by Frank Klus
“I’ve heard stories, but I never met anyone who ever went through it. How come they weren’t able to change you over? I mean, I thought no one ever comes out without being…well, fucked up.”
“I know what you mean, Jeff. Fortunately, I only spent about three days in that place before I was rescued.”
“Jesus Christ. What was it like? I mean, I’ll understand if you don’t want to talk about it.”
Eugene looked downcast. He started to tell the motel manager about it, but his speech became raspy and halted.
Pamela saw that this was a subject that her charge was not yet ready to talk about. “I think we should talk about something else,” she said.
They talked for a couple hours until Eugene and Pamela got too tired and turned in for the night. Eugene turned on the television, which only had a few stations, and no cable. He normally didn’t watch much TV anyway, but there was nothing to do. He found an old Jimmy Stewart movie on a UHF channel. It was a Western in black and white; not what he was hoping for, but he did like Jimmy Stewart.
Moms, dads, are you sick and tired of being talked back to by your child?
“Ah, Jeez,” Eugene mumbled aloud.
Tired of the arguments? The failing grades? Then I have good news for you. You just bring that little devil of yours to Tough Love Camp and I’ll return you a little angel. You heard me right, folks. For just nine ninety-nine we’ll turn your devil into a little angel. And if you call in the next fifteen minutes, I’ll take ten percent off, and give you free infusions of our famous tough love approach while your child is in school.
Just bring your child in right after school lets out and I’ll return your child when school starts again; all ready to tackle school just like the little angel you always wanted.
Call the number on the screen in the next fifteen minutes and totally revamp your child’s behavior. Call now!
Eugene could hardly contain himself. He let out a scream that scared Pamela, who had the adjacent room.
“Gene, are you okay?”
Eugene let her in, but he was still fuming as he relayed the commercial to her. “Jesus Christ, from Hell House to tough love camp. Government brainwashing camps weren’t enough. Now this guy figured out how to make a buck off it. What’s next? They turn it into a movie? The Stepford Kids Enter School. ‘Watch little Johnny turn from brat to angel right before your eyes; just like you always wanted.’ They can all walk around with weird smiles on their face with ‘yes, teacher,’ and ‘no, sir;’ and ‘may I wash the dishes, mom?’ Sure, just fry the brain up really good, and just shove all that goodness in their little sponge brains, and they’ll be as good as new. Holy Jesus, Mary, and mackerel. Can you believe this?”
“Yeah, I’ve seen that before too, but it’s just some camp parents send their kids to. I think they just started them up last year. Surely, you don’t think they’re the same thing you went through?”
“I think they’re much the same as what I went through. They might not knock the little tykes around, but I’m certain it’s the same thing. God, how can they do this to anyone, let alone children? Of all things!”
“Please, Gene, calm down. There’s nothing you can do about it. Just put it behind you and concentrate on getting to New America.”
“I’m sorry, Pamela. You’re right, but when you’ve gone through the same thing I did it’s impossible to put it behind you. I’m going to remember that place. Christ, Pamela, Hell House is one thing, but now they’re privatizing them. They’re charging for the privilege of torturing their children, and they don’t even know it. They shoot you full of drugs until you’re so fucked up you don’t know up from down. That’s what they do, and now they make you pay for the privilege of being drugged into some sort of controlled state. What the hell? It’s like Professor Zinney said, ‘Gene, it’s not government you should fear, it’s what comes after.’”
Dennis O’Reilly was running Command Central for Operation Capture out of his new office. He had a large wall-size map of the country. He created new borders with colored markers: red for Squad territory, black for RAC, green for purely neutral territory, pink for neutral territory friendly to the Squad, and brown for neutral territory friendly to the RAC.
Next, he mapped out a likely route his fugitives would take, maximizing purely neutral territory. He would bribe anyone along the perceived route to look out for them, and promise rewards for the eventual arrest and capture of them. He had Squad or RAC people circulating pictures the Squad had on file of the escapees.
