Pulse of the Goddess: American Blackout Book One

by Fred Tribuzzo

  “You’re annoying,” Cricket said. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m known by many names. Since the dawn of time women have called me every name in the book, but it wouldn’t be appropriate to go into any detail. Though I was once christened ‘Ow Louder’ after—”

  He thought better of continuing. Sister listened intently, tilting her head toward the strange man, trying to decipher his words. Cricket was ready to slug him and settled for rolling her eyes to rid herself of the useless information. The bigger man now was yelling, calling his companion insensitive and a fool.

  “Why would anyone tell an owl to yell louder?” Sister asked Cricket.

  Uncle Tommy put his gun back in its holster and went and sat with Diesel in the car. The dog had already found the shell of his master and didn’t need another visit.

  “What’s your name?” Cricket addressed the larger man.

  “Ron Jones,” he sighed, looking to the heavens, resigned to a boring name. “And this is Tony,” he said disgustedly.

  Cricket lowered the shotgun and addressed Ron. “You said you could help us.”

  “Tony has a cabin not far from here—we heard all the commotion.”

  “Phantom and a Sabre,” Tony said, “frigging unbelievable, until they were upstaged by the P-51s!”

  Ron talked over Tony. “We can go back and get shovels. We need to bury your dad. I’m so sorry.”

  Staring at the burning trucks in the field, Tony said, “Those bastards got theirs big-time. Good for them. I hope they enjoyed every slug of the Mustang’s Ma Deuces. Shazam!”

  “It was the anarchists,” Ron said sadly, shaking his large head, the hint of a question: why had a once-proud people succumbed to the lust for power?

  “Anarchists give me a rash.” Tony spat.

  Cricket turned from the men and walked to where her father lay. His face was pressed to the ground. There was blood and a terrible smell and blackened limbs. She spotted bullet wounds in her father’s head and back.

  “I want to be alone with my father. Sister, please take Uncle Tommy to the Ledges so he can eat and rest. Then come back and get me.”

  “You need to eat also,” Sister reminded her.

  “Not hungry.” Cricket turned to the two men: “You guys need to get moving and bring back shovels.” She dropped the hard-ass tone. “I’d really appreciate it.”

  “Sure, we’d be happy to do that,” Ron said. “What’s your name?”

  “Cricket.”

  Ron pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. If he had a different reaction to her name, his good manners wouldn’t allow him to show it. “We’ll be back soon.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain Cricket.” Tony saluted.

  “If you annoy me much longer I might shoot you.”

  Tony shrugged, mumbling, “Put me out of my misery.”

  Ron stuffed the broken watch back in his pocket. “Tony, c’mon. We’ve got work to do.”

  Cricket stood watching the two men lumber off into the woods, arguing the entire time.

  “What could possibly keep them together?” she said, walking back to the Barracuda with Uncle Tommy and Sister.

  “Believe it or not, they respect each other,” Sister said with certainty. Both women helped Uncle Tommy navigate the uneven ground. “They’re good men.”

  Cricket traded the shotgun for the rifle and slung it over her left shoulder, muzzle down. She sadly eyed the dog, who wandered the field methodically, as if it were laid out on a grid. He was engaged in a serious olfactory undertaking, the cause of his master’s demise, and not a single “puppy bone” remained in his canine body. She consciously took her next breath instead of releasing more tears, and pointed at the convertible: “Diesel, stay with the two closest people of mine in the whole world. Protect them.”

  With Sister behind the wheel, door open, the Lab ran to the car and took his place on the back seat alongside Uncle Tommy.

  4

  Gym Muscles

  Alone with her dad, Cricket walked the farthest reaches of the crash site looking for some piece of the loyal Cub she could take with her. The flight instruments were missing and, most importantly, a picture of her mom her dad had taped to the panel years ago—all destroyed when the forward gas tank exploded.

