There was a man selling sandwiches, and Fritz went to grab breakfast for the two of them.
“You never answered Fritz’s question,” Cricket said to the scientist.
“I’ve seen the future. It’s right here, with the Brazilian. Excuse me, I need to have a bit of alone time, park my tired bones and just think.”
The man hobbled over to a wooden bench beneath a giant maple.
Anton said, “He’ll save important equipment for us for when we’re hit again. There’ll definitely be another EMP attack, and Larry knows how to make Faraday cages. He’s building them right now.”
Cricket asked, “To protect computers and iPads?”
“If that’s what she wants,” the man blithely answered.
The Brazilian walked over.
“I wish for this day to last a thousand years,” the Brazilian said, looking straight at the morning sun. I’m going to show those children how to harness that sun—”
“From the crotch up,” Cricket jabbed. “A big hit with the parents.”
“Old fogeys. I won’t have to deal with them soon; their sons and daughters will take matters into their own hands.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cricket said.
“Simple. They take control of their lives. Nothing sinister. You think that I’d be telling them to kill their parents?”
“Just checking. Seeing whether I needed to shoot you right here on the sidewalk in the midst of this glorious day, or just report you to the police for public indecency.”
Fritz returned with the sandwiches.
“Hey, good news, he took my money. I’d say that’s a confidence-builder. That the world is coming back a bit. Commerce and common sense.”
The Brazilian laughed. “Really, the world has had a major colonoscopy and found tumors galore, and Jimmy Stewart here wants the patient to go home and keep eating red meat and potatoes.”
“Something like that.” Fritz winked at the Brazilian, who responded by screwing her mouth into a sneer.
Cricket added, “Anton says you may want to keep a few computers around—what, late-night porn or just to stare at old news clips of yourself going off to jail?”
“Ah, so you met Electron Larry. Yeah, I may keep a few toys. I already have laptops and TVs with Blu-ray DVD players and about a thousand movies to keep the natives calm when they return from a long day of servicing the residents. You’re welcome to drop by sometime and watch a movie with us. Very communal experience.”
The Brazilian looked around the sky as if admiring its peacefulness without air traffic constantly scarring the blue dome.
She looked at Cricket. “Entertainment serves as a powerful tool for my new world, especially since I can’t have sex with everyone.” She giggled. “I do have standards, you know. A lot of men and women and so little time.”
The Brazilian turned her back on them and headed to the bench where Electron Larry sat.
“Let me know when Rush Limbaugh is back on the air,” Cricket said loudly. “We could come over and have a great afternoon listening to the great Maha Rushie, or maybe you prefer El Rushbo?”
The Brazilian spun around, all her morning humor gone. “That’s not funny. I’ll send a team down to Florida to snuff him out if I don’t hear soon of his demise.”
Cricket watched the Brazilian leave in distress and quietly cheered.
“You don’t need much to protect against another EMP strike—copper tape and aluminum foil,” Fritz said, ignoring the exchange, halfway through his sandwich. Cricket leading, they started toward Main Street. “Maybe her and her friends sit around wearing aluminum caps.”
“We need to take her seriously. My dad always talked about that utopian crap. She has Larry the Scientist, Anton the Artist, and plenty of Thug the Soldiers. She’s already formed her little utopia.”
“Isn’t there usually a priest in the lineup?”
“She is. The high priestess.”
Fritz’s eyes widened and he tossed the wrapper into a can a few feet away.
“I want to be here tomorrow morning,” Cricket said. “Watch everything she does.”
“Make a citizen’s arrest?”
“Or execute her on the spot.”
Fritz stopped chewing and swallowed hard.
28
Target Practice
A couple of hours later Cricket was preflighting the Mustang, talking as she gently moved the elevator and examined the vertical stabilizer.
“If you had had the pleasure of meeting Dick and Jane, I think you would understand my position on this Brazilian character.”
“She’s wacko,” Fritz confessed. “If she’s involved in the drug trade I’ll carry her off to jail myself. Right now she’s just another weirdo coming out of the closet after the EMP strike. Some, like her, come flying out like a Mack truck blowing its horn.”
“Then you know how dangerous she is?”
“Being hedonistic and having strange ideas doesn’t make you a murderer.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“Cricket, gangs, well organized, have broken into armories and food centers and now sport heavy weaponry.”
“It could be her.”
“I haven’t seen a single weapon on a single one of her boy toys. Or the look of anyone smart enough and focused enough to pull off such a heist. I’ll check on the MO of pharmacy break-ins when I’m with Cleveland Command tomorrow.”
“She was at my dad’s crash site.”
“I believe you. But you have no proof that it was her people with machine guns on pickup trucks. We have to protect the food centers and start worrying about jihadists organizing. They’ve already sprung up lone-wolf style in Columbus and Cincinnati. Cricket, I need your flying skills.”
“No worries. I’m not going to obsess about the dancing Brazilian when I’m flying the P-51 and pulling the trigger on those six flaming guns.”
Heart pounding, Cricket was in a steep dive, base leg to target, aiming for an eighteen-wheeler one of the mechanics had found and towed into position a few miles north of the Falls’ airfield.
