“Alice just fell, and they have a lot to do on top of interrogating prisoners,” Ellen added. “We might have some time until they get the code.”
Silence followed as Simon remembered what interrogation by the Red Hands entailed, and that many of his friends were under their control.
Up ahead, Winston inspected a tree, sniffing the bark, his tail wagging. He dug up the earth at the base with one paw and smelled the soil, searching for something. He looked up at Simon, dirt on his nose, his tongue bouncing out the side of his mouth.
If only I were a dog … War, loss, the devastation of human decency, none of which can eliminate the simple pleasure of an enticing scent in the grass.
“Hey,” a voice said in the rear. “Hey, hold up.”
They all turned. Andrew’s eyes were half-open, his feet flipped around so that his toes were dragging along the ground. They placed him down and Carolanne felt for a pulse.
Simon kept vigil on the perimeter, but relied more on any subtle nuances in Winston’s behavior.
“He all right?” Simon asked.
Carolanne didn’t answer, still holding the man’s wrist. “It’s faint,” she said. “I can barely feel it.” She rechecked his bandages. They were loose and desperately needed to be changed, but they didn’t have any medical equipment. During their last break, when the man was conscious, Simon offered to cut a portion of his shirt to use as a dressing. Carolanne had said, “You’ll give him an infection. The bandage he’s got will hold.” Now, the material was saturated.
Jack opened his pack and ruffled through it. “Here,” he said, displaying a roll of duct tape. He tore long pieces and handed them to Carolanne. “Let’s keep moving,” she said. “His best chance is to make it to the doctors, sooner than later.”
“You need a break?” Ellen asked Jack.
He shook his head and began hefting the unconscious man up by his shoulder, with Carolanne holding the other shoulder.
“What about you?” she asked Jay.
“I’m good,” he said, and patted Connor’s back.
“And you, little man, you okay?”
Connor didn’t answer.
“Hey, buddy,” Simon said. “You all right?”
The boy looked up. His face was red with an indent from Jay’s jacket. “I’m all right,” he said. There was nothing in Connor’s expression that indicated he was okay. Numb, perhaps, but far from okay. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin pallid.
“Hey, I have something for you,” Simon said, and reached into his pocket. “Here.” He held out the cord of thick beads.
Connor looked from them to Simon. “They’re yours,” he said. “I gave them to you.”
“I know. I remember. But how about you keep them safe for me, just for a little while?”
Connor hesitated, but Simon moved his hand closer. “Please,” he said. “They won’t do any good in my pocket.”
Connor took them in his small hands, rolling the beads delicately between his fingers, as if they were each a tiny egg about to hatch.
Simon turned and checked his compass while Ellen held a map, and the group trekked onward toward the west.
***
When they rechecked Andrew’s pulse a half hour later, he was dead. They placed his body at the base of a pine tree, and Ellen marked the spot on the map so he could be given a proper burial if the opportunity arose. Carolanne washed her hands with a splash of water from a canteen, and rubbed them against fallen leaves to try and scrape the dried blood from her skin, to little avail.
When they began walking again, Simon asked her, “You okay?”
“No,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he replied.
“None of this is your fault.”
“Still, I’m sorry all the same.”
“Are you okay?”
He looked over to her for a moment, but when she looked up with her big, wet eyes, he looked away. “No,” he said.
“You’d think by now we’d have become accustomed to losing people.”
“We don’t know if Brian’s lost.”
She shook her head, her lips pursed. “He is.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Simon, they took him … he’s been gone for days.”
“He could still be alive.”
“He’s gone, Simon.” He spied a shimmer of light reflected in a tear falling from her cheek. “Dead, alive, it doesn’t matter. For his sake”—she paused and took in a shaky inhale—“it might be better to be dead. Whatever those monsters did to him, are doing … Christ, I can’t think about it.”
Simon fought back a tremble in his chest, imagining Brian in Will Holbrook’s place, strapped to a gurney with parts missing. He felt lightheaded, and anger rose like boiling water in his chest.
