by Brian Hart
Printz switches the safety on his weapon from on to off while he studies the man’s face. “Tomatoes are delicate,” he says. “They don’t travel well, there’d always be spoilage, even on that short little drive we made to Glendale, but it all went into the vats, all of it, whatever was in the trucks went into the cans. And you know what? Nobody could taste the difference. You get me?” He leans closer, lowers his voice. “You’re acting like what’s happening out here is murder but it’s not. It’s a campaign. It stops being murder when it’s war.”
“So why don’t you kick my ass or kill me and take my dog?”
Printz gives the man a warm, Christian smile. “Besides the fact that Sampson says that dog won’t be worth a damn without you working it?”
“Besides that.”
“Not much else, honestly. But I’ll give you something. How about because you want to live. You’ve got a reason beyond survival. Am I wrong?”
The man looks away from Printz to the dog but he’s thinking of his girls.
“It means you’ve got character,” Printz says. “That you’re honor-bound, and that’s what it is to be American, isn’t it? That’s the bedrock. And for damn sure it’s what the new version of America will be built on. I guarantee you that. We’re taking it back, once and for all.” In Printz’s eyes he can see the true crazy, the fanatic, the kill-first believer.
“How’d you get so wrong?” the man asks.
Printz shakes his head but the mannequin smile stays. “America wasn’t built by people like your friend Sol. People who live scared, cowards that don’t know how to pull the trigger and move on. Wasting his time to save that bear when it’s already dead. I keep thinking about that. It’s a fatal flaw. That kind of thinking will get us all killed.”
The man maintains his focus on his dog and shakes his head. “I’m going back to the trucks. I’ll load my bike,” the man says. He donkey whistles for the dog.
“That’s the spirit,” Printz calls after him.
Behind a boulder, he empties his bowels. Keeps the dog out of it. Doesn’t feel better after. At the trucks he breaks down his rig and hefts it into the back of one of the troop carriers. The others are up now and, one after the next, they stow their gear and wander down to the trucks, pack the solar, and climb in.
The man and the dog are in the back of the second vehicle with Latham and the gear totes. Printz and everybody else rides in the cab because of the chill. Latham waits until they are under way before he says anything. The man has the dog pulled on top of him for warmth.
“You’ve got cancer,” Latham says over the wind. He points to the man’s sunburned ear and a scab that has been there for what seems like months.
The man touches his ear, considers if he should tell Latham how sick he’s been feeling, if it may be related to the cancer, or the ticks, or the bear meat.
“It’s just a guess,” Latham says. “I’m not a real doctor but I play one in the Preservation.” Latham smiles. He’s in his twenties but already bald. He has a beard like everybody else and military/heavy metal tattoos on both arms.
“Printz is a Nazi twerp,” the man says.
The smile drains from Latham’s face. “Nobody’s perfect.” He gives his ear a tug. “I could cut it off,” he says. “Might keep it from spreading, if it hasn’t already.” The smile returns to Latham’s face. He points at the horizon, the broiling sun. “All day hot is what that is.”
They leave the pavement and soon after stop at a locked gate. Printz gets out and kneels down with lock-picking tools and in under a minute he has the gate open and waves the trucks through.
The road climbs steeply and traverses the hillside in an endless series of switchbacks. Near the top they come to another gate and the trucks are shut down. The road continues beyond the gate and there’re fresh tire tracks in the dust. The militiamen pile out and suit up. The man refills his water bottle and feeds and waters the dog. His empty-handedness is obvious. He might as well be naked.
“Does he go armed or no?” Sampson says to Printz.
“I’m not giving him a weapon,” Printz says. “And neither is anybody else.” He makes eye contact with his crew until he gets their separate acknowledgments, then points up the hill through the burn. They head out. The ash is skinned with a hard crust that crushes and breathes dust with each step. Farther up it’s baby-head-sized rocks buried in the ash that roll ankles and trip up the serious men and make them look foolish. The dog cuts for scent and they follow the dog. Then it’s the usual mess of deadfall and the high stepping and crawling that comes with it. The man throws up. The dog tries to eat it but gets shoved back. Printz doesn’t push it. They all take a break.
