Collective Retribution

by Edwards, D. S.

  They led the horses back to the Ferrells. Debbie cleared her throat. “We probably need to get going,” she said. “It’s almost dark. I don’t know how long we have until the other men miss their companions. I think we need to move the bodies. It’ll make it hard for them to find out what happened. If we’re lucky, they’ll assume they deserted and won’t come looking for them.”

  The three adults dragged the bodies into the road and wrapped them in the wire the men had been using to set a booby trap. They laid the bodies on top of their flat bicycles, tied rope to their saddle horns, and attached them to the tangled mass of bicycles and bodies. Then they dragged the bodies two miles down the road. It was grueling work. Finally, they rolled the bodies into the ditch beside the road, threw the bicycles on top of them, and covered everything with dirt and brush.

  Stephanie helped Travis into his saddle and then mounted her own horse. Jake climbed up behind his mother and wrapped his arms around her waist. They turned the horses northwest and trotted across the New Mexico desert. They rode through the night and partway through the next morning, wondering what new horrors lay ahead.

  31

  JOHN DAY

  7 P.M., FRIDAY, MAY 22

  THE DAY LEVI NIRSCHELL CAME TO TOWN, CLARK GAWSLOAVE had returned home from the fairgrounds in a foul mood. For days he hadn’t left his house. The anger had grown and festered in him. He hated all of them.

  For years he’d dreamed of the perfect society. He had watched greedy and hateful men control the country his whole life. The day President Hartley was elected was one of the happiest moments in his adult life. The attacks were truly tragic. The loss of life alone was heartbreaking. But in the grand scheme of things, it might have been the greatest gift they could have received. Not only would Mother Earth have a chance to recover from the impact of such a large human population, but the global citizens now had the unique opportunity to erase two hundred fifty years of capitalistic greed, wipe out poverty, end wars, and live without the threat of guns and other dangerous weapons in every home.

  This man, Levi Nirschell, now threatened the dream. In one stroke, he would reverse everything that had begun. Clark could not let this happen. He had to do something. He was possibly the only man in America who could stop this.

  Clark smiled as a revelation hit him He knew what he must do. Nirschell and his army of ignorant rednecks would soon be marching to Boise. He would have to go there himself. He would have to warn the U.C. troops. Clark smiled again, and imagined himself as Che Guevara. A hero to everyone. His task, he knew, was no less important than the Cuban revolution led by Che.

  He loaded a pack with food and water, then went to his garage and gathered extra bicycle tubes, his patch kit, and his hand air pump. Clark packed a couple of extra coats, some matches, and a small pocket knife.

  At 10 that evening he was out the door. He would avoid the main roads and travel at night, at least until he got far enough out of the county to not be recognized by any locals. He cycled through the night and stopped for the day on top of Dixie Summit. He made a small breakfast out of some granola and dried fruit. Hunger satisfied, Clark took a nap and waited for dark.

  By sunrise on the third day he’d made it to the eastern Oregon town of Vale. The streets were empty, and there was no sign of anyone living in any of the homes. He continued on toward Ontario, near the border of Idaho and fifty-some miles from Boise. Just outside the town, there was more activity around the farms. The houses seemed occupied. Several fields had people working in them.

  Clark pulled up to one of the farms and approached a teenage girl hanging laundry on a clothesline. “Hello,” he said. “My name is Clark. I just rode here from John Day and I’m out of water. Might I trouble you for enough to refill my water bottle? I’m heading to Boise and …” Clark stopped speaking when he noticed the girl had turned as white as the T-shirt she’d been hanging on the line.

  “Why would you do that?” she said. “What I mean is…Boise is…that’s where they are.”

  The girl looked around to make sure no one else had been listening. “If I were you, I’d go back to John Day while you can.”

  “Who are they?” Clark asked

  “The soldiers. They’re in Boise. Some of them come through here every few days to check on us and collect what we’ve harvested.”

  Clark could hardly contain his excitement. “Do you think they might come here today?”

