“No time like the present,” Fritz said, calling over one of the mechanics: “Bob, whip up some food for our guests. Cricket, let’s start with a preflight.”
Frank climbed into his Mustang and fired the engine.
From a YouTube video she had once watched a P-51 Mustang start up, heard its growl and then its roar on takeoff. But now she had front-row seats and heard monks, baritones and basses, chanting a few closely packed notes.
“Where’s he going?” Cricket asked.
“Check on the spotter plane that should have arrived here by now. He might be lost.”
Frank took off and Cricket shivered watching the plane rotate and climb.
From the corner of her eye Cricket caught every movement in the trees, every sway of the tall grass. Summer flooded her senses and so did the magnificent flying machine glistening in the noonday sun. The right man or right airplane could do that.
They stood in front of the four-bladed prop admiring the plane’s fierce presence. She reached up and touched the spinner.
Fritz said, “I heard of your dad and what he was trying to do; his service in the Air Force. Your dad’s beyond reproach, and so are you. But until we can look someone in the eye, talk with them, everyone’s ass is under suspicion.”
“Sister Marie’s been part of my family forever.”
“No threat there. Listen, we were briefed at Wright-Patt about the major threats throughout the state, especially Cleveland. Mostly drug-related except for some lone jihadists popping up. The Mexican cartel started heroin traffic years ago in Ohio. Currently, their players—Bloods, Crips, the Latin Kings—are expanding into the suburbs and countryside. Bikers have been killing and stealing for food and gas, and going after fuel trucks to keep their Harleys running and a lot of heavy partying along the way. Roaming the countryside and towns are every criminal type you could imagine. We even heard of some cults making headway, attracting a lot of kids, moving into the eastern suburbs.”
Cricket couldn’t take her eyes off the Mustang, the beautiful smooth wing that looked fast and modern, the strong V-12 engine wrapped inside a streamlined cowling thanks to internal cooling. “We’re getting our world back. Right? Electrical grid, computers, cell phones. I thought I’d go crazy the first week without TV and my cell. It took a month to lose that ‘sugar craving.’”
“Impressive. I’m still reaching for my cell.”
She appreciated the compliment but turned away. Usually, she intimidated men, but not this one. This time, the sun was shining in her face.
“Cricket, our world’s returning, but slowly. A week ago a small power grid ready to come back online was attacked before sunrise. Someone really likes the eighteenth century.” He spied Tony and Sister Marie walking around the tail of the plane. “What about him?”
“My girl ’tuition says he’s okay. Tony’s traveling buddy is back at his cabin. I trust them both.”
“You’re probably right. Just be careful.”
They circled the right wing and Cricket admired a ship Da Vinci would have sighed with wonder at while sketching.
Under the right wing he showed where to find the doors for ammunition and access to the guns.
“Six guns and eighteen hundred rounds of ammo. You’ll go through several hundred rounds firing a few two-second bursts.”
Stepping away from the wing, he made a sweeping movement with his hand.
“Everything about this design speaks to reduction in drag and increase in speed: the laminar flow wing; no space between ailerons controls and wing; the ventral radiator and liquid-cooled engine.”
Cricket walked ahead, aiming for the left side where you walked up the wing to the cockpit.
“Sure, go ahead. Get in the seat. But the one thing I’ll repeat a few hundred times is to remember not to touch the gear handle when you’re on the ground. With the engine running, the gear will come up if you move the handle.”
“No safety?”
“Nope, another instance where they reduced drag by decreasing the weight of a safety mechanism, increasing speed and range.”
To Cricket, every part of the plane, every detail was as beautiful up close as the total glistening ship from a distance.
“This is an official checkout. There are other pilots at Wright-Patt and there’s a woman who has lots of Warbird time, but none of them are available. They’re needed in Columbus and Cincinnati. I’m serious about you getting checked out. We might need you soon as a spotter flying a Cessna 180.”
“That’s all wonderful. I’ll fly anything. How are you getting your intelligence without Google?”
