troops were practicing, again and again, how to subdue a civilian population. In a matter of weeks, it would be over, Rockefeller would be elected and the anschluss would take place, and this country would be ruled from London instead of Philadelphia.

  George Dooley, he thought. Good ole George Dooley, back at the Globe, upset that every four years, a dictator continued to be elected again and again, until such time as the voters never knew anything else, never knew a world without martial law and decon camps and censorship. And soon, they would never know that this country—for all its problems and faults—was once independent. As Caz’s brother had put it, the survivors write the history books, and soon no one would ever remember the words of that dead president, that this country was once a beacon of freedom for so many.

  There had been one last opportunity, a small chance, to prevent this continuing journey into darkness, and it had been destroyed just a few minutes ago, with that damn explosion.

  What a waste, he thought, trying not to move, trying to ignore the steady pressure on his legs. In the Army he had sometimes wondered—especially in Vietnam and in Califo
rnia—if this day, if this particular day, was going to be his last. If on this day, the Jesus bolt at the top of the helicopter engine assembly would let loose and he would die in a rice paddy as the copter crashed in. If on this day, a hand grenade Tom a Viet Cong sympathizer would be tossed into an outdoor cafe in Saigon. Or if on this day, a sniper from a farmer’s militia unit would drill through his forehead as he patrolled the high hills of San Diego County.

  Well, he never thought that last day would be in New Jersey, and he allowed himself a small laugh.

  He moved again, trying to find a more comfortable position, and after a while, decided there was no such thing as a comfortable position. To pass the time he wondered how long he had been lying there, how many minutes and hours, and where—at this moment—Sandy might be. If all went well, she should be in Morristown by now, making that phone call. And how would the call be received? An anonymous tip that an Army sergeant was trapped in a Restricted Zone. Would that mean a fast and furious response, an APC and a couple of Jeeps roaring down these dead streets?

  Or would the guy on the other end of the phone make a few scratches on a notepad and pass it along to someone else, who would pass it along to someone else, and then—maybe today or maybe tomorrow—the regular patrol would be asked to check things out if it had enough time.

  Time. He wondered what time it was. His watch had stopped.

  And he thought about something else, something that chilled him even more. He imagined Sandy going to a pay phone, and instead of calling the Army, calling her embassy. Or maybe she would use her radio. And report that their plans had been discovered, the plans to bring in British troops to suppress civilians, and instead of this awfulness being prevented, it would happen even faster.

  And then she might hang up the phone or switch off the radio, and try to forget about Carl Landry, slowly dying of thirst under a truck in the New Jersey RZ.

  Something moved up at the embankment. His hand went to the holster and he unsnapped it and brought out the pistol.

  A head appeared, and another. Two skinny dogs looked down and growled.

  ‘Go away,’ he said, putting the pistol down and throwing a rock up at them. ‘It’s not your time, not yet.’

  The dogs moved away. Time. Of course, everything he had just imagined, about how long it would take for Sandy to get out of the RZ, that all revolved around one big assumption. That everything had gone well. That the brothers had indeed brought her out of the RZ, and hadn’t retreated back to Hoboken, or been hung up on the fence anywhere. And if Sandy had only made one phone call, to the British Embassy…

  Voices.

  Carl heard voices up on the roadway, and the sound of an engine. He grabbed the pistol and then brought it under the blanket, letting it rest on his chest. Two, and then three men appeared at the top of the embankment, and they started laughing, and then everything was even more uncomfortable.

  The taller of the three seemed to be the leader. He scampered down the side of the ditch like it was a fun little obstacle course. He was dressed in black jeans, knee-high boots, and a large cattleman-style coat. He wore a Western-style holster that held two holstered revolvers low about his hips, his dark brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and his goatee was neatly trimmed. His eyes had the merry look of someone who enjoyed collecting freshly chewed animal bones.

  ‘Well, my good friends, it does seem like our trap has caught something today, hasn’t it?’ he said. He walked around, nudging the crates and bags that had been loaded onto the back of the truck. His companions were shorter and not as neatly dressed, with untrimmed beards and patched coats. They wore fingerless gloves and had long rifles slung over their backs. They laughed along with their leader but their humor was not as confident.

  The tall man squatted down near Carl and rubbed at his chin. ‘We heard the boom, of course, but we were engaged in other... in other business a while back, so we couldn’t get over here as quickly as we should have. Sorry about that.’

  Carl cleared his throat. ‘Well, you could make up for it by getting this damn truck off my legs.’