“I met my husband, Robert, when I was twenty-three, at school. We started dating, and two years later, we married. I loved him so much. He was my world. Now”—she shook her head, more droplets falling—“I can barely remember his face. I don’t want that to be the same with Brian. I-I … I don’t want to keep doing this, running from one terror to the other, waiting for life to become normal, hoping that one day it will. Forgetting faces …”
Simon wanted to tell her that everything would be okay. He wanted to share his own grief—the death of his parents, his missing brother, Winston on his last legs. Yet everything seemed to be all right as long as he had Bethany—hope, desire, something to keep fighting for, someone to make the day seem never-ending in delight, and the nights warm, her body against his. All he said was, “I’m sorry.”
“My parents died young,” she continued. “I was a teenager.”
“I’m—”
“You don’t have to keep saying you’re sorry. It was a car accident. I was at school. The principal called me to the office, and I knew right away that something was wrong. He opened the door and said my name. There were two cops holding their hats and they asked me to take a seat. The principal didn’t sit behind his desk like he normally did, but rather leaned against it in front of me.” She took a long inhale, then continued, “I had pictures of my parents to keep my memory sharp, and I looked at the albums every night in the bunker in Aurora. But I don’t have any pictures of Robert. We meant to bring our wedding album in the bunker, but it was one of those things; I thought he grabbed it, he thought I did. But it wasn’t a big deal; we still had each other. Then he died, and his face… I don’t know if my memory is playing tricks on me, if I started remembering him differently as the months went by. I don’t have any pictures of Brian, so I expect the same will happen. In time, we’ll all be lost, smudged from existence, only to be remembered as dull shadows of our former selves.”
Simon was about to apologize again, but he didn’t. The pictures he’d kept of his own family, which kept him going on his journey from British Columbia to Alice, were now left behind in the filthy grip of the Red Hands, more than likely tossed to the ground as their home was ransacked.
Ahead, Winston stopped in his tracks and his ear perked up, the other permanently flopped to the side. His head cocked at an angle. Simon gave a light whistle, but Winston didn’t budge. The rest of the traveling party noticed the interaction, and everyone was quiet, weapons shouldered. Simon approached Winston, walking slowly, and Ellen and Bethany followed, crouched low. They peered across what they could see of several fenced backyards as Winston sniffed at the air, his fur raised. “What is it, boy?” Simon whispered.
Then there was movement, and two, three, then five soldiers stepped out, weapons drawn.
“Stop right there!” one of them said. They fanned out, and Simon observed the dark windows of the surrounding homes. At least two of them were open, and human forms were silhouetted in the shadows.
No one lowered their guns; then Simon looked closer at their uniforms and said, “It’s me, Simon Kalispell, head of the Rangers.” At least I was head of the Rangers. He lowered his rifle on the sling and displayed his open palms. “We’re from Alice.”
The guards approached hesitantly. “You steal those uniforms?” the closest one said, his gaze sharp on all of them. Then one in the rear said, “Wait, Patterson, that’s him. I know Kalispell.”
Simon recognized the gray-haired man. He’d been posted on the eastern entrance, and they often chatted when Simon returned from a hunt, him always asking, “See any deer today?”
Weapons were lowered. “You guys made it out, huh?” the lead man said. “C’mon, let’s get you behind the line.”
“I was going to call in when we got closer,” Simon said. “We’re still a half mile away from the rendezvous.”
The soldier nodded. “We’re moving out in under an hour. I’m sure General Winters will want to speak to you. I’ll radio ahead.”
Ellen, Jack, and Jay recognized the soldiers and stopped to shake hands and give hugs. Jay put Connor on his feet, who seemed to brighten up once he’d seen the troops.
“That a kid?” a guard asked. “You’d better hurry, they’re sending all children and elderly to Albuquerque, if they haven’t left already.”