“Old-fashioned way: spies, runners, and two-way radios. Our mechanics have a radio in the front seat of the van. I have several soldiers working Cleveland and two over in Youngstown. I’ll have plenty of info in a few days.”
Cricket could see him searching for the right words.
“Listen, your father did his very best to bring people together at the Ledges, but murder and mayhem are spreading. Please, Cricket, pay attention to your new traveling companions. Anyone else you meet. Even if they come with papers verifying sainthood.”
13
Lover’s Lane
Cricket had one leg in the cockpit when Frank swooped in for a landing with a slight tailwind. For a moment Cricket wasn’t sure if he’d plow into the woods, but Frank handily braked without ground looping. Fritz climbed down the wing, saying, “Something’s wrong.”
Both he and Cricket ran to Frank’s airplane, which shuddered deeply as the engine quit.
“There’s a dozen big pickups and trucks, not the Guard, headed west—beeline to us. We need to get airborne.” He pointed to the mechanics, who stood quietly waiting to hear the news. “Get them moving, Fritz.”
“Okay, let’s clean up, folks!” Fritz yelled. “We’re done here. Let’s go!”
He turned to Cricket.
“We’ll engage them and then head ten miles to the northwest, outside of Little Falls.”
Cricket and Sister Marie followed Fritz as he pulled the chocks on the nose gear and started up the wing. “We have reinforcements there. My parents live in town.” He stepped into the front cockpit. “Try to get there soon. I’m thinking it might be the place to get you through winter.”
“Parents’ address,” Sister Marie asked.
“Nineteen fifty Lover’s Lane.”
“Of course.” Cricket smiled as Tony drove up in the Barracuda. “Stay safe.”
14
A Need for Adventure
“Take us south to Ron’s cabin and then we’ll head back to Woodburn,” Cricket instructed as they wheeled through the grassy right of way. She twisted in her seat to watch the two pilots launch in a hurry to the north. The van and truck followed.
Twenty minutes later they pulled up in front of the cabin, and Ron walked out with a satisfied smile.
“I cooked up two big roasts for us.”
“We’ll take ’em to go,” Tony said.
Back in the car, loaded with Ron and deer meat and a few supplies including a case of shotgun shells, they sped toward Woodburn. This time Cricket was at the wheel and Ron up front. Sister Marie and Tony talked and argued about the coming threats, and Cricket heard him say, “Sister—they’re savages. They’re robbing, killing, and stealing wherever they go. A lot of chaos. You don’t surprise the Guard with a handful of losers and steal most of the food. There’s someone leading. I smell creepy cult. Some leftover New Age brew of death and malice, topped with smug mugs.”
“You’re very expressive, Mr. Tony.” Sister made Tony laugh.
It was late afternoon when they arrived in Woodburn. They drove through the neighborhoods ready to fly away from trouble. Cricket scanned driveways, backs of homes, and everyone else turned in their seats. Heads swiveled left and right, and Ron and Tony had their guns drawn.
The Fosters’ street was quiet, like the others. Cricket wouldn’t chance aiming for downtown even though there was an absence of gunfir
e.
Cricket pulled around back, and the screen door flew open. Mrs. Foster ran down the steps to the driveway.
“Uncle Tommy’s missing!” she said, trying to keep her voice down.
“How long?” Cricket fumed.
“After you left, Uncle Tommy went to sleep in the study. We have a couch in there. The house was locked, and my husband and I were in our chairs, relaxing, and we both fell asleep—but not for long.”
Mrs. Foster started to cry. “That was four hours ago.”
“What door did he leave by?” Cricket asked impatiently.
“The back door. It wasn’t fully closed. Like he was stepping outside for a moment, coming right back. We looked up and down the street, but we were afraid to travel too far or call his name. You understand.”
“He’s done this before,” Sister Marie said, placing a hand on Cricket’s arm. “We should have said something. Just like Uncle Tommy to go moseying about on a beautiful summer day. Cricket, he’s too far from home. Though he could be headed in that direction.”
