Stormer’s Pass: Aidos Trilogy: Book 1

by Benjamin Laskin

  The youths swore a lot, both silently and to one another. They swore that they were the artificers of their own happiness. They swore that the world was a mess, and that they had their work cut out for them. They swore that before they could change the world they would have to change themselves. They swore they did not have all the answers, but that not having all the answers should not stop them from asking the right questions. They renounced idleness, dependency, and slavery to celebrity and television—which they swore was the worst of all idolatries. They swore many other things as well, but their most solemn declaration was that neither their lives nor their swearing would be in vain.

  The different media crews swore too, but primarily in four letter words. The youths refused to talk to them and stayed staunchly to themselves. The reporters could not coax any of them into an interview. The town’s bystanders had plenty to say and were quite eager to speak their minds, but they said nothing new, and expressed only mystification and condemnation. Over and over the reporters heard the same two names mentioned—Max Stormer and Aidos.

  That journalists were unable to dig up any record of Aidos anywhere made her all the more mysterious to them. When they learned that her father, Hardy Thoreson, was in the hospital they went to interview him, but by the time they had arrived he was gone. Presumably, he had stolen out of his room hours before.

  Finally the media got a break. The Times newspaper received a photograph of a bright-eyed girl with long, uncombed black hair, a bow and quiver of arrows on her back, peering coyly from behind the trunk of an aspen tree. Someone had sent it anonymously, with the assurance that the sender would step forward and pay ten thousand dollars for any evidence leading to the girl’s whereabouts.

  The girl was a natural beauty, and her picture was immediately plastered on the front page of every major paper in the country. Television satellites beamed her enchanting face into millions of living rooms across the nation. Alongside her picture they put up a second photo, this one of a handsome young man in a black football jersey, number 7.

  The publicity made Pinecrest that week’s media darling. After all, outside of Pinecrest not much of interest seemed to be happening in the world—just the same old rotten news: gloom here, doom there; and outrage everywhere in between. It had become ho-hum, and the stories of how violent, lousy, and corrupted the world had become just weren’t selling many papers or attracting the number of viewers or mouse clicks they normally did. A ludicrous little revolt in an unknown, small mountain town involving a charismatic high school jock, a mysterious and elusive girl, and their band of loyal renegades was the best the media could offer. And it worked better than anyone had imagined.

  Perhaps it worked too well.

  Reports began to trickle in of similar, though less spectacular actions of civil disobedience in other towns and cities across the country. These too involved patriotic youths and the erecting of cairns of discarded commercialism. Overnight, the hashtag #AidosLives lit up Twitter and appeared as graffiti in hundreds of places around the nation. Max Stormer’s mystique and good looks captured the romantic imaginations of young people everywhere. He was a renegade, an outlaw, and a freedom fighter. Max Stormer was Billy the Kid, Robin Hood, and Zorro, all wrapped up in one dark-haired, blue-eyed, handsome and grinning teenage rebel without a cause.

  60

  Dog-Day Afternoon

  Mayor Fitch flung open his office window and put a megaphone to his mouth. “Attention!” he shouted. “Attention!”

  The youths looked up, booed, and launched a barrage of Frisbees in his direction. One slipped through the open window and knocked over a cup of cold coffee that sat on the mayor’s desk.

  “I have something important to say—”

  “We’re not talking till Stormer’s walking!” answered a chorus of jeering youths.

  “We have Stormer!” the mayor said. “We have caught Max Stormer!”

  A hush fell over the town square. The youths turned to the flagpole to see what Regina, Steve, and the others had to say. The mayor glanced back into the office, and smiled.

  “Well, let him go!” hollered someone from among the throng.

  “Yeah,” yelled another. “Give him back!”

  “I will,” the mayor said, “just as soon as you all disperse and I have your word you’ll go home and stay home.”

  Randy turned to his friends. “What do you think?”

  “He’s lying,” Steve said.

  Regina nodded. “We don’t budge until he’s in our arms.”

