Cricket was getting ready to circle the block for more shooters when the woman raised her hands in surrender. And she was no longer screaming crazy stuff. Cricket watched Officer Davis walk out, weapon drawn. He told the woman to lie down on the pavement.
Though she kept her hands raised, she was defiant and wouldn’t lie down. Officer Davis took a few more steps and then Officer Catalano appeared, whom Cricket had had a crush on for a long time.
“Don’t get any closer, you guys!” Cricket yelled from the bowels of the vehicle. She gunned the engine and put it in drive.
The woman turned toward the beast to affirm her surrender. A third officer joined the other two men.
No more deliberations. Cricket pushed both drive levers forward and aimed for the crazy one. The woman raised her hands higher, her eyes growing big. Cricket felt the coming horror in her gut but didn’t swerve or let up on the gas. The woman started to run but was late in her decision-making. The APC mangled her beneath its steel hulk and tracks.
Cricket stopped and knew she was going to be sick. The men ran to the APC yelling for Paul.
She opened the latch and crawled out and emptied her insides on the roof.
“Cricket, she was surrendering,” Officer Davis called out.
Cricket wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “She had a gun—back of her jeans.” The men looked at each other.
“Where’s your dad?” Officer Catalano asked. Officer Lewis, a twenty-five-year-old veteran, kneeled at the torn body of the woman and held the gun up.
“Dad’s gone. Killed by these savages.”
“Cricket, come inside,” Catalano said. “You’re hurt.”
She almost became sick again. But why the pain, the doubt? She remembered Sister Marie’s admonition on killing, a warning she didn’t heed. Another voice said, take care of the cut and keep moving.
Officer Lewis drove the APC closer to the building and parked it with the rear of the vehicle facing the door and disconnected the batteries.
Inside, Catalano and Davis cleaned Cricket’s two-inch gash and bandaged it while the other officers kept watch.
“You should have that stitched,” Officer Catalano said. “Thanks for getting us the APC.”
“How long have you been under attack?” she asked.
“Since last night,” the officer said. “We thought it was just random Mad Max wannabes until the crazies started calling for us to surrender, that a new era had begun and we could be part of it. Real crazed stuff but purpose-driven. A leader, somewhere. I’m sure many of them are high. But I can’t figure out what they’re taking.”
“Maybe everything, all at once.” Cricket thanked one of the officers who had brought her a tall glass of water. “Everyone seems to be reading from the same program,” Cricket said. “Like the crazy woman trying to contact her inner genie and have me open the hatch.” Like Jane, the strange woman’s true-believer “card” had been stamped often enough to earn her a brutal exit from this life.
“How’s the rest of the town holding out?” Cricket asked.
“Now that we have the APC, we’ll start patrolling. They attacked the pharmacy—cleaned out the drugs and syringes, a lot of the over-counter stuff, too, even stole all the batteries, which I guess is smart. They weren’t successful at the hospital. It’s been guarded by heavily armed residents, many of them you know. The hospital’s generators are working and the staff is a dedicated bunch. They did a better job of repelling the first wave of attacks than we did. And our rookies, Sikes and Talbot, are with their wives, both expecting any day now. We’re praying they’re safe.”
Cricket said, “We’re going to need to find another place to settle everyone. We need numbers. We can’t be spread out. My dad was right about forming a large, strong community. He was also right about the ‘crazy’ virus spreading.”
The men looked at each other.
Officer Davis said, “Cricket, your dad meant everything to us. What you—”
“Don’t have time for more tears. Actually, there’s something satisfying about eliminating these bastards.” Cricket’s heart beat out of time. Her breath, her heart, her stomach were all in her throat. Not only Officer Catalano, she now had a crush on all the officers and broke down and sobbed. These were her father’s friends who had worked long days, argued with Paul over pay and hours and how to keep their small town safe after the EMP attack. They all had families and kids. No one could have imagined this world a few months ago. And now she and the officers had to carry on without Chief Hastings.
Cricket rose from her seat. “I need to get some food for the Fosters. They’re going to take care of Uncle Tommy. Any suggestions?”