Simon reached down and took Connor’s hand, and they began walking away from the front line. When out of earshot, Connor asked, “Where is everyone headed to in an hour?”
After a moment of hesitation, Simon said, “I believe we’re going back to war.”
“And I’m going to Albuquerque?”
“It would appear so,” Simon answered.
Connor walked beside Simon, gazing at the ground. “I don’t want to go.”
“It will be safer there.”
“I want to stay with you.”
“Connor …”
“I want to fight. I can fight.”
Simon exchanged glances with Bethany and Carolanne. “We’ll see,” Bethany responded.
“Connor.” Simon crouched down and looked the boy in the eyes. “When I first met you, all that time ago when you were younger, I was told a few pieces of advice that have not only stuck with me, but have helped guide my path. The words were spoken by the old man who told you to give me those beads.” Simon pointed to Connor’s hands, as the boy rolled the beads back and forth between his fingers. “He said there are many paths that we can take; some of us are warriors and some of us are monks. He told me that I am a teacher, but there is a fierceness inside me, and I must be careful of that fierceness, because there are two types of violence: one that causes damage and another which causes it to cease. I took his words seriously, and when I became the warrior and fought and killed, I thought that perhaps I was on the side of ceasing violence. I thought that I would be alleviated of guilt, of mental sorrow, if I fought for the right cause. I wish that were the case.”
Simon paused and placed his hand on Connor’s shoulder. Then he continued, “I’m still deciphering who I am. My path in life might veer in many directions, but I see something in you that I believe the old monk would have seen as well. You, Connor, are a teacher. You will be a teacher. You’ve learned so much about survival, at such a young age, that by the time you’re as old as I am, you will be needed to pass the teachings to future generations. That’s a big responsibility to hold. Perhaps the most important responsibility that there is.”
“I don’t know that much,” Connor said, his voice wavering.
“You know more than you’re aware. And once this is over, once this war is finally done and we’re settled as back to normal as possible, I will make it my sole ambition to pass on everything I know about hunting and stalking in the wild to you, so that you can light the torch for future generations.”
Connor’s eyes cast to the ground.
“Deal?” Simon asked.
“Yeah.” Connor nodded. “Deal.”
They followed the spray-painted markings of an arrow on a stop sign, and once they turned a bend in the road, they saw soldiers walking toward them. When they were close enough, they shook hands. “Glad you guys made it,” one of the soldiers said, and repositioned the sling of his rifle over his shoulder. “Follow me, camp is around the bend.”
They continued behind a property, and then around another home and across the street, an impromptu staging area had been erected in a large soccer field beside a school. Hundreds—thousands—of troops had settled in, sitting on their rucksacks and cleaning their weapons. There was a paved track with dozens upon dozens of vehicles parked somewhat in order—Hummers, tanks, and troop carriers.
Seeing it all at once was stunning, hopeful, that this war was still far from over.
“General Winters is in the rear, in the tent to the left.” The soldier pointed to where a half dozen camouflage tents were erected. “He’ll be with General Schafer from California. The rest of their army is stationed a half click to the north.”
“Wait,” Simon said. “This isn’t everybody? How many soldiers did they bring?”
“Who, California or Texas?”
“Both.”
The soldier smiled. “Just you wait and see.”
***
Simon found Jeremy in a tent the size of a bedroom, standing hunched over a table with a cigarette dangling from his lips. A dozen more officials were jammed into the space, some around the table, dropping ashes to scatter over maps and ledgers. Others sat before a table to the side, in front of radios and relays, headphones over their ears, broadcasting orders and receiving information.
Jeremy looked up as Simon opened the tent flap, casting an outline of sunshine along the table. A voice from the table said, “Simon, you’re okay!” Richard Jarrett broke away from the gathering and came to greet Simon at the doorway. “Jesus, man, we were worried about you.”
“I’ve been worried about you too.”
“We’re making preparations now. Your men will be happy to see you.”