He solicited volunteers from Squad and RAC soldiers. He promised a ten thousand dollar reward for the capture of each man and five hundred dollars for information leading to their capture. There weren’t many volunteers. He then told them that Jaydan Casimir would remember any of the volunteers. It would be a good career move, he hinted. This created a few more volunteers, but Dennis hardly felt like Genghis Kahn.
Dennis knew this was no easy assignment. He didn’t even know the type of vehicle they were driving. He could only guess at the route they were likely to take, and he knew he needed a lot more information before he could even think about arrest and capture. He knew he needed help, and so he took a deep breath and knocked on Jaydan Casimir’s door.
“Come!”
“Sir, I need your expertise.”
“Sit.” Dennis did as directed. “I was wondering when you were coming in. Are you familiar with the Hogs?”
“Hogs, sir?”
“There are a few dozen of them in groups of three or six around the country; motorcycle gangs. Their leader, Carlos Colderon, used to be with the Blue Squad, like your brother. Not all of them joined Ray, thank God. Colderon worked for me in the past. He’s smart but cranky—actually, he can be quite violent. He didn’t like the idea of working with the RAC, but he never got along with your brother either. He considered him and his buddies from the Blues too idealistic.” Casimir looked pensive.
“I think he’d murder his own mother if the price was right. You’ll have to offer him at least 25 G’s to get his support, but you’ll need it. He also won’t do anything until he gets the money up front, and there’s no guarantee he’ll help us either. Better to offer him half now and the other…well, you know how it goes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve already spoken to him. Colderon was noncommittal because I told him he’d be working for you. He needs to hear from you first. He’ll try to intimidate you, so you’ve got to assert yourself. Be respectful though, or you’ll lose him, but be authoritative as well. He’s very temperamental and doesn’t trust anyone. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Here’s his card. He uses a mobile phone, so you can call him. You need him, O’Reilly, but get your ducks in a row before you call him. I know you’ve projected a route that your brother might take, but you must find out what they’re driving. Call all the used car lots in a fifty mile radius from Countryside that is still in neutral territory. Ask for a white Suburban no more than a couple years old. That’s the car Pamela was known to be driving. We believe she exchanged the vehicle for another one. Bribe the dealer to find out if a Suburban was just bought in the past week or so, and if it was Pamela’s. Find out what she bought. Get as much info as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
Casimir looked suspiciously at Dennis. “You sure you can handle this?”
“Yes, sir. You can count on me, sir.”
Chapter 14:
Hogs
“Gene…something isn’t it?” Mark said. He wore a big grin while Eugene looked on, worried.
“Why did you go this way? It will only slow us down. You should stick to the highway.”
Mark paid no attention to Gene. He stopped and just stared up at them. Even Gene had to marvel at them.
“The tombstones; nothing like them,” Mark said.
Eugene stared at the empty high rises up and down Michigan Avenue. “It’s a ghost town. This place is so creepy. You can’t go far.
The roads are no good. No one ever comes in here anymore.”
Mark continued to ignore his colleague and stared upward. “Just think, Gene, this street used to be jammed with traffic. Thousands of people lived here. At the other end was the place of commerce in Old Chicago; only it wasn’t old then.” Mark smiled. “This place was alive.”
Eugene smiled. He admitted a certain fascination with the old times. “Look over there,” he said, pointing toward the lake. “That was the old Mercantile Center. My father used to talk about how his father would take him there in the fall for the annual auto show, and then in the spring for the boat show. Now it’s just a partially caved in piece of junk.”
“I know. My father used to talk about it too. Then there was the Tech Museum by the lake. Remember that, Gene, and that great toy train that must have taken up about an acre of space?”
“Yeah, I remembered taking a class trip there once. Then the city ran out of money and they closed it down, right along with the school that sent us there. Come on, let’s get out of here before these old buildings fall down on us.”
