Pulse of the Goddess: American Blackout Book One

by Fred Tribuzzo

  “Not impressed,” Fritz said. “We’re firing you. The remaining police force agrees, and they named Holden as acting chief. He’ll report to me and several residents I’m not going to bother to mention.”

  “You’re registering quite low on the trust meter, Mayor,” Cricket said.

  The mayor harrumphed several times and dusted the front of his Hawaiian shirt, moving his feet like an addled bull that can’t decide whether to charge or just lie down and take a nap.

  “Pathetic, trying to score points a day after four good men are executed,” Cricket spat out, turning her back to the mayor, aiming for her girls rising and falling on the teeter-totter. Diesel ran in circles around the pair. Almost at the playground area Cricket turned to see Fritz nailed to his catch, seriously in the mayor’s face. Boy, he digs his teeth into someone and won’t let go.

  Sister Marie carefully equalized the teeter-totter, and Grace climbed off and ran to the swings with Diesel in chase.

  “Father Danko’s very worried,” Sister Marie said. “The young people—I mean, I know they were on drugs, some drunk—but they kept saying how they were going to take over Saint Andrew’s soon, start worshipping a new God, actually the Goddess.”

  Cricket thought of Dick and Jane’s boast of taking over the holiest of places.

  “Ultimately, they don’t want the police station,” Cricket said. “They want the church. But the people here wouldn’t let that happen.”

  “I’m not so sure. I counted over two dozen young people, some younger than Grace and a few much older than you. They laughed when I asked what their parents would think of their behavior. One teenage boy said his parents were frightened of him. And a young girl added, ‘They should be.’ Many of them repeated that they’d give their blood, their very lives, for her.”

  The screaming woman couldn’t be stopped. Two men were trying to calm the woman and move her away from a row of short bushes not far from where Cricket and Sister Marie had taken flight with Grace on the swings.

  Before the screaming, Cricket’s spirit had begun to soar alongside Grace’s laughter. The screams dumped her back into a tired body chilled by the woman’s voice.

  Sister held on to Grace and walked away from the terrible cries toward Main Street. Fritz ran toward the woman, as did Cricket.

  The woman was fixed to the spot: the remains of her dog, skinned and bloody. Its ears and front legs gone.

  Finally, one of the last cops in Little Falls arrived on foot with his son, a solemn knight on duty, still in uniform. He spoke the words of tenderness and authority that only a cop can do successfully. He entreated the woman to leave with his son and let him handle the business of burying her dog.

  Cricket was soaked in sweat, her skin clammy. Someone brought a large plastic bag used for bagging leaves, and Fritz and the cop carefully placed the dog inside and wrapped it into a small bundle.

  Cricket returned, standing over the dog’s remains.

  “Bury the woman’s dog in this park,” she said, her eyes cast down. “The officers should be buried here as well.”

  Both men looked at her strangely.

  “We have a cemetery,” the cop said.

  “I know,” she said, her voice climbing. “They should all be honored—here in this park!” She screamed, “People should always know! Always remember! See them every time they ride a bike through here or a kid climbs on the swing set. No statues. Only their graves. Simple markers.”

  Fritz hugged her and she collapsed in his arms, crying like she did when her dad had gone down in flames. And like with her dad’s death, there was nothing romantic and tragic to see. Just a cruel ending.

  37

  Honeybees

  There was a small, brightly painted cement building that housed the restrooms not far from the playground.

  Cricket splashed cold water on her face and inspected her red eyes and wished for eye drops to present a more relaxed face before catching up to Grace and Sister Marie.

  Along with Fritz, the four started for Saint Andrew’s. Grace held on to Cricket’s hand and asked questions about the screaming woman. “She sounded like my mother.”

  “She’s doing much better now,” Cricket said. “Sometimes we have a difficult moment but we have to move forward. The hurt doesn’t go away all at once.”

  Sister Marie pointed out a row of moon lilies lining the front of someone’s home. Most drooped closed, finished blooming, but two still remained open.

  “Those are sooooo beautiful.” Grace let go of Cricket’s hand. “Can I go smell them?”

  “Of course. Check the inside for bees before you stick your nose too close. You’re lucky a couple are still open. They bloom in the evening.”

  Cricket fought off a moment of nausea, remembering the yellow jacket attack. She eyed the heavens, seeking consolation, but none came. Grace hung back staring at the flowers.

  “Honeybees are the ones that really like those big white lilies,” Fritz said. “You should be fine.”

  Grace took a step and looked back at the three adults.

  “Cricket, will you come with me?”

  “Sure, I could use a good whiff of that flower. Maybe we can come up with a moon lily concoction and sell it as a perfume.”

  Grace nodded. “That would be fun to do.”

  They could hear the insects before they saw them.

  “They sound very busy,” Grace said, hinting that maybe they should come back some other time.

  “If you stand still and watch, you’ll see them crawling deep inside the flower.”

  A few times Grace leaned close and then pulled back as a honeybee rose from the flower before diving back in. The moon lilies grew wildly, a jungle of large green leaves and big trumpet flowers.

  “They could sting us,” Grace said.

