by Ryan King
"The tanks won't be there to defend," said Clarence.
"Strike the MA?" asked Butch. "We don't even know if they have hostile intentions."
"And we probably won't until it's too late," answered Clarence. "I think what they have done to Joshua's patrol is provocation enough if you need one. Get those tanks up across the Mississippi, send out patrols to locate their force, and then strike them hard once and for all."
"How does that help Joshua?" asked Bethany.
"He's likely to be with the main enemy force if he's a prisoner," said Nathan. "They're probably too strong for some sort of rescue mission. I agree with Clarence. This might be our best bet to get Joshua and his men back."
"It also eliminates a potential threat," said Luke. "Nips it in the bud. We don't have the luxury of waiting until their intentions are clear."
"You think he can do it?" Butch asked Clarence.
Clarence nodded. "He can do it. As a matter of fact, I would put him in charge of the whole operation."
"But he's just a captain," said Butch.
Clarence shrugged. "If that's some sort of problem, then simply promote him."
"Who are we talking about here?" Bethany asked.
"Beau Myers," answered Nathan. "Our one and only tank commander. Not that he has much experience with tanks for all of that."
"He understands mobility," said Clarence. "More importantly, he has instinct. When the fire is all around, he stays calm and does the right thing. He's your man."
Butch sighed. "I'll think about it."
"I wouldn't think too long," said Clarence. "If the MA is massed and feels like Joshua's patrol has blown their element of surprise, they might compress their timeline and go ahead and attack. We don't even know what they have. Could have tanks of their own. Hell, they could have artillery or planes. You need those tanks up where they can be used."
"Okay, okay," said Butch, holding his palm out to Clarence. "I'll give the order as soon as we leave. Are you sure you don't want to come back and take your old job?"
"Quite sure," said Clarence. "Thank you very much, but I have my rabbits."
"I see," said Butch, looking down at the stew.
"Want some?" asked Clarence.
The two men sank down into chairs and shared a meal with the worried Taylors and their host.
Chapter 16 - Left for Dead
Joshua could no longer tell if he were alive or dead, awake or dreaming. He could remember snatches of reality. Sometimes he was back in the wooden box; other times the men were dragging him across the grass while they cursed at him. The strangest of times, he was back in Maryland late for school.
His head was on fire. He kept waking up thrashing and slapping his head to put it out only to encounter a thick layer of machine grease someone had slathered on to keep off the flies and try to prevent infection. Chills and delirium racked his body. The only way he could gauge the passage of time was whenever they took him out of the box for bathroom breaks, one in the morning and one at night. They shouldn't have bothered. Joshua had long lost the ability to control his bowels.
The sun rose and the sun set, but it had no real connection to reality. Food and water were slipped into his cage, but he couldn't have said whether he ate or drank. Twice a day, they dragged him out cursing and beating him all the way to the latrine slit trenches on the edge of the camp. Once there, they gave him a bucket of water and a few rags to clean up. Afterwards, he put on a newer set of threadbare dirty pants and buried the shit-covered pair he had been wearing for the past twelve hours. Those two releases each day, despite fever and delirium, were highlights of Joshua's day.
Once he woke to find himself laid out flat on the ground gazing up into the brightly lit night sky and a moon that looked so full that it appeared to be crashing into the earth. Sharp voices sounded nearby, but also seemed a thousand miles away. Joshua had turned to see a man with a stethoscope around his neck screaming at Conrad about something. Another man kneeling nearby held an IV bag with a tube connected to Joshua's arm. There was no way to tell if this really happened or was a dream. His arms were as devastated as his head; an IV puncture would be impossible to find in the hamburger that remained.
After what could have been a few days or a few thousand years, Joshua's fever broke and he could open his eyes. From the floor, he could look through the cracks. There seemed to be a great deal of activity. Men and women with downcast eyes carried loads or pushed wagons all under the watchful eyes of angry men. Joshua looked in vain for some of his soldiers. He prayed they lived.
