by James O'Neal
Wilner handed her his access number written on the back of a UPF general report page.
“You won’t forget us?”
“Not a chance.”
She reached up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips.
Steve Besslia now understood the wild dogs’ fear. The smaller dogs had fled and he now faced what he thought was a pair of large Doberman pinchers with unclipped tails and ears, but they could have been some kind of Great Dane mix. They were gigantic. The darker one stood four feet high on all four legs. The lighter one behind him was taller. Neither looked underfed. But both looked hungry. Or, at least, threatening.
“All right, good dogs,” he crooned softly. He was up now, backed against a wall with his small pistol up. Compared to his duty weapon this felt like a toy.
One dog stepped to the left. Then the other moved to the right to make sure Besslia had no escape. Was that intentional? Were they really that smart?
As much as he didn’t want to, Besslia aimed at the darker dog. He had enough rounds to shoot one, then spray the whole room on the other side. He’d prefer to get out of this without having to kill one of the dogs, but he didn’t see a choice.
Then he noticed several of the small dogs had returned to the room and were now bunching up close to the large light dog. All of them turned their heads at the same time toward the exit.
Besslia let his eyes track to the door as well. He instantly knew he was in deep shit.
Three more of the big dogs had crowded around the doorway. Two had slipped in and moved to each side.
He eased to his right. Another thick door with the knob still intact was recessed into the wall a foot from his left hand. He eased up his empty hand and tried the knob. It turned but wouldn’t open.
If they all rushed him he’d have a hard time hitting each one with his backup pistol.
They were all growling and grunting. Another moved in toward the big light dog and that’s when Besslia realized what was happening. They were communicating. These feral dogs had developed a language.
FIFTEEN
Wilner sat inside the UPF commander’s office and briefed him on all aspects of the case except the old fingerprint. He couldn’t risk official interest in the other hominid species without risking his own children.
Wilner finished by saying, “I can’t get a hold of the other nurse to see what details she remembers. I’m going to go by the district hospital tomorrow.”
The commander shook his head. “If you really did scare him back into the Quarantine Zone then this is done.”
“What?”
“With the new arrivals I’m going to need everyone in the district. Hell, I won’t even address the fact that the Quarantine Zone is another country and you have no jurisdiction. Or that we have no way of helping you if something happened to you down there. No, Willie, I want you to stay in the district.”
“What if he kills more people in the zone?”
“That is not the concern of the UPF.”
“C’mon, boss, you know that’s not right.”
“No, but it’s what we have to do. I don’t think you know the importance of bringing in new residents.”
“Even if they don’t want to be here?”
“That’s why we have to keep things quiet. No one wants them to have an excuse to start screaming to go back to Ohio or Pennsylvania. We have to keep them happy and feeling safe.”
“So now politics is more important than saving lives?”
“Politics has always been more important. Why else would we have fought in all those distant lands?”
Wilner let out a sigh and looked down at the floor.
“I don’t think I ever saw a marine pout before.”
Wilner looked him in the eye but said nothing.
“Go home and see your kids. Get some rest. You’ll see things clearly in the morning.”
Wilner didn’t answer but knew this wasn’t over.
One of the big dogs grunted again and all the little ones charged Besslia. He twisted to one side and yanked the door handle at the same time. It was locked but he pulled the lock out of the frame and the door opened. He slipped inside the dark, windowless room and pulled the door shut amid the yelps and snarls of the approaching dogs.
The thick wooden door slammed solidly but there was no way to lock it. He held the handle with one hand and snatched his stun baton with a light built into it from his belt line. He found a length of twine right next to the door and fashioned a makeshift lock in a few seconds. Then he backed away, still dazed by the idea of dogs communicating with one another. Then he shined the light up and down the long, dusty room. He needed help and immediately reached for his V-com, then remembered he had locked it away in his saddlebag along with his duty pistol. Now he was trapped in a building, out of sight of any road with only nine shots from an ancient conventional pistol and big, mean, smart dogs had him cornered. This was a little embarrassing.
He took a deep breath and started to calm himself. He decided to make use of his time and started his search of the old evidence and archive room for the Pompano Beach police department.
Besslia rummaged through a few random boxes just to see what kind of stuff was in the room. In one sealed plastic container, he discovered a stack of newspaper front pages. He pulled them out and started to browse. They were in chronological order and he realized they told the story of the region and how it turned into this place since the early twenty-first century. He laid out a couple.
The first headline on the old, brittle paper announced President Clinton winning reelection in 1996. Besslia was just a baby. He had no recollection of Clinton other than in history books. The next headline was from September 12, 2001, detailing the first of the 9/11 attacks. It wasn’t that big compared to the later September 11 attacks but since it was the first one it took everyone by surprise. The next few headlines all covered subsequent attacks. Most, like the dirty bomb that closed down New York, occurred exactly on the eleventh day of September, but others occurred around the national Day of Remembrance. The feds attributed it to faulty planning. Besslia shook his head at the idea that an attack that kills people isn’t that well planned because a bomb went off a day early or a day late.
