The Last Everything

by Frank Kennedy

  He wanted revenge, but the tears rolling down her cheeks seemed genuine, as if she morphed back into the sweet, fragile girl he knew. Then he imagined tender Sammie running through the backwoods and swamps of Louisiana in camouflage dress and Army-style boots, toting an AK-47.

  She touched his hand, a gentle caress. Jamie didn’t try to push her away. Rather, he stepped closer.

  “I reckon you’re gonna tell me you want to kiss me.”

  A smile broke her tears. “It’s our last chance.”

  He sniffled. “What the hell? Ain’t like I got many options.” He lowered his head. Their noses almost touched. “For what it’s worth,” he whispered, “you might’ve been my first, if things had worked out.”

  Jamie rested his left hand against her cheek, and Sammie smiled as she tilted her face into the warm comfort of his fingers. Jamie moistened his lips, felt her short breaths, and watched her eyes close the instant before they would’ve kissed. His right hand did the rest.

  He completed the move in a second, swiping the pistol and pushing off. The gun felt like another enemy, especially as he dropped a finger over the trigger. He took two steps back, raised the weapon, aimed between her eyes, and was surprised to discover his right hand was not shaking.

  “That was pretty dumb, colonel,” he said. “I thought you were a trained soldier. Oh, well. I might not be as good with one of these as you, but I ain’t gonna miss from this close. Time to get the car keys.”

  “Jamie, this won’t work. What are you going to do? Lead me out that door? You think I’ll just be able to go up to Mom or Dad and ask for the car keys? They’ll never let you leave.”

  “So we’ll go out the window.” His eyes widened into energetic balls. “The hiking trails. Take them into the deep forest. They’ll never find me.”

  “Sure they will. Daddy knows every inch of those trails. Please don’t do this. We need to spend the time we have left …”

  “Running. That’s how we’re gonna spend it. I’m betting there’s a flashlight in the bed stand, right?” She nodded. “Good. Get it.”

  Sammie did as he asked and tested it to make sure the batteries were strong. Jamie had a nagging sensation she could have disarmed him if she wanted to. She turned to the window without looking Jamie in the eyes.

  “This is going to happen, no matter how much you fight it.”

  Jamie joined her by the window. “I still got time. If that program, or whatever you people call it, was so reliable, how come the Mentor didn’t kick in until tonight? You got no way of knowing if this thing is even working. Tech fails all the time.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course it’s working, Jamie. I saw what happened to you in my bedroom right before Daddy put you down. You were hearing things. Probably seeing things, too.”

  He heard her patronizing tone, as if she were one of those smug school guidance counselors whose phony concern always left him in a worse mood leaving the office than entering. He stepped forward and planted the gun in her chest directly above her heart.

  “You crawl out that window, or swear to God, I’ll kill you.”

  Her eyes glistening with water, Sammie pulled back the window latch, pushed up the frame and removed the screen, dropping it outside. As she began to climb through, flashlight in hand, Sammie ducked her head and faced Jamie.

  “No matter what happens, I love you.”

  Jamie felt a wave of sarcasm. “I’ll bet you say that to all your best friends when they’re gonna die in the morning.”

  As he climbed through, a cell phone rang at full volume in another room, and he heard Grace Huggins shout. He stepped outside onto the ground strewn with pine needles. As he stood beside Sammie and told her to lead the way to the trail heading west along the shoreline, Jamie knew he was now living for the moment. He had no use for the past and less understanding of the future. No plan at all, just a desperate desire to run.

  He cocked the hammer. “Move.”

  19

  4:50 a.m.

  M ICHAEL COOPER DARED not move. To his left, Dexter Cobb maintained a stoic pose, his gun stuck in Michael’s side. To his right, Christian Bidwell focused on the rifle he tucked securely, as if ready to fire at an instant’s notice. Neither said a word since leaving the cornfield outside Albion. Agatha Bidwell and Arthur Tynes reviewed the findings on Jamie’s laptop and debated options with their cohorts by phone.

