by Justin Bell
Metal clattered, pieces scraping, separating, then clacking together, the calculated motions of the small hands in front of him making short work of weapon disassembly. Lonzo had set this routine early on, and made sure to reinforce it, knowing even with an audience as young as The Orphans, complex directions could be followed with reinforcement and repetition. That had been burned into his brain during boot camp, and he’d remembered some sketchy fellow Marines.
But these kids. These kids never ceased to amaze and impress him. Some as young as ten, most in the thirteen to sixteen range, these young men and women worked hard and followed his lead, surprising themselves as much as him, especially so soon after many of them lost their parents.
It was a brave new world they had entered, a world where even the children had to fight to survive. The Orphans, at least, were a step ahead of the rest of the world, and if Lonzo Velez had his way, that’s where they’d stay.
***
“They made us look like idiots,” he growled, running a rough hand over his neatly trimmed scalp. “Between the Frasers and those stupid kids, we’re being made to be the fools!”
“Karl, come on,” replied Stout, making sure he remained at attention, only moving his hand slightly to make the calming gesture.
“No, I won’t come on.” Karl Green glared at his second in command, narrowing his eyes, the steel glint of his gray irises sneaking out through pinched lids. “Ironclad is a global organization. Half a billion dollars in revenue. We helped squelch a Taliban uprising north of Kabul. We expelled Suni terrorists from Baghdad. We’ve been working with Special Forces for almost two decades. I will not come on.”
“I will agree we haven’t taken The Orphans seriously up to this point,” Stout said. “That will change.”
“They’re a coordinated group, Chuck, but they’re kids for crying out loud. Most of them teenagers. Why are any of them still alive?”
“You answered your own question, sir,” Stout replied. “They’re kids. What are we supposed to do, open up on them? Riddle them with 5.56 hardball? They’re teenagers who lost their parents in the skirmish; even we have to draw the line somewhere.”
Green turned from him, clenching both fists. “We are at a crucial point in the history of this organization and in the history of this nation.” Striding forward, he approached a window facing the street from the second floor of the Ironclad corporate offices. Looking out through the glass he saw the pale gray road run by the building and off into the distance, looking dull and colorless in the late morning sun. Glancing over toward the north, he could see some faint spirals of smoke reaching up from the skyline of Chicago and only imagine the conflict going on within. Even for Ironclad, the downtown Chicago city area had been designated off limits. The term war zone was used often enough, but in this case it was a very appropriate designation. The city of Chicago was indeed a war zone and venturing too close was to risk your life.
Crossing his arms, Karl Green looked out the window, lifting his gaze to the cloudy skies. Somewhere out there The Orphans were organized. They were holding out, training, preparing, getting ready for whatever might come next. One day he’d find out where.
Green glanced over his shoulder. “You know what we’ve done, Stout,” he whispered. “You know what Ironclad was responsible for. What we helped our friends do.”
Stout’s eyes darted away, as if he didn’t particularly want to face that harsh truth.
Green turned toward him. “How we coordinated these militia movements. Organized communications and shipments. Some of our engineers even helped construct the—”
“Karl, please,” Stout hissed. “We don’t want to say this too loud.”
“Does it really matter?” Green scoffed. “Or are you just too afraid to admit our role in this?”
“Are you proud of this, sir?” Stout asked. “Does the state of the world bring a smile to your lips?”
“The state of the world?” Karl asked. “Nuclear stalemate? A country on the verge of civil war? European nations air-dropping invaluable supplies, with our government too entrenched in their own failings to put them to use?”
Karl looked at him for a moment, then took three long strides toward him, letting his soft footfalls speak for him. As he approached, he held out a hand and extended one long finger in his direction.
“You helped me build this company, Chuck. I won’t deny that. Ironclad wouldn’t exist without you.”
Charles Stout stood at rigid attention, arms flush against his sides.
“But I am the one in charge here, and when you speak to me, you will treat me with respect, do you understand me?”
Stout nodded, a swift and abrupt jerk of his head.
“Good,” Green hissed. “You were right there by my side in that dark room in Washington when we agreed to this. I never once tried to convince you this was something other than what it was.”
“Are you telling me you expected this?” Stout asked, jerking his head vaguely toward the city of Chicago, several miles to the north. “America is in ashes, Karl. This isn’t what we signed up for.”
Green lowered his gaze, nodding. He looked back up. “You’re right. It’s not what we signed up for. But this isn’t over yet. Stage three is still to come, you know that as well as I do.”
Stout didn’t reply, he wouldn’t even look at Karl, his eyes just glaring across the room and out the window.
“We need to get our house in order,” Karl said, breaking the silence. “Don’t think the past two months have gone unnoticed. Our contacts in the government are not real pleased and are growing dubious of our ability to pull off stage three.”
“So what happens then?” Stout asked.
“We’ll never know. Because we’re going to convince them that we can handle it. That Ironclad is still the security contractor of choice and the right group to do this work.”
“Understood,” Stout replied.
“That’s my boy,” said Green. “That’s the right attitude.”
“So, then, what’s our next step?”