“We’ve been stockpiling food at the high school cafeteria, a lot of medicine, too. Residents are guarding it. I’ll take you there. The supermarket got raided of its remaining stock in the last 24 hours. Not enough security.”
Officer Davis looked at the floor full of glass, the shot-up entrance, and glanced outside, eyeing the heap of bone and blood of the young woman and several other dead attackers. “Luckily the morgue isn’t full yet. Mass graves is next if this keeps up. Cricket, you have any idea what group is pulling off these crazy attacks?”
“Group? It’s either gangs, lone-wolf types, or some new force of nature. Don’t laugh, but I heard it’s a woman named the Brazilian. Self-named I’m sure. Just rumor, someone having fun, making a joke.”
No one laughed.
11
Madmen Everywhere
With Officer Davis’ help, Cricket returned to the Fosters’ loaded with cheese and canned goods and a two-month supply of blood pressure medicine for her uncle. What her father had wanted was already occurring—learning to fight and fight hard and look out for one another. The street had remained quiet, and Tony was napping in a chair. Sister Marie and Mrs. Foster scouted the front and backyard. Still on the couch and covered with a blanket, Uncle Tommy awoke for a few minutes, smiled at his niece, and dozed off.
The next morning after a real feast of fresh eggs and bacon, dropped off by a local farmer driving an old Ford station wagon, Cricket, Tony, and Sister Marie loaded up the Barracuda with a few supplies and had to coax Diesel into the back seat. Saying their goodbyes, Uncle Tommy fought back tears and reminded Cricket that she had always made her parents proud. And she told him she would soon return. “Two days max, sweetie.” Diesel barked and moaned his goodbye to Uncle Tommy.
After Mr. Foster siphoned fuel from the family’s dead Highlander to the Barracuda, Cricket raced the muscle car through the neighborhood eyeing each direction, each backyard for trouble. Finally, she aimed for the countryside. Palmer airport was a twenty-minute drive from town barring ambushes or roads blocked by abandoned cars and trucks.
Tony couldn’t stay still and moved over the seat, trying to anticipate the next attack. Diesel danced over him thinking a new game had started. The dog nudged Tony with his snout to keep moving.
As they neared the airport, the ominous smell of smoke warned of tragedy. Sister Marie, who had stitched Cricket’s forehead before bed, appeared solemn and composed and ready for the worst. She wore an ironed light blue pantsuit. Cricket had on a clean dark T-shirt and Claire’s leather vest, several extra magazines and the automatic on her hip. She slowed the car to a stop.
“Let’s listen for a moment. We’re near the entrance. The hangars will be on our right. The office is mid-field, near the runway. If there’s trouble, I’ll head down the runway and pick up the right of way for the gas line—takes us back to the road.”
“It’s a plan,” Tony said, turning to Diesel. “Keep that snout out of my face and lay down.” Diesel obliged, not something he usually did with new friends.
Even the Barracuda seemed to obey Cricket, sounding quieter; a low rumble just above idle at ten miles per hour.
She parked the car and everyone noiselessly piled out. The T-hangars had been shot up and every one of the dozen or so aircraft had been destroyed. On the oth
er side of the runway, smoke still lingered from the flight office. All three held their guns at waist level, including Sister Marie. A tall, sandy-haired man in a khaki flight suit rounded the destroyed T-hangar. Not much older than Cricket, he carried something in each hand.
“Stop—raise your hands.” Cricket pointed the gun at the man’s heart.
“Okay, they’re up,” the man said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Sister said nervously. “She may shoot you anyway. Do what she says.”
“I’m not going to dance.” The man smiled.
“Do what she says, pal,” Tony added.
“Ma’am, why a pantsuit on such a hot day?” the stranger asked.
Sister Marie raised her eyebrows. “Thank you for your concern. Actually, I’m very comfortable. I’m Sister Marie, with the Sisters of Saint Augustine.”
“Shorts not allowed?”
“Shut up,” Cricket yelled. “Put those instruments on the ground—slowly.”
