Resurrection Day

by Brendan DuBois

He fought against the crowd and ran toward the cloud of gas coming at them. Sandy struggled but he refused to let go, and then he held her in his arms and hugged her tight, and shut his eyes and said, ‘Now, now, hold your breath!’

  The acrid, choking smell swept over them and he heard a chorus of screams and gasping sounds. He buried his face in her coat and held her head tight against his shoulder, and then the cloud passed them by. He opened his eyes and blinked hard at the burning sensation. People were on the ground all around them, gasping for breath, and some were vomiting. Sirens were howling as police cruisers came up the street, followed by Army trucks filled with troops, all wearing gas masks and carrying M-1 rifles with fixed bayonets.

  ‘You okay?’ he said, coughing a few times.

  She coughed hard and choked and wiped her hand across her runny eyes. ‘You bastard! Why did we run right into it?’

  ‘Because you can’t outrun it,’ he said. ‘Best thing is to run right at it, because then it’ll go over you. You try to run away and it catches up to you and knocks you down, and you’re still in the cloud. You’ve got a handkerchief with you?’

  She coughed, nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Take it out and hold it against your nose and face. We’ve got to get moving.’

  Sandy fumbled in her purse, looked around at the people on the grass and sidewalk. ‘What about them?’

  ‘I’m concerned about you, Sandy. That’s all. Let’s go.’

  They moved along Tremont Street at a slow jog, and there was a loud banging noise behind them. Carl turned and saw a row of soldiers in riot gear and gas masks, marching in a ragged line, pounding their batons on their plastic shields. An ear-piercing squeal of amplified feedback echoed across the Common, and then a loud voice, more clear and measured than the previous voice, began to speak:

  ‘Attention, attention, attention. You are ordered to disperse. Under the National Martial Law Act of 1962, this is an illegal gathering. Attention, attention, attention. You are ordered to disperse . . .’

  And as the voice repeated itself, he held on to Sandy and moved to the west, heading away from the Common. He held her tight and listened to the man’s voice over the loudspeakers, the popping sounds of tear gas canisters, police sirens, screams and shouts, and the ever present rapping sound of batons against riot shields.

  ~ * ~

  They rested for a few minutes, along with hundreds of others, at the pond in the Public Garden, wiping their hands and faces clear of the tear gas smell. He still had his knapsack with him and pulled out two towels, one of which Sandy gratefully accepted. They dipped the towels in the cold water and washed their faces. All around them other protest marchers did the same, kneeling at the water’s edge, splashing their faces. Some huddled with their arms around each other, and Carl looked on as an old woman, maybe the age of his mother if she had lived, gingerly wiped the face of a man about her age wearing a World War II Army Air Corps uniform.

  He looked around with that same nervous sharpness that he had had while in active duty. There were enemies out there, enemies in his own nation’s uniform, and he had to get moving. Captain Rowland and his boys were dedicated members of the Zed Force, and if he and Sandy didn’t get a move on, and quick ...Well, it wouldn’t be pretty. Sirens still sounded in the distance and there was a gray haze of tear gas that eddied and moved with the breeze up on the Common. Some of the mounted police rode at a stately pace through the gas, their horses looking like some medieval horror in gas masks and cloaks.

  Sandy said, ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, looking around at the crying and sobbing people, some on their backs, still gasping for breath. ‘Great day to be an American.’

  She looked puzzled. ‘Sorry?’

  Carl sighed and stood up. ‘No, it’s me who should be sorry. A poor attempt at a joke.’ He looked back up at the Common as a line of soldiers and mounted Boston cops advanced, moving amid the stragglers and lone protesters. A couple of them tried to make a stand, throwing rocks at the advancing line of troops and police, but they were quickly overpowered up by two cops on horseback who rode them down. At least there were no shots fired. Carl doubted the foreign soldiers in a few days would be so generous.

  ‘Look, we can’t stay here,’ Carl said. ‘Chances are, everybody on this Common, press badge or not, is going to get arrested.’

  ‘Your apartment,’ she said. ‘It’s within walking distance, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is, but we shouldn’t go there,’ he said, ‘and we need to get moving, now.’

  She stood up and they headed away from the pond, toward Commonwealth Avenue. People from inside the apartment buildings and brownstones were standing outside in quiet little knots, watching the drama on the Common, some holding hands up to their faces.

  ‘What’s the matter,’ Sandy said.

  ‘I was being watched back there, by someone in the U.S. Army Special Forces,’ he said, walking quickly and holding her hand. ‘Someone who wants to see that I do a certain task.’

  ‘What task?’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘Something similar to your job, Miss Price, except I’m in the service of this country’s intelligence services. You see, they also want those secret documents.’

  ‘And you know where they are, don’t you? Can we get them?’

  He turned and looked at her. ‘Not so fast, Sandy. First, they have to be found. And second, we have to get off the streets or we’re going to be arrested.’

  ‘But where can we go? The consulate?’

  ‘Nope, we’ll be picked up before we get to the front gate. And getting a hotel room means using a credit card, which means an arrest within the hour. No, we have to go somewhere else.’