  The girl scrunched up her face and looked at Clark like he was insane. “They might. They were here three days ago and dropped off a load of seed. My dad and brothers”—she pointed towards the workers in the field—“are planting it. Why do you want to see the soldiers? If they find out you’re roaming around freely and you haven’t been assigned a job yet, they’ll stick you with sewage detail in Boise. I’ve heard rumors that anyone who doesn’t have a trade is stuck on sewage detail.”

  “I have vital information for them,” Clark said. “They’ll want to hear what I have to say.” He pushed out his chest. “My report for them is rather urgent, so if I could get that water, I’ll be on my way to Boise.”

  The girl couldn’t mask her disbelief. She pointed to an old-fashioned well and didn’t say another word. Clark dipped the bucket in the well, filled his bottles, and pedaled off.

  Clark passed through Ontario and onto I-84 toward Boise. He’d ridden several miles when he saw a truck moving toward him in the opposite lane. He pulled his bike over, walked to the side of the freeway, and flagged down the truck. Two men got out of the truck, weapons drawn. Clark waved at them, smiled, and again spoke in his most statesman-like voice.

  “Hello, my name is Clark. I wish to speak to your superior officer.”

  The soldiers continued to advance, not lowering their weapons. When they got closer, Clark spoke again. “I have urgent news of an impending attack on your forces.”

  One of the soldiers started yelling at Clark in Russian or German. Clark didn’t understand, and shrugged. The soldier walked up to him and thrust the butt of his rifle into Clark’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. The other soldier grabbed him by the hair and shouted in his face. Spittle flew from the man’s mouth, spraying Clark’s face. His breath smelled terrible, and Clark nearly vomited. The first soldier secured Clark’s hands behind his back with a pair of plastic handcuffs.

  “I’m here to help you,” Clark said. “I’m on your side.” He struggled against his restraints. “I am trying to save th—”

  The soldier who’d spit in his face brought the butt of his rifle down hard on the back of Clark’s head. Everything went black.

  Clark woke with a splitting headache. For a moment he didn’t remember anything. Then, as if waking from ten years of amnesia, everything came flooding back to him. The soldiers on the freeway—why hadn’t they taken him to their superior officer? He should have been given the royal treatment. He was on their side. Now he was chained to a bed, in a windowless room.

  “Hello? I need to talk to someone in charge! Hello somebody? Hello!” Clark shouted until he was hoarse, and still no one came. Forty-five minutes later, a soldier came in with water and a flavorless stew made with potatoes and a green, gooey slop.

  The soldier spoke in broken English. “Now eat. You.” He spit in the food, stirred it, and smiled down at him with evil in his eyes.

  “I need to speak with someone who speaks English,” Clark said. “I have important infor—”

  The soldier didn’t wait for him to finish. He turned and walked out the door, slamming it behind him. Clark yelled again for several minutes. His frustration grew. He began to grow fearful. Why hadn’t they listened to him? These men came from enlightened, peaceful societies. Didn’t they understand he wanted to join them, to help them? Clark’s fear grew with every hour of isolation. By the time a new soldier came in, Clark was curled up on the bed in the fetal position, sobbing.

  The soldier spoke to Clark in English while he released his restraints. He pulled up a chair next to
the bed, sat down, and folded his arms across his chest. “My name is Corporal Stratton,” he said. “I am an interpreter. I have a few questions I need to ask you. First of all, what were you doing today on the interstate?”

  “I was on my way to Boise, to talk to the soldiers there. I have important information for them.”

  The soldier held up his hands and leaned back in his chair. “Congratulations, you have made it to Boise. My question is, why would you walk into captivity when you were free outside the city?”

  “When I deliver my report, I will be an honored guest here.”

  The soldier rolled his eyes. “Deliver away then, my important little friend.”

  “There is a group from John Day, Oregon, on their way here right now to try and destroy what you are building. They will be here in about nine days. I know how many of them are coming, what they’re bringing, and where they’re meeting before they get here.” Clark folded his arms and smiled, waiting for the hero worship that was surely now coming.