  Before leaving, Sister Marie had retrieved a blanket from the trunk and covered the body of fifty-two-year-old Paul Hastings. Cricket plopped on the ground a few feet from her father, rifle across her lap, and talked and cried until she was exhausted. Once she was spent, the wind and sunlight felt cleaner on her skin, but her name became a glaring mistake—

  Cricket—really? A lack of gravitas, especially with both parents gone. Her dad’s use of the name had made her happy, feeling loved for years, as long as he wasn’t mad at her over some teenage infraction of house rules. Through high school it was a fun name—a name for a hairstylist, a geologist, even the CIA—“Agent Cricket, please meet Mr. Bond.”

  Finally, she stood up and went to confront the smoldering remains of her dad’s killers.

  She walked upwind of the burning pickup truck, holding the Remington at waist level, expecting another attack. The first man she had shot had been directing the shooter, so why wouldn’t a pair of trucks and a half dozen savages have the same guidance?

  From one truck lying on its side Cricket saw a severed arm reaching out from the destroyed windshield. She kept her distance even though the exploded gas tank had already done its job. When the wind shifted, so did she to avoid the foul-smelling smoke.

  Circling the charred truck, she saw Jane. Nearly in two pieces, Jane looked shocked that she had been denied a final retort. When the wind changed direction and its speed increased, Cricket ran to the other truck. Two men shot and burned now lay still in the grass. Flames still licked the truck and the two men in the cab. She circled the vehicle and came upon a third man. He was far enough from the vehicle that she could approach him. He had been shot in the legs and there was little blood. His eyes were open and he blinked. Closer, she saw that he was moving his eyes to watch her.

  She knelt next him.

  “You brought my dad’s plane out of the sky. He’s gone forever. And if it hadn’t been for those beautiful P-51s—which must have been a real surprise—you would’ve slaughtered us.”

  The man stared, understanding every word. Cricket knew that a hand over his nose and mouth would bring justice, or a simple bullet. But she didn’t have the stomach to kill outright, face to face. Instead she leaned close, saying:

  “You’re paralyzed.” She looked him over—“gym muscles, young, early twenties … I think you’ll survive the night.”

  She stood up and then quickly squatted alongside the man, whose eyes grew large.

  “Except there is that problem of coyotes. Around here they’ve mated with dogs. They’re bigger, fiercer, and more intelligent.”

  The man’s eyes blinked Morse code for “mercy.” Cricket rose.

  “Rapid blinking, rapid eye movement, who knows, that may just scare the shit out of them and they’ll take a rain check on dinner.”

  Gunfire from all directions stopped her from tormenting the man any longer. The woods didn’t deliver victim or shooter, only shouts and gunfire. The crack of rifles, shotguns roaring, automatic weapon fire and more screams. She raised the rifle to her chest and spun facing every direction, but not a single soul was seen. A hallucination? She ran to a large depression in the field, dropped to the ground, glassed the forest, and waited. Then she heard the moans of the dying, calls of despair, calls for a spouse, a father, or a mother.

  The chaos ended by degrees until the meadow grew silent.

  She stood, and again quickly moved in a large circle and saw nothing.

  She was rounding the nearest burning truck when a tall figure in the woods caught her attention. Alongside an enormous tree stood a woman in a long white evening dress and glistening silver belt, a Greek goddess who had been posing for a photo shoot, advertising an age when north
eastern Ohio was a tropical paradise with crocodiles roaming from Cleveland to the North Pole. She looked fabulous, yet Cricket gripped the rifle. Was she directing these savages like the first man Cricket had shot? The woman’s hands were at her side. Was she holding anything? And she appeared serene, above it all. A cool savage perhaps.

  Cricket decided not to shout or race toward the silent visitor. She needed to zero in on the eyes, know her intent. Left foot forward, she leaned toward the woman and raised the rifle, the very rifle she had used to shoot her first deer at fifteen. Its flat trajectory had aided her growing skill, and she had nailed the buck nearly 500 feet away. The Remington was dear to her, comfortable, and, even now, the walnut stock nuzzled the crook of her shoulder firmly, like an old friend. She started to peer through the scope when the Barracuda’s throaty V8 distracted her. Sister Marie was at the wheel, waving. When Cricket turned back to the forest, the woman was gone.