As she turned onto target, Fritz instructed her to shallow out her dive. But she stayed steep and fired early, plowing the field in front of the tractor-trailer, popping a lot of dirt into the air. Before takeoff Fritz had discussed strafing technique.
“I want you steep on base leg and close in. Turning onto target, shallow out your dive and get on the gunsight. You’ll have time for one good burst about a half mile out. Keep firing until you’re over the target and then fly straight ahead, treetop level, for a couple of miles before climbing. And don’t hit anything.”
Over the trees at nearly three hundred miles per hour, her heart pounded with fear, her vision narrowed. Again, she reminded herself to fly the plane and stop beating herself up over her sloppy technique.
“Left climbing turn to three thousand for base leg,” Fritz said. “You’re moving the stick around a bit when you fire. Stay calm; stay on the sight. You don’t let your rifle or pistol jump around in your hands. And remember, adjust quickly with left-right rudder when you see the tracers off-target. You’re going to have the added distraction of someone shooting at you. So dead calm is essential.”
Even though her shooting performance was lousy, the flying felt good that day, the ship an extension of her hands and feet. But the trigger felt too small for the big result it produced. She knew she was over-controlling, like Fritz had said. She needed to consciously keep her right hand still and just move her index finger. No different than pulling the trigger on a rifle. And keep aiming through the gunsight!
“You’re handling this bird well,” Fritz said.
“Thanks, now I know why I was never interested in horses as a kid. I was waiting for the Mustang.”
She always loved the look of someone riding a horse, flying over the ground on an animal packed with love and muscle. But the actual experience was jarring, even painful, and she knew early on she’d never accomplish
the rhythm of horse and rider. But the power and ease of the Mustang from straight and level to a steep bank, or the acceleration—from trot to gallop—was heavenly. You rode the Mustang around the sky, she thought, starting her diving turn to target.
“Look at the target and see what you want to kill,” Fritz said calmly, as Cricket began a diving left turn and lined up with the tractor-trailer twenty degrees nose down about a half mile out.
Near the treetops her speed shot past 300 miles per hour, and she used the gunsight the way Fritz had shown her. She was in position to nicely obliterate the truck.
Squeezing the trigger was more thought than action, and the bullets came flying, all six guns and the tracer bullets aiding her accuracy. In the several seconds it took to reach the target, she saw the center of the rig filling in with dark holes, metal torn out and up and the whole rig sagging as the tires received their fair share.
The cockpit was quiet as she once again stayed low and maneuvered the Mustang, battle-ready, wide awake. In her climb out Fritz congratulated her. She said nothing in response. Shadows and faces were rising into her mind’s eye. Killers, like those who had murdered her dad and Uncle Tommy and gunned down a young woman on an American street in a small town, her town, and now Grace’s family. There were plenty who needed killing.
29
Blood Smears
Fritz and Cricket followed Diesel through the center of town close to midnight. Earlier, they had had a serious discussion with Tony and Ron about staying in the Falls for the winter months.
“Everything a town needs, this place has,” Ron offered.
Tony rolled his eyes and Cricket spoke before he had a chance to attack Ron.
“But it has the Brazilian.”
“Maybe we can keep some distance,” Ron suggested. “I mean, take what we need from her, barter with her, pay her in cash. That’s fair. She just doesn’t get to take anything extra from us.”
“Yeah, like people’s kids.” They were silent for a few moments when Cricket surprised Ron by touching his shoulder, saying, “You’re a good man. But you’re dreaming.”
Cricket and Fritz stayed on the sidewalk that circled the park. Diesel dove in and out of the shadows head down, smelling the piss and vinegar of earthly existence on every object whether created by nature or made by man.
“With the help of the Guard—whenever they get here—we should be able to handle anything weird from the Brazilian and, more importantly, prepare for winter,” Fritz said.
“Ron and Tony are onboard for staying the winter. I like how they check and balance each other. It was probably more amusing before the attack.”
“It still is,” Fritz said. “And it’s wonderful the way they both took to Grace, especially Ron.”
“I heard her crying this morning when I woke up.” She paused, watching Diesel tear through the moonlit park, head up, alert, playful. “I walked into her room and she came running, Diesel, too. He sleeps in her room now.”
“You saved her.”
“Yeah, but she’s the brave one. I asked her how she slept and she said she slept through the night. How blessed to be given a restful long night of sleep after what she’s witnessed. She was ready to start crying, and then she asked me what we had planned for the day and if there were any plans for the weekend. It caught me off-guard. Her parents, like any of us, once made plans for the weekend. It’s been a long three months since the EMP attack. For me there are no more weekends, only days to survive. Sister Marie understood. She said it’s enough for any of us right now just to plan a few hours ahead. Except for the Mustang and ensuring we have food and water, I don’t have any other plans for tomorrow. My dad knew we needed more, and Grace needs more.”
“Just be Emily Cricket Hastings. It seems to work really well for you. That’s my dime’s worth of philosophy.”