  Corporal Stratton stood, refastened Clark’s handcuffs, turned, and walked out the door.

  Clark screamed with a combination of frustration and fear. Why hadn’t he been released? Why wasn’t he dining with a general right now, sipping brandy, smoking the finest cigar, and extolling the virtues of European society? The soldier had just walked out and treated him like a common man.

  Corporal Stratton stood in the hallway outside of Clark Gawsloave’s room and breathed deeply. What should he do with this man? If another interpreter gained access to him, he would blow everything. Stratton had been informed of the upcoming attack by one of his comrades earlier that day. He had to tuck this man somewhere safe until the attack happened. Once Stratton gave his report and his translation of the interview, this guy would be given an assignment and turned loose on the streets of Boise. He could ruin all the work that Stratton and others had invested in building their resistance network. He would certainly jeopardize the upcoming attack.

  Stratton walked into a small office at the other end of the hallway. In his best German, he gave a brief report to his commander: “He came in from Portland. He had been traveling cross country. He did not know anything important. He was just trying to find a place that had some food.”

  The general started speaking, but Stratton wasn’t listening. He had to find a way to keep that guy out of the way. The general was just finishing a sentence when Stratton had an idea.

  “…will be the best place for him until we see what kind of skills he has,” the general said.

  “His right leg may be broken, sir. He must have hurt it when we took him into custody. I think I should take him to the hospital and let him recover. Then I can deliver him to sewage duty.”

  The general waved his assent. Stratton went back to the annoying little worm locked in his room. Stratton closed the door behind him, removed his sidearm from its holster, and slammed it into Gawsloave’s shin as hard as he could. The bone shattered, and Gawsloave screamed in agony. Stratton struck the shin again. Gawsloave screamed several times. Stratton put his hand over Gawsloave’s mouth and hit him in the side of the head with the barrel of the gun. He went limp. Stratton left to retrieve a wheelchair. He handcuffed Gawsloave to the arm of the chair and wheeled him away.

  He buckled Gawsloave into a military all-terrain vehicle and drove across town to the section of the city where the American troops were housed. In the beginning of the occupation of Boise, the U.C. generals housed all the troops together, but fights continually broke out between the Americans and the foreigners. In the end, the U.C. leadership had no choice but to separate them.

  They pulled up in front of an abandoned, two-story house. Stratton looked around carefully. Satisfied that no one was watching, he put Gawsloave in the wheelchair and wheeled him into the home. He picked up his prisoner and carried him downstairs into shadows. He chained him to a support beam, placed food, water, and a blanket on the floor beside him, and walked out, locking the door.

  No one would be able to hear this man in the basement. When all this was over, Stratton would let him out and see about that broken leg. Satisfied with his actions, he got back into the vehicle and drove off to talk to his fellow conspirators.

  32

  THE OREGON-IDAHO BORDER

  MAY 22

  CHAD ELLISON AND HIS TWO SONS SLIPPED BACK INTO IDAHO late on a Friday night. There was no moon, and they had to carefully pick their way through the brush and cottonwoods on the banks of the Snake River. They had passed a few U.C. encampments, but so far hadn’t been seen by any troops. The trio rode through the night, stopping ten miles out of Boise as the sky turned pink in the east. They camped under a bridge on the interstate and took turns keeping watch. A few trucks crossed their bridge during the day, but as soon as the sun set, the traffic ended. They rode again under the cover of night.

  Chad halted them at an abandoned farm a mile out of Boise, where they stashed their horses in a barn. He looked across the prairie toward the city. How could this have happened? he wondered. A few months ago, he’d been living and working in Boise, watching television, talking on a cell phone, and enjoying all the modern conveniences the Western world had to offer. Rick was set to go off to college in the spring, and Earl had just started his first job as a box boy for Albertsons grocery. Life was good. In the blink of an eye everything had changed. Now instead of the normal fears of a father, Chad was concerned about what he was leading them into. The day they’d ridden out of Boise, Chad hadn’t bothered to look back. In his mind, they were leaving Boise for the last time. Now they were riding back into danger.