  5

  A Glimpse of Creation

  Uncle Tommy sat in back with Diesel.

  “What happened?” Cricket asked. “Uncle Tommy, why didn’t you stay?”

  “There’s only a couple of families there and they’re leaving soon,” Sister Marie volunteered. “A few stragglers who made it said they were attacked en route. A lot of the cabins have food and the one family, the Morgans, are stocking up. They’ll be gone by dark. They don’t have the numbers.”

  “Nice people,” Uncle Tommy said. “Fed us, Diesel too. And we brought some food back.”

  “If we show up, do you think they’d stay?” Cricket asked.

  Uncle Tommy shook his head. “Don’t know. They were going to stay a couple more hours in hopes of the man’s brother and his family arriving.”

  Eyes on the crash site, Cricket spotted Ron and Tony.

  “Let’s go and take care of my father.” She jumped in the driver’s seat, and Sister slid over to the passenger’s side. “We’re still going to the Ledges.”

  The two grave diggers were hard at work as Cricket put the Barracuda in park after the short drive.

  “Thanks,” Cricket said. “Sister, let’s collect flowers and wheat to line the bottom of my dad’s resting place.”

  Sister Marie smiled her okay.

  “Did you two hear all the shooting?” Cricket asked the men.

  “Yeah, we did,” Ron replied. “It was awful; it got close, but we followed a creek most of the way and stayed out of sight.”

  Tony looked up from the hole they were digging with a straight-on look that meant no bullshit.

  She turned to her uncle, who had started to reminisce.

  “Uncle Tommy, at the Ledges you can tell us all the stories you want about dad. I’m cried out for now, and we need to get moving. We’re going to do what’s right for my father.”

  “Well said, Cricket.” His eyes were shiny with memories. Then his smile told her he had shifted gears. “I bet you’d do a helluva job on TV telling people all about some big story breaking.”

  “There’s no more TV, Uncle Tommy. Besides, I’m a hairdresser. Though I had plans of going back to community college.”

  “Keep clear of the university,” Tony offered. “Community colleges are still okay if they ever start up again.”

  “Which university?”

  “All of them. We were both at Salem College. Not a big school.” Tony shrugged. “Maybe twenty-five hundred, but plenty of whackos.”

  “I had friends that went there,” Cricket said. “I never heard anything bad. Went there a few times for parties. Even made it for Halloween. Pretty crazy time.”

  “My buddy here is a bit inelegant,” Ron said. “Salem is a fine college, like Kenyon, or Oberlin.”

  Cricket said nothing, done with the topic. She addressed Sister Marie. “When we lay dad to rest, I want you to sing one of his favorite hymns.”

  The look from Sister told her she’d be proud to sing, but also that she was disappointed that Cricket had never made it to church often enough to know for herself what her dad had enjoyed. After the EMP attack, she had made it to church only once, when asked by Sister to deliver the reading from Corinthians and the Prayer of the Faithful. Paul Hastings had attended Saint Matthew’s almost every Sunday since the “world had ended,” counting on his twenty-strong police force to protect their population of ten thousand souls. Cricket told her dad she made up for all her church no-shows by accompanying one of his men on duty. He didn’t buy it, but never pestered her to attend.

  Within the hour the two men had dug several feet deep, patiently observing Sister’s instructions on depth, length, and keeping the sides straight. They struggled to pick up the blanket-wrapped body of Paul Hastings before carefully laying him atop assorted flowers and summer wheat. Cricket bawled when the first ball of dirt was thrown by Tony. Ron stopped Tony’s next shovelful and demonstrated the proper technique of letting the dirt slide off the shovel.

  “Thank you, both of you, for doing this,” Cricket managed. “I don’t know what we would have done.”

  As the last shovels of dirt buried Cricket’s father forever in a warm, sunny field, Sister Marie knelt before the fresh grave and began singing. Tony and Ron looked at each other, unsure of their involvement, and backed up a few steps.