“Thanks,” she said quietly. “But I do want to take care of Grace, do my very best. I already feel like she’s my kid sister. Is that weird? Today, flying the Mustang, I wanted to get back to her as soon as I could. See how her day went.”
Fritz drew her close and they kissed.
She stopped kissing him, pressed her palms against his chest, and stared into his eyes, admiring a face that was made for smiling. “God, what am I going to do with you?” She pulled him back for another kiss.
He broke free for a moment, saying, “I think my everyman’s philosophy works for us, too.”
They were in the shadows of a large tree and Diesel zoomed past several times, enjoying the smells of late summer hanging in the warm night air. He sneezed a couple of times, unable to restrain the pleasure of inhaling the world around him. He then sounded a low huff. Cricket turned in Fritz’s arms and saw the Lab standing in the moonlight with his snout pointed toward the gazebo at the center of the park.
“Let’s check it out,” Fritz said, holding her hand.
The white gazebo with a slate roof was empty, yet Diesel hesitated at the bottom of the steps and sat on his haunches.
Fritz pulled out a small flashlight and Cricket her gun, holding it with both hands, pointed down, to the right. She followed him up the steps. Blood had been smeared into a pattern along the inside wall, a series of circles, and each circle had lines pointing downward. The floor was clean.
“A sick joke,” Fritz said. “It could be animal blood.”
“Not much of a joke if they butchered someone’s pet and decided to have a paint party.”
“A couple of officers make a point of walking through the park since it’s unlit these days. No specific time. No routine. They put out the word so the misfits know they may get an unwelcome surprise. Let’s walk back to Main Street and wait for them.”
“Why don’t you take Diesel and bring the cops here. I’d like some time alone. It’s so beautiful and quiet here.”
“Beware of weirdos smearing blood.” He pointed toward the street. “You see that big maple? I’ll be there in the dark, just hanging out.” He shook his head. “I don’t know, Cricket—”
“I was hunting at an early age, and my dad sometimes left me to go check out another site. He’d be gone for a long time. But I think he was doing it for me to get accustomed to the dark. To not be afraid. The darkness is a cover for me. I can look out from it. I’ve never had anything to fear from the darkness. I wrap myself inside it.”
“I’m not going to get anywhere if I continue to argue?”
“Nada.”
“Let’s go, Diesel.” He took a few steps and then swung around. Tilting his head to the side, hands on his hips, he gave her his best fighter-jock look. “Sweetheart, I don’t see you in thirty, I’m coming back at a gallop.”
“Promise me.”
“Big-time.”
30
Talking Fools
Inside the shadows, Cricket sat with her back against the tree and gazed up at the mighty arms of the large oak, darker than the night. She had been truthful to Fritz about being alone at night while hunting, but also needed time to let her passions cool, since it wasn’t the right moment to start a heavy romance.
Some predator meter of her own had been activated. She was hunting tonight and she knew it. The blood on the sides of the gazebo was there not just to frighten the townsfolk but to draw the strong out for a fight.
She didn’t have to wait long.
At the east end of the park with a softball field and some outdoor exercise equipment came a couple, followed closely by two men. Cricket was to her feet when one of the men behind the couple pulled a gun that delivered two muffled pops. They fell like some child’s game of cops and robbers. Someone says you’re dead and you fall to the ground. Two more shots followed. Insurance.
As soon as she left the confines of the oak’s shadow, either to charge or get Fritz, the killers would have plenty of time to draw and fire. She waited. The men seemed to be in no hurry. One even lit a cigarette. Were they waiting for somebody? Plans for the corpses? Proof of the kill? Payment?
One of the men pointed at her and she couldn’t believe he saw her. But then she looked at her white blouse. The moonlight had given her away.
Guns drawn, the men approached. She could pull her gun and fire, but they were already training both guns on her.
She started to unbutton her blouse, which was only the bottom two since Fritz had already started at the top. She was trembling as she let the blouse fall from her shoulders, still tucked into her jeans.
“That’s real nice,” one man said. “Let me see your hands.”
“Sure,” Cricket said, noting the talker’s companion as the Brazilian’s bodyguard with the Mohawk. She used her left hand to slowly pull down her bra strap, exposing her right breast.
“Yeah, that’s real nice,” the talking fool said, lowering his gun while the other kept his gun on her even though his attention at the moment wasn’t with marksmanship.
She pushed the right strap down further and her free hand reached for the automatic hidden by her blouse. She fired through the material and hit the first killer, and swung the gun left and blasted the talker twice. One of them got a shot off that zipped past her head and she pumped two more shots into each guy. They staggered and collapsed in unison.
She raced to the downed couple.
In the moonlight she turned them over and discovered the parents who had pulled their daughter from the Brazilian’s “dance” class.
She heard Fritz calling her and the next moment he was gripping her shoulders, staring, thankful she was alive. Her bra was on but her blouse still open. She felt nauseous, chilled, and started buttoning it. A cop was with Fritz and knew the names of the people, and Fritz knew the couple through church. Then she led them to the two dead killers, Fritz not letting go of her. White males, college age. Mohawk man and the talking fool whom no one recognized.
Pulse of the Goddess: American Blackout Book One Page 15