  Now all three of them laughed, and the tall man stood up and said, ‘I’m sorry, we can’t possibly do that. You see’—and he spread his arms out for emphasis—‘this happens to be our little playground, to do with as we please, and what we please to do is show no mercy. You understand? This is where we can do anything, anything we want, and nobody can stop us. My word, the stories I could tell.’

  He stepped back and drew his coat back, reaching for a revolver. ‘I hope you do understand, that I don’t have time for you or any of your stories.’

  Carl watched as the man raised the revolver. Carl said, ‘Sure, I understand,’ and he shot the man in the chest, pistol still hidden under his blanket. The man’s eyes bulged and his mouth opened in a wide O. Carl threw the tattered blanket away and tried for the two other men, who were racing up the embankment, slung rifles bouncing on their backs. He shot one more time, the pistol bucking in his hands, but he was tired and his aim was off and the other men got over the edge of the embankment and were gone.

  He looked back at the raider, who was on his back, arms splayed out, not moving. A breeze fluttered his coat flaps. Carl coughed and said, ‘That’s what you get for talking too much, you nitwit.’

  Carl looked around, the pistol in his hand, trying to see if the two other men had really left, or if they were coming back for revenge. Couldn’t hardly blame them. Looking again at the dead raider, he wondered who the real nitwit was. Shit. That hadn’t been too bright, not at all. He didn’t feel guilt for what he had just done—too many other feelings were fighting for attention, from a dry mouth to an empty stomach to a full bladder that was demanding release, to the worsening throbbing in his lower legs—but he did feel pretty stupid.

  ‘Idiot,’ he whispered, moving his head around and looking from side to side. Didn’t have to shoot him right off. Could have drawn him down, could have talked him out of what he was about to do, could have bribed him and his hairy companions to get the truck off of him for a big payoff. Wouldn’t have been hard to do. Wouldn’t have been hard to follow through. But no, he had to overreact, had to go for the pistol, right off the bat.

  Damn it, was that the curse of his people, to always reach for the weapon, whether it was a stick or a pistol or a nuclear-armed B-52 Stratofortress?

  He closed his eyes. Suddenly he felt faint.

  The sound of a shot and the wheee! of a ricochet near his head got his attention. He responded automatically, firing twice up at the embankment. There was laughter in response.

  ‘Hey, asshole!’ came a voice. ‘Start counting your breaths, ‘cause you ain’t got too many left!’

  He blinked his eyes, he blinked his eyes again, and still, everything was blurry. It felt like the damn earth under him was starting to rotate at a slow and heavy speed. Everything was moving off-kilter. Damn, was this it? He got off another shot and then another. There was a loud roaring noise and a long, rattling fusillade of shots erupted all around him, and he closed his eyes and willed his body to stop spinning.

  For a while, it seemed to work.

  ~ * ~

  There were voices in the darkness. Then came the sweet feeling of his legs being released and then a bouncing sensation. He blinked his eyes open and saw what looked like giant bugs staring down at him. They were dressed in green with large, bulbous heads. One of them extended a black claw at him and gently probed his mouth. He suckled at some water and blinked again. The scent was what brought him back, of old and worn canvas and aviation fuel and the sweat-smells of men who had worked and flew in this machine, this great green and wonderful helicopter.

  He closed his eyes again.

  ~ * ~

  He awoke in a bed, with clean and white and crisp sheets against his body. He coughed and wiped at his eyes, grainy with sleep and debris. He gingerly moved his legs, felt the sheets scratch against his skin. He slowly sat up and flipped the blanket and the sh
eets off. His lower legs were there. They were bruised black, blue, and green, and had bandages on them, but they were there. He swung them off the bed and stood up unsteadily. His stomach grumbled and he was thirsty and he wondered where in hell he was, but he looked down at his legs. They were still there.

  He was wearing his shorts, and he saw that the rest of his clothes were folded in a chair by the bed. The room was carpeted and good sized, with beige wallpaper and a framed print of some trees and a meadow. There was a bureau and a night-stand, and on the nightstand was a phone. He picked it up, but there was no dial tone. He tried the door. Locked. There was a window by the other wall, and another door. That door opened to a bathroom, complete with toilet and shower. He went over to the window. He couldn’t open it. He could see that he was on the first floor of whatever building he was in, and that it was sunny outside. The window overlooked a green lawn, bordered by white fences. It looked like a farmhouse somewhere, maybe in upstate New York, and there was a low roaring noise as he saw an Army helicopter swoop overhead and head out to the far woods, rising in altitude.