“All of you seem like nice people,” he said, starting to lower his arms out to his side. Squatting effortlessly, he placed the black boxes in the grass.
“Look straight ahead,” Cricket demanded.
“That’s easy.” The man stared at her; a bigger smile showed a row of straight, beautiful teeth. “I guess I should explain myself.”
“You sure like taking your time,” Cricket said. “The world’s temporarily over, if you haven’t heard—madmen everywhere.”
“True, the entire country’s in terrible shape. But you see I’m Air Force, stationed at Wright-Patterson. On one of our reconnaissance flights we spotted this field and decided to scrounge around for airplane stuff.”
“I don’t see a plane,” Cricket challenged, “just rubble.”
“It’s a few miles from here.”
“Bullshit, he’s no pilot,” Tony said. “No patches on his flight suit. No cap, no scrambled eggs. Rank, group, wings—”
Sister Marie looked exasperated. “Such negativity. This is a different time. A man in the military can’t always be advertising his position and rank.” She received a favorable nod from the man.
“What is it you just placed on the ground?” Tony said.
The man pointed. “Altimeter and a turn and bank indicator.”
“Big deal,” Cricket said. “What airplane is that over there? With the V-tail?”
“A Beech Bonanza, what’s left of it. And its neighbor, a very dead Piper 140.”
“Bad guys can fly airplanes, too,” Cricket said, losing steam.
“I never heard of a bad guy flying a P-51.” Again, the man smiled broadly.
Cricket stammered “What?—You’re—”
“Shazam!” Tony said. “I knew this guy was on the level.”
Sister Marie smacked Tony’s arm, grinning. “Please, both of you were ready to shoot him.”
The man brushed his hands on his pant legs and approached Cricket, who was smiling and crying at the same time.
“Captain Fritz Holaday, Air Force,” the man announced.
“You’re the P-51 driver,” Cricket said, smiling ear to ear. Wiping the tears away.
“You saved us,” Sister Marie said, matter-of-factly. “And you saved Cricket from shooting you, which would have been just terrible.”
“NORAD still nicely tucked away in Cheyenne Mountain kicking ass?” Tony asked.
“All I can say is they’re doing their job and then some,” Captain Holaday answered. Tony let out a war cry and threw a roundhouse punch at the sky.
Cricket’s eyes flamed, knowing payback had been dealt. “It was a dream watching you come out of the sky wiping out those savages.”
“Radio communications for the last week informed us that decent folks were converging on the Ledges. The criminal’s antennas went up, too. They’re stomping on any local resistance. It’s probably the same small army that knocked off two large food distribution centers recently. We were out scouting for them two days ago when we spotted heavily armed pickups.”
“How many attacked the center?” Cricket asked.
“Forty, fifty bikers and several vehicles, including a supply truck for the heist. They hid off the road a mile away from the facility. When the local police heard the gunfire, they raced to the site and were gunned down.”
“They weren’t after Twinkies and Sno Balls,” Tony said.
“Nope. Meat and potatoes, beans and rice. One old-timer from the Guard said they reminded him of the Viet Cong—fast, deadly, working at night. With a few vintage aircraft available we’re able to step up surveillance and, as you witnessed, we’re able to do some damage with the Mustang’s guns. We wanted to help.” He zeroed in on Cricket. “I’m sure grateful that all of you made it,” adding, “Cricket, did I hear that right?”
“Emily Cricket Hastings,” she said proudly.
“Startling,” he replied.
Diesel took the softened tone and boyish look of wonder as a green light and ran to Fritz like they were old friends.
Cricket asked, “Are the flight instruments for the Mustang?”
“No, it’s for the single-engine aircraft. Cessnas, Pipers, they spot for us. Civilian pilots.” He shrugged. “Obviously, there’s no GPS. So back to pilotage and dead reckoning. Hey, you fly?”
“Since I was a kid. Single and multi-engine. Got to fly a DC-3 once for a few hours. Lots of tail-dragger time.”
“Total hours?”
“Seven hundred.”
“Impressive,” Captain Holaday said. “You want to see the P-51?”
“Are you crazy?” Cricket said.