“No, Richard—they’re your men now.”
Richard narrowed his gaze. “You sure you want to do that?”
“I can help the people hunt. I can help them in the woods. But leading them in battle is another matter. I’ve come accept that I’m not cut out for that line of work.”
“Still though, they look up to you. You can change your mind; nothing’s been made official yet.”
“He’s sure,” Jeremy called out from the table. “Told me as much when he fled from the caravan.”
Simon felt the eyes of the officers burning into him. “Jeremy—”
“But all the same”—Jeremy paused to ground out his cigarette in a full ashtray—“he’s right. You may not be the person to lead the Rangers into battle, Simon, but we need your expertise all the same. Come over here while we finish up, get acquainted with the plan.”
Simon followed Richard and nudged his way to the table. A brief introduction was made, which included the officials from California and Texas. A middle-aged man with pursed lips and sunken cheeks reached out and shook Simon’s hand. “George Schafer,” the man said with a gruff voice. “General in charge of the United Western Federation.” A tall woman with blonde hair, maybe a few years older than Simon, reached out after General Schafer. “Ariel Taylor,” she said, offering a firm handshake, “General in charge of the Lone Star Republic.” She didn’t smile as they shook. No one in the room smiled.
Everyone’s attention was focused on maps and papers. Simon repeated the names in his head to remember them: Schafer, California; Taylor, Texas; Schafer, California; Taylor, Texas …
The big map on the table was covered in lines and dots in different colored ink, and scattered with cigarette ash. The outline of Alice’s defenses was represented in the half-circle formation from the edges of the Ridgeline River. Hightown was outlined too, beside the bay. Simon tried to make sense of the various colors and designs, and followed the conversation that was nearing completion. “… Delta Company will take up the rear after Fox, zone seven. Artillery dispatch twelve will set up in zone nineteen …” None of it made sense to him. Richard was studying the map as General Schafer continued, and Simon felt relieved he’d made the right decision by givi
ng him control.
“That’s that,” General Schafer said, and gave his watch a cursory glance. “We’re running behind.” Everyone nodded their acknowledgment, and Jeremy slid another cigarette from the pack with his teeth and flicked open his brass Zippo, yet no one moved from around the table. Once they left, the plans would begin, and the weight of thousands of lives would rest heavy on their souls.
General Taylor was the first to break the silence: “I got a regiment of eager soldiers out there waiting to rid this planet of those vermin, once and for all. This is it, people—the last battle. The final war. Let it be swift.”
Everyone nodded, and a few repeated, “Let it be swift.”
And with that, everyone turned to their respective officers, and a flurry of information was given to the radio operators. Simon turned to leave, following Richard, when Jeremy called out, “Hold up.”
Simon turned back to the table, a sense of apprehension tangible. This was his friend—his best friend, after Winston—and whatever lecture or discipline he was about to receive for disobeying his command and relinquishing his title was going to be ten times worse coming from him.
Simon spoke first. “Jeremy, I wasn’t trying to disobey your order, or—”
“I’m not mad.” Jeremy’s tone was light.
Simon exhaled a sigh of relief.
“I realize not everyone in Alice has a military background, and I don’t expect the same level of commitment to authority that comes from people in the service. Come closer, look at the map.”
Simon looked down; Jeremy was pointing to rectangular outlines in the ocean, close to the shoreline. “This battle, it’s not going to be … what you think. I need to explain a few things to you, quickly. This”—he again pointed to the rectangles—“is Louisiana’s fleet. And this”—he pointed to another group of rectangles, farther south—“is the fleet from Texas. They’ve brought an aircraft carrier and warships.”
“They have air support?”
Jeremy nodded. “No one, not even Louisiana, is aware of just how mighty their navy and air power truly is. The same goes for California. They’ve acquired a vast arsenal, unmatched by any of the colonies, and in the period when communication between the territories was limited, they decided to keep their numbers secret.”
Someday Soon Page 17