“We’re splitting up at the ridge,” Printz says to the men. “The dog and our friend here will go first. We’ll keep an eye on them and see what comes out.”
“Don’t send the dog,” Sampson says.
“I thought you said you couldn’t use it unless it was trained in Dutch.”
“I could learn a few Czech commands and I know the hand signals. Just send him.”
“You can’t have my dog,” the man says.
“He doesn’t want you to have his dog,” Printz says.
“Judas goat,” the man says.
“You’re learning,” Printz says. Their faces and bare arms are coated with ash. A breeze blows and one of the standing dead nearby cracks six feet up the trunk and falls down in a cloud of ash. After that it’s quiet but they move from under the trees anyway.
At the ridge the dog finds a patch of shade and lies down. The man drinks then waters the dog and gives him a scratch. While he’s on his knees his stomach churns and cramps but he manages to keep the water down.
Far below them in the opposite valley is a copperhead of a dirt road. Through the trees the too-dark shade of a PV panel, a fence line, roof edge.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Printz says.
“Who’s down there?”
“Doesn’t make a difference to you, does it?”
There isn’t any movement below but judging by the recent tire tracks on the road, someone is there.
“They’ll see you first and being unarmed with the dog,” Printz says, “they’ll want to say hi before they fire on you.”
“You don’t know that,” the man says.
“You’re right. I don’t.” Printz grins at his comrades. “But if we start shooting, I’d suggest getting low.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Then we’ll have a beer and laugh about it.”
The man finishes his water and folds the bladder in half and slips it into his belt in the back of his pants. He keeps the dog in a focused heel as he moves downhill. Dust swirls and drives him to a coughing fit that hurts his ribs. Being quiet doesn’t matter, moving slowly either. He wants to be seen as soon as possible. He doesn’t want to surprise anyone.
The dog sees movement, and following his eyes the man finds him, just a haze from the dust, a shadow in the trees. They step slowly and come upon boot prints. The dog is looking the other way now. The man sees two of them, downhill and to the left. Thirty yards.
“I’m unarmed,” he says.
No answer. The man stops the dog with a glance and they wait. He can see the house now and three vehicles, no markings or flags.
“One hand on your dog,” a voice in the trees says. “The other held high.”
He does as he’s told.
“You take your hand off your dog, I shoot.”
“OK.”
“You lower your hand, I shoot.”
“OK.”
“Come to my voice.”
The man moves to his left, scanning for the speaker, but he never sees him. A moment later two men emerge from the deadfall, ten yards away and slightly uphill. They’re militia, white and clean cut, but he can’t see any insignia.
“Don’t fucking move.” They have their barrels up and trained on him and the dog. “Who’s with you?”
“I�
��m alone.”
“You’re a fucking liar.”
“STT?”
He hesitates.
The closest man yells at him: “Yes or no. Goddamn answer the question.”
But he doesn’t know how to answer. He says no at the same moment that the shooting starts. He pulls the dog toward him and tumbles to the ground behind a downed tree. In seconds three of the four are down. A moment later, the fourth is hit low and folds at the waist as he’s hit several more times in the back and rolls down the hill. The man gets to his feet and shoves the dog toward the trees and runs after him. The kicked-up ash cloud has visibility down to twenty yards or less. They continue downhill because it’s faster but the house is down there so the man works his way into a climbing traverse. He can’t keep pace. He calls the dog back and they walk slow and steady. Gunfire swells and tapers off like something blowing in the wind.
