Now Mrs. Foster laughed. Cricket thought her face would break from the moment of pleasure. Sister Marie just shook her head, saying, “What an amusing title. Once the world is back to the normal that I cherish, I might have to watch it. I take it there’s a lot of humor, Mr. Tony?”
“The best kind, Sister—pointless.”
The entire table laughed, and Ron tried to make his case.
“It was a misunderstanding,” Ron said, “and you know, I hate that term, Feminazi. It’s ugly.”
Tony pushed back from the table. In attempting to look offended, he simply crossed his eyes, which drove his caterpillar eyebrows into close battle. Sister Marie exploded with a belly laugh. Tony continued through another wave of laughter, saying, “Feminazis were on the march. Straight up. Dead on. Take no prisoners. The only one not clear as to what the fracas was all about was you.”
“Why were you run off?” Cricket asked, standing, peering out the living room window.
Every line on Ron’s face creased in unison. “After the solar disturbance, there was a lot of chaos—who’s in charge? how do we survive? Thanks to Tony, we had refrigeration and plenty of food. He had protected the school’s generators with Faraday cages he constructed days before the EMP strike.”
Tony ignored the praise and aggressively slapped butter on a piece of homemade bread.
Ron said, “We also had laboratories for research, and some of the deans got together—”
“All Feminazis,” Tony said. “Every one of them. A real madness took over. They couldn’t believe their good fortune.”
“Women, yes, Tony, they were all women, what the hell age do you live in? They had big responsibilities. I call it stepping up to the plate. You continue to use that clown Rush Limbaugh’s cartoonish description of strong women. Is Cricket here a Feminazi? She’s strong.”
“Cricket’s my hero,” Tony said, “Sister Marie, too. Neither one is out to kick us in the balls.”
Sister coughed and laughed simultaneously, and Mrs. Foster reached over to make sure she was okay.
“Ron,” Cricket said, also eyeing Sister, who nodded she was okay, while trying to talk. Cricket waited for Sister to compose herself and then said, “I’m a Rush baby. I grew up listening to the great Maha Rushie. I know what Tony means by Feminazi—hatred of men for acting like men.”
Ron straightened his bulk, raised his head and looked about the table. “Good Lord, the world’s ending and I’m still subjected to Rush Limbaugh.”
“So what happened at the college?” Sister chimed in.
“They raided my office and carried off a lot of my books,” Ron said. “Burned them.”
The Fosters looked at each other like they were hearing frightening news from a foreign land.
“I thought we finished those people off in the war,” Uncle Tommy said, pounding the table.
Ron said, “I wanted a simple show of hands for picking a president, since ours had disappeared by the time of the nuclear explosion. They said I was a fascist, pro-American, and my beliefs set the stage for these attacks. And that I had encouraged people to hate us.”
“What about the sun?” Mr. Foster asked. “That enormous solar flare.”
“The sun hated us too—big-time,” Tony said.
Ron gave Tony a hard look and continued: “When I tried to stop them from burning books, some I’ve had since I was in high school, they came after me—students, teachers, whoever was backing them. They chased me back in my building. It was crazy. Tony dragged me into the physical plant, and we waited for the passions to die down. He was still on campus doing yeoman’s work for keeping the generators going, moving porta-potties around campus for easy access and a whole bunch of things.” Ron stared at the table. “And then we made our way to Tony’s cabin.” He folded his hands. “You see, the passions of the moment. That’s all. I’m sure I could go back there today—”
“And they’d cut off your balls and call you an old white man—” Tony said.
Pounding on the front door made everyone jump. Cries for help sank everyone’s heart. Tony was there first and Ron warned against opening it as Tony drew his gun and flung it open. A middle-aged couple and a teenage boy spilled into the living room. “Ed,” Mr. Foster cried out to his neighbor.
“They kicked us out of our house,” the man yelled.
“Close the door,” Mrs. Foster yelled at Tony, who peered up and down the street before shutting it tight.
