APOCALYPSE LAW

by John Grit

  “It’s not over wheat.” Jake pointed out the window at the front yard. “That little sniveling paper pusher came up here and thought he would get his boots licked by someone who just spent more than a year in hell while he played with forms and enjoyed telling our neighbors when to jump and how high. It was spineless little desk jockeys like him who sent people to their deaths by the millions.” Cathy’s eyes widened. “Yes, by the millions. They don’t tell you over here the half of it.”

  Cathy shook her head. “No. Whatever happened over there. No.”

  “They’re going to send me back soon,” Jake said. “Maybe I’ll get the harvest in before, maybe not. They must have a thumping gizzard for a heart. To send men to die for other’s freedom while they build up a government designed with thousands of default settings that result in good people losing everything: their property, their dignity, and their life. They think they know what’s best for us. Well, the Nazis have their plans too.”

  “It’s about your pride. I don’t care what you say. It’s just your pride. That little man made you mad. Well, go punch his lights out and get it out of your system. But don’t go fighting the law just because someone made you mad.”

  “I already told you what it’s about. I guess my words will never be enough. If you don’t understand, I can’t help it. You just won’t understand. Either way, what’s going to happen will be the same.”

  “What about me? You don’t care?”

  “You will have to stay in town until it’s over.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “I know. And yes I do care. But I’m not going to go back to Europe to die after letting my own government heel me like a hound pup.”

  Cathy looked up at him. “There it is: your pride.”

  Jake pointed out the window. “We use that wheat to feed our livestock and bake bread. We don’t even sell it. Until Tom just told us how it doesn’t matter if there is any commerce or not, they still claim it’s the commerce law or whatever, I was thinking Tom could tell them we don’t sell it and they would leave us alone. Now I know even better than before that the law doesn’t matter. They’re going to run over us just the same.” He shook his head. “I won’t live like that. And I won’t die like that. I will not go peaceably to the ovens. I learn fast. And I know there isn’t much difference between a black uniform and a black suit.”

  Cathy blanched. “What do you mean by go to the ovens?”

  Jake looked at Tom. “I wasn’t supposed to talk about that. It just came out.”

  “Goddamnit! You better start opening up to me for once. I’m tired of you holding all the hurt in and letting it fester. Let it out. Lance it with words. Let the poison out so it can heal.”

  “Cathy. Watch your language.”

  She blinked. “Language? What about you? What’s happening? I don’t understand any of this. I want to know what’s going on inside you. Tell me now.”

  “I’ll tell you about the ovens, though I’m not supposed to.”

  “I want to know about you.”

  “No.”

  Her eyes filled. “What about the ovens?”

  Jake walked to Cathy and led her to the other couch. “Tom, will you tell her?”

  Tom motioned for Dora to sit beside him. “I haven’t told Dora yet.” He looked at her. “It won’t be pleasant.”

  Dora forced a smile. “You were there, I wasn’t.”

  “Our plane was hit by a fighter. The copilot was killed and the pilot badly wounded. He managed to keep it level long enough for most of us to jump before he passed out, or lost control of the plane. Anyway, most of our stick made it out. The others died in the plane. You know Jake, as big as he is, he’s really too big to be a jumper. Hits the ground hard. But he has worked on his landing technique so much he manages to not break a leg or something.”

  Jake interrupted. “Tom, get with it, will you?”

  “Okay, okay.”

  Tom shook his head. “We were way behind enemy lines and in deep…Jake saved our backsides many times. This is when he did things that got him written up for the Distinguished Service Cross. Lieutenant Anderson wanted to go one better. But higher-ups said no.”

  “Why didn’t you just start with Hitler’s invasion of Poland for God’s sake?” Jake interjected.

  “You’re getting touchy in your old age, aren’t you?” Tom smiled at the women. “Okay, Mr. Modesty, where was I?”

  Jake’s voice boomed. “You were about to tell them about the ovens, I hope. And be careful how you tell it. No need for melodrama or macabre stuff.”