The final headline he found covered the ban on immigration and the new Miami Quarantine Zone. He figured that this old building was just about done by that time. People were either dying or fleeing Florida by then. The climate had slowly started to shift. Real estate had collapsed and government was about to downsize in a big way.
He slowly looked away from the newspaper clippings that didn’t apply to this case or his life in any way. He skipped past the crimes-property filing cabinets and finally found the death investigations. There were a dozen cabinets just on deaths in the city limits of Pompano Beach, when it was still a separate city.
The last three cabinets were marked “cold case.” He searched for the name Wilner had given him, Mary Harris. He blinked hard when he found a file in that name. He pulled it out and realized it was one of three thick files. The files were crammed with newspaper clippings that had faded, reports, lab analysis and handwritten notes. He pulled out the three files and started reading through them. Most of it was useless details, especially for the current date. The death of eighteen-year-old Mary had occurred almost fifty years ago. Besslia’s parents had not even gotten married yet.
After more than an hour of careful reading, Steve Besslia saw a sheet that might help Wilner in his investigation. He stuffed all the files into an old, nasty, nylon book bag sitting on the table. He hesitated, then grabbed a few of the old newspaper clippings.
He slung the pack and stepped back toward the door, then paused and listened to the low growls and grunts of one of the big dogs. He’d been off the air for more than seven hours. Someone had to notice he wasn’t around. They’d send help. Even if he didn’t really need it. He decided to rest a few minutes before trying to run the gauntlet of smart dogs.
Mari Saltis
sat in her open, sparse office and smiled as she thought about the detective who had ridden into the zone like a knight from one of the Camelot tales. She had always found an escape in books about brave knights or soldiers. She loved stories where the damsel in distress could also be counted on to do her share.
She also liked the company of decent men. They seemed to be in short supply south of the border. There were things that kept her in the zone; the girls at the school, her elderly neighbor, who depended on her for help, the lack of a military or need to fight foreign wars.
But there were trade-offs and one of them was missing the chance to meet a man like Tom Wilner.
Now she daydreamed of how her life would be different if she had met Wilner before the new border and ban on immigration. She knew by how he talked what kind of father he was. She wasn’t sure how he ended up raising two young children alone but hoped to learn more about him in the near future.
There was a knock on her door that shook her out of her pleasant thoughts.
“Yes,” she called out.
The door cracked open and an older, tall black woman poked her head in. “Miss Mari,” she started in a thick Jamaican accent. “There is a man who says he is interested in the handyman job we have open.”
Mari was back to all business. “That’s great, Lucille, send him in.”
The door opened wider and a small man with graying hair entered. His smile showed clean, healthy teeth. She couldn’t tell how old he was. He was so firm and fit he could have been anywhere from forty-five to seventy. It was hard now with poor nutrition and the wide range of diseases to judge anyone’s age.
She offered him a seat and said, “What’s your name?”
He continued to smile, his clear green eyes on her. “Leonard. Leonard Hall.”
SIXTEEN
Leonard Hall knew he needed to do something to release the building pressure and that’s what had led him to this noisy, smelly, obnoxious place.
The Chaos Pit employed his two new favorite dancers and was as good a place as any to celebrate his new job at the school for girls. He had come to the club shortly after agreeing to work at the school. The pretty head teacher, Mari, had no idea who he was or what he was really interested in finding out.
This job, like any in the zone, required no fingerprint and other tests to know who people really were and if they had been implicated in any unlawful activities. Leonard wasn’t certain but had surmised from news coverage of some of his earlier crimes that the police had a record of him; either from fingerprints or DNA. He didn’t want them to be able to put a name with the prints. He had always kept a very low profile. His whole family had not mixed with others around them. That was one of the reasons he had such problems dealing with people until he got out from under his father and moved in with his aunt.
Leonard had always thought that his father’s accent and status as a resident alien had kept him from interacting with the neighbors. Now he knew the truth. The secret his father didn’t want to get out. If they had lived in a place like the zone, no one would have noticed or cared. But in a place like Pompano Beach, when the state of Florida was still crowded, it would have been difficult to keep secrets.
Now, leaning on the old wooden bar of the gigantic strip club near the U.S. border, Leonard took a gulp of the locally brewed beer as a new song blared over the scratchy sound system. In front of him, the shapely, but diminutive Darla, climbed onto the small round stage with the help of several eager patrons. On the similar stage across from her, Lisa stepped onto the elevated platform, her long legs lifting her without assistance. She looked in his direction and gave him a little wave and she started swaying to the Latin beat of the music.
She dropped off her loose top to the cheers of the drunken men nearest her but all Leonard could see was that long, beautiful neck. He lost himself in her movement and the muscles that occasionally twisted and flexed in her neck. He lost himself so completely that it wasn’t until he felt a tug on his arm and looked down he realized that several minutes had passed and Lisa was finishing her dance.