Cricket was at the front window, and Sister and Mr. Foster checked the back of the house and quickly returned.
“Who are they?” Ron asked.
“Kids. Not from around here. Gang members, I guess. And they have a girl with them. She looks drugged.”
“How many?”
“Three.”
“Where’s your house?” Cricket asked.
The man pointed out the window. “Four houses down on the opposite side. A blue Cape Cod. They said they’d kill us if we came back.”
“Ron, come with me,” Cricket said.
Sister Marie reached to her as she opened the door. “Taking a life is the last option, Cricket, not the first. Please be careful.”
She nodded and embraced her quickly, and then said to Tony: “Keep watching, listening.”
“You got it Daddy-o.” Tony winked and walked outside following Cricket and Ron, both armed with a pair of automatics at the waist. “We got your backs,” Tony called out. “And, Cricket, don’t forget—always accelerate.”
She got it: the necessity of speed for any action or decision to stay alive.
Tony watched them from the porch. Cricket and Ron stayed on the Foster side of the street until they were across from the invaded home.
Music blared, some kind of rap, but how? Between nature and man, even the circuits in a boom box should have been zapped. They walked past the “party” house and then crossed the street and went through the neighboring house’s backyard. The house was illuminated with candles. Shadows zipped past the lighted areas, and Cricket imagined giant moths—moths that ate clothes and flesh. Her own flesh tingled with fear.
Ron pointed to the back door, which had just opened and a beer bottle flung outside. The door stayed opened and they quietly bounded up the steps. “I’ll go in first. No noise. I’d like to grab the girl and flee. They won’t know where to look. Let’s get her back to the Fosters.”
Cricket tapped his shoulder. “Good plan. I knew there was a reason why I brought you. I’ll stay on your right. Ready to blast away with Plan B.”
“Understood.”
A couple of hunters working hand in glove. She breathed deep, said the first lines of a Hail Mary, and followed Ron into the house. She was just inside and bumped into someone in the dark. The man whipped her around by the shoulder, slammed her against the wall, and put a knife to her throat. Ron held the gun on the man, who was a head shorter than Cricket when a second man came into the kitchen and Ron put a bullet in his head. For a moment Cricket’s abductor was in flight mode, and he pushed away. She grabbed his wrist that held the knife and dug her nails in. He thrust the knife at her and clawed at her arm, trying to hold her. With a shout, Cricket shoved the knife away and stomped the top of the guy’s foot. He reeled back and Ron took the shot.
Blood sprayed her face and the man’s knife arm went limp. The adrenaline still pumping, she drove him into the opposite wall with a linebacker’s zeal.
A big blonde teenager stood unarmed in the doorway, frozen by the carnage. He took off through the living room headed for the front door.
Cricket and Ron followed, hearing shouts from the street. A neighbor tackled the teen on the front lawn, and the kid kept yelling he surrendered. Cricket dove into the house and found the young girl naked from the waist down and welts along the side of her face from a recent beating. One eye was swollen shut. She helped the girl with her sweatpants and led her to the front porch.
Several men, armed with pistols and rifles, stared at the young man on the grou
nd. They were yelling at him not to move. More neighbors arrived and a middle-aged man and woman took the girl and said they’d take care of her.
One of the gun-toting men said for the neighbors to leave immediately. Without complaint the residents started to leave, when the group of six men stepped closer to the scared teenager, who kept repeating he was sorry, that he didn’t hurt anyone. Cricket said they should wait for the police and moved to intercept the kid. Ron stopped her.
The teen started to get to his feet, and the firing squad knocked him back to the ground. Unsure about killing, they again opened fire; the teen, unsure about dying, screamed, and briefly dug up the grass with his heels.
16
Tornado
Cricket was shaking, worse than when she had killed the two men in the field. Her body was bruised down her left side, and she had a few abrasions and scratches along both forearms from the struggle.