“Well, the good news is, from what I’m hearing, there’s quite a stockpile of food, medical supplies and financial aid just waiting to be put to use once we can enact Stage Three. Our current leadership seems incapable of doing what needs to be done with them, so perhaps our benefactors were more on the money with their assessment of America than even we thought?”
Karl broke away from the confrontation and strolled to a filing cabinet pressed tight against the far wall. Easing out the top drawer with a scrape of metal on metal, he peeled out a folder stuffed with individual sheets of paper.
Opening up the folder, he traced some of the information with an index finger, then spoke without looking up. “We’ve diverted all product to the Philadelphia storage facility as instructed along with potential future shipments.”
“We’re abandoning Chicago and Springfield altogether?” asked Stout.
Green nodded. “Too volatile here.”
“Are we relocating?”
“Eventually,” Green said. “Krueller is heading the Philly operation and he’ll continue to do so. We’ll be moving there as support once all shipments have been successfully moved. Redistribution is a little more complicated than it used to be.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
Karl slapped the folder shut. “Meanwhile, we need to make a point.”
“A point, sir?”
“Yes. A point. We need to make it crystal clear who is in charge of this neck of the woods. Who runs security out here. Make it clear that Ironclad can still be trusted with this operation.”
“And how are we doing that?”
Green tossed the folder onto the desk behind him, his eyes burning laser-scorched holes into Stout. “We need to find The Orphans and make an example of them.”
***
Tamar juked right, sweeping under the thrusting strike, then lunged forward, driving an elbow into Lonzo’s ribs on his left side. Lonzo drew in a s
harp, pained breath, stepping back with a clumsy lurch.
“Nice shot, kid,” Lonzo muttered. “Really nice shot.”
“Those six years of Tae Kwon-Do lessons paid off, huh?”
“Yeah, bud. You’re still the fastest kid in the building.” Lonzo ran a hand over his ribs, wincing.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Tamar replied, dancing gingerly on the balls of his feet, putting up his fists like a boxer.
“All right, take it easy, Rocky Balboa,” Lonzo said, lifting his palms in a calming gesture. “Save some of that energy for tonight, okay?”
“Supply run tonight?” Tamar asked, walking over to a nearby desk and pulling a towel from it, then rubbing his forehead.
“Supply run mixed with a little recon, if you can hack it.”
“Who you talkin’ to, man? I can hack it.”
“I know you can.”
“So where’m I going?” Tamar followed Lonzo out of the makeshift training room, set up in the school gym, then turned right, continuing on down the hall on the first floor.
“It’s going to be a fun one,” Lonzo said.
The two strode down the hall, then diverted into a small classroom converted into storage, with wooden racks mounted on the walls and a shelf pressed tight to the back of the small, square room. On the shelf was a single M4 Carbine equipped with a suppressor, a large cylindrical scope, and a two-post extended stock. Tamar’s eyes drifted wide. He wasn’t the oldest member of The Orphans, not by a long shot, only turning fourteen a week before his parents’ deaths. Small for his age, he was also quick, both mentally and physically, and one of the few kids in the group who had any sort of hand-to-hand combat training prior to his joining the group.
“This is your chance,” Lonzo said. “We need some surveillance. On Ironclad corporate headquarters.”
“Daaaang,” Tamar said, a thin smile creasing his young face.
“This isn’t a game, Tamar. You get that, right?”
“Yeah, man, I get it.”
“If Ironclad sees you, they will try to kill you. I’ve seen it before.”
Tamar nodded, looking up at him. “I’m good, man, alright? You’ve seen it before, we all seen it before, bro. I saw it the morning my pops was bringing me home from TKD practice, right?”
“I know,” Lonzo said, placing a palm on Tamar’s shoulder. He lowered into a crouch, looking the boy in the eyes. “I’m trusting you with this, okay? Something is going on with Ironclad. Lots of activity in and around the building. Not just here, but some transport trucks have been spotted leaving the metropolitan area. Heading East. No idea why.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Get as close as you can. As close as you’re comfortable with. If the corporate office is empty, get in there and see what you can find out. If not, just try to do some eavesdropping, okay? I don’t want you risking your life, but we’re getting to the point of no return.”
Tamar nodded. “Why now?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, you’ve always been all about just keeping us safe. Out of harm’s way. Now you wanna know what they’re up to. What changed?”
“What changed is that safety is an illusion, buddy. As long as Ironclad is around, there is no such thing. We need to think more proactively.”
“I feel you.”
“So, can you handle this?” Lonzo asked. “I’m sending you solo. Are you okay with that?”
Tamar’s face hardened, his cocky smile shifting into a narrow line of determined confidence. “I won’t let you down, Lonzo.”
Lonzo closed his fist and Tamar punched it, knuckle-to-knuckle.
“Lonzo! Lonzo!” the voice was shrill and echoing from the walls of the empty hallway leading back past the converted gym and out toward one of the side doors. Lonzo recognized the light trill immediately.
“Monique?” he called out, stepping away from Tamar and out into the hallway. A young girl was running down the tiled passage, not much more than twelve years old. A pink backpack slapped her shoulders as she ran, her breath hitching.
“I got news, Lonzo. Big news.”