In front of him was Darla, still topless and ignoring the men nearby offering cash for her dance.
“Hey,” the small dancer barked. “You never even looked up at me.”
“Yes, I did.”
“No, you didn’t. You stared at Lisa the whole song. Have you lost interest in me already?”
“No, no, it’s not that.”
“What is it then? I think because I let you sleep with me you’re ready to move on.”
“Let me? You charged me a hundred zone credits to sleep with you.” Leonard looked up and saw Lisa strolling toward them, accepting cash from each man she passed.
She eased to a stop and slipped her top over her head and shoulders. “Hey, Lenny, what’s happening?”
Darla cut in. “I’ll tell you what’s happening. This guy thinks he can treat us like old trash and dump us anytime he wants.”
Leonard felt the uncomfortable stares of other patrons. This was not keeping a low profile. He started thinking how to end this quickly.
Lisa remained quiet but turned her full attention to Leonard, waiting for a response.
He looked from one girl to the other. “What if I said I had three hundred zone credits to work everything out?”
He liked the smiles he got.
Tom Wilner lay in his bed, watching the video projection of an old movie on his ceiling. He felt relaxed with each of his children on either side of him. Emma snored soundly with an arm draped over his chest and Tommy was crammed into the nook under his shoulder. Their standard positions. They had both been asleep more than an hour but Wilner had no plans to move them. These were the moments he lived for. These were the moments he never thought he’d see as a combat marine in Iran. Those long days and nights of constant vigilance had taught him nothing is forever. He saw the results of violence against children and families as well as brutality between combatants. He had even seen a penal unit that had revolted and killed the three, noncriminally charged officers.
Now, in a comfortable home, with healthy kids, he felt like he had conquered the world. But even as he watched the old movie about a postapocalyptic Australia, his mind went over the facts he had in his case. He was upset that his boss wouldn’t allow him back into the zone but he had to admit the commander had a point. The transplanting of people to Florida was vital to the continued viability of the state. There were already a number of places that had been retaken by the wilderness. The west coast of Florida south of Sarasota was one gigantic forest and swamp again. Old, crumbling houses lurked beneath the thick foliage but no one lived there. At least no one who paid taxes or was recognized by the government.
His mind also lingered on Mari Saltis. Her dark hair and eyes, beautiful face and gentle nature, had taken root inside Wilner. The fact that she didn’t freak out under the pressure of the gunfight at the old city hall made her that much more attractive to him. In his head he worked on ways to get back into the zone to see her.
On the table next to his bed his V-com beeped. He reached across Emma, knocking her off his side but still not waking her up. He pressed the receive button and immediately recognized a dispatcher from the UPF headquarters. She was in her uniform shirt, her light brown hair hanging to one side of her face.
“Sorry if I woke you, Tom, but we got a problem.”
“What’s that?”
“We haven’t heard from Steve Besslia since early this afternoon.”
“Where’d the GPS put him?”
“That’s just it, with the cloud cover and interference our last fix on him was on Interstate 95 in the district about seven miles south of the Northern Enclave.”
Wilner considered the location. There wasn’t much in that area. Not even people. “What was his last transmission?”
“That he was back on the road after stopping at headquarters. Then we had him north on the interstate. About six, Sergeant Chapman asked about his status. We started checkin
g, couldn’t raise him, sent out patrolmen to search and now we’re worried. Really worried.”
Wilner sat up and said, “Let me get a babysitter and I’ll help.” As he got dressed, he considered the location the dispatcher had given then checked his map pinned up in his garage. It was an area known as “old Pompano.” He remembered someone saying something about Pompano Beach recently. Then he froze. The lab tech said the fingerprint of his killer came from an old Pompano Beach case file. He thought he knew where his friend might have gone and why.
Leonard Hall lay awake in the dead, dark silence of the Miami Quarantine Zone. Without streetlights or any serious traffic, life got very quiet after dark. Now, near two in the morning, nothing moved and no sound was made except the rhythmic breathing of the two naked women on each side of him.
They had jumped at the chance to bring him back to their house for three hundred zone credits. He had spent the evening having fun but there was another reason he had stayed. Lisa’s lovely neck haunted him. He rolled onto his side to stare at the curves in the soft moonlight that trickled between the clouds. It was just enough for him to fantasize about her neck and what he could do with it.
He sat up carefully and scooted off the end of the bed. Neither woman stirred. He had worn them out properly. Finding his pants in the darkness without making a sound was a challenge. The combat knife was stuffed in the cargo pocket of his favorite khakis. He pulled it out and opened the combat spike. It looked like his old barbeque skewer with an even finish. Six inches of solid death.
A smile crept across his face as he carefully considered who had seen him leave the bar with the women. No one should have because he picked them up a block away; closer to where he had parked.
He was free to act as he saw fit. He knew the closest neighbor was an older woman who was nursing a silent burn victim she had pulled from the Zone River. Even if one of them woke up it wouldn’t be a problem.