Wearing only her black bra and panties, dazed by the gunfire and almost having her throat cut, Cricket let Sister Marie clean the cuts and scratches in the Fosters’ bathroom. Sister again filled the sink with cold water and washed her hair. Mrs. Foster had given Sister a tube of Neosporin, which she applied to Cricket’s arms and hands.
Cricket used a heavy towel to dry her hair. “I wanted that savage alive. They had a working boom box.”
“You couldn’t bear such a cold-blooded killing. You’re still shaking. You didn’t see the purpose in killing that poor soul who was helpless on the ground, pleading for his life.”
“I’ll stick with my need-for-information rationale.” She refused to continue the conversation, saying, “Before we leave town, I want to see my house. I’m sure Uncle Tommy will too. Do you think he’ll be safe with the Fosters?”
“Yes, I do. And Officer Davis will make a point of keeping an eye on your uncle. How long do you think we’ll be gone?”
“I need to get checked out in whatever plane Fritz wants me to fly. I feel I can serve in that way—my dad—”
She couldn’t continue, so Sister did. “He’d back you one hundred and fifty percent.”
Her voice shook. “Sister, if you want to stay in Woodburn, I’d understand.”
“Right now, I need to be at your side. I pray every moment for direction, and that is what God has whispered to me.”
“He never shouts?” she wisecracked in the midst of her tears.
“We shout. His words are a cool breeze. I once heard an orchestra become so quiet you could almost see sound arising from the silence, not just hear it, as they began the next passage. God’s voice and His love come from such a living silence.”
“I could sure use your wisdom,” Cricket said.
Sister Marie smiled at Cricket’s reflection in the mirror and then turned to her.
“When it’s feasible, I need to make contact with Sister Teresa at the motherhouse; make sure everyone is okay. My sense is that they are. Right now, it’s neither safe nor practical to go back.”
“Did the sisters ever have a plan in case of real disaster?”
“The only plan is the one led by God and common sense. Our duty is to the people we serve. It’s not like a family with parents informing the children where they should meet in case of war or a natural disaster. My plan right now is to be at your side and help whomever we encounter.”
“Like my sorry ass.”
“Exactly,” she said, taking a towel and patting dry Cricket’s arms and the back of her neck. “The tub’s full. It’s not freezing. So I’m going to leave and find you some clean clothes.”
They met in the living room with coffee and tea. Candles on the table gave the room a campfire glow. Tony was looking for something stronger than caffeine, and Mr. Foster poured him a scotch. Ron politely asked for one as well. The warm light on everyone’s faces felt soothing to Cricket, who sat on the couch with damp hair.
When the first shot slammed into the wall, everyone froze. Then, the Fosters hit the carpet. Tony and Ron crawled toward the window, and only Uncle Tommy rose to protect Cricket. The next shots struck his face and chest, and her great-uncle went down at her feet. The first shot had cruelly torn away part of his jaw. Cricket went to stand and Sister Marie dragged her back down. More bullets struck the wall. Tony and Ron both were yelling to stay down.
A new sound rose within Cricket—her very own personal tornado. A mighty train at full speed. She charged from the living room, free of Sister and everyone yelling for her to stop. She chambered the first round bursting onto the porch and lighting up the night with her 9-millimeter. She didn’t think, letting instinct and vengeance guide her hand. Figures across the street came into view and they shot poorly and ran, and she ran after them, firing at shadows when she didn’t have a clean shot. Empty, she pounded in another magazine. She ran across lawns, crisscrossed the street in search of savages. The savage was a personal demon sent to stalk and terrify and kill her loved ones. But now she was the terrifying one. When a muzzle flash came at her ten o’clock position, she twisted and fired and the savage collapsed against the side of a house.
Lying in a flower bed was a young man, his legs crushing a large hosta. The pasty teen was alive as Cricket emptied the gun into his chest. She heard shouts from within the house and residents were calling from their porches that they were innocent and wanted no trouble. Cricket pulled the knife from inside her boot and carved up the savage, making sure that in hell his mentor would curse loudly, unable to recognize and count his new delivery.