  “Sure, but they would have to be really threatened,” Cricket said. “In the field we were attacked by yellow jackets. They have much shorter tempers than do honeybees. We had moon lilies when I was your age and I used to watch, carefully of course, the bees drinking nectar and the pollen sticking to their hairy body and legs.”

  Grace leaned forward and peered deep inside the nearest white flower, its branch stretching out over the unmowed grass. She started to laugh. “They’re furry.”

  Diesel took the laughter as a signal that something much more important was occurring than anything he was doing now or five seconds ago. He raced back and forth along the lilies.

  Sister Marie said, “That furry stuff is the pollen, which makes pollination possible.”

  “Pollination?”

  “Pollen moves from the male to the female parts of a plant so that more beautiful plants and flowers can continue to grow.”

  “Oh,” Grace said.

  Sister Marie added, “It makes reproduction possible—new plants.”

  Diesel disappeared around the side of the house.

  “A win-win situation,” Fritz said, and Cricket sent him a warm smile, looking back at his face in shadow and rich morning light, making him even more attractive and her all tingly, all dewy.

  Grace moved along the thick row of moon lilies and then walked back to the sidewalk. Cricket followed and then knelt in front of her.

  “Sister Marie is going to take you back to the Holadays’.”

  “Will you be back soon?”

  “By dinner we’ll be back. We’re stopping by the church and then we’re going flying.”

  One last hug and they parted. Diesel led Sister and Grace. Grace looked over her shoulder often, waving and smiling. Cricket did likewise as the two them shouted back and forth, “I love you!”—“I love you more!”

  Only a few people moved about their yards weeding beds, watering flowers, or sitting on the porch. It was a beautiful summer morning if you could ignore the stares, solemn looks, and quiet conversations disappearing into silence.

  38

  A Problem Under the Hood

  Father Danko stood a few feet from the doors o
f Saint Andrew’s. He confronted a makeshift Woodstock of half-naked young people wandering about or sitting on the lawn selling pipes, marijuana, and other drugs. A group of people chanting “om” and stumbling through yoga poses in a drunk or high condition appeared to be the most energetic. A few were applying body paint, and one girl in a tank top and panties was talking nonstop to Father Danko, who regarded her as a problem “under the hood” that had stumped him for the moment.

  Fritz and Cricket waded through the mini-carnival.

  “So, anyone sign up for confession?” Fritz said to Father.

  “Guilt, sins, confession is old-world, according to my lovely outdoor congregation. A lot of these kids are from my parish.”

  “Where are their parents?” Cricket asked.

  “Oh, they’re around. On the surface they think this is harmless. And compared to yesterday’s attack on the police station, they may be right. I’ve been over to see most of the families this morning. Two of the families are Catholic, and we’re planning a funeral mass for tomorrow. I’d appreciate whatever vehicles you have handy to help bring the families here. The funeral home actually has an old hearse from the fifties. Both men will be carried in the old Lincoln.”

  “Whatever we can do,” Fritz said. “We’ll skip our practice tomorrow and make ourselves available to the families.”

  “Absolutely,” Cricket said. “What about the circus?”

  Father Danko looked about and grimaced, wrinkling his normally smooth forehead. “Two of the officers that escorted me back said they’d make an appearance mid-afternoon. Maybe these kids will run out of energy, you know, siesta time, and we can move them off the premises. Peacefully, of course.”

  The girl still talking was a few feet away, addressing the ground at her feet. Cricket kept one ear on her and looked to Fritz when she heard the business about taking over the church. The girl actually made a promise to herself that nothing would stop her or get in her way.

  The young woman, elfin, with spiky blonde hair, whose bad posture seemed the result of her loose flow of ideas, lifted her head and stopped talking, frozen by the sight of the tall, dark-haired beauty before her.

  “Are you her sister?” the dazed woman asked Cricket, who was puzzled by the question. “The Brazilian. You’re like her … radiant like the sun.”

  “Sorry, I’m no relation. Listen, how are you going to take over the church?” Cricket looked to Father Danko and Fritz, waiting for a remark that she bore no resemblance inside or out to the Brazilian. They both just shrugged.

  The girl now looked at Cricket in amazement. “We just walk in and take what is ours. The goddess has always been there in the Virgin Mary. Soon the real Goddess will emerge.”

  “Young lady,” Father Danko said, “the Virgin Mary has not and never will be a goddess. Catholics understand this. You’re infected with popular culture, specious arguments.”

  “The new world is coming fast to a theater near you,” the girl cackled.

  “Do you have an arrival date?” Fritz asked.

  “When the planes fall from the sky and the beautiful darkness returns. The city lights stay out and all the wicked utilities bow before the great sun goddess Amaterasu. She’s the true light and our salvation. We’ll take the nectar that brings us beautiful dreams and dance and sing and make love.”

  Father Danko exhaled loudly and shook his head at the blasphemy surrounding him. It was the old hippie trifecta—sex, drugs and rock-and-roll.

  The young woman danced away, a stiff ballerina, twirling and singing and finally collapsing on the tree lawn.

  Cricket shook her head.

  “So, the Brazilian’s teaching the Death of Civilization 101?”