“I’ll go,” Cricket blurted, and Tony and Ron pleaded to accompany her. “You protect the Fosters. I’ll keep circling back hoping to find him here after his fine adventure. Uncle Tommy has a good sense of direction when he wants to use it. He may be aiming for home, even though it would take him two weeks, stopping to talk to people along the way.”
She first ran in the direction of the police station. Near the end of the block two elderly people she recognized from her church were pulling weeds and picking tomatoes from their garden. They stood up, and the woman looked at the man, unsure of their predicament. One tomato bush was tall and bushy, and several bright red tomatoes poked through the top of the green jungle. She flashed to her mom’s summer basket piled with tomatoes and cucumbers.
“I’m looking for my uncle Tommy. He’s 93, short, some white hair on top. He’s talkative too.”
“I know your uncle,” the man said. “Sorry, haven’t seen him.”
Relieved, the woman added, “We’re thinking of stripping the plant of all the green tomatoes. Would you like a few? We can’t chance they’ll still be here tomorrow.”
“No thanks,” she barely offered and was running again.
Over the next several blocks she saw not a soul in their gardens or backyards. She made the sign of the cross and felt a surge of new energy. She feared not only for Uncle Tommy but for her own town in the hands of the soulless. Her dad always said that the druggies woke up late in the day and started their selling near nightfall. “You catch drunks at the time the bars close, and a few hours earlier. But the dopers are up all night and crash all day.”
She heard voices a street over. Laughter. But nothing that warmed the cockles of the heart. She broke into a sprint and found three savages mocking Uncle Tommy, waving their guns in his face. Her uncle lay on his back, his pants down around his ankles. She was running when she drew her gun and fired, hitting the biggest guy in the middle of the back. He crashed into the street, banging his head against the curb. The second guy turned, fired, and missed. Cricket shot him twice in the chest. He fell close to Uncle Tommy. The third took off in a panic and she didn’t fire.
Uncle Tommy had crapped himself and was in tears. No other signs of abuse. She knelt down and stroked his forehead and told him she’d clean him up and then get him back home. One big savage was still alive and tried to lift himself unsuccessfully. Blood bubbled from his mouth, and she shot him in the heart. Uncle Tommy was up on one hand surveying his humiliation and sobbed. Cricket ran to the nearest house and pounded on the door.
“Open the damn door!” She heard the deadbolt turn. The handle slowly twisted. A woman peeped through the crack and Cricket made her demands.
“I need a few towels, one damp, the other dry. Hurry.” The woman looked bug-eyed at the dead bodies in the street. “Hurry, dammit!” She was back at the door in less than a minute and told Cricket she didn’t have to return them.
Cricket cleaned her uncle with tenderness, making a few jokes about his need for adventure.
She used the damp towel down his legs and backside and then threw it on the tree lawn and began to dry her uncle Tommy, who now sighed repeatedly. The shot of a rifle made her jump to her feet as the third savage was doing a face plant onto the neighbor’s driveway across the street. She never saw the shooter but silently cheered the standup resident of Woodburn.
Her uncle’s pants up, she helped him to his feet and headed toward the backyard. From the kitchen door the woman walked onto the front porch.
“Thank you for taking care of those creeps. They were pounding on our door yelling for breakfast when your uncle arrived. I hear they’re throwing people out of their homes—just moving in—taking over.”
“Do you have a gun?”
“Yes.”
“Use it then. One of your neighbors saved our lives just now.” She turned to her uncle. “Uncle Tommy, sit here a moment.” He nodded. “Ma’am, please watch him.”
Cricket ran to the street and grabbed the guns from the dead men: three automatics that she dropped into her small backpack. She found nothing in their pockets.
After the horrors of the battle, Cricket now strolled back to the Fosters with one-speed Uncle Tommy. Once again she passed the elderly couple in their garden.
“We heard shooting,” the man said.
“Are you okay?” the woman asked Cricket, looking to Uncle Tommy, who waved and tipped his vet’s cap.