  “I am here. Standing right beside you. I am here. Do not be afraid. I am here, waiting like a lover…”

  No one was familiar with the song, but its cadence and stark words of God calling mercifully out to his creation delivered everyone, especially the two newcomers, into a deep silence. Sister’s voice had the wind and the red-winged blackbirds for accompaniment. Cricket thought: This beautiful voice is the newest part of creation. She was stunned by the revelation, further imagining that they all had arrived moments ago and shared in the first hour of consciousness great joy, and something called heartache. The song and the voice were brand new in this timeless meadow.

  Silence followed Sister’s hymn. Eyeing the diggers, Cricket said, “You’re welcome to ride with us to the Ledges.”

  Ron gave a solemn nod, and Tony said, “Sure, we’ll check it out. Our place will still be there. It’s more off the beaten path than these farms. City folks came here looking for food, and some farmers took off for the city. Go figure. No one will ever find my place. Surrounded by swamp; one way in. We even run a portable generator a few hours a day for a small fridge.”

  Safety in numbers drove rural folks to the suburbs and cities. Woodburn was an exception, with many residents banding together and listening to Chief Hasting for their survival, fighting aggressively the occasional gangs and ordinary criminals that randomly invaded their homes and businesses. But Paul had told his daughter the town’s position in the near future was untenable with food getting scarce by winter. Heavily armed thugs attacking food centers and delivery trucks just lessened their chances of survival.

  “Cricket, we’re too spread out in Woodburn,” Paul Hastings had said. They had even talked of exploring Salem College, with its small main campus of brick buildings on a rise and not heavily tree-covered. Cricket and her dad had thought of heading there with a number of neighbors and fellow officers to provide security and help build a strong community. But no one else had showed any interest.

  “Don’t be so sure about not being found,” Ron said to Tony. “No place is safe.”

  “Yeah, that’s true,” Cricket said, hearing her father’s agreement, before realizing it was only the memory of his voice.

  They all climbed into the Barracuda with Diesel in front crowding Sister Marie. Passing the smoldering trucks, Cricket never looked at the man who had stepped into creation just in time to be feasted upon. She thought no more of him as she hit the two-lane road and accelerated the old muscle car well past sixty miles per hour.

  6

  Our Lives, Our Fortunes, Our Sacred Honor

  Standing atop a tall sandstone slab was a man with a rifle. He grimly signaled Cricket and company to enter along the main road that led to picnic and camping areas and an o
utdoor amphitheater for concerts and holiday celebrations. Behind a deep, narrow passage of rocks, tilting at the sky, she heard Seneca Falls crashing sixty feet into Lonesome Creek. Cricket had spent many a summer at the Ledges and nearly every Independence Day with her dad and friends.

  From a wooden walkway that crossed a deep fissure, two men carrying hunting rifles approached the car.

  “You’re with Paul Hastings and party?” the balding man in camouflage asked.

  “I’m his daughter,” Cricket said, staring at the steering wheel. The voices grew distant and she remembered a summer hike with her dad after her sophomore year in high school.

  “My science teacher said Ohio was a shallow, warm sea four hundred million years ago and we were close to the equator.”

  “Well, things do change with time.” Her dad pointed to the poorly marked trail as they started to ascend, hiking past Hell’s Icebox, a cave so named for its ability to remain cold even in summer.

  “Dad, our last ice age started about one hundred thousand years ago and finished up just ten thousand years ago. I mean, that’s nothing compared to hundreds of millions of years.”

  “Sounds like you’re paying attention in school.”

  “I guess, but it makes me think our lives are so short, it’s like they don’t even count, like we never existed against all that time.”

  “And, your mother’s life was much shorter than most people’s very short lives.”

  “Yeah, you know where I’m going.”

  “Cricket, I was very angry at first for having her for so short a time, too. But watching you grow up, beautiful like your mom, and now, the two of us enjoying this gorgeous summer day, I gotta believe a great victory has already been won.” Her dad took in the beauty all around. “Yeah, a big victory over rocks buried for an eternity and even death. That’s what I believe.”