The Myriad Resistance

by John D. Mimms

  For the next hour, Beeson talked with Burt and me. Sam seemed completely disinterested in conversation. He stood up and moved into the tree line closest to the highway after the second state trooper blazed past with their lights flashing. The blue lights cast weird, undulating reflections on the ultraviolet night sky. Considering where we were in relation to civilization, they could only have been searching for us.

  Beeson’s Impal side turned out to be a stark contrast to his flesh-and-blood persona. He was polite with a rather dry sense of humor.

  “I’ve got your back through thick and thin,” he said, poking the index finger of his right hand all the way through his left palm. I guess it was his way of demonstrating thick and thin. However, it came out as disgusting and creepy.

  We were so engrossed in conversation; I almost forgot we were hiding out in a thicket. I was rudely reminded when a voice behind us boomed out, causing my heart to leap into my throat. Dread flooded into my stomach like a noxious liquid as the words of the unseen person sank in.

  “Nobody move! You are surrounded!”

  CHAPTER 4

  THE RESCUE PARTY

  “And the LORD God said unto the serpent, Because thou hast done this, thou art cursed above all cattle, and above every beast of the field; upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life: And I will put enmity between thee and the woman, and between thy seed and her seed; it shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise his heel.”

  ~Genesis 3:14–15

  Several thoughts ran through my head in the span of a few seconds. Run, fight, bargain, surrender; all seemed like viable choices for a fraction of a second. I was about to choose one when Burt stood up.

  “About time you jerks got here!” Burt boomed. “These damned mosquitos are eating me alive!”

  I heard several footsteps behind me. I slowly stood up, and turned in their direction. I expected to see a small squadron of soldiers approaching. Instead of soldiers, I saw what appeared to be civilians. Four men approached, each wearing blue jeans and an inconspicuous shirt. They all carried rifles.

  The leader of the small band wore a plaid shirt, untucked with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. A solid black baseball cap sat crooked on his head. He wore a large, illuminated watch on his left wrist. He pushed a button to extinguish the light before stepping forward. Before the light went out, I caught a quick glimpse of something drawn on his hat. It was only a couple of inches long and appeared to be painted on with white paint or liquid paper. The resemblance to the symbol, which Burt drew on the jail wall, was uncanny.

  “What the hell kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into now, Burt?” he said with mock exasperation.

  “Oh, you know, the usual. Ran a jailbreak, killed two guards, brought their ghosts with me then lost one of them. All in a day’s work.”

  Sam walked back over to join us and the leader studied each one of us carefully. After several long moments of scrutiny, his gaze fell back to Beeson.

  “You’re the Impal, aren’t you?” he asked in a soft voice.

  “How did you know?” Beeson stammered, checking to see if the batteries were still in his pocket.

  The leader touched a finger to his nose and gave a wry smirk.

  “I have an Impal sense,” he said in a cryptic tone as if he was about to reveal the secrets of the universe.

  Beeson and I stared at him in disbelief. A few seconds later, everybody burst into laughter. I started to laugh too, not wanting to be left out of the inside joke. I quickly stopped when my ribs and nose reminded me of my injuries.

  “No, I know Burton, and Uncle Sam over here, and you,” he said pointing at me. “I know who you are, Ott Jr.”

  “Don’t call me that,” I said as I felt my cheeks flush red with anger. “My name is Cecil; I have nothing to do with my father.”

  He studied me for several seconds through narrowed eyes before extending his hand.

  “I was Colonel Daniel Bradley. Now you can call me Danny or Bradley … either works for me,” he said. “May I call you Cecil, Major Garrison?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “Just don’t call me Ott Jr. again.”

  “And lay off the Burton, Danny. You know I can’t stand that,” Burt said as he strode over and shook Danny’s hand. He cocked his thumb back at Sam. “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t care for the Uncle Sam either. Right, Sam?”

  “You’re damn right,” Sam barked, a little too hostile for the mood.

