by Noah Mann
The woman who’d just laid me out in my own home was made of the same stuff. That my bruised body could attest to with complete honesty.
By the time I was to me feet and starting toward the door she had thrown it open and sprinted out. Gusts whipped the screen door back and forth, slapping it against its frame and the front clapboards. I was out just after the intruder, catching a veiled glimpse of her running through the blizzard, backtracking down the side of my house. I could have gone back through the interior and tried to cut her off where the backdoor let out, but there was every chance she would just cut across the neighbor’s back yard and still be ahead of me. I bolted off the front porch, my weapon held low in one hand, and chased the woman into the whiteout.
Five
She did cut across the neighbor’s back yard, tramping fast through snow covered beds that Mrs. Traeger had said would be brimming with tomatoes and squash come summer and fall. I crossed the same space, building drifts slowing me, but also slowing the intruder. The distance between us stayed the same, about ten yards, as she weaved through more yards, down more driveways, aiming, I was certain, for the still dead woods a few blocks away.
For the second time that night, I was wrong about her intentions.
The fleeing intruder cut sharply to the left, around the back of a vacant house about mid-block, running directly into the wind, the icy snow scouring my cheeks as I squinted and followed. Another quick turn and she was now tracking up the side of the house, in essence doubling back.
What is she doing?
My silent wondering lasted only until I, too, made that turn, stopping after a few steps when I found myself facing the fat, suppressed end of an MP5 and the masked man who wielded it.
“Toss it,” the man ordered me, just his dark eyes visible through the oval opening of his balaclava.
I knew what he wanted. The Springfield I held low and at ease, almost dangling in my right hand. It was my instrument of defense, or offense, depending on one’s perspective. To the man blocking my way, it was that latter.
“Toss it.”
His directive was spoken with calm force, words and tone cutting through the howl of the storm, softened by half in the lee of the adjacent house. He needn’t disarm me to kill me. A simple squeeze of the trigger by his gloved finger would end me instantly. So might further refusal of his order.
I chose, at that moment, to acquiesce.
My right hand swung away from my body and let the pistol slip free. It sailed a few feet away, burying itself, I imagined, in a nearby drift. I wasn’t looking so I could only guess. My attention remained on the man with the suppressed submachinegun pointed at my face.
The woman I’d chased was nowhere to be seen. She’d sprinted past the man, her backup, and disappeared into the storm. And, step by step, that was how my visual of him receded. He walked backward, slowly, never lowering his compact weapon, waves of white sweeping between us as he cleared the front edge of the houses to either side, the blizzard’s full fury finally erasing him from the world before me.
I waited for a moment until I was certain the intruder’s partner was gone, then I dug my Springfield from the snow and hurried back through the blinding snow to my house.
Six
“Do you think it was Olin?”
Martin’s question was the obvious one to pose. Tyler Olin, after murdering my friend, had slipped away. There’d been no trace of him since his final phone call to me from one of the abandoned bunkers. A call in which I’d promised to end him should our paths ever cross again.
“It wasn’t him,” I said.
Perhaps it was that threat that had kept him from reappearing, though I had doubts as to whether he’d heard my statement of vengeance. When the bunker had been checked, all that was found was the field phone, out of its cradle, lying on the table. He’d simply set it down and disappeared.
Schiavo and Lorenzen came back into the living room from their brief search of the rest of the house. Hart, Westin, and Enderson, the remainder of the garrison, were out in the still raging storm, attempting to track down the intruder I’d scared off, as well as the man who’d been waiting to cover any retreat.
Though, I had to remind myself, the latter didn’t seem at all afraid when I was staring past the muzzle of his weapon at him.
“I can’t see anything obvious that he took,” Lorenzen said. “Maybe later you can give the place a once over to see if you notice anything gone.”
Later...
That would be a time when I was no longer alone in the house. In our house.
“Elaine is gonna be worried that I’m—”
Schiavo didn’t give me a chance to finish voicing my worry.
“I called Grace and asked her to let Elaine know you had to help us with a situation.”
I knew my wife. She would buy that explanation for about three seconds before starting to demand a real answer from Grace, and Genesee, and anyone else in earshot. It was possible that the presence our newborn daughter would mellow her reaction some, but, my limited understanding of genetics notwithstanding, it was just as likely that Hope would take after her mother and join in the protest with wails of disapproval.
“I have to get back there,” I said.
“We’ll get this place back together,” Martin said. “I’ll bolt a plywood patch over that broken pane in the door. That’ll do until we can replace the glass.”
Other than that, and a few drawers left hastily open, there was no sign that anyone had broken in. Not inside, at least.
“This wasn’t some simple break-in,” Corporal Mo Enderson said as he came through the front door, the wind howling for a second as Westin and Hart followed him in, the last trooper closing it against a stubborn gust. “You were targeted.”
“How do you know that?” Martin pressed.
