The Myriad Resistance

by John D. Mimms

  “Day after tomorrow,” I said.

  “Can you talk about it?” she asked.

  “Not now, after,” I promised.

  “I want to come with you,” she said, moving her lips inches from my ear.

  “You can’t … you have to stay here with the girls. They need you to watch over them.”

  She sighed, knowing I was right and it was too dangerous to take the girls with us. Besides, space was at a premium and we couldn’t afford to take any more than we must, not if we wanted to get all the Impals out in one trip.

  “How long will it take?” she asked, her mind full of worry.

  “I’m not sure; it’s at least a two-hour drive where we are going.”

  “You can’t tell me where?”

  “Not now, later.” I said.

  The truth is, I only knew the general area where we were going. That is to say, somewhere near the Atlantic Ocean.

  “Do you know what Steff asked me tonight?” she asked in a cheerful voice, which was very refreshing considering she was talking about Steff.

  “What?”

  “She wanted to know how a payphone works, of all things.”

  I gave a small chuckle, and then explained how we saw the man on the payphone the afternoon of our Martian Burgers trip.

  “It’s been so long since I used one I almost forgot how,” Barbara giggled. “Do you remember—”

  “The first time I asked you out?” I interrupted.

  She didn’t say anything as she leaned over and kissed me on the lips. It was deep and passionate and after a few moments, we knew we had to stop. That was the hardest thing I have done lately, which is saying a lot.

  We fell asleep with our arms draped over each other, our bodies as close as the joined cots would allow. Sleep was good and restful. Little did I know, it would be the last peaceful night I would enjoy for a while.

  The next day was also one of the best I in a long time. We had now entered the month of October and Mother Nature decided to give us our first preview of fall. The highs would be in the mid-seventies and almost nonexistent humidity. I think everyone in camp lamented the absence of air-conditioning over the last few weeks.

  I sat in an old wooden chair by the front door of our cabin soaking in the autumn like air. I admired the bizarre beauty of the lavender sky speckled with yellowish clouds. On a calm and peaceful day like this, it was hard to comprehend that the planet was still engulfed in a cosmic storm. This storm never felt like a storm to me, not in the traditional sense anyway. Actually, the ultraviolet nights, with lavender and yellow days were a nice change of pace to me.

  There was nothing traditional about this storm. No matter how beautiful I deemed it to be, it was still a storm. The winds of hatred and prejudice blew harder than any hurricane ever has, and the rain of tyranny was as oppressive as any monsoon. Fear struck without discrimination in the hearts of everyone like lightning. Traditional or not, we had a storm all the same.

  The news as of late was slanted towards social and political objectives. Very little, if anything, was mentioned about the storm anymore. I guess why would you mention something if it is old news? In a news cycle, two months is ancient. Besides, if the government didn’t want it reported, it was not going to be reported.

  I sat absent-minded, staring at a large yellow cloud as it drifted by through the branches overhead. In a strange way, it reminded me of a horse with a tail way too long for its body. Soon cloud gazing became the furthest thing from my mind. I started to wonder again about the composition and origins of the storm. I guess like with everything in life, when we get used to something it loses its mystery. Its distinctiveness becomes routine and blasé. While I had not lost sight of the storm’s side effects, the Impals, I was as guilty as the rest of the world of forgetting about the storm itself.

  Have scientists discovered the origins, the composition, the long-term benefits or liabilities? Did anyone know the who, what, when, where and how? If and when this storm is going to end? As I pondered this, a pungent odor hit my nose. Five years ago, I might not have even noticed this smell. The smell of cigarette smoke reminded me of a time when my resolve was as tainted as my yellowed teeth and fingers. The irony was it made me want one again.

  I searched for the source of the smell and spotted Dr. Winder standing a short distance down the hill. He leaned against a tree with a cigarette between his fingers, staring out over the shimmering surface of the lake. The cool morning breeze wisped the smoke on a direct path to our front door. I got up and made a wide arc around the path of the smoke as I descended the hill to talk to the doctor. It dawned on me that the last time I saw him; he was frozen with shock in the back of the presidential limo.

