The Heart of War: Book Seven of the What's Left of My World Series

by C. A. Rudolph

  Exhausted both mentally and physically, Doug fell into his chair. He looked away and folded his arms.

  “There is no instance of a nation benefiting from prolonged warfare,” Beatrice said, quoting Sun Tzu. “To move forward, an endgame must be achieved.” She straightened and backed away from his desk. “I can do that for us, Doug. And I will do that. We can leave this place someday, you and me, together. I don’t want to be here any more than you do, and there are better places to go. It might seem like this whole world has plum gone to shit, but it hasn’t—not for people like us. We can escape this place and live like royalty in better places, but we must first relieve ourselves of all obligations.”

  Doug brought his hands together and tapped his index fingertips. “You talk a big game.”

  “Maybe, but I only play hardball,” Beatrice hissed. “And I play to win.”

  Doug sighed exhaustedly. “Fine. So be it. If absolute power is what you want, I’ll grant it. I’ll make it happen today—mind you, doing so would be a hell of a lot easier with Tori still around, but since she’s not…”

  Beatrice puckered her lips, looked away, and slid the Sig into her waistband. “Yes, I know, tsk-tsk, such a shame.” She rotated and headed for the door, kicking the fallen men’s arms and legs from her path. “Irrespective of this recent little tiff of ours, I still hold a great deal of faith in you, Doug.”

  “Good to know,” Bronson muttered. “And where does this leave us?”

  The blonde halted at the door. “Us?”

  “Yes, us. There is still an us, right?”

  “I never dwell on the petty, Doug. Neither should you.” Beatrice beamed at him with sparkling eyes as if nothing off-center had transpired. “Those wretched little bastards can mean the death of a relationship.”

  Chapter 20

  FEMA Resettlement Camp Bravo

  Tuesday, March 8th

  Mellow crevices denoting her crow’s feet, Sasha smiled in her sleep, a look of satisfaction adorning her middle-aged visage. As she dreamt of a world far and away from the one within which she presently abided, clattering and commotion rang out through the halls of her newly assigned dormitory.

  Immersed in her subconscious, Sasha was happy. She felt vibrant and a third of her age. She pranced with exuberance on bare feet through a field of tall grass, arms outstretched to her sides, palms gliding along and above a thick meadow of barley spikes, feathertop grass, and sporadic cattails. Just beyond the field, she could see the tree line both outlining and concealing the snaking North Fork South Branch Potomac River she knew to be there. In the backdrop, a pallet of bluish-green Allegheny mountains, the peaks of which seemed to extend above the clouds.

  Feeling a caring presence from behind, Sasha turned around and looked toward the farmhouse she’d known as her childhood home. Two figures appearing as silhouettes she assumed to be the mother and father who’d raised her, and from whom she’d subsequently been taken so long ago by tragic means, were there. Sasha waved to them. She’d wondered after so much time had gone by, would she ever be reunited with them, and if so, would it happen in this life or the next? Or would it occur in some form of afterlife? So many questions plagued her and remained unanswered that she’d given up faith in such matters long ago, but she hadn’t yet parted with hope.

  Sasha started walking away from the mountains, the trees and the river, and soon began running toward the two figures. They were now returning her wave, each with an arm held high in the air. One figure was taller than the other. She couldn’t see their faces or make out any features other than their size and the general feeling of who they were to her. Sasha ran harder and after some time realized that she wasn’t getting any closer. She tried putting forth more effort, but the distance didn’t decrease. The rules of nature were being snubbed in this dream world, but that didn’t stop her from pushing even harder. Both hands raised in the air, now waving frantically, Sasha screamed for her parents both, and their reactions changed. Now they looked concerned. And they were waving her in.

  “Come on!” they said, voices in virtual unison. “Come on, Sasha! You’ve been out there long enough now! Time to come home!”

  “I know!” Sasha hollered back. “I’m sorry! I’m…trying!” They kept waving, and Sasha kept running, but the distance remained constant, and her frustration soon forged into anger.