He wanted to feel guilty for talking, but he was just too tired and in too much pain. There didn't seem to be any room in the essence of his being for anything else. Joshua sensed that his very spirit remained connected to his shattered body by only the thinnest thread of habit.
It was dark again and the bustle was gone. Joshua would have sworn that only a second ago it was noon and the nearby fields and paths were packed with people. Now it was still and quiet except for a few pitiful cries for help usually followed by a blow and a laugh.
Steps. Coming his way. His nighttime escape. Joshua saw that he hadn't shit himself, although his crotch was wet and smelly from urine. Still, maybe they wouldn't beat him so badly. He smiled at himself; he had done so well.
"Wake up, you piece of filth," said the voice of the One With the Stick.
"I hope he hasn't shit himself; that's so gross," said the One With the Whip.
"What do you expect from a dirty, smelly animal?" asked the first voice.
"I am not an animal," Joshua croaked out and then laughed at himself, remembering that famous line from the movie about the Elephant Man.
"Damn lunatic's lost his mind," said Whip.
"Let's just get him out," Stick lifted the latch and pulled open the door.
Even with night outside, Joshua was nearly overwhelmed by the extra light and smells and open space that rushed in upon him. The two men drew back from him with disgusted looks and hands over their noses. Joshua had a momentary urge to cower back in the furthest corner of his little cell, but he forced his breathing to slow and climb out slowly. This was one of the two highlights of his day, after all.
"Doesn't look like he shit himself," said Whip with relief.
"Come on." Stick indicated for Joshua to hold out his hands.
Joshua did, and Stick bound his hands loosely with a thin rope. He left a three-foot-long leader for him to drag Joshua along behind him.
"Okay, let's go, you dirty little monkey," said Stick.
Whip laughed. "That's it! He looks like a monkey from the zoo. Do they have bald-headed monkeys?"
"I think most monkeys are bald-headed," said Stick.
"You hear that?" Whip lightly flicked his whip across the back of Joshua's legs. "You're good. All the other monkeys have bald heads too."
Joshua smiled insanely and nodded. He now knew the route by heart. They first led him around behind the big house. There they had him fill up a large bucket of water that Joshua lugged to the latrines. Then, it was through the perimeter to the far edge of the tree line where the wide and deep latrine pits were dug. Even in the blackest of nights, he could vector in on the latrines simply from the smell. Joshua's biggest fear was falling into the deep dark hell of filth.
He realized that he was now lugging along with a bucket of water in both hands in front of him. When had they stopped to get water? Joshua wondered. Either I really am insane, or this is a dream. Joshua seized on the dream. The walk definitely had a dream-like quality about it. Maybe all of this was a terrible nightmare. He could wake at any moment and be safe and sound in his bedroom across from David.
"Hey, hold up there," came a voice from the rear.
They all turned to see two men walk up with rifles under their arms.
"What the hell are you doing here?" asked Stick.
"Conrad told us to come get you," said the second man
"Thank goodness," said Whip with relief. "Watching this
smelly monkey is the worst detail ever. I've been asking for days to get something else. He's all yours."
Stick didn't move. "I saw him earlier, and he didn't say anything to me then."
"What can I tell you?" the first man said. "He just told us to come get you both and watch the prisoner."
Joshua looked at the two men closely and noticed they both had bayonets on their rifles and felt a jab of fear. He then sighed with relief when he recognized the faces. This was definitely a dream.
"Hey, Henry. Hey, Aaron," Joshua said with a smile. "Glad you boys could join in my nightmare. Aaron, do you have the radio handy? I'd sure like to call home."
The four men froze and looked at each other tensely for a moment. Stick broke it by raising up his baton and running at Henry who pulled up the tip of his rifle to shove the bayonet up deep into the man's chest.
Whip just stood, looking with wide eyes. He dropped his whip, turned, and ran wildly away from them. He only got a dozen steps before they heard him crash with a loud splatter into the deep latrine.