Uncle Tommy said, “Ma’am, we’re fine thanks to my great niece. She saved me from a couple of bad characters. She’s a straight shot. Her dad would be proud.”
Cricket took a breath thinking of her father’s love of their garden, their own backyard. The backyards she passed still looked peaceful and fruitful, like this one. She’d save the tears for later. She needed to get her uncle safely back to the Fosters’ and come up with a plan.
“How long do you think we can hang on?” the man said. “Water works fine, but no heat, no electricity. Winter’s coming. Some neighbors deer hunt; we’ve gotten some steaks—but how long will they share?”
Uncle Tommy answered, “Stick together and don’t be afraid.”
“Uncle Tommy’s right,” Cricket said. “We can’t hide. Can’t live in fear.”
“It took all our nerve just to get outside and work in the garden,” the woman said, absentmindedly picking and adding another tomato to a full basket. The tomato rolled off the crowded basket, and the woman didn’t notice.
15
Learning to Kill
Once Cricket helped Uncle Tommy up the back steps and handed him over to Ron and Tony, she went to the Barracuda and put the top up. The sky was darkening. Banded high cirrus coasting in from the west told of a possible front arriving and the potential for a big summer storm.
Sister Marie and Mrs. Foster had warmed the roast in the fireplace and, with twilight approaching, had several kerosene lanterns for the dining room and a couple of candles in the middle of the table. Tony prepared the table, and Ron and Mr. Foster talked quietly in the living room.
Once the food was on the table, everyone stood and held hands. The candlelight made the occasion holy, at least that’s what Cricket thought. Sister Marie prayed for the blessing of food and friendship and well-being.
They quickly passed the simmering roast around the table. Tony was piling the salad on his plate when he turned to Sister Marie.
“What about the rest of your nunnery?”
Ron glanced at the ceiling, embarrassed.
“I think he means your convent,” Ron said.
“I mean, get thee to a nunnery,” Tony said with a straight face.
Even the Fosters laughed.
Ron looked pained and tired for having to explain Tony’s sarcasm. “My friend has the strangest way of demonstrating his knowledge of the classics.”
Smiling, Sister Marie said, “The motherhouse is in Cleveland. I haven’t heard anything. There hasn’t been a wa
y to contact the other sisters—so many friends are there, and my mentor, our director, Sister Teresa. You see, I was visiting Cricket and her dad on the weekend of the solar storm. I’ve know the Hastings family for years, and met Cricket’s mom when she was a nursing student at Akron Children’s Hospital, where I taught. Now I’m Cricket’s student in staying alive. She’s also an excellent hairstylist.”
“Can you do anything with this?” Tony said holding out a strand of gray hair from his temple.
“Probably not,” Cricket fired back.
“Are you and Tony from the Akron area?” Mrs. Foster asked Ron.
“Yes we are. I’ve taught American history for twenty-five years at Salem College and made the commute daily.”
“I’m just a janitor,” Tony said, “from LA, Lower Akron. We hardly ever drove together. This guy’s dangerous behind the wheel at seven in the morning. He’ll kill ya.”
Not taking the bait, Ron said, “Tony’s a maintenance man, not a janitor, and a very good electrician and plumber.”
“Gee, holy compliment, Batman. But what’s wrong with janitor?”
“A good janitor does it all,” Uncle Tommy added. “I almost became one at the local high school after the war. Good job, good benefits.”
“Damn straight,” Tony said, passing the bread to Mr. Foster.
With the look of a man suffering another minor injustice, Ron said, “Tony, I just like to be correct in naming things—maintenance man, not janitor; waste disposal person, not garbage man. Not every change is an evil plot to end Western civilization. Besides, it’s a good evolution of the language, and more accurately reflects your work. Not everything is politically correct or incorrect. Most of life just is.”
“Woof,” Tony responded and Sister giggled, the first time in weeks, Cricket thought. “Forget political correctness. Being run off campus by the Feminazis was an act of war. I thought we were caught in a scene from the Cannibal Women of the Avocado Jungle of Death.”
Pulse of the Goddess: American Blackout Book One Page 7
