The Myriad Resistance

by John D. Mimms

  “You mentioned a couple of days ago that there was a unanimous declaration from the religious community, not only from Christian leaders, but Jewish and Islamic leaders as well. They are agreeing these things, these Impals, are in fact demons. Assuming they are correct, why wouldn’t you exterminate them?” the host asked.

  “1 Timothy 4:1,” my father said in a cold tone. “Now the Spirit speaketh expressly, that in the latter times some shall depart from the faith, giving heed to seducing spirits, and doctrines of devils.”

  Before the interviewer could respond, he continued.

  “And let’s not forget Matthew 7:1,” he said. “Judge not, that ye be not judged.”

  “Okay, so what do those verses have to do with getting rid of demons?” the interviewer asked.

  General Garrison cleared his throat and spoke in a very condescending tone.

  “That should be obvious, my dear. We should not judge these Impals. If we do, we will be lowering ourselves to their level, giving heed to these seducing spirits. God is the only one who can judge their fate.”

  “So you are rounding them up for God?” the interviewer asked, returning a little of the condescension.

  “Yes,” my father said without emotion, “and to protect the rights of our citizens.”

  I swallowed hard. I appreciated the journalistic integrity of the interviewer. She was the first one I heard really challenge him. I hoped this wouldn’t be her last broadcast. I also hoped this wouldn’t be her last day before meeting a bullet and then the Tesla Gate.

  The downright filthy hypocrisy and deceit made me feel a sudden wave of nausea. I excused myself to the restroom where I purged the first decent meal in days. After splashing cold water on my face, I returned to the table.

  My heart stopped when I saw a police officer sitting at the table with Steff.

  CHAPTER 15

  CASUAL DETOUR

  “Propaganda does not deceive people; it merely helps them to deceive themselves.”

  ~Eric Hoffer

  “Are you Mr. Garrison?” the chubby, middle age officer asked as I approached the table.

  I stopped in my tracks and swallowed hard. I glanced at Steff and saw she was sitting there staring out the window. I guessed there wasn’t any point lying since Steff had probably already told him the truth.

  “Yes … can I help you officer?” I asked, trying to remain as calm and collected as possible.

  The police officer narrowed his eyes, and then reached in his pocket. He retrieved a small steno pad and an ink pen. He looked me up and down for a moment then looked back at Steff. She was still staring out the window.

  “What happened?” he asked, pointing to his own nose.

  It took a minute for the meaning of his question to sink in. Then it dawned on me that he was referring to my swollen and broken nose. A lie flew into my head so fast it surprised me. It then spilled out of my mouth without hesitation.

  “Softball,” I said, touching the fingertips of both my hands together to demonstrate the dimensions of a softball. How could I have been so stupid to come out in public like this?

  He grunted. “I used to play, wasn’t too bad back in the day.”

  Judging by the officer’s physique, I couldn’t imagine him participating in any sports besides donut ring toss.

  “What can I do for you, officer?” I asked in as helpful a tone as I could muster.

  “I was going through the restaurant talking to folks and then I came across your daughter. Do you know what she told me?”

  I thought my heart would take flight out of my chest it was hammering so hard. I glanced out the window. My first impulse was to grab Steff and run. That idea vanished when I looked outside. Another police officer stood in the parking lot talking to an elderly couple. There was no way we could make it out of the parking lot and even if we could what would we do, lead a police chase back to the camp? We were screwed. All I could do was answer the officer’s question.

  “What?” I asked, watching Steff, hoping to glean some iota of what she told the police. She was unreadable.

  “She told me,” he said, glancing back at Steff, “that you would be more than happy to make a donation to the Fraternal Order of Police association.”

  “I what?” I said in a defensive tone, as if he just accused me of harboring Impals. I was sure I hadn’t understood.

  “Well, she said you would be willing to make a donation to the Fraternal Order of Police. It’s a good cause, we’re just asking folks to donate whatever they can afford.”