  The word passed among the ranks like wildfire.

  “Well?” the mayor said. “Disperse peacefully and Max goes free. No strings attached.”

  “Forget it!” Steve shouted back. “You give us Max, and then we’ll think about it.”

  A loud, concurring cheer followed his demand.

  The mayor shook his head. “That’s not the deal.”

  “We’re not here to make deals!”

  The mayor spotted an army of state troopers swarm in from the perimeter of town. He saw they wore gas masks, carried guns, and held riot shields and batons.

  “If you don’t deal with me,” the mayor said, “then you will have to deal with them!” He pointed.

  The youths turned and saw the troopers spread out and encircle them. Three hundred youths were now facing an equal number of soldiers. Camera crews hustled for footage as the onlookers shrieked and scattered. Only the youths remained. They did not panic. Instead, they clasped hands and formed themselves into a half-dozen concentric circles around the flagpole.

  “I don’t want anyone to get hurt,” Fitch said. “Now give it up and go home. In the morning, we’ll let Stormer go.”

  Steve shouted back, “If you don’t want anyone to get hurt, send them home and send us Max!”

  “This is an illegal assembly,” boomed a new voice, a trooper with another megaphone. “Your presence has backed up traffic for a hundred miles, disrupted interstate commerce, and resulted in numerous accidents. We are acting upon direct orders from the governor. Disperse immediately or we are coming in.”

  “Hear that?” the mayor said. “They mean business. Take me up on my deal or you are all going to jail.”

  “You have five minutes!” the commander shouted.

  “What do we do now?” Alex said.

  Jake said, “I say we hold our ground.”

  “They’re going to gas us,” Randy said.

  “Let ‘em,” Dawn said, pulling her black bandanna up over her nose. “The big bullies.”

  “They wouldn’t do that,” Brandon said. “Not with all these reporters and cameramen around…would they?”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Regina said. “What’s a little tear gas? I could use a good cry.” She pulled her bandanna up over her nose.

  “I’m staying,” Mike said.

  “Me too,” said Sid.

  “Live free or die!” Jake exclaimed.

  “Let’s not get carried away, Jake,” Cheeks said, pulling up his bandanna.

  “Okay,” Steve said. “Let’s make a footnote in the history books, shall we?” He faced the outer circles and cupped his hands to his mouth. “If any of you want to leave,” he shouted, “now’s the time. But Pinecrest stands steady!”

  Pinecrest thrust their fists skyward and roared, “Live deep, live real!”

  A low rumble swept over the army of young patriots as they deliberated over their fates. Then, from an outer circle, a cry went up, “The Lovers of Shadow Valley say—Live deep, live real. Stand steady, no deal!” And thirty more youths pulled black bandannas over their noses and threw fists to the sky. From another circle came another cry, “Live deep, live real, Lovers of Morning Creek say, no deal!”

  One by one every town along the entire mountain joined in. Nobody walked. Stillwoods, Aspen Creek, Whispering Pines, Wildflower, Big Bluff… They all raised their bandannas over their noses, held up clenched fists of defiance, stated proudly the towns they represented, called themselves
lovers, and shouted, “Live deep, live real. Stand steady, no deal!” The youths clasped hands and began swinging their arms up and down. Somebody sang out, “Red Rover, Red Rover, send Stormer right over!” That got a big laugh, and then they all sang, “Red Rover, Red Rover, send Stormer right over!”

  “This is your final warning!” shouted the commander. “Disperse immediately or we will be forced to take you in. You leave us no choice!”

  Steve bellowed back, “There is always a choice!”

  The commander was in no mood to split hairs. The philosophical subtleties of free will did not interest him in the least. He waved his troops forward.

  “Dammit,” the mayor said. “They’re going in. It’s going to be a massacre…”

  The youths locked arms and braced themselves. Somebody began singing America the Beautiful and then everybody joined in. Cameramen and photographers scampered for footage as reporters transmitted the play-by-play action. Hearts pounded. Nerves buzzed. No one blinked. The atmosphere was electric, and the emotional intensity of the young patriots pushed outward like a force field. Indivisible and single-minded in purpose, they faced the advancing troops.