  “Good morning, doctor,” I said as I emerged from behind a pine tree to his left.

  He jumped as if he received a shock. For a moment, it seemed as if the poor man would stumble into the lake. As I was about to move to grab him, he regained his balance by grasping a low hanging limb. The cigarette dropped into a pile of pine needles and he quickly kicked the smoldering stack into the water.

  “Jesus, major … you scared the hell out of me,” he said, embarrassed.

  I almost wouldn’t have recognized him if it weren’t for his distinctive eyeglasses. He traded in his suit for blue jeans and a T-shirt, which I could only assume came from Danny since the two men are about the same size.

  “Sorry, doctor,” I said. “How are you this morning?”

  “I guess I’m doing as well as expected. I can’t imagine how difficult this would be if I had any family out there now.”

  “No one?” I asked.

  Winder shook his head.

  “Nope, grandparents died when I was young, parents were killed in a plane crash when I was in junior high. I’m divorced and I couldn’t give two shits for what my ex-wife is doing. Thank God we didn’t have any children.”

  “Did …?” I began, but Dr. Winder anticipated my question.

  “Did my grandparents or parents hang around? Not that I know of and God, I sure hope they didn’t.”

  I tried to think of a way to get our conversation back on positive footing. Dr. Winder beat me to it. “How’s your family?” he asked.

  “Fine,” I said, nodding back towards the cabin. “All sleeping in this morning.”

  He smiled and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pants pocket. Sliding one out of the pack, he offered it to me. Out of old habit, I almost accepted. For a moment there, I wanted to accept. I recalled the pleasurable experience of enjoying a cigarette on a cool fall morning. Besides, hadn’t Barbara lit up a time or two since in camp? I never mentioned it to her because we had way too many other things to worry about than my wife falling back into a nasty habit. So what would it hurt if I lit one up? I very well might have accepted his offer, considering the stress I was feeling. However, my hand was stayed as one of my stressors made an appearance.

  We both glanced up at the sound of the cabin door slamming. Steff stood on the front porch stretching and yawning. Her eyes fell on me and my heart lifted as she gave me a little wave. It seemed obligatory. Of course, a few days ago, I wouldn’t have even warranted an acknowledgement. Her eyes then narrowed into pure contempt as Dr. Winder fired up another cigarette. She stormed off through the woods in the direction of the women’s latrine. My stomach knotted with a feeling of guilt even though I knew I had no reason to feel guilty. I was sure to get an earful when Steff reported me to Barbara and Abbs. So, I figured it would be best to nip it in the bud and tell her what happened as soon as she got up.

  I watched Dr. Winder for several long moments as he puffed on his cigarette and gazed at an invisible point across the water. I wondered how such an intelligent man could have taken up such an idiotic habit. If anybody should know better it would be the National Science Adviser. Still, my family doctor smoked like a chimney when I was a kid, even in the clinic in front of patients. If the three of us served as any indication, intelligence and good judgm
ent do not always go hand in hand. At least I finally developed the good judgment to quit.

  As I followed his gaze, I realized it wasn’t such an invisible point after all. He was staring at Kingston and the president’s graves.

  “You know, it could have been me over there,” he said in a distant voice. “It should have been me over there.”

  The doctor was heading down a mental road where I did not want to follow this morning. It was too damn nice a day to lament about the morbidity and cruelty of life.

  “Dr. Winder, has anything else been learned about the storm since it arrived?” I asked.

  He blinked at me as if he did not comprehend what I said, and then a dark cloud seemed to dim his features.

  “Well, according to your father, it came from the devil himself,” he said.

  The remark was uncalled for yet not completely out of line because it was true. I decided to ignore any personal jabs, whether intentional or not, and continued with my questions.