  Why was this happening? She was finally home again, and her parents were here. They hadn’t forgotten her. They were a mere heartbeat away, but try as she might, she couldn’t get to them. It was as if one scene in one random dream was summarizing all that had become of her life. All the time gone by, everything she’d done, everywhere she’d been, everyone she’d loved and hated…nothing in all those years away had served to get her any closer to her roots. Home was calling to her, and Sasha yearned for a better way to get there.

  Wham!

  Sasha flew upward from her pillow in a cold sweat, her chest heaving. She put a hand to her sternum and inspected the room in shivers for what had roused her, a look right cluing her in. “Morning, girls,” she groaned at two familiar faces. “Did one of you slam the door or drop something? What’s with all the racket?”

  “Shhh,” Carly said, ear pressed to the door. “Something’s wrong.”

  “Damn right there is,” Sasha agreed, rubbing her eyes. “I’m no longer dead to the world.”

  Carly shushed her again. “No…some guards are in the hallway. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but they’re being loud, knocking on doors. I think they’re raiding bunks.”

  “Really?” Sasha yawned her query. “That’s new. I thought they only pulled that crap in the hoosegow. Guess I assumed this hot sheet motel, while comparably lackluster, would be different.”

  “It was,” Morgan added, sounding fearful. “This has never happened before.”

  Sasha scratched her head and squinted. “Kind of makes you wonder what’s changed.” She smirked, holding up a finger. “Oh, that’s right, I bet I know what it is.” She chuckled briefly. “Me.”

  “They’re still in the main hallway,” said Carly. “We might have some time.”

  “Time to do what?” Morgan asked.

  “I don’t know, hide? Or get out of here or something.”

  “Okay, w-which way do we go?”

  “We can try some windows,” Carly said. “Ours doesn’t open, but maybe someone else’s does. Or we can wait until they go inside someone’s room, and run outside when they’re not looking.”

  Morgan nodded hesitantly. “Good idea.”

  “Wrong—bad idea,” Sasha interrupted. “Girls, do yourselves a favor and stop thinking, both of you. Anything you’re scheming, for whatever silly reasons you’re scheming it, has been prepared for long in advance. They’ll head you off at the pass before you even know it, so slow down…let’s think this through a minute. Have either of you done anything stupid lately?”

  Both girls shook their heads in unison.

  “Okay, good. Might you be hiding something? Something, say, you shouldn’t have?”

  Another set of negative responses.

  “Two for two,” Sasha concluded, exhaling a sigh. “You’ve done nothing wrong, so it’s best not to look guilty. Just go along with whatever the hell this is, and let it play out. Put on your best smiles and look as pretty as you can.”

  “Smile and look pretty?” Morgan shot back. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, chicken legs, I’m not kidding. And if you have a better idea, which I highly doubt, speak up. Otherwise, shut up.”

  Morgan backstepped and hung her head. “I…don’t have chicken legs.”

  “Yes, you do, sweetie. And those scissor sticks need work; I can help you—but…some other time.” Sasha slid to the side of the bed, reached for her jeans, and slid them on, realizing what little effort it took and how they didn’t feel nearly as tight as they once had. It made her remorseful for never having bid farewell to her curves.

  “Shit…they’re g
etting closer!” Carly whisper shouted. “I think they’re coming this way. What are we going to do?”

  “The two of you are going to follow my lead,” Sasha said. “Anything else will look suspicious and paint a bullseye on our foreheads.” She ran her fingers through the knots in her hair. “Ouch—I’d give my boots for a decent pick or a hairbrush.”

  Sulking still, Morgan went across the room, opened a drawer, and removed a cushioned detangling brush with a wooden handle. She then brought it to Sasha.

  Sasha pursed her lips. “Well, looky there. Thank you, sweetie.” She took the brush and worked it into her mane. “I’m sorry for poking fun at your legs. They’re really not that bad.”

  “They aren’t?”

  “Nope. They’re not good either, but they’ve got potential—and you’re not getting these boots, not while I’m still breathing, anyway.”

  That instant, Carly backed away from the door, eyes widening in fright. “They’re here.”

  Sasha straightened and produced the broadest closed-lipped smile of which she was capable. The door flew open, and two guards made entry, one of whom she recognized right off the bat. Terrific, she thought.