Westin stepped past his comrade, rifle slung and hands free to hold a pair of items—a radio and some folded piece of paper, water staining it from melting snow clinging to its surface.
“These were in the drifts just off your porch,” Westin explained. “The one who ran from you must have dropped them.”
It made sense I thought as I reached out and took the handheld radio from Westin. The click I’d heard was the transmit button being depressed, and the softened voice was the intruder warning their partner outside that they had a problem. I pressed the button myself to be certain, and the sound was identical.
“This is the kicker,” Westin added, unfolding the paper so that all who’d gathered at my house after I’d called in the incident could see clearly what it was.
“A map,” Martin said.
Westin nodded and passed it to his captain. Schiavo examined it for a moment, then passed it to me as I gave the radio back to the garrison’s com expert.
“It’s this entire block,” Schiavo said as I studied the simple but accurate sketch of the neighborhood.
“With everyone’s house labeled,” Martin added, looking on from where he stood next to me. “Yours is circled, Fletch.”
I nodded, marveling quietly, and with worry, at what I held in my hands. Names were penned neatly next to each structure. The road was marked. It was not to perfect scale, but it didn’t need to be. Its purpose, apparently, was to guide the intruder and her partner to the house I shared with my wife, and soon our daughter.
Enderson was right—I was targeted.
“This could be the same crew who’s hit the other houses,” Enderson suggested.
“A few chickens have disappeared, too,” Lorenzen reminded everyone. “No way to be sure, but the workers tending the coops have also said that the numbers of eggs have seemed light more than a few times.”
What I, and others in the town, had experienced was beginning to seem like part of an organized effort. One that, until tonight, had been staged with covert skill.
“This isn’t one of us doing this,” Martin said, his statement directed to his wife. “It’s outsiders.”
Schiavo nod
ded, a tiredness in the affirmative gesture. We’d fought, and struggled, and fought again. Against remnants of a Cold War era adversary, and against rogue elements of our own government and its forces. People were weary of conflict. I was, as well. But now we were, once again, facing a challenge to our security, and our safety, from an unknown group which had penetrated our borders.
“There’s more,” Westin said, adjusting the frequency dial on the radio. “They have us dialed in.”
“What do you mean?” Schiavo pressed.
Westin nodded to Hart and the medic took his own radio and briefly keyed the transmit button. A burst of static sounded from the captured radio.
“They’ve been listening to us,” Westin said.
I looked to Schiavo, a broader understanding of what had occurred settling in.
“They knew I wouldn’t be here,” I said. “Or shouldn’t be here.”
I’d been standing with Schiavo on the beach when the call came summoning me to the hospital where Elaine had been taken. If there was a more certain indication than childbirth that our house would be at least temporarily vacant, I didn’t know of it.
“It looks that way,” Schiavo said, shifting her attention to Martin. “We need to know if any of the other people who’ve had break-ins had their absence announced on the radio.”
Martin gave a quick, silent nod. His wife was turning to him again, tasking him with gathering information that she, and the Defense Council, would need to take appropriate action in this matter. With the Unified Government forces surrounding Bandon, Martin had worked tirelessly, and in the shadows, to uncover the infiltrator we had in our midst. He’d succeeded then, in a difficult task with dire consequences. The stakes, at the moment, seemed much lower here, but I knew the man who’d led Bandon through its worst times would treat what needed to be done with the utmost seriousness, and do so in confidence.
“This could just be the two Fletch ran into,” Lorenzen suggested.
“That would make sense,” Enderson agreed. “They went out of their way to not hurt Fletch.”
“Says the man who didn’t have a gun pointed at his face,” I said.
“You know what he means,” Schiavo said, standing up for her trooper.
I did. The moment was still raw, and, I had to admit, I was rattled by it. My home, where my wife slept, and where my daughter soon would, had been violated. Nothing troubled me more than the fear that I couldn’t protect the ones I loved.
“If they’d shot you, Fletch, we’d be out hunting them down,” Lorenzen said, giving voice to the reality we all understood. “If you’re two, three, four people, you don’t want some posse on your tail.”
“That’s how I would play it,” I said, validating what seemed to be the consensus. “So, what do we do?”
Schiavo thought on that for a moment. Some action would have to be taken, beyond just verifying that the same individuals had been responsible for the other break-ins.
“I need to talk to the mayor,” Schiavo said, looking to me. “You okay with all this, Fletch?”
I gave the space a look. I knew by the time I reached the hospital, Martin would already be working to patch the broken window. When we brought our daughter home in a day or two, almost no physical sign would remain that anything out of the ordinary had happened.
But I would know. And I would not be able to forget.
Seven
Two days after the break-in we brought our daughter home with the earth shimmering white under a perfect blue morning sky. Aside from Mrs. Traeger beaming at our bundled newborn from where she’d waited at the curb, and a quick welcome from our down-the-street neighbor, Dave Arndt, we were alone.