  These four white people were not the cracker supremacists his Grandfather Earl – still something of a paranoiac – once spoke about. Earl talked of how black men would disappear in the middle of the night, spirited away in cars full of white men with guns, never to be seen again or perhaps to be found hanging from a tree. No, Michael thought, these people represented something more ominous. The determination in their voices and the focus in their eyes was unrelenting.

  When Michael was 8, Grandfather Earl gave him a slingshot for his birthday, telling Michael to use it exclusively for “cracker hunting.” Earl then took Michael aside and explained three hundred years of American racial history in less than three minutes, concluding his series of epithets with a simple message.

  “Smack them crackers in the ass.”

  When Michael saw a white boy his age swimming naked in the Alamander River, he armed the slingshot with a quarter-sized rock, aimed and released. The rock skipped the water twice and plunked, enough to get the boy’s attention. The boy stood in chest-high water and studied Michael for a few seconds.

  “Oh. Hey. C’mon in and have a swim. Water ain’t too cold today.”

  Michael decided the boy completely missed the point, so he searched for another rock.

  “Don’t move,” he told the boy. “I’m gonna smack you. Hold on.”

  “Why you wanna do that?”

  “Cause you’re a cracker.”

  The boy tilted his head. “Cracker? You mean like a Saltine?”

  Michael took aim. “You a dumb cracker, ain’t you?”

  “I seen you at school. Who’s your teacher?”

  Michael pulled back the slingshot. “Miss Huber.”

  “Oh, yeah? I heard she’s mean.” The boy started toward shore. “Want a sandwich? I got some bread and some Skippy.”

  The rock fell from the slingshot. “Peanut butter? Jelly, too?”

  “Sure. You wanna see something cool?”

  The boy was a few feet from the edge, but Michael turned away. “Reckon, but get your britches on first. That’s a damn sight, right there.”

  The boy laughed and made his way to a small encampment which included clothes, a grocery bag containing lunch, and a thermos; sitting atop a flat boulder was a pad of graph paper and a box of colored pencils. Michael followed, after the boy slipped on a pair of shorts.

  The boy handed Michael the peanut butter, two slices of bread and a plastic knife. “I’m not hungry yet. Gonna draw. C’mon over, take a look.”

  As Michael made his sandwich, he studied the boy’s drawings, all of which were confined to panels. Most were fully colored, while a few toward the bottom were pencil sketches. Although the panels didn’t have words, the boy had drawn bubbles for the dialogue.

  “Cool, huh? Still trying to get my characters right. I just need to keep practicing. They gotta be different from everybody else. I’m Jamie Sheridan. Come down to the river much? I like it down here. Gotta name?”

  “Michael Cooper.”

  “Good to meet you, Coop.”

  Jamie flipped the pages until he came to the first empty grids.

  “You wanna try, Coop? It’s fun once you get the hang of it.”

  Michael saw generosity in Jamie’s deep brown eyes, partly hidden between the waterfalls of his dripping, snowy hair. How could Michael not trust a kid offering peanut butter?

  Coop, he thought. Kinda cool, I reckon.

  They met by the river often. They developed chemistry and a shorthand language only they understood.

  Michael found his No. 1 hombre.

  Now, as he stared in
to the face of imminent death, a desperate Michael looked for anything to get him and Jamie out of this nightmare, yet he saw no exit. Once the cars entered Lake Vernon National Park, the phone calls increased. He heard words such as “maximum force,” “air power,” and “precision assault.” They talked in staccato tones until the car stopped, its destination reached.

  “Bring him,” Agatha told Dexter Cobb as they opened the doors.

  The national park’s ranger station was a long, narrow, one-floor structure glowing pale green beneath a single nightlight, its frame trimmed with logs. Dexter kept one hand to Michael’s neck while the other steadied the gun in the boy’s side.

  Agatha ordered Jonathan Cobb to search the property for a park-service helicopter. As he disappeared into the shadows, the others approached the front door, weapons extended. Arthur Tynes wasn’t surprised to find it locked. He stepped back, dropped his weapon to his side, and kicked at the door with enough force to throw it open. He entered, gun shoulder-high, Agatha and Christian following. From outside, Michael he heard a shuffle, whispers, and saw a light emerge from a back room. Arthur ordered someone to his knees, asked whether anyone else was present then gave the all-clear. The instant Michael and his captor entered, the front office lit up. Arthur stood behind the counter, aiming his gun at someone on the floor.