  “Hopefully, it’s all metaphors and hyperbole—hey, stop right there!” Father Danko yelled at someone approaching the church door. When the painted man (his face blue and yellow) with an Indian feather stuck in his hair didn’t listen, Father and Fritz moved quickly, both grabbing an arm as the man took hold of the large wooden handle. They dragged him back down the steps.

  A group of neighbors, a number of them with firearms strapped to their belts, came down the sidewalk, up the steps, to the first landing where they stood.

  A man in a red polo shirt and uncombed hair said, “Father, you have us for the rest of the day and night. You want us to clear them out?”

  Before Father Danko could answer, Fritz’s spotter plane, the Cessna Skyhawk, flew low overhead and the band of misfits coalesced into a single body of defiance, screaming at the plane overhead. Young men and women threw back their heads in rage, cursing the old world with fast and furious denunciations out of Chairman Mao’s Little Red Book laced with movie jargon—“I’ll be back, you running dog lackeys” and “Make my day, you paper tigers of all hues and colors.” That last one was a mouthful, though a favorite.

  The group of citizens formed a line along the front of the church and pushed back the few who flung themselves at the line of defense. Then the glib young woman Cricket had engaged yelled to the group.

  “This is not the time! They’ll kill us! Our numbers are small.”

  “And so are your brains,” Fritz barked.

  Obediently, the curses stopped and the threats to take the church ended.

  The elfin girl smiled, popped her skinny shoulders up and down. “I think I have time to do my nails.”

  39

  Calm Hands, Clear Heart, Clean Kill

  Cricket and Fritz arrived at the airfield right after the Skyhawk had landed.

  Frank was tutoring a young pilot named Dennis Hatch, who climbed out of the Cessna in a hurry. “There’s a long line of bikers headed this way.”

  “You sure it’s not military—citizens scouting for a better place to live?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “You take any fire?” Fritz asked.

  “Negative. I think they know the Mustangs are still around.”

  “Smart,” Fritz said. “Cricket, let’s preflight. We need to observe more closely, some low passes to see what they’re planning, if anything.”

  Cricket replied, “A trip to the Brazilian’s place.”

  Fritz raised his sandy eyebrows in agreement, hurrying over to “A Lil’ Somethin’” with Dennis and Cricket.

  “Dennis, did you recon last night?” Fritz asked the young man, who followed the two around the aircraft.

  “Yeah, and there were a few places with lights, for a time anyway. A small town south of Cleveland was lit up. It was beautiful. Then it went out like a candle. And Cleveland has these little oases of lights, mostly hospitals. But they come and go too. I landed at the county airport. They had portable lights operating until eleven.”

  “I think we know who’s blowing out the candle,” Cricket said, climbing up the wing.

  Fritz said, “The Brazilian’s cheerleading for the Stone Age, not masterminding setbacks. A lot of transformers need replaced. The juice gives up the ghost quite easily. There’s going to be a lot of setbacks. A single large power station is going to need almost three years to come back online.”

  A few minutes later they lined up in the center of the grass runway. Cricket had the forward seat with the gunsight.

  They took off to the west. Fritz called out headings and altitudes, and they searched the roads and fields and found nothing nearby among the thick forests and neighborhoods barely visible through the trees. The freeway out of Cleveland was clear. Where had the bikers disappeared to?

  Fritz said, “We won’t be attending funerals tomorrow morning. Bright and early we’re going flying. We need to stay ahead of any trouble coming our way. We’ll trade off flight duties with Frank. I’m sure he’ll agree.”

  For a moment Cricket thought hail was striking the aircraft. But the sky was clear and Fritz was yelling.

  “Climb!”

  “What altitude?”

  “Just climb—full power.”

  They had been at three thousand feet, slow at two hundred fifty knots,
a dangerous condition for small-arms fire; even a .22 rifle could strike them.

  Through eight thousand, Fritz called out ten for level-out.

  “We’ll both look for the troublemakers.”

  Fritz told her to bring the power back and the speed again to two hundred fifty knots.

  They both saw the long line of bikes and vehicles, and Cricket spotted the reflection of a truck, something big, on a side road that ran through the park system, not far from Route 87.

  “I’m circling to the right. Saw something.”

  “Do it,” Fritz said. “I’m looking too.”

  She circled, turns around a point, catching the sun’s reflection off something large, an eighteen-wheeler? She smiled at her deft handling of the Mustang and compensated for drift with slight changes in bank angle, keeping the same distance for three hundred and sixty degrees and keeping the area in view. When Fritz finally saw the reflection, he swore loudly. A combination of words Cricket hadn’t heard until now.

  Fritz angrily concluded, “A fuel tanker. They must have broken down. No one’s moving. No way can we rescue that fuel. And we know what the bad guys will do with it. We’ve got to go back and land; switch seats. I can’t take it out from back here.”

  “I can,” Cricket said.

  “You’re a damn good pilot but you have about thirty minutes on the sight.”

  “They may be gone by the time we get back.”

  “I know that. All right, listen, you’ll have to follow my instructions all the way down. I’m going to be a son of a bitch.”

  “Start barking.”