"Now that's gross," cackled Joshua in the direction of Whip. He saw Aaron run over to the edge of the latrine pit and started stabbing down viciously. Joshua walked over and patted Henry on the shoulder with both of his bound hands while the other man stooped to bash Stick's head in with the butt of his rifle.
Henry looked up into Joshua crazy smiling face. Pulling out a knife, he cut the thin rope holding Joshua's wrists together. "Come on," he told Joshua. "Help me get his clothes off."
Joshua shook his head and laughed. He was about to tell Henry that wasn't a good idea, they'd get beaten for sure, but he saw Stick’s boots. Joshua's feet got so cold each night he thought he had frostbite. He squatted down and began unlacing the man's footgear.
Henry stripped Stick of his uniform and equipment and then took off Joshua's dirty rags. After a few tense moments filled with hushed cursing, Joshua stood in what passed for Missouri Alliance uniform.
"Here, put this on," said Henry, holding out a camouflaged baseball cap.
Joshua's smile vanished, and he put a protective hand to his raw head.
"Go ahead," said Henry soothingly. "It will help protect it, believe me. Go on now."
Cautiously, Joshua laid the cap down as lightly as he could and then tugged the edge down to keep it in place. He grimaced in pain as several sores and scabs broke open and bloody pus ran in thin trickles down the side of his face.
"Is he dead?" Henry asked Aaron pointing in the direction of the latrine.
"Yeah," said Aaron. "Not sure from drowning in shit or the stabbing. Couldn't tell you which would be worse."
"Come help me drag this one over there," he ordered.
Joshua watched the two men drag Stick over to the latrine in a haze. He was beginning to suspect this might not be a dream.
"Someone might get suspicious after a while when they see my empty cage," Joshua said.
The two men rolled Stick into the horrific muck and then prodded him with their bayonets until he sunk below the surface. Henry stood and turned to him. "I led some other poor near-dead chap over and put him in your cage. I doubt they look too closely until morning when it's time to get you out again. Best case scenario, we got till then to get some distance."
Aaron nodded and stepped carefully on the board that led over the latrine into the nearby wood line.
"Let's go," urged Aaron, waving Joshua forward.
Joshua looked back at the camp and then at his two soldiers and decided that this must certainly be a dream, after all. He smiled, deciding to enjoy it while it lasted, and followed Aaron across the board and into the dark woods beyond.
Chapter 17 - Investigation
Nathan hissed in frustration. He had been studying everything they had on President Campbell's guard and had found nothing helpful yet. He slid out surveillance pictures his team had taken of the guard. All of them included the president, because they were always together when in public.
There has to be a Tennessee connection, thought Nathan. The guard has to be somehow involved with the president and this whole WTR business.
Unfortunately, there just wasn't a whole lot to work with. Before N-Day, he could have pulled background, credit history, Internet activity, all within an hour. Now it was a wonder he could even positively identify someone.
"That's it!" said Nathan, suddenly slapping his head. The guard. Clovis Rambo of Farmington, graduate of Graves County High School, must not really be Clovis Rambo.
Nathan called out to Helen. "Hey, didn't you go to Graves County High School?"
"No," she answered. "I went to Lone Oak. My husband went to Graves."
"He got any old yearbooks?" Nathan asked.
A long pause. "Probably, why?"
"Just hoping to get lucky," answered Nathan. "Can you please bring them in tomorrow? Oh yeah, and ask him if he ever knew a Clovis Rambo."
"Sure," said Helen. "Rambo is a pretty common name in the north part of Graves County."
"Really," said Nathan and now that he thought about it, he could remember hearing that name a few times growing up.
Nathan smiled. His heartbeat picked up, and he could tell he was onto something. His instincts never failed him. The president's guard was an imposter. So who was he really?
"Excuse me!" said Helen loudly from the office area. "Can I help you?"
Nathan heard the tread of many footsteps and looked up to see Frank Simm, the previous head of the First State Police District and now the head of the JP Federal Police. Two other officers were behind him.