  “Complete schematics to the national park,” Arthur demanded. “Specific directions to an address. Access to your helicopter. Ask no questions.” Dexter brought Michael to the counter. “Otherwise, this young gentleman will lie on your floor in a pool of his own blood.” Arthur turned to Michael. “Sorry, sport.”

  The ranger nodded. He wore only a white t-shirt and boxers, his feet bare. The ranger came to his feet and followed Arthur’s instructions. Christian flipped on the computer, examined the other available tech, and studied the wall map behind the counter.

  No one spoke for several minutes, but Michael recognized their smiles: They were making progress. Only when Jonathan burst into the office did the quiet tension change.

  “Out back,” Jonathan said. “She’s exactly what we need.”

  Moments later, Arthur and Agatha reviewed the property owners database. Suddenly, Agatha lit up.

  “There,” she said. “Walter Pynn.” When Christian offered a quizzical look, she added, “His birth name. Not as clever as I would expect from dear Walter.”

  When apprised of the address, Jonathan added a note of excitement.

  “The helicopter has GPS. We’ll be right on top of the target.”

  Agatha instructed Jonathan to fly the bird. As Christian grabbed the maps, Agatha stopped her son.

  “I believe your opportunity has come, Christian. Perhaps you should join Mr. Cobb in the air assault.” Christian’s eyes lit up. His mother turned to the ranger. “You, sir, did an exceptional job. For the moment, Mr. Cooper here will not have to die. But you, unfortunately, have too many answers.”

  Agatha leveled her gun at the ranger and fired point-blank. As the ranger dropped behind the counter with a thud, Michael jerked.

  “Shit.” His heart raced; the truth could not have been more evident – they weren’t going to leave any witnesses behind.

  Agatha stood over the body in silence for a moment. She looked first to Christian, an empty pall in her eyes.

  “You understand, Son?” She asked. “While our cause is morally just, we must temporarily abandon whatever foibles we might have regarding the sanctity of life.” She stretched her attention to Arthur and the Cobb brothers. “The slightest hesitation, and we lose to Walter. Yes?”

  They nodded with enthusiasm and hustled outside.

  The Cobbs opened their car’s trunk and distributed heavy-duty weapons Michael recognized from news reports about the wars overseas. These were M16s, the U.S. Army’s assault weapons of choice. Agatha gave quick instructions, all of which concerned the need for perfect timing. Michael found himself in a fog as Dexter forced him into the backseat. Agatha took the wheel as Jonathan and Christian bolted into the darkness toward the helicopter. Michael knew his death sentence would be complete if they found Jamie and the Hugginses in the lake house. The digital clock on the dashboard said 5:05.

  Michael looked to his right. He had a free path to the door. It was his only chance, but his courage wasn’t focused. Before he realized what happened, the car returned to Highway 39. Michael felt his life slipping.

  Arthur held the wheel, and Agatha communicated with the helicopter crew; they were confident the assault would succeed. Shortly after the car turned off Highway 39 and headed toward the lake, Agatha gave new orders to her son.

  “We’re less than three minutes from the target. The next time I contact you, commence your attack run. Understood?”

  Michael looked through the window to his right. Dense forest opened up to unveil a swath of ebony glass – Lake Vernon. He guessed the road was fifty yards above the lake. He recognized the bluffs along the northern face. The car moved at a swift pace, but the speed was limited by the road’s wild curves.

  Agatha turned around and faced him.

  “Mr. Cooper, I fill the need to clarify what you witnessed at the ranger station.” Michael did not take his eyes off the bluffs as she continued. “We are not murderers by trade or by choice. Our mission, however confounding you may find it, has always been to serve the greater interests of humanity. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain this contradiction, except to assure you that for everyone who will be sacrificed today, millions of lives – some of them yet to exist – will be saved.” She sighed. “I wish you could have experienced my English class. Naturally, you would have failed, but I believe your undisciplined humor might have been appreciated on occasion.”