  “Good day, ladies, this is a shakedown, so pay attention. We’re here to open every door and drawer, strip down your beds, and check every crack and crevice. If you’re hiding anything, we will find it, so put your butts against a wall, zip your lips, and stay out of our way. Female officers will be arriving shortly to check your persons.” He glanced around the room at the airs being sent his way. “Is something amusing? Just what the hell are you three smiling about?” He eyeballed Sasha with zeal. “Especially you, mother hen?”

  Her buttocks glued to the wall, Sasha tilted her head. “What’s crackin’, McCracken? I missed you.”

  Phil, the guard, harrumphed. “Right. Sure you did. How blessed that today’s scenario has reunited us all.”

  The guards began rifling through the room, dumping drawers, and overturning furniture. They stripped sheets and blankets from beds, yanked pillows from pillowcases, and shone flashlights beneath bed frames, chairs and desks. Seemingly unsatisfied at the absence of contraband, they began feeling about the walls.

  “Hey, McCracken?” Sasha began. “Not that the party isn’t compelling and all, but what in shit’s name are you mining for? Clue us in, and we might help you find it.”

  Hands to his knees, Phil rose and stared her down. “We are mining for prohibited anything and unauthorized everything,” he roared. “Contra-fuckin’-band. For that is what happens during a shakedown. I’m surprised your stint in the clink didn’t teach you that.” He smiled. “But since you’re a privileged constituent of the general population now, I’ll charitably inform you. A good amount of provisions has come up missing, and we’ve been ordered to either locate the missing goods and ensure their safe return, or find the thief, or thieves, and see to it justice is served.”

  Carly rolled her eyes in dramatic fashion, knowing this was bound to happen.

  Morgan only cowered in the farthest corner of the room, refusing to look anyone in the eye.

  “That’s striking,” Sasha persisted. “I could’ve sworn the only thing you agonized over being served was breakfast.” She snorted. “Oh, and lunch and dinner.”

  Phil moved to square off with Sasha, his chest bumping hers, index finger in her face. “You do recall what happened the last time you lost control of that mouth in my presence?”

  Sasha’s expression molded into a simper. She nodded. “I believe I…fell down.”

  “That’s right. You had an accident. Does another sound appealing?”

  “Oooh…more dirty talk,” Sasha cooed. “And before a mixed trio of onlookers this time…very cosmopolitan. You’re such a tease.”

  Phil bit into his lower lip and backed away gradually, sizing Sasha up as his glower darkened. He glanced to the mess on the floor, around the room, at the ceiling, then at every wall, his scrutiny ultimately finding a new target. “You!” he rumbled; his rigid finger aimed at Morgan.

  The scrawny girl lifted her head with hesitancy, peering at him through her bangs. “Me?”

  “I’m pointing at you, aren’t I? Who else would I be talking to?” He curled his finger into a ‘come here’ gesture. “Get over here.”

  “W-why?”

  “What was that?” Phil snapped. “You don’t ask why; you don’t get to ask me why. You don’t have the freedom to question anything. You come when I say come. I order and you obey, like a good little mutt; otherwise, I’ll grab a choke collar and chain you to a tree.”

  Morgan trembled as she inched closer. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But you’ve been acting peculiar ever since we walked in that door. And your body language is giving off all the signs of a guilty conscience.”

  “I-I don’t have a guilty conscience. I’m not guilty of…anything.”

  “Young lady, I am well trained to visually ascertain practically all forms of illegitimate behavior.” Phil extracted his cuffs. “Now, place your hands out in front of you. You’ll be coming with us.”

  Morgan began quivering and sobbing at the sight of the restraints.

  “Aww, hey now, it’s okay. Don’t worry about a thing. You just come with me, nice and easy, same as last time. We’re going to get this all figured out.”

  Same as last time? Sasha was steaming at watching the interaction go down and assumed Morgan’s phobia to be based on something disturbing, unrelated to today’s visit. As soon as Phil’s grimy paws took hold of the girl’s hands, she moved to intercept. “Hey, McCracken, hang on a minute. Take a good look at her, will you? The girl’s emaciated. She looks like she hasn’t eaten anything in weeks. Is justice really what you’re looking for? Or do you just need a scapegoat?”