  They carried explosives and their rifles and slowly approached the fence around the city. Working their way along the fence, they reached the city’s west side. The troops didn’t seem to be guarding the territory outside the fence well. Most of the patrols and guard towers were focused on the interior. The fence they’d set up was sturdier than Chad expected. It was at least fourteen feet tall, steel posts set in concrete about ten inches apart. The whole thing was wrapped with chain link. Razor wire spiraled around the top. There was no way to fit between the posts, even if the chain link was cut. The only way in would be through one of the gates.

  Chad led Rick and Earl along the perimeter until they sighted a gate. They waited for anyone coming out, or preferably going in. No vehicles entered or left all night. Finally, well after the sun had risen, a truck departed through a gate. The Ellisons stayed hidden in the brush throughout the day, watching trucks go in and out. Whenever a truck approached the gate, it opened, and the truck passed through without stopping. When a truck headed into the city, it stopped at the gate, where a guard checked ID badges. He then waved them through without inspecting the cargo area.

  Chad was surprised. These troops were so confident that no threat would come in that they didn’t bother to check for it. This would be their way in. They needed to somehow hitch a ride on one of the entering trucks.

  When it was dark again, Chad and the boys moved away from the fence. About two miles out of town, they came to a spot on the interstate where it narrowed as it wound its way into a canyon. This, Chad decided, was the spot. It would give them their opportunity.

  At 10:30 the next morning, after several trucks had passed heading away from town, the Ellisons went to work. Moving quickly, they rolled four boulders as tall as their knees into the road, then scrambled down the hillside and lay in a ditch. They were a hundred feet behind the boulders in the road.

  Thirty minutes later, a truck came into view, headed towards Boise. Chad tensed, his breath coming in short gasps, his palms suddenly sweaty. “Keep your eyes open, boys,” he whispered. “Don’t move till I tell you. I’ll go to the truck first and check it out. Wait till I’m on board and I signal, then move as fast and quietly as you can. I’ll help you in.”

  The truck slowed and crept past them. Two soldiers got out and started talking. They looked up the hill. Apparently satisfied that no more rocks would roll dow
n and crush them, the soldiers walked up the road and began clearing the rocks away.

  Chad sprinted down the ditch and crawled into the road behind the truck. He jumped onto the rear bumper, loosened the tarp, and looked inside. The truck was full of potatoes. Chad threw his bag of dynamite and his rifle onto the pile of potatoes and climbed in. He motioned to his boys, who repeated his maneuvers. Earl had just cleared the tarp and fastened it when the engine started up and they continued down the road.

  The truck stopped at the gate. Chad and the boys held their breath. They burrowed into the potatoes, waiting for the tarp to be thrown back and bullets to start flying. No bullets came. The truck moved through the gate.

  Chad crawled to the back and peered out of the tarp. They were driving through town at about thirty miles an hour. It was too fast to jump from the truck. Their only hope was to wait until the struck stopped, then slip out and hide before being discovered.

  After fifteen minutes of winding through Boise streets, the truck slowed and stopped. The Ellisons heard both truck doors close, waited three minutes, then slipped out from under the tarp and hit the street running.

  Chad took only three steps before turning to look back. At the same moment, the soldiers who’d been in the truck emerged from a laundry shop, bags in their arms. The first soldier’s eyes widened.

  “Halt!” the soldier shouted. “Halt oder ich schieße!”

  Chad ran harder, a firm grip on his dynamite bag and rifle. Weapons came to life behind him. He and the boys zigzagged, dodging bullets, and ducked down a side street.

  They ran into the entryway of an apartment building, nearly knocking over a filthy man carrying a bucket of raw sewage. The man screamed at them and walked out the glass double door. The Ellisons stood just inside the lobby—which way now?