  ‘Where?’ she asked.

  He answered, enjoying the confused look on her face.

  ‘Sandy, how would you like to meet an honest-to-God veteran of the Cuban invasion?’

  ~ * ~

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  All through that afternoon, Two-Tone was a gracious gentleman and perfect host. Carl had taken Sandy to the hidey-hole entrance, and after hauling off the steel plate and shouting up the tunnel and getting a happy greeting back, he and Sandy had gotten on their hands and knees and started crawling. Two-Tone looked better and was able to move around his home, using a cane. He offered them both water in clean jelly glasses and Carl sat down on a salvaged couch, with Sandy next to him, her eyes wide in amazement, taking everything in.

  Carl said, ‘I know I promised that I wouldn’t tell anybody about your hidey-hole, Two-Tone, but this was an emergency.’

  ‘Well, well, that’s all right, Carl, that’s all right. Emergencies do pop up every now and then,’ Two-Tone said. ‘And what is your name again, miss? I’m afraid I was so pleased at seeing a woman in my home that I didn’t catch it.’

  ‘Sandra Price,’ she said, and Carl was pleased when she held her hand out. Two-Tone quickly shook it and he said, ‘England, right?’

  ‘Yes, London,’ she said. ‘I’m a reporter for the Times. And you can call me Sandy.’

  Two-Tone giggled and glanced over at Carl. ‘Can’t believe a woman of this class, a woman like this, is hanging with you, Carl.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  She gently poked Carl in the side and said, ‘Carl tells me that you were in the Cuban invasion. Is that right?’

  He scratched at his face. A Red Sox baseball cap covered his head. ‘True, true, but I really don’t want to talk about it right now, if you don’t mind, Sandy.’

  ‘No, I don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I can understand why you might be reluctant.’

  ‘Oh, hell, I ain’t reluctant,’ he said. ‘It’s just that Carl said something was an emergency, and I don’t want to dick around talkin’. Carl, what’s the emergency?’

  He looked over at Sandy and said, ‘There was a demonstration up at the Common a little while ago. Things get out of hand and I don’t think Sandy and I can go back to our homes. We’d probably be arrested befo
re the night is out. And I saw someone at the demonstration, a Captain Rowland, who didn’t look very happy to see me there. Does that name sound familiar?’

  Two-Tone nodded, rubbing a hand across his chin. ‘Full house. The bastard.’

  Sandy was confused. ‘What house?’

  ‘The Special Forces officer back at the Common,’ Carl said. ‘Two-Tone knew him a long time ago, and they had a run-in recently.’

  ‘If that bastard’s after you, then you do have troubles,’ Two-Tone said. ‘Why’s he chasin’ you, Carl?’

  ‘I’m not sure if he’d call it chasing,’ Carl said. ‘I think he just wants to know where I am and what I’m doing, and I don’t want that, not at all.’ He looked over at Sandy, at that face that still caused him to ache with affection and despair, and said, ‘We have things to do. Important things. And we want to be left alone.’

  Two-Tone clapped his hands together. ‘Well, I can sure as hell understand that. I’ve been trying to be left alone for about ten years now, and look where it’s gotten me. D’you want to stay here for a spell? It’d be tight quarters but I’m sure we could work something out.’

  Carl said, ‘I appreciate the offer, but we need to get moving. I was thinking maybe you could contact Skyman, perhaps he could take my car keys and—’

  The old vet shook his head briskly. ‘Won’t work, son. If you’re in this deep, they’ll have everything wired, from your apartment to your car. Poor old Skyman would be arrested, maybe even shot while trying to escape. No, I’ve got a better idea.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Sandy asked, balancing the water glass on her knee.

  ‘I can get a car,’ Two-Tone said. ‘Would that work?’

  Carl knew there was a shocked expression on his face. ‘You? You can get a car?’

  Two-Tone laughed again. ‘Carl, m’boy, haven’t you ever wondered why you don’t see that much of me during the winter?’

  ‘Occasionally...upstate Florida?’

  ‘Nah, too far south. Too many zoomies still down there. Nope. North Carolina. Nice climate, people friendly to a veteran like me, and warm enough so that my bones don’t ache. You see, there’s a few of us—including Skyman—who chipped in years ago and got ourselves a car. For survival sake, you know. We figure if things get tense again, like back in ‘62, we could drive up to Maine and survive. Here—’ Two-Tone poked a hand into his trousers and pulled out a thick clump of keys that jangled in his fist. He prodded one free and handed it over. ‘There ya go. I’ll tell you where it is in a couple of minutes, after I freshen up your drink. But one more thing.’

  Carl examined the key, saw that it belonged to a Volkswagen. ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘The car.’

  ‘What about it?’

  Two-Tone grinned. ‘Make sure you top off the tank before you bring it back. Don’t want to piss off Skyman and the others.’