  I stared at him for several moments before the truth sank in. Fumbling in my pocket, I pulled out the nine dollars in change left over from our lunch and handed it to him. He took it with an appreciative smile and counted the bills. When he finished, he produced a bank bag resting in his lap and inserted the cash. He set it down in front of him and picked up the pad and pen again.

  “Would you like a receipt, Mr. Garrison?” he asked; ready to scribble on the pad.

  “No, no … that’s fine,” I said as my senses started to come back to me. “I wish I could do more. That’s all the cash and I don’t have my checkbook with me.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he said shaking my hand, “it is very much appreciated.” The officer paused for a moment. “You folks aren’t from around here, are you?” he said.

  “No, Winchester,” I lied.

  He seemed satisfied. “Well, let me warn you, there’s an Impal rights rally coming through here today. Things could get ugly.”

  “Impal rights?” I asked, trying to sound as innocent as possible. He didn’t realize he was speaking to one of the biggest proponents of Impal rights east of the Mississippi.

  “Yeah, it’s this crazy fringe group who still believes those things have rights, can you believe it?”

  I shook my head, pretending to play along.

  “Well, so far they have been peaceful. There was a demonstration that got out of hand in Los Angeles the other day. Six people were ‘killed’,” he said making quotation marks with his fingers.

  I faked a puzzled expression. After hearing my father speak, I knew what he was saying.

  “Yep, six demons appeared imitating the people who died. The LAPD put them in iron so fast they didn’t have time to say boo,” he said with pride. He then explained that his pride wasn’t only because of police unity. “My cousin is on the LAPD. He said the city is now almost completely demon free.”

  “That’s great,” I said with a fake smile through gritted teeth.

  I felt as if I was going to be sick again. To my relief, he got up and went to the next table.

  “Stay off the main highway and watch out for those Pythonians,” he said. Then he turned and began to solicit money from the elderly couple seated next to us.

  There was that word again, the one I heard my father use on the radio the day Burt was shot.

  “Oh … by the way,” the officer said, turning on his heels and reaching into his shirt pocket. He produced a crumpled piece of paper, which he unfolded and held up for them to see. Crudely sketched on the paper in black ink was the Myriad symbol. “If you see anyone carrying or wearing this symbol, stay clear of them. They are Impal supporters and very dangerous.”

  “I guess I will have to stay away from my oldest daughter since she is wearing one around her neck.” I thought.

  “Thank you for the heads-up, officer” I said.

  He gave me a satisfied smirk and then crumpled the drawing back in his pocket as he went to the next table.

  As disturbed as I was by the officer’s flippant attitude, I was also encouraged by what I heard. More people were involved with the resistance than we knew. While unorganized and unfunded these people are trying to make a difference, to stand up for what is right. They may or may not be harboring and protecting Impals, but their support was heartening. I liked these Pythonians.

  Steff stared at me with a blank expression.

  “Are you ready to go?” I asked.


  She said nothing as she stood up, glanced at the police officer who was now across the room, then strode out the door.

  I discarded our trash in the nearest Martian Head receptacle and followed her outside. She waited by the passenger door with a smirk on her face and her arms folded.

  “Thanks for lunch,” she said. It sounded more like a statement of obligation than appreciation. I took it as progress.

  “You’re welcome,” I said then unlocked the doors.

  The same silence returned as before while she continued to stare out the window. Maybe I had made progress today, however small. I hoped so because I love Steff more than anything and it killed me to see her like this, unhappy and miserable. Of course, we were all unhappy and miserable. Steff did not have the maturity to deal with it. As much as I wanted to yell and shake her in frustration, I knew it would make things worse. I needed to continue to be patient and supportive.

  “When can we go home?” Steff asked as we started to climb the hill going out of town.

  “Soon, I hope. Very soon,” I lied.