“You want a lesson?” He was still smiling.
Cricket covered her mouth with both hands and Sister Marie appeared stunned by everything and everyone.
“I’m your gopher to the end of time,” Tony said. “I saw dozens of Mustangs in Columbus years back. They called it the Final Roundup! Nothing like that sound. I’m sure just one will make me piss my pants. Sorry, Sister.”
Sister Marie was in Tony’s face. “No you’re not. I expected it.”
Tony pretended confusion before giving her a big hug, lifting her into the air.
“Interesting,” Sister Marie said, looking over Tony’s shoulder, “an airplane having such an impact.”
12
Cadillac of the Sky
The ride was short and the excitement deep. Cricket ran through her questions, not waiting for an answer. She almost stopped breathing when the Mustangs appeared in a clearing at the edge of an orchard, like seeing a lion for the first time in the wild. Tony mumbled inanities and Sister Marie looked pleasantly surprised at the sight of the polished aluminum warbirds sitting on their tails; the stylized undercarriage, the prop spinner pointed at the sky, into the wind. They both had nose art. “A Lil’ Somethin’” arced over a voluptuous blonde below the exhaust stack on the plane closest to them; the other read: “Send ’Em to Hell” in red, white and blue.
“Beautiful lines,” Sister said. “Easy on the eyes.”
Fritz pointed to the one closest, the one with the blonde bombshell. “That’s a D-model Mustang, modified about a dozen years ago to be a two-seater with dual controls. Not many around. We got it six months ago when the owner died. It was going in the museum and getting ready to be turned into a museum piece—guns removed, all fluids drained—when we had the attack. Major Louis is flying a single-seat P-51D. We’ve had it for five years and it needed some work to get plane and guns operational. Frank’s flown an assortment of Warbirds in air shows for years.”
“Your experience?” Cricket asked.
“I’m just real good.”
She liked his smile that said he was being only a bit silly, but mostly true.
“Actually, I’ve got fifteen-hundred hours total, about five hundred in a C-130 gunship. We’re close to having several operational.”
She knew something of the C-130’s firepower packed into its fuselage and wings.
Fritz said, “My early flying was tail
dragger, like you, and aerobatic work, some instruction. Started when I was a teen. Last year I found myself in the P-51 getting checked out by the owner before the Mustang went to the museum. I’ve got fifty hours in the plane and three on the guns.”
Out of the car Cricket made a beeline to the Mustang and Fritz followed, talking about the over 15,000 P-51s manufactured during the war and less than 200 remaining worldwide. She circled the plane, walking slowly around the World War II fighter, imagining Uncle Tommy looking up seventy years ago and seeing this plane roar overhead.
They were introduced to several mechanics and another pilot, Major Frank Louis, standing next to the single-seat P-51.
“I think we have our backup pilot,” Fritz said to Frank, motioning with an open hand to Cricket.
Frank was short, broad-shouldered, a two-day old scruff, mid-forties, full head of hair with gray at the temples. He looked over the group, and quickly back to Cricket.
“The P-51 will kill you on takeoff if you think it’s all fun and games.”
“Come on, Frank,” Fritz moaned.
Undeterred, Frank added, “I know if a person’s afraid of an airplane just by the way they walk up to it.”
Cricket’s deflation came and went. She took a step toward the curmudgeon.
“How did I do?” She couldn’t keep her eyes off Frank’s Mustang.
Frank also turned in appreciation, saying, “I saw a gal approach the Mustang with one part awe and one part love. I’d say you passed the first test.”
“Thanks,” she said, walking up to the trailing edge of the wing and touching the polished aluminum skin with two fingers, taking its pulse. “You know, my dad was shot out of the sky two days ago.” She faced Frank, standing close. “So don’t worry, I won’t be in a fun-and-games mood for a long time.” She stood tall and felt a chill angle up her back. Failure and dying were on everyone’s mind. “We appreciate what you and Fritz did, taking out those pickups with the big guns.” She extended her hand, and Frank shook it and offered her his condolences.
Pulse of the Goddess: American Blackout Book One Page 6