  “Where do you think it is from?” I asked.

  “Deep space, some form of energy we have never seen before. I am not a religious man so I will not proclaim it is a sign from God, Satan, Buddha or Bozo the Clown.”

  I smiled a little at his remark, but I also felt a little sad. I never could comprehend how anyone could be an atheist or an agnostic. Especially in times like now. I guess my father brought me up right in that respect. Thank God I didn’t inherit his fringe interpretations.

  “Is the energy dangerous?” I asked.

  Dr. Winder shook his head. “In a physical sense, no. Socially, morally, politically and religiously, hell yes. There is the proof,” he said, pointing with the lit end of his smoldering cancer stick at the distant graves.

  I was beginning to realize that engaging Winder in conversation this morning might not have been the best idea in the world. He was jaded and angry, but who could blame him? It was a constant battle for me not to fall into his rut. I decided to attempt one more question.

  “When do you think it will end?” I asked.

  Dr. Winder shrugged.

  “To sum it up, major … here is all we know, which is not much,” he paused to take a drag off his cigarette before continuing. “This storm, this energy cloud, this anomaly from space has a definite size even though it was almost impossible to measure since we have never seen this energy before. NASA and most scientists right now feel about as ignorant as a Neanderthal trying to explain the dynamics of nuclear fusion. Since it has a defined size, it will end one day. Whether it is one day or a thousand years no one can say for sure. There is something else I think people need to be worried about with this storm.”

  “What?” I asked, fearing I was not going to like the answer.

  He took another puff off his cigarette then flicked the smoldering butt into the water. He yawned and for the first time I could see his teeth were as yellow as the clouds.

  “Even though we don’t know what the hell this storm is made of … we can still differentiate it from other energy. This storm is not unlike polar lows, tornadoes or hurricanes here on Earth. We were able to detect a distinguishable ‘eye’ in the center of it. This eye is very different. It is not a calm center; it is a different form of energy. This cosmic storm hit Earth head on, so this eye will pass over us sometime in the future.”

  “When?” I asked.

  Dr. Winder sighed. “Again … it could be one day or a thousand years; there is no way to predict. And before you ask, nobody has any idea what energy the eye is made of or what effect it will have.”

  I didn’t know whether to be glad or not about my talk with to the doctor. It seemed now I had more questions than before. I decided to end our conversation there and before I could stop myself, I extended an invitation.

  “Well, doctor … would you care to join me and my family for breakfast this morning?”

  The dark cloud on his face seemed to part in an instant as he beamed at me. My eyes were drawn to his yellowed teeth. He was a professional, clean-cut man until he smiled.

  “I’d love to!” he said. “What time?”

  “Give me about thirty minutes,” I said. “I’ll round my group up and meet you by that tree on the trail,” I said pointing up the hill at a gargantuan pine tree. “Just try not to burn the woods down in the meantime,” I said, pointing at his cigarette, which had burned down millimeters from his fingers.

  He pulled his pack of smokes back out and retrieved another one. I turned and walked up the hill, feeling a little frustrated at Dr. Winder’s lack of answers and disturbing new revelations. I also felt frustrated from the fact that I really wanted a cigarette right now.

  I told Barbara about my conversation with the doctor and Steff’s appearance on the front porch. She grabbed my hands with a playfully and sniffed my fingertips.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Just double checking,” she said with mock suspicion, and then kissed me.

  “You guys need to get a room,” Abbs said as she sat on the side of her cot and stretched.

  “We do,” Barbara said. “The problem is that you and your sister are in it.”

  “Ewwww!” she said as she walked to the door.

  “Are you going to the latrine?” I asked.

  “Dad!” she snapped, flushing red as if I asked her what her bra size was.

  “I want you to find your sister. I saw her heading that way a few minutes ago,” I said, starting to turn a little red myself.