  Danny blinked at Sam with impassive curiosity, and then turned his attention back to me.

  “Cecil, I would like you to meet my associates,” he said turning to the person on the right as they stepped forward. He wore a similar plaid shirt with rolled up sleeves. Instead of a cap, he wore a red bandana.

  “This is Taylor Farris,” he said. “He is a civilian. I’ve never met anyone so brave and loyal and a true patriot.”

  Taylor and I shook hands and exchanged pleasantries.

  “I guess we’re all pretty much civilians now,” he said. “In any case, thank you for your service to our country. It seems you took one hell of a beating.”

  I acknowledged his thanks and shrugged off his second remark.

  The two individuals on his left wore T-shirts in contrast to their plaid companions. The first one stepped forward. I could see he was wearing a dark-green cap turned around backwards and a green T-shirt. A screen print of skulls arranged into an interesting rose garden pattern decorated the shirt. He introduced himself as “civilian first class” Derek Vandeputte.

  His counterpart then stepped forward, wearing a plain white T-shirt and blue bandana on their head. I expected to meet another guy. I was surprised when the individual stepped into the light and spoke. There was no doubt I was addressing an attractive black woman.

  “I’m Charlotte McVey,” she said, shaking my hand. “I am military, but I am just a paper pusher in a general’s office in Richmond … no bigee.”

  “Thank you for your service to our country, Charlotte,” I said.

  Her mouth gaped open in shock. She acted as if this was the first time anyone ever paid her respect. She blushed and then stepped back a few feet behind Derek.

  “Okay, don’t tell me you guys walked all the way here,” Burt said. “What gives?”

  “Transportation is about five klicks that way,” Danny said. He turned around and pointed to the northwest.

  “Someone want to remind us civilians of what the heck a klick is?” Derek asked.

  “A klick is about one-kilometer,” Danny said, “so five kilometers in that direction.”

  “Someone want to remind us of how far a kilometer is? This is America and the last I checked we deal with miles here,” Charlotte huffed.

  “One kilometer is about .62 miles,” Danny said with exasperation. “You kids need to take notes so I don’t have to keep repeating myself. I hope you can do the math.”

  “A little over three miles,” Taylor muttered.

  He sounded frustrated and I’m sure he was. He was a civilian and he seemed the oldest and most mature aside from Colonel Bradley. While Charlotte was military, she had very little field experience and was more or less still a kid. Her comrade, Derek, had no field or military experience and was likely the youngest one in the bunch. Acne and high school were probably less than two years in his past.

  This was going to be an interesting hike back to the vehicle. At least everyone in my group is trained military, including our Impal Sergeant. We started with the complaints of the two young ones having to walk another three miles. This bickering continued until we reached the far side of the clearing and under the canopy of the woods again. Danny turned on them.

  “Listen up you two snots!” He growled. “I didn’t hear you gripe a single time on the way here! Suck it up, keep your eyes and ears open and above all else … SHUT THE HELL UP!”

  They fell silent and glared at the colonel who now looked his age as veins pulsated on his temples and
forehead. After a few long moments, he took a deep breath and finished. “If you don’t, you can both walk all the way back to base … all one hundred twenty-five klicks. I’ll let y’all workout the math; it’ll give you something to think about the next three miles.”

  He turned and marched out in front of the group with great purpose and anger. We walked in silence for a long while. There were no sounds other than the crunch of brush and leaves underfoot. The hoot of an owl offered an occasional distraction. The tension was palpable the whole journey. Every time a siren ripped through the night air, it caused a noticeable slowing of our pace and an even greater slowing of breathing. The crunching under our feet was like walking on eggshells as we trudged forward.

  We must have been about five minutes from our destination when I noticed a strange, ethereal light. I turned and saw a faint glimmer from my left-hand side. Sergeant Beeson glowed like a dying light bulb. His batteries were almost expired. When that happened, his glow would intensify giving away his identity as an Impal and our position in the woods. I guess batteries did have a limit with Impals. No telling how long those batteries had corroded in the flashlight.