  I knew it would be a long time; if ever, before we could return home. Even if we did, I knew nothing would ever be the same again. I saw a smile begin to curve on the edge of her lips. I both felt encouraged and guilty. She was becoming a little more receptive, yet I lied to illicit a reaction.

  I was about to attempt to engage her in conversation again when terror paralyzed me. The road to the mining camp was a long, winding, rut-filled trail winding through the woods. About fifty yards in and out of sight of the road, was a barricade and no trespassing sign, which we moved and replaced on every trip in and out. Directly across the highway from the “abandoned” road sat a small mom-and-pop grocery store and gas station. A Virginia State Trooper patrol car sat in its parking lot, its nose pointed toward the road. The single occupant watched us pass through mirrored sunglasses.

  I tried to keep my cool as much as possible and continued down the road, passing by the entrance to the mining camp.

  “Where are we going?” Steff asked, breaking her self-imposed silence.

  “A little detour,” I fibbed again. “I’m going to see if there is another entrance on the other side of the valley.”

  I felt terrible; my falsehoods were starting to come more frequently and with disturbing ease. I hated not being truthful with Steff, but what was I supposed to say? I didn’t want the cop to see us turn in there and get suspicious? It would either alarm her or add fuel to her fire of distrust and anger towards me right now.

  She stared at me with deep skepticism for a few moments. Then, to my surprise, she seemed to accept my excuse. Steff sighed and then turned her attention back to the window.

  We drove close to five miles before I turned in to a small clearing, claiming the existence of the road must not be accurate. I then headed back towards the entrance across from the gas station, hoping the cop had decided to move on.

  “So, the road coming in by the gas station is the only one?” Steff asked shortly after I turned us around.

  “Looks that way,” I said.

  She pursed her lips for a few seconds and then turned back to the window.

  I breathed a huge sigh of relief when we rounded a bend in the road and the gas station came into view. The cop was gone. An old man with a long white beard, wearing overalls with an orange hunting cap leaned against the sidewall. He was engaged in deep conversation with someone on a pay phone.

  “They still make those?” I said aloud. I knew the nostalgia would be lost on Steff since she was a product of the smart phones and laptops generation. I noticed her watching the man as if she was trying to figure out a puzzle.

  “Is that a phone?” she asked in disbelief.

  I couldn’t help grinning.

  “Yep, that’s how I asked your mother out for the first time,” I said, turning onto the road to the camp.

  Steff gave a disgusted grimace. “You didn’t have a phone at home … a landlubber?” she asked.

  It took everything to suppress a laugh. I could tell by her serious tone that this was not a time for jokes, especially not at her expense.

  “Yes, we had a landline at home,” I said, subtly correcting her mistake. “I was at boot camp when I asked her out; all we had were pay phones.”

  She considered this for several moments. After she processed the information, Steff returned to her window gazing.

  We bounced and jolted down the old trail until finally descending into the camp. As I rubbed a knot on my head from bouncing into the ceiling, I wondered how we ever drove a limousine down this road. My mind drifted, causing me to lose focus on the trail.

  Less than a hundred yards away from the mess hall, two rifle-toting men sprang out of the bushes. My heart almost took flight from my chest as I moved to cover Steff with my body. I felt foolish when I realized it was Taylor and another man I did not know. They quickly lowered their weapons and raised their hands in an apologetic wave. I sat up and waved, trying to recover some dignity. Steff looked at me as if to say, “Oh please, Dad … really?”

  After parking near the mess hall, Steff hopped out of the vehicle without a word. She made a beeline through the woods towards our cabin. I felt a weird mixture of frustration and encouragement from our quality time together. In all honesty, I wasn’t sure how to feel. At least I had gotten her out of her rueful existence in the camp, if only for an hour. Perhaps it would help her attitude. I wasn’t going to hold my breath.