Mark turned around, but he had to move slowly because of the poor condition of the road. “Damn potholes,” he said.
“They seem to get worse every year.” Eugene stirred. Pamela glanced over to him. “Penny for your thoughts?” she said with a smile.
Ray and Cassandra were about an hour behind Eugene and Pamela, but they had a tracker on them. Ray typically contacted Pamela each night. She was still ambivalent about them, but she put on a friendly countenance for Eugene’s sake.
A couple years ago the Lightning Squad arrested her when she was on her way back from escorting a family out of the country. They charged her with aiding and abetting a known fugitive. A government official went after Commandant Casimir, just a month into his new position, and threatened to arrest him for civil rights violations. Casimir backed down and ordered the Squad to free Pamela. From then on, the Squad would go after the fugitives, but not Pamela.
This was the current situation. Pamela’s security expert gave her a route, and she had a friendly senator in Congress that would apprise her of any danger. Now she had extra security tailing her at a considerable distance.
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until the fourth day of their departure. As Ray and Cassandra were traveling down the same road as Pamela, they saw a motorcycle gang roar past them. “Hogs,” Cassandra said.
“They’re known in these parts.”
“Do you think they could be after Eugene?”
“Let’s not jump to any conclusions, dear. Increase our speed and follow them.”
Jeff Blakely heard the roar. He looked outside to see a motorcycle gang. They were whooping it up and revving their engines. Startled, Jeff came out, and their leader, wearing a helmet in the shape of a hog’s head, walked toward him. He was grinning. Jeff stepped back.
“Got room for me and my Hogs?” Carlos Colderon asked.
Jeff tried to remain calm and polite. “Yes, certainly, sir. How many are there in your party?”
Colderon just laughed, and the others began to cackle as they entered the office. Colderon was a big man of Mexican heritage, though he spoke little Spanish. Raised in the angry east end of Los Angeles, he got his start with an old biker gang that controlled that part of the city. Drafted into the Mideast Wars, he displayed a ferocity that marked him for greatness. He won a dozen or more medals while serving in the Green Berets. When he was mustered out of the military he joined the Blue Squad as one of their leaders, but he soon fell out of favor with them, and started his own paramilitary organization—the Hogs. Created to control, he’d rob from anyone that had money, and used the money to buy favors. He’d steal off Blues and RAC soldiers to create a powerful force that Casimir won over a few years later.
Life was good for Carlos, who thought he could retire and live a life of luxury, but he soon got bored with that. His Hogs, in the meantime, couldn’t decide on a leader, and talked Colderon into returning. Now, sporting a full grey beard and a 300-pound bulk frame, he changed the mission of the Hogs. Now, they’d work for the Squad or RAC as mercenaries, charging plenty of money for their services. He shed much of his membership, keeping the best of them, and waited for Casimir to call him with his next mission. Now, working for a guy he swore he’d never work for, his fee doubled.
“This your sign-in book?” Colderon said to Blakely.
“Yes—”
Colderon grabbed the book before Jeff could finish. “Who is Jennifer and Phillip Mulligan?”
“The last two guests. Why do you ask?”
“What’d they look like?”
“That information is private, I’m afraid.”
“He’s afraid,” Colderon said to his guffawing Hogs. “Says its private,” stretching out the word. The Hogs continued laughing.
Turning to Blakely, he said, nonchalantly, “When did they leave?”
“A little while ago.”
“Where were they going?”
“I don’t know.”
Colderon smiled and looked at his Hogs. Then he turned back to Blakeley, only now the smile was gone. “Now, proprietor, these are the new rules. You work for me from now on. When I ask you questions, you give me straight-forward answers; no bullshit. Get it?”
Jeff didn’t answer.
Colderon growled and slapped him viciously, sending him sprawling to the floor, and against his front desk. He was stunned; the Hogs cackled.
Colderon helped him up.