  She shrugged, rolled her eyes, and then went out the door. Our sudden alone time was tempting. We didn’t want to scar the girls for life, so we got dressed and walked down to meet Dr. Winder by the large pine tree.

  He was there early so we slowly walked to the mess hall in hopes the girls would catch-up to us. Abbs caught up as we reached the door. To our surprise, we found Steff sitting by herself at a table, poking at a slice of fried Spam with her fork as she munched on a red apple. The resourcefulness of the cook never ceased to amaze me given his shoestring budget and little or no access to a supermarket. A nice juicy apple sounded good this morning.

  As we dined and talked, it became evident Dr. Winder was desperate for companionship. His mood was much more chipper than it was earlier and it seemed that even Steff warmed up to him a little. She did have a fascination with science and unlike most kids her age; she knew who Dr. Ray Winder was.

  Spending much time in close quarters with Danny was enough to grate on anybody’s nerves. I believed Danny was a good person and a great friend, however his personality could be considered gruff. Even when in a good mood, his conversation style left a lot to be desired.

  Before we got up from the table, Dr. Winder leaned over and whispered to me.

  “Can I see the president?” he asked.

  “You bet!” I said. “We can go now if you like.”

  He looked skeptical.

  “It’s okay,” I chuckled. “We’re all friends here.”

  Dr. Winder approached his longtime friend with apprehension. It was like the same fettered and uncomfortable caution many people exhibit at a funeral or wake as they approach the open casket for the first time. It didn’t take long for him to realize there was not much different about the president other than the obvious distinctions between Impals and fleshers. They engaged in conversation while I took this opportunity to speak with Abraham Lincoln again. Mrs. Fiddler joined us along with another man. Judging by his clothes, he was from her same era. His name was Jim Valentine and was a cricket player from Liverpool, England.

  “How did you wind up here in the States?” I asked him.

  “My wife and I were here on holiday to see the sights. I think we perished in a train crash. I am not completely sure. At least she had the good sense to move on,” he said with a rueful smirk.

  I did not know what to say because as far as I was aware, Mrs. Manners hasn’t released a revised book on etiquette for Impals. There was no addendum yet containing a section titled: How to be tac
tful when speaking to a deceased person when their deceased spouse has moved on.

  “Well, you’re going to be almost back home,” I said. “You will all be going to an island in the English Channel.”

  “Hopefully,” a voice said behind me. I knew without turning around that it was Danny.

  I turned to see him standing with his arms behind his back and Burt standing beside him, his one good arm behind his back. Danny made a subtle motion for me to come.

  Excusing myself, I turned to follow as he led us into a deserted corner of the mine, which was well out of earshot of everyone.

  “What do you mean, hopefully?” I asked.

  Danny didn’t answer at first, so Burt jumped right in.

  “It seems Europe has been doing some back door dealing with our government. They publicly denounce the rumors of the existence of the Tesla Gates. On the other hand, they seem desperate enough to start sending their Impals over here, gate or no they will turn a blind eye.”

  “Is it that bad?” I asked.

  “Well you have to take into consideration that even with Native Americans; Europe has boasted a higher population for many more years. No telling how many they have who stayed throughout the centuries. Then couple it with everyone who has died in the last few months. Well, I’m sure they do have a problem.”

  “You agree with them?” I snapped.

  “Of course not!” Burt spat, showing a rare glimpse of his temper. “That is what is happening whether we like it or not!”

  “The bottom line,” Danny interjected, “is that we could be sending them over there to be rounded up and sent right back.”

  “Is that the way it will be?” I asked.

  “Admiral Dyson assured me that the Island of Guernsey is secluded enough that no one will notice or care,” Danny said then sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Besides, this is Europe we are talking about; England does not share the same view … at least not yet.” He shook his head and held out his hands in supplication. “I guess we don’t have a choice, do we?”

  It was the truth. We could do nothing and be caught or we could send them out tomorrow night as planned. At least by going through with our plan we would be giving them some degree of hope.