  Danny stepped out of the mess hall and summoned me inside. When I entered, it surprised me to find the room completely empty except for Vandeputte and Andrews. They sat side by side at a table. Andrews wore a scowl, though it didn’t seem to be a hateful one, maybe one of frustration. He seemed a little better than last time I saw him. To my great surprise, he spoke to me.

  “Major,” he said curtly.

  “Andrews,” I said.

  Andrews was calm, civil and fidgety. He was in deep alcohol withdrawal.

  Danny sat down beside me with the portable radio under his arm. It was something we would have called a ‘boom box’ or a ‘ghetto blaster’ back in the day. He set it in the middle of the table and turned on the power.

  “Thank God we’ve got a good supply of batteries,” he said, pointing to the assorted cases of AA, AAA and 9 volts in the corner.

  When he found the station, he sat back with a grim frown. “I want y’all to hear this,” he said.

  It was a different station than the one playing at Martian Burgers. The only difference between radio stations anymore were the hosts. The message was all the same; government good, Impals bad. That was why I was surprised by what we heard; the radio station was actually hosting a debate. A couple of members of the Impal Citizens Empowerment, or ICE, debated a couple of members of the newly formed Impal Relocation Services, or IRS. I appreciated the irony that IRS was one acronym that could not seem to escape negative connotations. As the rest of the interview unfolded, my appreciation vanished.

  “Why do you think the Impals should be given the same rights as everyone?” the male host with a deep baritone voice asked the members of ICE. A young woman spoke up, at least she sounded young on the radio.

  “Because they are the very essence of what we are and what we will become,” she said quite calmly. “The only difference between them and us is this.”

  Her example may have projected a more profound effect if on television. Nevertheless, even over the radio there was no mistaking the sound of a hand smacking flesh.

  “Why should having a solid body make any difference?” a male member spoke up. “Isn’t it what is inside that makes us special? Isn’t our body just wrapping paper to be discarded by the hands of mortality?”

  The kid’s clever metaphors were impressive, but drowned out as one of the IRS members responded.

  “This is assuming these things in fact are what you claim them to be. I think the general consensus now is quite the opposite,” he snapped.

  �
��General consensus sucks!” the ICE girl retorted.

  It suddenly occurred to me why they invited these two on here for the debate. There was no desire for an open and equal forum. It was an ambush to discredit ICE and they were off to a good start.

  “Sucks?” the IRS man chuckled. “My dear, consensus is what built this great country. How can you say it sucks?”

  “She’s saying your claim about consensus is bullshit,” the ICE man retorted.

  “Well, I will not repeat your inappropriate language on the radio. Let’s just say I have a signed statement from the head of every major religion in this country. A statement that says our claim about consensus is not bovine excrement,” he said with heavy sarcasm. “These, these things not only don’t have rights, they are also a threat. The population increase and the threat of these devils is dire. This makes it more urgent than ever for the government to continue acting on the people’s behalf.”

  “Devils?” the ICE girl chided. “What proof do you have they are devils?”

  I agreed with their point of view. However, this young woman and young man were digging themselves an impossible hole. They played right into the agenda. It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion and there was nothing I could do.

  “What say you on?” the host asked the IRS people with an obvious smile in his voice.

  Another one spoke up this time. He had a strong Southern accent. “Well, let me ask one question. What one material are these things vulnerable to?”

  “Iron,” the host replied with rehearsed enthusiasm.

  “E-x-a-ctly,” the southern IRS man replied. “Can I give you a little history of iron?” he asked.

  “Please do,” the host beamed.

  “Well, as you may know, iron has been the subject of a lot of superstitions and myths throughout history. There are a lot of legends that have their basis in fact and this very thing, iron, is on the top of the list.”

  The two ICE kids remained silent as this human incarnation of Foghorn Leghorn rambled on.

  “Wrought iron is the key. It has been asserted over the centuries to repel, contain, or harm ghosts, fairies, witches, or other malevolent supernatural creatures. This belief continued into later superstitions in a number of forms.”