  “Anybody got a flashlight or anything with batteries in it?” I asked in panic, pointing at Beeson.

  They all stared at me incredulously for several moments until understanding started to sink in.

  “No crap, batteries makes ’em seem normal? I’ll be damned,” Derek said.

  Taylor, who remained silent most of the journey, reached behind him and retrieved a large Mag Lite flashlight from his belt. He unscrewed the cap and dropped the batteries into the sergeant’s hand.

  “Here, Sarge,” he said.

  Beeson extended his hand. The second the batteries dropped into his palm, the glow was gone. I chuckled when I considered that Impals would give the Energizer Bunny a run for his money as a spokesperson.

  A few minutes later, we reached the truck. I expected another military truck like the one we abandoned. I was pleasantly surprised when I saw a large luxury SUV. We each got a seat in the gargantuan vehicle, well, almost all of us.

  The roomy interior would seat seven people in comfort; however we were a party of eight. So … Sergeant Beeson was relegated to the cargo hatch. I felt ashamed of the terrible discrimination going on in the world against the Impals. The similarities with the Civil Rights movement were undeniable. Sergeant Beeson may as well have been Sergeant Rosa Parks.

  The trip turned out to be uneventful. I rode it out with an empty knot in my stomach and thoughts of seeing my wife and girls again.

  After an hour-long zigzagging, back road tour of rural Virginia, we made it to our destination. Under normal circumstances, it would have taken about thirty minutes. I wasn’t sure exactly where we were. I guessed we were somewhere between Culpepper and Charlottesville. A fifty-mile stretch of woods and mountains with a plethora of potential hiding places. I was sure there was also an abundance of critters, including snakes. Not many things frighten me, but snakes paralyze me.

  When I was twelve years old, I went on a church retreat with a bunch of other kids. I can’t remember the name of the park. It was on a large lake surrounded by campgrounds and cabins. One afternoon, me and a few other kids went out exploring in individual canoes. I paddled to the farthest cove; imagining I was the first person to go there in centuries. I think I actually expected to find the ruins of an ancient civilization. I would be a hero. My fantasy vanished in an instant.

  All I found was a shallow inlet full of marsh grass and a nest of water moccasins. There must have been twenty of them, large and small, as they writhed and slithered through the water in a determined attempt to get in my canoe. I yelled and thrashed at the water with my paddle, trying to fend them off, but there were too many. By the time I managed to paddle a safe distance away, three of them slithered in the canoe, hissing like angry worms. I managed to smash two of them in the head with my paddle, before the third one got me on the calf. I screamed in pain as I kicked upward. The snake’s fangs still dug into my flesh and his body snapped like a whip as he tore free of me and flew into the water.

  All I knew to do was to remove my camp T-shirt and tie it above the bite and then try to remain as calm as I could as I paddled back to our camp. Tears blinded my eyes and I wasn’t even certain I was headed in the right direction. I turned to look at the bodies of the deceased snakes and my heart jumped into my throat as one of them twitched. It was only a death spasm, a posthumous nervous impulse. I didn’t know that.

  I screamed and swung the oar at the dead snake. When I did, I brought the edge of it down like an axe. My fear and adrenaline caused a momentary burst in strength. I broke the oar and I also fractured the fiberglass bottom of the canoe. Water started to seep in through the crack that seemed to grow larger every time I moved. I yelled and began paddling with my hands as the water, which was now an inch deep, sloshed one of the snake’s bodies over my calf. I screamed, kicked, and paddled harder. That was the last I remember until I came to and our youth minister was loading me in the back of his car to take me to the hospital. His tan face was ashen white and his eyes and mouth seemed drawn and gaunt with worry. I was sure that I was going to die.