“Out with it, Monique, good or bad?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. A little of both maybe?”
“Speak.”
Monique bent over, putting her palms on her knees and tried to steady her breathing. Her back heaved as she did and she drew in long, steady breaths.
“You know the barricades down by Peoria?” she asked, lifting herself back up.
“Yeah, of course.”
“Late last night,” she said through gasps. “They fell. Broke through.”
“Seriously?” Lonzo asked, not wanting to think about what it might have taken to accomplish such a thing. From what he’d heard those barricades had gone up shortly after the violence had broken out in Chicago, and they’d been up for eight weeks. Manned twenty-four hours a day by border patrol and Illinois State cops. If people had broken through, lives had likely been lost. Probably lots of them.
“What’s that mean for us?” Tamar asked, coming up behind him. “You think they’re all coming here?”
Lonzo shook his head. “No. No they won’t all come here. But if people did break through that means law enforcement resources just got severely drained. If word gets to the guys in Chi-town, the whole city could explode. Cops could pull out, the National Guard could abandon their spot, things will just get a lot worse for everyone.”
“That change anything you want me to do?” Tamar asked.
Lonzo shook his head. “Nah. If anything, it makes it even more important. If we can find out what Ironclad is up to, maybe we can make a decision about staying or going. I suspect things will be getting very unsafe here very quickly.”
“So when do I go?” Tamar asked.
“Tonight,” Lonzo replied. “Wait until dark, then you go, tonight.”
Chapter 3
Even in her memories the sky was gray and the rain was falling. A cold, pattering smack of wet barrage, pelting down upon her bare arms, dirty blonde hair, and flushed cheeks. It was unseasonably cool in the Colorado wilderness as her mind wandered back to what most children would have considered a “simpler” time, but her childhood was anything but simple. She glared at the cabin perched on the mountain, surrounded by layers of lush, green trees, opening their branches and embracing the falling rain.
Wearing overalls, a twelve-year-old Rhonda Fraser sat at the picnic table in her back yard, eyeing the broad expanse of green grass. The curved handle of a hunting knife was clamped between her fingers. In her other hand she held the whetstone, getting even more soaked with each pelting rain drop as she scraped the curved blade across its rough surface. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Even in her mind, the scraping sound was a persistent probing, a dull blade scraping away layers of her memory, carving into the surface of her brain, peeling away at it, chunk by ragged chunk. She looked at the silver blade going forward, then back, left then right, wearing down the metal evenly on each side.
Just how dad would want it. She had to do it how dad wanted it.
A swift shock of cold racked her body, goosebumps crawling up her bare arms, her hands spasming as she struggled to hold onto the knife and the stone. She sniffled, water running through her hair, down her forehead, clinging to the end of her nose. It wasn’t just a sprinkle now, it was a full-blown downpour, and each drop felt like a tiny ice cube being pressed into her pale, bare skin. Even the thick, blue overalls she wore were getting soaked through, feeling heavy and clinging to her narrow legs as she sat at the table.
“Rhonda?” his voice bellowed over the expanse of grass, a deep and roaring call.
“Yeah, dad?” she asked, lifting her head, squinting through the diagonal drops of rain.
“You done? It’s almost dinner!”
She glanced down at the knife, turning it in her hand, looking hard at the blade, then looked back at her fathe
r. He was walking across the lawn toward her, a black raincoat draped over him, water spattering against the plastic and flinging away.
“Come on. You’ll catch your death of cold.”
She nodded, but didn’t speak. She held herself back from telling him that he was the one who made her finish sharpening the knife even as the rain started to fall. He was the one who asked her to…
The two dark eyes peered back at her, even through the gray of dusk. Twin orbs of flat coal which somehow carried the weight of the world within them.
She shook the thought from her head as he pressed his palm to her back, easing her from the bench of the picnic table and up into a slow walk back toward the cabin.
“You must be hungry,” he whispered as they walked.
Rhonda nodded.
“’Round the corner,” he said, pointing toward the cabin in the distance. “East side. You remember which is east and which is west, right?”
“Yes, dad.”
“Show me.” He let her go and let Rhonda walk, and she glanced up to see if she could spot the sun in among the thick, gray clouds. The faint glow was visible, and she noted its direction, then adjusted her walking, curling around the opposite side of the cabin as requested.
She drew in a breath.
The deer was there, laying on the ground, legs extended, those soulless black eyes still gazing, still looking at something she could not see.
Rhonda stopped, looking down at the creature, the knife feeling cold and heavy in her clenched fist. She stood rigid, unmoving, muscles tensed, a plank of skin, muscle and bone.
“You know what to do?” her father asked.
Rhonda looked at the creature, then back up at her father. He returned her look with his own steely gaze, nodding down toward the deer.
“You’re hungry, right?”
Rhonda nodded.
“Get to work.”
She looked back down at the deer, then lifted the knife, turning it over in her hand, her vision blurred by a mixture of rain and fresh tears. Even through the fogging smear of wetness, the knife glowed like a talisman, a smooth mirror illuminated by some strange glow, bright in the rain-soaked dusk, reflecting her glare back at her. But it wasn’t her. Not quite.