Gun and knife dangling from each hand, she turned from her kill and aimed for the Fosters’. She knew the magic of carnage wouldn’t bring back Uncle Tommy—that he wouldn’t be waiting for her with a smile and a bright compliment—but a grim satisfaction gave her boundless energy on this moonless night.
Near the Fosters’ the armored personnel carrier rolled down the street and came to a stop alongside her. The hatch opened and Officer Catalano popped into view.
“Cricket, what the hell happened?”
Covered in blood, she said quietly, “Nothing to me. Everything to Uncle Tommy.”
Catalano looked down, lowered himself, and talked to someone inside.
The officer said to Cricket, “Are you staying at the Fosters’?”
“I guess.” Her vision narrowed, and she felt the comfort, the warmth of shock filling her body like a drug, and the officer’s voice becoming distant. And then she heard her dad calling to her. His big, beautiful voice. She drove her nails into her palms and zoomed into the present with clarity.
“Uncle Tommy’s been talking a lot about going home. Tonight he goes home.”
Officer Catalano climbed out, followed by Officer Davis.
Davis said, “Cricket, we can take Tommy there in the morning.”
“No, we go tonight. We’ll bury him in the morning. I want him home tonight. We owe him that.”
“But you need—”
“To clean up?” she replied. “I’ll clean up tomorrow.”
The door of the Fosters’ opened and Tony and Ron walked onto the porch, followed by Sister Marie.
“Let’s get my uncle.”
Everyone was quiet, stunned by Cricket’s appearance and single-mindedness. No one tried to talk her out of the trip to the Hastings’ home. Officer Davis said he’d come back in the morning with several officers and Father Derringer. Tony said his crew would follow in the Barracuda. Cricket nodded her approval.
The men carried Uncle Tommy, wrapped in a sheet, to the APC, lowered the rear door, and carefully placed him inside. Ron handed Cricket four eight-round magazines, which she shoved in her vest, and Sister Marie handed Cricket her rosary.
Diesel approached. She petted him, saying, “C’mon, Diesel.” He trotted inside the APC.
In tears, Sister said, “Emily Cricket Hastings … I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Cricket hugged Sister Marie and left with her uncle.
17
Final Toast
The door was still locked and the
house untouched when they arrived. The three officers spent nearly an hour checking out the interior and scouting much of the ten acres, slicing the darkness with their flashlights. Diesel ran from room to room and circled the property with the officers, happy to be home.
“Cricket, you can’t be sure it’s going to stay like this another five minutes,” Officer Davis insisted. “I’m going to leave Officer Catalano with you tonight.”
“I want to be alone. I have Diesel. I’ll be fine.”
The officer didn’t argue.
“Please come back in the morning, in uniform, with a few of your men,” she said. “I want to bury Uncle Tommy with honors.” She held back the tears. “You’ve always been honorable men. I know, my dad often told me.”
The storm that had been building all day shook the Hastings’ house with thunder, as if angry that the man who had been here with his daughter and uncle only two days ago would have the temerity not to return to a place he loved and where he was so well loved. The rain was deafening.
Uncle Tommy lay atop the dining room table covered by a sheet.
A year after Cricket’s mom passed away, Uncle Tommy’s wife died and he came to live with Cricket and her dad in the large ranch home that sat at the back of the property, with mostly woods and a large pond out front. Cricket went in the basement and came back with an expensive bottle of wine she had been saving for his 100th birthday. Cricket was the true believer in his longevity and Uncle Tommy had pooh-poohed the idea, happy just to have made ninety.
In candlelight and numerous lightning flashes, she cleaned her uncle’s broken face and washed away the blood from his chest and arms with several gallons of water she had hand-pumped from the well. She used a large bathroom towel to gently dry his face and body, and then re-covered him with a white bedsheet. She could have fired up the generator and had electricity and hot water, played the Carrie Underwood CD that he liked, but she wanted the silence and needed to avoid attracting savages. Not that she feared them tonight. She’d shower in the morning.
Pulse of the Goddess: American Blackout Book One Page 8