The dog sees him first, a man coming from the valley, hurrying uphill. They duck into the trees. He’s trying to flank the action and gain the high ground, same as them. He stops before crossing their tracks, close enough to hear his breathing, raises his weapon and scans the trees. As he turns his back, the command is given and the dog covers the ground in a blink and hits the militiaman high as he turns. They tumble into the dust and disappear in a cloud. Two shots and screaming, a steady working snarl from the dog. The man leaves the trees and enters the skirmish ground and finds the dog and the man farther downhill than he expected. He snatches a rifle from the ground. The dust has mixed with the blood on the militiaman’s hands and formed a paste. His eyes are open and filled with panic as he tries to push the dog away. But the dog is locked into an almost robotic shake-and-hold pattern, shake and hold. The man calls the dog back, keeps the rifle trained on the bleeding man’s center mass.
“Toss your pistol,” the man says, shakes the rifle to make his point. “I mean it. Toss it now.”
As blood spills down the militiaman’s shirt from his neck, he searches his empty holster for his pistol, shakes his head. Then he sees the blood on his shirt and hands and claws at his throat to feel out the damage. He’s in his twenties—scrawny arms, small hands, an incipient beer belly.
“Apply pressure,” the man says. “You got a med kit?”
The militiaman fumbles in his cargo pants until he comes up with a stop-clot compress and tears it open with his teeth. He’s crying when he slaps it onto the dark punctures pumping blood on his neck. He has defensive wounds on his arms and hands. Pale and soon to pass out, but he’ll live. The man scans the ground for the pistol but it’s lost in the dust. He lays the rifle down on the toe of his left shoe to check the dog for injuries, picks a bit of what appears to be skin from his teeth. The blood on his muzzle is already tacky. He gives the dog a good-boy and a one-armed hug. He’s reaching for the rifle and looks up to find the militiaman has his pant leg raised, an empty ankle holster, and a .380 or whatever it is in his left hand, the right still holding the compress, and he’s firing like he’s joking almost, not aiming, hitting sky then dust and dust again but far uphill.
The man trips and falls over backward as he’s getting out of the way and somehow finds his feet and then he’s running, the dog five yards to his left. Gunshots behind them but nothing hits. He had a rifle for about a second, held it in his hands. He looks back once and can’t see anything but dust and the treetops. He keeps moving and the dog is with him.
From the ridge he can clearly see the house and surrounding property. The shooting continues below him but it’s intermittent and tappy as hailstones. He’s maybe a quarter mile from where they first crossed the ridge, less than two miles from the second gate and his bike and the redwood box. Glancing back, one of the vehicles parked at the house is on fire and men move like fleas, building to building, working their peashooters, tap tap. The man spits into the dust and lopes downhill.
[34]
R<45
CA 96118
April Simmonds arrived in an unmarked van. Aaron wasn’t with her. The man that was driving was out of uniform but he had a badge around his neck and a pistol on his belt. Roy tried to make light and joke about the cops dropping April off but neither April nor her escort smiled.
“Where’s Aaron?” Roy asked.
Karen walked by him with her hand over her mouth. “I just saw my phone,” she said. “I’m sorry. I had it turned off.” She hugged April and April leaned limply against her.
“He’s gone. They shot him.”
Wiley and Sarah were on the porch playing with a runty piglet they’d been keeping on a leash like a dog. Wiley tied the pig to the rail and took her little sister’s hand. They timidly descended the stairs, shocked to see their mother crying. They went to her and were pulled into a hug. April picked Sarah up and nuzzled her tear-soaked face into the child’s neck.
The driver of the van approached Roy, introduced himself as Sang-Chul, call me Sang. Roy had never met him but he’d heard some things. Ex-Ranger, combat vet, service dog handler, currently the lead dog trainer with the Sacramento PD.
Sang opened the back of the van and unloaded two dogs from their separate crates. A German shepherd named Gem was first out. Roy knew her as Aaron’s K-9, but before that she’d done three tours in Iraq with Sang. Wiley called her over and gave her a hug. The other dog, a Malinois puppy with a golden body and a black face, flung itself out of the van and charged around the yard and ended up knocking Sarah down. Roy picked her up and brushed her off while Sang corralled the puppy. Sarah’s pants were ripped and her hair was ratty in the back. Since she’d learned to walk they were lucky to keep clothes on her at all.