  When the militia moved to within twenty feet of the outer ring, Regina shouted, “Hit the dirt! Hug it and don’t let go! Make them drag you away!”

  Boom, down they went, flat as pancakes. They locked arms and squeezed tightly. All that remained standing were the dogs. No longer feeling outcast and despised, the dogs had returned to town to stay. It was obvious they looked up to Beowulf. They followed him wherever he went. He was big, beautiful, and noble; and they marveled at his keen intelligence and the way he was able to communicate with the strange, two-legged beasts they had learned to fear. Their view unhampered, the dogs became aware of the troops and perceived a threat. Already much excited, they began to bark and jump about in confusion.

  Then the dogs ceased their yapping, as if someone had their attention. They all turned to Beowulf like they were awaiting his instructions. Beowulf did not hesitate. He dashed forward to face the advancing troops, his black bandanna waving in the wind. The twenty other dogs tore off after him, halting just short of a line of soldiers. The startled soldiers lurched back and held up their shields and batons. The dogs, teeth bared and snarling savagely, took up the retreated ground. They pawed, growled, crouched and sprang intimidatingly, and snarled some more. Menace foamed from their mouths. The troops halted their advance and looked around at each other in astonishment.

  “Shoot ‘em!” came the command.

  The troops turned their heads in dismay toward their commander.

  “I said shoot them, dammit!”

  Reluctantly, the facing line raised their guns and pointed them down into the faces of the snarling dogs.

  “The big one,” the commander hollered. “The one with the bandanna—kill him!”

  “No!” Pinecrest’s youths leapt to their feet. “No!” they cried again.

  “Dammit,” the commander yelled. “I said kill the beast.”

  Again the soldiers pointed their rifles.

  “Stop!”

  What everyone saw next stretched their bounds of belief. The situation had blown to a new realm of absurdity. Jake Dempster, his face flushed with rage, was pointing a gun at his own head.

  “You lay a finger on that dog,” he screamed, “and the entire country will watch me blow my brains all over this town and know that it was you who pulled the trigger!”

  “Holy crap,” Fitch said. “That Dempster kid is fricken crazy!”

  “He wouldn’t do it,” Jack Austin said, “…would he?”

  “He would,” Mason Kohl said coolly, a hint of eagerness in his voice. “He’s the biggest nutjob of them all.”

  “Jake!” Steve said, “what are you doing?”

  “They’re not going to kill Beowulf,” he answered with eerie calm. “They’re not hurting my dogs.”

  “Jake,” Regina pleaded, “tell me you wouldn’t.”

  Jake grinned, a mad twinkle in his eye.

  “He’d do it, he’d do it!” Alex shrieked. “You know he’d do it!”

  Flabbergasted, the troopers turned to their commander.

  “He’s bluffing,” the commander said, but his words rang hollow. “I tell you he’s bluffing. Move in!” He waved them on. One step and again the dogs lurched forward with renewed ferocity, Beowulf at the center and indomitable. “Kill that dog!” he demanded again. “He’s bluffing… Dammit, kid, put down that gun!”

  Jake put the gun to his temple. “Back down,” he yelled.

  “He’ll do it!” Dawn White cried. She hooked a finger into one of the belt loops of Jake’s jeans in a gesture of support. “And after he does, I’ll pick up the gun and you’ll have to sweep up my brains too!”

  Mrs. White, who was observing on the sidelines, fainted and fell into her husband’s arms.

  “Isn’t that the little White girl?” the mayor said in disbelief.

  “Yes,” Kohl said.

  “I’ll be damned,” Jack Austin said. “She used to be such a sweet little girl.”

  “Holy crap,” the mayor said. “I don’t believe this. This can’t be happening. How did this happen, huh? How did this happen?”