  Ever since then, I have been terrified of the slimy, slithering abominations. It didn’t matter what kind. A snake was a snake as far as I am concerned. I survived the day and kept my leg. Otherwise, I would have never gotten in the military, not even with my father’s influence. Even after the unimaginable horror, I think my father’s visit to the hospital was the most troubling event of the day.

  He came to the hospital a few hours after I was admitted. The first thing he did was pull up the sheet covering my swollen leg and then he began to laugh.

  “Hmmmm, what did you do to get evil so riled against you, boy?” he said in a very judgmental tone.

  I regarded my father stupidly, not certain if I understood him. Surely the venom dulled my hearing.

  He reached down and poked my leg above the bite. Pain shot up my leg like fire. I was determined not to show any weakness in front of my father. He always taught me that the weak, those who do not carry out God’s glory, are condemned to an eternity of hellfire. I imagined the pain now radiating up my leg covering my whole body for eternity. The thought terrified me as much as the snakes.

  My father was and still is a Baptist, yet I think his eccentric attitude towards right and wrong goes far deeper. He grew up in the backwoods of West Virginia. His church was in an area where paranoia against anything or anyone different is the norm. In these rural areas, religion was often hardcore. He never spoke about his childhood. It would not surprise me if some of his church services involved a box of snakes.

  I should have seen what kind of man my father was then, but I held him up on a pedestal. Now that I see him with my adult eyes, I realize pedestals aren’t as high to us when we are grown. In fact, some of them are now quite small.

  As we descended into the valley containing the resistance base, I felt fear bubbling up inside of me once again. A large lake, much like the one at my church camp, shimmered like a black light painting. It reflected the eerie night sky and full Moon. Soon, I found it hard to breathe, so I rolled down the window and took several deep breaths of summer air. The scent of the cedar and pines was refreshing as I closed my eyes and took it all in.

  “You okay, Cecil?” Burt called from the front seat.

  “Yeah, trying to get some air. I think I might have a cracked rib or two,” I lied.

  I was still very sore, however I have experienced a few cracked ribs in my life and I knew mine were fine. I wasn’t going to tell the truth about my fear of snakes. I wondered how I ever made it through basic training. We did our share of woods and swamp hikes, yet somehow I was able to channel my apprehension. Perhaps it was the additional stress. My fatigue was allowing my old phobia to get the best of me. Although … I couldn’t help feeling it was something more … perhaps a warning. A warning about what I wasn’t sure. I ha
d the terrible, ridiculous feeling this was a harbinger of something terrible.

  I didn’t dwell on this prospect long because a few moments later, my spirits lifted. As we rounded a corner and leveled out on the bottom of the valley, our headlights fell on a group of people. My heart leapt when I saw, waiting underneath a large sycamore tree, Barbara, Abby and Stephanie.

  CHAPTER 5

  THE MINE

  “I stayed in a really old hotel last night. They sent me a wake-up letter.”

  ~Steven Wright

  I embraced my girls for a long time. Steff was a little less enthusiastic than the other two; I guess it’s not cool to hug your old man in public. There was little danger of her pals seeing her way out here in the boondocks. She didn’t agree with my assessment. At least I got a hug from her, which was more than I managed most of the time.

  “What did you do, Cecil?” Barbara asked with her hands pressed against both of my cheeks. “They came and got us without warning. We didn’t even have time to pack anything much.”

  “I tried to help some Impals,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t plan it better.”

  I knew she was upset about the position I put the family in. I didn’t realize how much until I saw the fear in her eyes. She knew how seeing my grandfather at the Impal camp in Arizona affected me. It was after I returned home when I learned of the Tesla Gates going online at different locations around the country.

  Barbara kissed me on the cheek. “At least it wasn’t Ott who came to get us,” she whispered in my ear to where the girls couldn’t hear.

  Arizona was the first base to put it into action. A colleague of mine there confirmed my grandfather was one of the Shredder’s first victims. I’m sure if I had known I would have gone back and tried to save him even though it would have been futile. If I did, I am sure I would not be here now and no telling where my family would be.