  “Back off me, mother hen! I won’t warn you again!”

  “Goddamn you, I said look at her!” Sasha hissed. “The poor girl’s ribs are showing! You’re seriously going to stand there and point the accusing finger at her as having the highest potential for food thief?”

  The other guard moved to stand in Sasha’s way. “Slow your roll, ma’am. That’s close enough. Just relax and let us do our job. You don’t want this to escalate.”

  “Tase her if she comes any closer, Jonas,” Phil said, gazing upon Morgan’s tiny wrists. “Damn, you are a little thing, aren’t you? You’re starting to remind me of my five-year-old niece. These cuffs might be too big for you, half pint.”

  Morgan rotated to her friend for counsel. “Carly?”

  “It’ll be okay, Morgan. Just don’t fight them. Do whatever they say, and don’t fight…you’ll be okay.”

  “But I didn’t do anything wrong!” Morgan cried.

  “I know,” Carly said. “We all know.”

  “Mongoloid sons of bitches!” Sasha was beyond fuming now, attempting to force her way past. “Both of you! This is wrong! It’s all bullshit, and both you assholes know it!”

  “Ma’am, I told you to get back!” the second guard said, pushing hard on her.

  Sasha only pushed back harder. “Are you fucklings so stupid that simple reason eludes you? If someone’s stealing food, line up everyone in this piece-of-shit camp at the infirmary and weigh them on a scale! Beginning with you, McCracken! How many extra pounds of lard have you put on your waistline lately?”

  Phil pointed at Sasha furiously. He’d had his last straw. “That’s it—one more word…just one more word out of you, and you’re finished!”

  Being held at bay, helpless to prevent Phil the guard from unjustly taking Morgan into custody, Sasha’s internal rage soared to a fever pitch. The last time she could recollect feeling a level of anger even remotely similar was when she used to partake in multiday drinking binges with no sleep prior to a raid or a battle, while dosing methamphetamine to stay awake and sober. Such benders were used systematically by the MC to reach a total lack of feeling, build up petulance and enough fury to fight, maim and tortur
e; and for Sasha, to occasionally put an opposing motorcycle club’s old lady out of her misery.

  An incident came to mind connected to an old lady by the name of Janet whose club had intentionally invaded the Marauders’ territory. That degree of disrespect was insufferable, a wrongdoing recompensed only by spilled blood. During the gory melee, Sasha had attacked from behind while Janet was distracted, using a six-inch-diameter snow globe to crush the woman’s skull. Janet had dropped helplessly into convulsions on the pavement, and Sasha put her bootheel to the woman’s face and had stomped until there wasn’t a face to speak of. It had been the most brutal act she had ever imparted upon another human being, and she hadn’t felt a single ounce of remorse, or much of anything else aside from rage. And that same rage was seconds away from making a total comeback.

  Sasha backed away from the guard, relinquishing the tussle, her hands signaling surrender as she calculated the scene. “I’m sorry…God, I’m so sorry. I-I don’t know what the hell just came over me.” She fanned a palm at her face. “Ooof…must’ve been a hot flash.”

  Looking awfully puzzled, the second guard took Sasha at her word, then regarded his partner, who was in the process of patting his suspect down.

  “What are you staring at?” Phil barked. “We got what we came for. I think we’re done here.”

  A state of panic washed over Morgan as Phil turned and began pulling her toward the exit by her wrists.

  “Hey, don’t start. If you resist, I’ll restrain you really hard,” Phil said, the firmness in his voice increasing. “I guarantee you won’t like it. Keep fighting me, and I’ll snap that feeble body of yours in half like a twig.”

  Morgan whimpered her reply and soon gave in, her hope all but vanishing.

  Then Sasha sprang, energizing into a live wire without delay. She swung wildly on the guard nearest her, catching him in the chin with her knuckles. The slug dazed him, but wasn’t enough to knock him out, so she swung again and missed, then switched to a lower-body attack. With considerable force, Sasha sent the hardened tip of her riding boot into the guard’s liver. He folded, groaned and keeled over, reaching for his side, appearing unable to breathe.