“GET IT?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now, who were those last guests? I want to know their real names.”
“I only know what they wrote in the reservation log.”
“What did they look like?”
Blakely was flustered. He dabbed his cut lip with the sleeve of his shirt, and then stared at Colderon. “The woman was in her late sixties, I believe; grey hair, nice figure, glasses, attractive. The gentleman was about five-eight, mid-fifties, grey hair, fairly heavy set.”
Colderon smiled now. “That’s better. Now we’re off to a good start. Now, proprietor, where did they go?”
“They went north, but they didn’t tell me where they were going, and I never ask.”
“Describe their vehicle.”
“It was grey, I think; a sedan. I didn’t notice anything else.”
“He’s lying, boss,” one of the Hogs said. “Look, it’s all right here in the book.”
Colderon checked it out, and then turned vicious again. He moved toward Blakely, who backed into a wall. Colderon hit him with a vicious right hook and knocked him to the floor. Then picked him up again.
“I swear to God I didn’t know that.”
“What is her real name?”
“I don’t know.” Blakely was in tears as he dabbed his left cheek. Colderon struck him again.
“Pamela Piper.”
“What was the man’s name?”
“I don’t know.”
“YES, YOU DO! DON’T MAKE ME ASK YOU AGAIN.”
“Sulke. That’s all I know.” Blakely was bleeding from both lips, and his left eye was swelling up.
“Where were they going?”
“They wouldn’t tell me.”
“YOU’RE LYING!”
“I swear, I don’t know.”
Colderon slapped him hard again, and then again. “WHERE WERE THEY GOING?” grabbing Blakely by the shirt.
“New America.”
Ray and Cassandra saw the Hogs in the motel parking lot, and drove around back. “You count the number of bikes, Cass?”
“Six.”
“Let’s make sure we count six when they leave.”
They waited almost a half hour before they left. They drove away fast, going north. “It seems pretty clear they know exactly where to go,” Ray said, who drove around the front to check on the proprietor.
“Ray, shouldn’t we be going after them?”
“There’re six of them and only
two of us, Cass. Let’s talk to the proprietor first.”
When Ray and Cassandra walked in they found Blakely sitting on the floor with his back to the front wall. His hands were on his face and he was weeping noticeably.
“Mr. Blakely,” Ray said. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”
He nodded.
The two helped Jeff to his feet, and sat him down in a chair. Cassandra went out to grab a first aid kit.
“Mr. Blakely, my name is Ray O’Reilly. I’m assisting Pamela in getting Eugene to New America.”
Jeff looked at him, still rattled. “I ratted on them.” He just kept shaking his head back and forth. “I ratted on them,” he repeated somewhat mournfully.
Cassandra returned and began treating his wounds. “They gave you a nice shiner,” she said with a smile.
“They know what she was driving, and got the plate number from the log book.”
Ray took a look at it; saw the names, car plates and description. Ray smiled. “Pamela’s certainly no fool—false description.”
“You mean they’re chasing the wrong vehicle?”
“You didn’t give them away,” Cassandra said.
“Let me call Pamela anyway, so they can duck out of the way,” Ray said.
Dirksen Building, Third Floor, Office of Senator Everson Moore.
Ev paced behind his desk, looking worried, when Gino Cuccione entered his office. Ev looked at him. Cuccione pointed to the bar and Ev nodded. “Make one for me too.”
“Well, you were right. Intelligence was a little slow.” Gino walked over to the credenza, grabbed a couple glasses, and put a couple ice cubes in them before picking out a bottle of Cutty Sark. He fixed the drinks.
“Okay, let’s hear it,” Ev said.
“Dennis O’Reilly negotiated a deal with them—twenty-five G’s.” He handed Ev a drink and took a swig. “I think it was Jaydan Casimir’s doing. He uses them for especially difficult assignments. He had to convince them he’d be working for O’Reilly.” Gino downed the remainder of his drink, and poured himself another one.