  ~ * ~

  Two hours later they were in New Hampshire, parked in a state liquor store lot, just over the border into Nashua. The drive usually took just an hour, but this wasn’t a usual time. He had taken side streets to get out of Boston, and had stuck to secondary roads all the way north. There was too much depending on this little ride for them to be stopped at a checkpoint. Along the way they had caught the news on WBZ, one of the state’s largest AM stations. The fourth story, after a traffic update, mentioned a brief disturbance at the Boston Common. And that was it.

  Sandy had said, ‘Even though I’ve been here for almost a month, I still can’t get used to the censorship. How could they bury a story like that? Do they really think they’re fooling anyone?’

  ‘Probably not, but appearances must be kept,’ he had replied.

  Now he strode back to the fire engine red Volkswagen Beetle, after having spent the previous half hour on a pay phone outside of the liquor store. Sandy sat in the passenger’s seat, arms folded, looking grim. He opened the door and got in. ‘We got some luck, for a change. I started going through the Yellow Pages and found a couple of pet cemeteries, and got the right one on the third call. Merl Sawson purchased a plot some weeks ago at a place called Happy Farms. It’s in Hudson, next town over. I also got us a place to spend the night, right near there.’

  Three days. He just might make it.

  He turned the key to the Volkswagen a few times before the engine caught, and then drove out onto the highway, looking for the first exit. Sandy said, ‘I cannot believe that you brought us up here on this…this ridiculous idea that these documents might be buried with a dead dog. You still can’t be serious!’

  Carl tried to keep his voice level. ‘I know it sounds silly, but it’s the only idea I have. That house has been searched, time and time again. Everything about Merl Sawson’s life from that apartment has been sifted, studied, and collected. His landlord is dead and his upstairs neighbor is on the run. The Army and the Boston cops have been more thorough than anything I can do. The documents were once in his possession. Now they’re not. And that leaves me with a dog that’s not there and documents that aren’t there. It’s a long shot but it’s the only one I can think of.’

  ‘Hah,’ she said, arms still folded. ‘The idea that these top-secret documents, papers that men have died over, are hidden in a pet cemetery...’ She turned, eyes sharp. ‘You’re not going to dump me, are you? That’s not your plan, is it? Abandon me, and then find these papers by yourself?’

  He turned to her. ‘Pretty bold talk for someone working in this country as a spy.’

  The inside of the car was quiet, the only sound the incessant chugging noise of the engine. He took an exit and was soon on Route 111, heading east, passing farms and houses and a couple of stores. He had never particularly liked New Hampshire. It seemed a mean-spirited, money-grubbing Yankee state, in the truest sense of the word. They had no sales or income tax and made their money selling cheap booze and cigarettes, and the state was solidly Republican. They also continued to gloat over the fact that in 1960, even with a son of Massachusetts running for the presidency, the state had still gone for Nixon.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. You’ve been ... Carl, you’ve been wonderful. Though I do wonder why you’ve brought me along, considering everything.’

  He reached over and touched her hand. ‘I didn’t want to do this alone, and ...’

  ‘And what?’

  He stared ahead. ‘I guess when you’re in love, you do crazy things.’

  She said nothing, but leaned over and kissed his cheek.

  ~ * ~

  Most of the motels in the area were booked full with leaf-peepers heading out into the woods to see the fall foliage, and he was embarrassed at their lodgings. The place was called The Matador Inn and looked like a honeymoon motel for those honeymooners in the nearby mill towns of Lawrence and Lowell who couldn’t afford to go very far north. They were in a quaintly named cabin that was actually a poorly built shack. The walls were fake wood paneling that was pulling away from the mounting studs, and the bed was a lumpy mattress on a sagging spring set. There was a kitchenette in one corner and a bathroom in the other, and the only concession to luxury was an open brick fireplace set in the center of the one-room cabin. A black stovepipe came through the roof and was suspended over the circular pile of stones and rocks.

  Carl saw a small metal lever and pulled it toward himself. There was a popping sound and then a poof as the gas lit from a small pilot light. The blue-yellow flames leapt up and he looked over at Sandy, who was standing by the door, rubbing her hands together.

  ‘Cozy, ain’t it,’ Carl said.

  ‘You know, I keep promising to take you to the Savoy, and all you do is bring me to these dreadful places,’ she said, walking over to the gas fire. ‘I’m beginning to wonder whether I should retract my offer, after all you’ve put me through.’

  ‘Well, the day’s not over yet,’ he said, picking up his knapsack. ‘If you have to go to the loo, here’s your chance. I want to get out there soonest.’
/>
  She grabbed her coat. ‘I’m ready. Let’s go.’

  ~ * ~

  He had one scary moment, in a hardware store on Route 3 in Hudson, buying a shovel. There were only two singles left in his wallet after he had paid for a night at the motel and here he was, with a shovel costing $4.99. He had a humiliating thought of having to borrow money from Sandy, but reached into his other pocket and found a crumpled ten-dollar bill.

  When he got outside and put the shovel in the rear of the Volkswagen, he said, ‘Amazing, when you think of it.’

  ‘What’s amazing?’

  ‘That finding the answer to what in hell’s been going on with Merl Sawson’s death, that it would depend upon me having enough money for a shovel.’