Karen and April were climbing the porch stairs. Wiley kept an eye on her mom and April while she put Gem through the commands she’d learned on their last visit. Sarah rested her head against Roy’s shoulder. It was time for her nap but Roy didn’t want to bother Karen and April. Sang shut the doors on the van. He made the puppy sit and put a leash on it. He had a clicker in his hand and used it to reward the dog.
“You didn’t know we were coming?” Sang said.
“With the Jeffs running things, cell service is spotty at best anymore. Did you have trouble with the roadblocks?”
“Not really. They stopped us but didn’t hold us up. I don’t get why they stop people at all. What are they even looking for?”
“Security,” Roy said. “They want to establish the illusion of control. Like all of us.” He craned his neck to see if Sarah was asleep yet, she wasn’t. “We’ll talk in a bit,” he said to Sang. “I don’t want the kids to hear.”
“Got it. April wanted to come here to see them, your girls. The reporters were at her house.”
“Wiley,” Roy said. “I want you to put that pig away before you play with Gem anymore.”
Wiley had Gem sit and stay and unhooked the pig from the baluster and walked it back to the pen.
“Let’s go to the barn,” Roy said to Sang. “This one will fall asleep in a minute.”
“I won’t,” Sarah said.
“It’s OK, sweetheart.” Wiley came back swinging the pig’s leash like a trick roper. “We’ll be in the barn,” Roy called to her.
“OK.” Wiley approached Gem, stopped ten yards away, called her and then had her stop and lie down and crawl to her.
“She’s got the gift,” Sang said. He let the puppy off its leash. “Get this one to do that and you can keep him,” he said to Wiley. The puppy jumped on Gem’s back and ran off before the older dog could catch him.
“Seriously?” Wiley said.
“Not seriously,” Roy said. “What are you doing?” he said to Sang.
“You’ll have to talk to April. I probably should’ve kept my mouth shut.”
Aaron’s motorcycle business in Loyalton had failed long before Roy had returned, but he’d still had his shop and a half-dozen bikes. Before Sarah was born Roy had spent a lot of afternoons and evenings at Aaron’s tinkering with bikes and drinking beer and listening to NPR. Aaron had a j
ob installing cabinets, but he was usually home by three. He’d taken Roy hunting and was there when he shot his first deer. He was Roy’s only friend, really, outside of the random skateboarder that stopped by every now and again to skate.
A job opened up in the Sacramento PD and Aaron went for it. They were understaffed and willing to overlook his history of alcohol abuse as long as he went through an expedited version of their basic training program and submitted to random UAs. April enrolled in night classes and finally finished school and had just recently opened her own veterinary practice.
Sarah fell asleep on Roy’s shoulder while he and Sang were looking at Roy’s bikes, handing motorcycle parts back and forth. Wiley came in with Gem and the puppy, and soon had them up the ladder running around the skate bowl chasing a tennis ball.
“Who did it?” Roy asked Sang.
“We don’t know. Aaron was in his car. The shooter approached from behind. He never saw it coming.”
“What the fuck? What’s going on down there?”
“It’s not good, man. None of it’s any good. You got militias, we got the rest. It’s chaos.”
“Do you have kids?”
“No.”
“Hell of a world for kids right now.”
“Yeah.”
With Sarah still sleeping on his shoulder, Roy climbed the ladder to the ramp so he could watch Wiley and the dogs. Sang followed him up. Wiley was out of breath when she climbed out of the bowl, said, “Watch this,” and grabbed her board. She dropped in and had the dogs chase her around and around until they gave up and settled in the bottom of the bowl. They kept their eyes on Wiley, tracked her as she worked a speedline high on the walls, as if they were watching a bird.