  “Oh no, I wouldn’t dare make a mountain out of a molehill. It’s no big deal really, but I simply must embellish the story to keep my audience awake.”

  “That’s not funny.” Jake examined his shoes.

  Tom became serious. “No, It’s not. There’s nothing funny about it. I’ll never forget the stench of the mountains of skin-covered skeletons. And the smoke from the ovens. The human ashes falling from the sky like gray snow.”

  * * *

  Cathy and Dora sat ashen-faced. Nothing was said for many moments.

  Tom broke the silence. “It’s ugly, but it’s the truth. I expect the full story, or part of it anyway, will be released soon. They can’t keep the lid on it forever.”

  “So you think that could happen here just because the government is telling us how much wheat we can grow?” Cathy asked Jake. “I think you’re reacting to the horror of war and what you saw over there.”

  Jake stood and began to pace the room. “No, not for a long time. I mean it won’t get that bad here anytime soon. I just know an unlimited, centralized government is dangerous. If we can’t raise food on our own land to feed ourselves, what rights do we have?”

  “I think Cathy is right,” Tom said. “You’re transferring your hatred and repulsion of what happened in Europe to America. I agree the government has stepped beyond the limits of the enumerated powers of the Constitution, but that does not mean our government is evil.”

  “People are people,” Jake said. “Or do you think Americans are special and won’t lower themselves to do such things? What about how the Negroes have been treated? And don’t say it was just the South. You saw how they are treated in the Army even now. How many white soldiers have you heard say they won’t take orders from a Negro officer? That they’re only good for washing dishes? No. You can’t count on Americans being different. Where did most Americans come from anyway? Europe. People are basically the same everywhere. Both the good ones and the bad ones—and the common ones somewhere in between.”

  “The government is just trying to do what’s best for us. The wheat quota keeps the price up so farmers won’t go broke.” Dora looked around the room. “Isn’t that true?”

  “I’ll give you that,” Jake said. “I mean keeping the price up. But we’re not selling the wheat. They’re trying to force us to buy other farmers’ wheat when we can grow it ourselves and keep the money. Is that right? Telling us what we can grow on our land for food is right? And what makes them think they know any better than anyone else what’s best for us? Who gave them the right? The power? Tom admits it’s not in the Constitution, so where did it come from? It does not exist. That’s the answer.”

  “In the military officers take orders from their superiors and then carry them out, passing them down the ranks. Everyone follows orders,” Tom said.

  “That’s the military,” Jake said. “And it’s necessary in time of war to use the system that works best to win because all of our rights are at stake if we lose. Individual rights are pushed aside to some degree out of necessity. In the civilian government it’s different. Human rights—the individual—is supposed to be paramount. Also, officers are highly trained and tested in every way at every stage in areas that are important to being an officer. They prove their competence every day. All politicians have to do is get elected by being a better liar than their competitors.”

  “You’re right there,” To
m said.

  Cathy’s eyes filled. “They will send the sheriff or federal agents if you fight them. I can’t believe you’re thinking of fighting the law. You never break the law. Why are you going to risk getting killed? My parents are dead and Nate is off fighting. Now you want to leave me alone. You’ve been distant since you got back. I sometimes wonder if you still…”

  “Cath…” Jake’s eyes darted towards the front window. “Someone’s coming up the drive.”

  Cathy stood and looked. “Looks like a government car.”

  Jake sighed. “It is. Army.” His chest deflated.

  Cathy saw his face. “What’s wrong?”

  Jake took three long steps and held her. “Lean on me, Cath. God made men bigger so their wives can lean on them.”

  “Are they here for you? Already?”

  Jake swallowed hard and rested his chin on top of her head. “No. They’re not here for me. I’m not due to report yet. And don’t worry about what I’ve been saying. I’ll plow the wheat under if it takes all night. Come on.”

  The two walked out on the porch together.

  A man in uniform stood at the steps. “Mrs. Williams?”

  “Yes.” Cathy braced herself while Jake held her.

  “I regret to inform you that your brother, Nate, was killed in action at—”

  Jake took her in his arms.