  He knew what was coming next. Michael chose life.

  He flung himself through the passenger door without being shot. However, he knew he was in trouble as soon as he hit the edge of the pavement, kneecap first, and rolled over. He scrambled to his feet, hoping this was nothing more than a stinger. His right leg wobbled, and he collapsed in agony. He knew better than to ponder the wound, so he balanced himself on his left leg and shuffled forward on one working foot.

  Brakes squealed, and his heart sank. If he scrambled another ten, twelve feet, he’d roll down the bluff, pray that something less than deadly would catch his fall, and the lunatics with assault rifles wouldn’t waste time tracking him.

  He wasn’t halfway when the car stopped bathed him in high beams. He expected his ex-track coach to hit the gas and run him over. Rather, he heard patient footsteps pressing the pavement and crunching the gravel just behind him.

  Michael pushed himself toward the edge. He wasn’t going to be a roadside kill like so many possums.

  He heard ear-splitting thunder, and the first bullet entered just below his left shoulder blade. The initial sensation of a pinprick turned into fire in his chest as a lung deflated. Michael thought he saw the images of his mom and dad caught in the high beams and twisted a second time as another bullet sliced through him, entering centimeters from his spine just beneath his neck.

  The momentum of the bullet propelled him forward. He lost all sense of control and, like a rag doll, keeled into the darkness below.

  He rolled downward, his body thumping against exposed roots, his head whacking the base of a tree, and his mouth swallowing chunks of soil. He fell end over end into a clump of myrtle, dangled in the bush for a few seconds until the thin branches gave way, and landed gently in mud.

  Michael wanted to cry out, but he had no strength, not even enough for tears. Opening his eyes was all he could bear. The world was silent, peaceful. Michael knew he was going to die alone.

  He refused to go to his creator asking why this happened. A tiny voice buried deep in his memory whispered, “When the Lord is ready to call you home, open your arms and fly.” He recognized his Grandmother Celeste, who always said she had no fear of passing.

  Michael figured he would see her first.

&
nbsp; Right before he closed his eyes, Michael found joy in his agony. He discovered that everything he ever heard was correct: The passage to the other side did indeed begin with a bright light.

  20

  F IFTEEN MINUTES AFTER Jamie disappeared into Samantha’s bedroom, the torture continued elsewhere in the lake house. Ben held Arlene Winters still as Walt threaded a spliced electrical cord down the woman’s sinus cavity. She convulsed, over and over, but seemed not to care.

  Ben felt ashamed. Was this how all Chancellors behaved? Was this what he was too young to see before crossing the fold?

  Pieces of crap, he told himself. We’re nothing special at all.

  “Size and disposition of Agatha’s allies,” Walt demanded of his prisoner. “Do they know our location? What is their next move?”

  Arlene wet her blood-caked lips and smiled to show teeth.

  “Time,” she whispered, her hoarse voice breaking the single word into two syllables. “Your … time … is coming. You ruined us.”

  Walt balled a fist as he turned to Ben. “I’ve never understood their argument. Chancellors must evolve. This is for all of us.”

  Ben lost patience for this business. The clock was ticking on his chance to show his little brother the flash drive that was Ben’s last meaningful gift, perhaps a way to defy the impossible.

  “Walt, I have a proposal,” Ben said. “Since we’ve obviously been compromised, why don’t we just pack up and head into the woods? We won’t have to hold out but five hours. These people might be determined, but they don’t know the terrain.”

  Walt smirked. “Of course we’ll leave. Soon.”

  A cell phone sprang to life in the kitchen, its melodic ring at full volume echoing through the house. Ben and Walt froze as Grace shouted. She must have lunged for the phone, as it didn’t ring twice. Walt started for the door, but he didn’t make it all the way.

  Grace was already talking into it as she entered the doorway.

  “… no, no, no. Sheriff, I’m sure Alberta must have been mistaken. Hold on, Sheriff.” She looked up, her eyes darting in panic, her free hand palm-up to maintain silence. She held the phone tight against her chest.