"Hey, Frank," said Nathan. "Glad to see you. You're always welcome. Just wasn't expecting you, that's all."
Frank's lips thinned until they almost disappeared and he shook his head. "I'm sorry as hell about this, Nathan."
"Sorry about what?" he asked.
Frank waved his men forward. "Go ahead," he told them.
Two men moved into Nathan's office. "Please stand," one said.
Nathan did. "What's this all about?"
They put his hands together and placed handcuffs on his wrists. One of them looked down and saw the surveillance photographs of the JP President. He turned meaningfully at Frank, his eyes darting to the desk.
Frank moved forward and picked up one of the pictures, holding it up in front of his face. He then gathered all the photographs together and shoved them into a random envelope on Nathan's desk. "Here, take this and log it," he told the man who took it from his commander.
"What is this all about?" asked Nathan.
"General Nathan Taylor," said Frank sternly, "I hereby place you under arrest for conspiracy against President Campbell and treason against the Jackson Purchase."
Nathan was speechless as they led him away.
Chapter 18 - The Scavenger
Jacob Daniels was just in time. If he had been delayed even a few more days, he wouldn't have gotten into the Jackson Purchase. Shortly after his arrival, the eastern border was closed to new immigrants. This was another sign to Jacob that God was on his side...if he needed any other signs.
Getting in had been surprisingly easy. The guards had asked for documentation, but he had explained it had been lost. They just shrugged and he continued on. When he gave the name Uriel, they wrote it into a ledger.
The first week he had been on trash detail, but then they had asked for volunteers to go back out west and scavenge for hard-to-find items. There had been few volunteers beyond Jacob. Now, he could come and go as he pleased.
Riding his bike to the collection point, he shifted the load on his back. Many had wondered why he carried his bedroll everywhere, but he had explained it away as never wanting to be without someplace warm to sleep. There were plenty of characters much stranger than Jacob around, so he didn't stand out.
He looked around nervously until he located Cujo. The big silver and black German shepherd was drinking from a large water trough flanked by two goats doing the same. Cujo split his time guarding the small children
and the herd of goats and sheep. Everyone loved the dog, and the dog seemed to adore everyone in return...except for Jacob.
He rolled up to Zeke, the collection manager who smiled at him and stopped.
"Get anything good, buddy?" he asked.
Jacob smiled in return as he pulled out an unopened package of four light bulbs.
"Holy shit," said Zeke, reaching out to take the bulbs carefully. "Where the hell you'd find these?"
"Abandoned house in Cadiz," Jacob answered. "It had been ransacked, but they missed some things." Jacob reached down to feel his special bag to make sure the two new eyes were secure.
Zeke shook his head. "I don't know how you do it. Everyone else comes back with a packet of ketchup or a worn-out tire or some old underwear. You always got good stuff."
Jacob smiled. "Just got a nose for it, I guess."
"Maybe this is your purpose in life," Zeke offered. "Better late than never, right?"
Jacob's smile vanished, and he scowled. "This is not my purpose in life."
Zeke stepped back a little. "Didn't mean nothing by it. Just saying you're good at this."
Forcing himself to relax, Jacob pulled out a half roll of electrical tape and a handful of fuses he'd pulled from the house's fuse box and from the truck out front. Zeke was about to exclaim again when Jacob put two boxes of macaroni, a box of rock salt, and a jar of salsa in front of him.
"Salsa?" Zeke said. "You've got to be kidding me!"
Jacob leaned over and whispered, "I knew you'd been asking about it. That's for you."
Zeke looked around nervously. "We could get in trouble, if..." He looked down at the jar cradled in his hands and licked his lips.
"Only if someone finds out," said Jacob. "I won't tell if you won't."
Zeke looked around again and then with a quick eager smile turned and stuffed the jar out of sight. He turned back with a look on his face similar to a kid on Christmas morning. "Thanks, man. That's really cool."
Jacob waved his hand at Zeke. "Say nothing of it. That's what friends do, right? Help each other out."