  “Because,” Gary Webber said dryly, “Max Stormer didn’t want to play ball anymore.”

  The others looked at him with bitter comprehension. Wordlessly, they turned again to the window.

  61

  Ring of Fire

  Soon after leaving Ed and Hardy, Max realized the manhunt for him was again in full swing. He spotted the first helicopter at mid-afternoon, followed soon after by five more. He picked up his pace and kept under the cover of the trees’ canopy, careful to skirt open ground. He noticed that these copters were not the same he had been outwitting for the past few weeks. These birds belonged to the United States Army. The United States of America had declared war on Max Stormer.

  The thought amused him. He did not remember starting any war. He invaded no country, assassinated no archduke, imposed no unpopular tax, claimed no homeland or fishing waters or oil fields or island base. He was not a tyrant, or a mercenary, or a terrorist. No, he thought, I’m a Yankee through and through: a star-spangled, hot dog-eating, apple-pied country boy who loves purple mountain majesty, amber fields of grain, shiny seas, Honest Abe and Thomas J. My country ’tis of thee, sweet land of liberty…

  Max scampered on, ducking and hiding and keeping his eyes peeled, aware that his pursuers were close. With the pack on his back he left crater-sized prints in the snow but could do nothing about them. When he came to a stream, he risked a hundred yards in the open air, tramping through the water in the hopes of putting them off for an hour or so.

  He climbed a tall pine to survey the situation. Above the canopy he saw that parachutists were surrounding him. It was nearing dusk, and he was tired, wet, and cold. Still, Max decided his best chance was to travel at night. He climbed back down and continued on, pitching his senses to their fullest ranges. He could see, smell, and even taste things to degrees he never experienced before.

  The woods no longer felt foreign to him, nor he an intruder. He was aware something different and weird was happening to him. He was the same Max—only more so. He never felt so alive. He knew that the men closing in on him meant him harm, but he was not afraid.

  Max came to a steep, rocky incline that required climbing on all fours. To do so, however, would expose him in the open. He looked to his left where the ridge curved, and a gully seemed to permit a passage around the steep barren hill. He started in that direction but quickly froze in his tracks. Something in his head said—bad idea.

  He turned to his right where the path was better camouflaged. He could skirt the hillside and then cut up. He advanced only twenty yards before he skidded to a halt. Crouched above him on a thick branch of a tree was a large cat, the same panther that he had seen a few days earlier. It roared and flashed its yellow fangs. Their eyes met. The cat stared at M
ax and Max stared back. Intuitively, he knew that the cat meant him no harm. It was warning him. He knew it as surely as if it had spoken to him and said so.

  Max turned again to the steep broadside of the hill, which was at least a hundred-foot climb. His eyes traced the route he would have to ascend. Max reached under the collar of his sweatshirt and pulled out the ring that Aidos had given him. He held it in a lightly clenched fist. It tingled.

  Max plowed into the hillside. He climbed on all fours, and kept his center of gravity low so that the weight of his pack didn’t topple him backwards. The few inches of snow that covered the rugged ground made it slippery and hard to judge. He pushed off with his feet and pulled with his arms, often sliding back two of every ten feet gained. He knew if a helicopter passed over now he was a sitting duck.

  Max heard two sets of voices coming from below and from opposite directions. He scampered up the remaining way and scrambled out of sight behind a fir tree. He watched and waited. The voices grew louder.

  He spotted the first team, three men in camouflage walking abreast. They held rifles in front of them. Their voices carried easily and their manner was confident and routine.

  “We’ve got the son of a bitch trapped,” said one. “He isn’t going anywhere.”

  “Right on schedule,” said a second.

  “I can’t wait to see his cringing face,” a third said. “Let’s put a good scare into him. I hope he tries something.”

  “What a joke,” the first said. “Can you believe they’re making such a big deal out of this? He’s just some dumbass—”

  Before he finished his sentence, the three soldiers were wrapped in a net and swinging fifteen feet off the ground.