  Dora rushed to their side. The soldier stepped up on the porch and handed her a sheet of paper. “I’m sorry.” He turned back to the car. “I hate this job.”

  Dora caught up with him. “You didn’t kill him, tyranny did. Someone had to tell her.”

  Jake carried Cathy inside while Dora held the screen door open. The soldier in the olive drab car drove away.

  Jake stopped in front of Tom. “Now all she’s got is me.” He carried her upstairs.

  When he came down his face was wet. “She wants to rest a while. I’ll go back up in a minute to check on her.”

  “I’m sorry,” is all Tom could say.

  Jake rubbed his hand across his forehead. “I didn’t know him that well. It’s her I’m worried about. Seemed like a good kid. Cath thought the world of him. I doubt if he was more than nineteen.”

  “You think I should go up?” Dora asked.

  “No. I’ll check on her in a minute. Then I’ve got to plow that wheat under. I don’t want her worrying about me on top of this.” Jake sat down across from Tom. “I have a favor to ask.”

  “Anything,” Tom said.

  “I remember one time you telling me your brother is a jeweler.”

  “Yes, he is. Need a ring for Cathy? You got it.”

  “No. Well, in a way, yes. I’ve got a Mason jar of gold coins put away. It’s illegal to have them you know. Ten years and a big fine if they catch you with any gold coins or bullion. Part of the government’s NRA or something. Anyway, I was wondering if your brother could melt those illegal coins down and turn them into legal jewelry. That way Cath can sell a ring occasionally to make ends meet. There’s a little in the bank, and I send my Army pay to her, but that will stop if I’m killed. This farm’s paid for, but that Mason jar of coins is all I can leave her in cash.”

  “Sure, my brother will do that. No problem. And I promise I’ll help her out if you’re not able to. I owe you that. It would be an honor.”

  Jake left them to check on Cathy. When he reappeared he was not alone. Cathy slowly walked to the bottom of the stairs and said, “I’m okay now. It’s a little early, but I want to start dinner. It’ll keep me busy.” She turned at the kitchen door and smiled at them. “No more long faces. It’s life—and the goddamn war.” She put her hands up in front of her. “I’m fine. I got Jake.” She went into the kitchen. Dora followed.

  “Well, I must get busy plowing. You will have to eat dinner without me.” Jake walked outside.

  Everyone in the house heard the tractor as Jake headed for the field. Cathy watched through the kitchen window.

  Four months later, the same young soldier came to notify Cathy, two months pregnant with Nate’s father, that Jake was killed in action.

  An excerpt from my first novel

  FEATHERS ON THE WINGS OF LOVE AND HATE:

  LET THE GUN SPEAK

  By

  John Grit

  (“Hoarse Whisperer” and “Shitwad” are temporary nicknames given to nameless characters who are Nazi-like national police officers trying to hunt down and kill a teenage boy in a Florida swamp.)

  …“Damn! This creek seems to be more mud than water.” Hoarse Whisperer took two more careful steps and found he was armpit-deep. But the water was not his problem at the moment, it was the fact he could not pull his boots out of the muddy bottom. He was already more than two feet into the sucking muck’s clutches. Each time he put his weight on one foot to pull out the other, that foot would be pushed deeper into the swamp’s sludge. Soon he was neck deep.

  “Hey. Goddamn it. I need help!”

  Silence.

  “Come on now,” Hoarse Whisperer yelled. “Don’t be a shitwad.”

  “You should have known better than to try to cross that creek. I’m not going to get shot for you, dumbass. Chiang and Miles should be here soon.”

  “Bullshit. I’ll be under in a minute. Get a rope or something.”

  “I don’t have a rope. Maybe you can pull one out of your ass while we wait. Meanwhile, shut up. I can’t hear if someone is walking up on me.”

  Five more minutes of soaking and sinking was all Hoarse Whisperer could take. The boy heard his voice lose all façade of courage. “I’m going under! Get me outahere now!”

  Silence, but for the rumble of distant thunder.

  “Pleeease help me. I don’t want to drown in this goddamn mud.”

  A barking squirrel in a live oak forty yards away answered him. The man behind him remained silent.

  “Come on,” Hoarse Whisperer said. “Get me out of here. That boy’s either dead or gone I tell you. Otherwise he would’ve shot me by now.”

  The boy watched the man’s head bobbing over and around his scant cover, a small scrub oak. “Come on Shitwad,” he breathed. “What’s to think about? I’m just a Southern white trash farm boy. What do I know about an ambush?”

  Shitwad took one last careful look across the glade. “Hold your shit together while I find a pole or something. I guess you’re right. The boy is gone.”

  Now standing on the edge of the creek, Shitwad observed, “You’re not that far out. Just stretch your carbine out this way, and I’ll pull you out. There aren’t any poles handy anyway.”

  Hoarse Whisperer turned at his waist as much as possible and pointed his carbine at Shitwad.

  Shitwad jumped to his left. “Asshole. Now you’re going to shoot me. Give me the butt end if you want me to pull you out.”

  Hoarse Whisperer glared over his shoulder. In silence, he simply turned his rifle around and held it out by the barrel.

  Pulling only forced the stuck man under water.

  “The angle is wrong,” Shitwad said. “I’m pulling too horizontally. And with you facing away from me, pulling on the carbine just pulls you over backwards.”

  Each time they tried it, he came up spiting and gasping for air. “Enough. You’re going to drown me, goddamnit.”

  “Look what happens when I leave you two alone.”

  Shitwad nearly fell over until he saw it was Robert who had just walked up on them. He caught his breath, putting his left hand to his chest as if he thought he was having a heart attack. “Oh shit Chiang. I could’ve shot you.”

  Looking incredulous and pulling himself back on his heels with a smug sneer on his face, Robert said, “Bullshit. If I were the boy I could have shot you.” He glanced around and asked, “Where are the others?”

  At that instant, a bullet entered and exited Robert’s head. Pink mist exploded from his skull, and he fell on his face in the mud.

  Shitwad opened his mouth wide in shock and horror one second before he too fell dead
at the creek’s edge, his head half submerged in the coffee-black water. Crimson gouts of blood spurted for a few seconds, spreading onto the wet mud as his one eye visible above water stared blankly at Hoarse Whisperer’s back. Miniature wavelets produced by Hoarse Whisperer’s shaking lapped in and out of his half-open mouth.

  Hoarse Whisperer forced himself to turn at the waist and neck and look over his right shoulder to see if what he feared had happened. “Oh shit!” He unloaded in his pants.

  Waiting for another target, the boy guessed forty minutes had passed. The slight breeze of early afternoon, generated by a coming thunderstorm, gradually shook off its lethargy, exciting the green leaves of tree and bush to dance with more vigor. He lifted his nose. A trace of ozone wafted to his nostrils. Cooler air from high above washed over his face, drying some of the sweat beading on skin.

  The squirrel in the live oak, encouraged by the recent silence, resumed a timid barking, soon turning into a chastising scold of things in general. Myriads of frogs croaked and bullied silence into partial submission with their monotonous love songs. Thunder, paled by distance, hung in the heavy air for a moment and faded to a weak hint of distant storms.

  Hoarse Whisperer had sunk several more inches into the creek bottom. He could smell the swamp before, but now the very lifeblood of this quaking liquid land was only three inches under his nostrils. Eons of frequent rains had washed everything of flora or fauna that had lived and died and rotted to be reabsorbed by the liquid land from which it came into the creek. The after-smell of life and death, that which is temporary fermented and distilled into that which is forever; the quintessence of ever-present mortality permeated his overloaded senses. He smelled his own death. His face was deathly white, and he was shivering violently, his teeth chattering, though the water was bathtub-warm.

  Farther back in the woods, someone was trying to quietly sneak closer but not having much luck with his intentions of stealth. The boy continued to listen and watch, his lucent form still immersed in the green gloom of the jungle, now under the shade of heavy rain clouds and tossed ever more violently by the winds.