“This feels weird,” Elaine said as we stood over Hope, watching her sleep in her crib. “Really weird.”
“It kinda does,” I agreed.
In the old world I’d listened to married friends describe the arrival of their firstborns in similar terms. From the bustle of activity surrounding the birth, to the constant presence of medical professionals ready to assist, the time before returning home with the new addition to the family felt almost normal. There was support. Advice. Company.
Then, you were alone.
It was not that we could not have had someone, or more than someone, there to help us with Hope. Any one of a dozen or more people would have dropped everything to do whatever it was we wanted, or needed. But, as many new parents did, we felt the desire to have some family time as we came home for the first time as a family.
“What do we do?” Elaine asked.
“I think this is what we do.”
Standing in the dim room, just a nightlight glowing from a plug near the door, I imagined that I could stand there all night, just staring. Taking in every inch of our daughter, her body swaddled snugly, head topped by a pink cap, wisps of dark hair poking free.
“It’s cliché to say she’s perfect, isn’t it?”
“It is,” I told my wife. “But she is.”
I looked to the woman who’d brought this miracle into the world, expecting to see her smiling sweetly at our child. She was smiling, but there was also a sheen of tears on her eyes, and a hint of something that did not seem to fit the moment—sadness.
“What’s wrong?”
Elaine never looked at me as she spoke, her gaze fixed wholly on our daughter.
“So many people have died. Just so, so many. And here we are, and here she is. Why are we the lucky ones? Why?”
We were lucky, I knew. But there was more to our survival than fortune smiling on us.
“We fought for this,” I reminded her. “We fought for her. I don’t know if that means that we deserve to be alive, to be here, but I know it means we’ve earned this shot to go on. And to give her a shot at a future.”
Now Elaine looked to me. She’d brightened a bit, maybe by a degree or two, but some sadness lingered.
“Fifty eight,” she said, explaining after a moment. “That’s how many bodies they pulled from the ocean.”
I’d almost forgotten about the San Diego survivor colony, which had, apparently, perished in a storm at sea while attempting to reach us. To reach safety. Presumably from the Unified Government forces who’d taken Yuma and moved on to the coastal city at the extreme southern edge of California.
“Genesee was talking to Grace last night in the hall outside my room,” she said. “I heard him tell her about all the bodies. All the...”
I reached out and pulled her into a gentle hug, stroking the back of her head, her hair cool and smooth against my hand.
“They’re being buried today,” Elaine reminded me. “At one.”
I remembered. A crew had worked through the night to prepare graves in an unused section of the town cemetery, pushing past the boundaries of that property to a fallow field that had been considered for use as an orchard in the next planting season. Now it would be the final resting place for those the ocean had given up, the remainder of their friends and loved ones lost at sea.
“You know most of the town will be there,” Elaine said, easing half out of our embrace to look me in the eye. “You should go. For both of us.”
I shook my head. Fifteen feet from where we stood was the temporarily patched window where the intruders had reached through and unlocked the back door. At least one of them had pawed around our house, likely even the room in which we stood. The room where our daughter now slept. How was I supposed to leave Elaine and Hope alone, knowing that had happened?
“Eric...”
“I don’t care if it’s illogical that they’d come back. I’m not leaving you here.”
Elaine stepped fully back from me, not in anger, but with full assurance about herself.
“Are you playing the ‘man’ card again?”
Her challenge was not born of nothing. I’d tried to shield her from danger in the past, only to have her rebel against what she must have thought was over protectiveness. Some chivalrous attempt to keep her from harm. She wasn’t w
rong in that belief.
But I’d been wrong in my belief that she needed me to protect her. Still, that didn’t negate my desire to do be there for her. And now for our daughter as well.
“Elaine...”
“Listen, I want you here with me. With us. I want that more than anything. But, in case you haven’t noticed, you’re kind of a big part of this town now.”
“I’m just—”
“No, you’re not just anything.”
Her counter to me was forceful enough that our daughter stirred at the sudden sound. Elaine took me gently by the elbow and took me into the hall with her.
“People see you as a leader, Eric. Not some elected or appointed figurehead, but a real, honest to goodness man who steps up and does what’s necessary. What’s right. And the right thing to do today is to go to the service. That’s what the man I fell in love with would do.”
I hated, absolutely hated it when she was right beyond argument. That she was complimenting me at the same time made it even harder to defy. But I was also touched by the faith she was exhibiting toward me. By the words that might seem just proxy for what others apparently saw in me, but were heartfelt on her part as well.
“You make it impossible for me not to love you,” I said.
“Good,” she said.
She stepped close and planted a soft kiss on my lips. A few feet away our daughter cooed softly. We both looked. Looked and held each other and watched our Hope, lying in her crib, peaceful and sweet. For the moment, this was all I needed. All I could have hoped for.
That such a state of bliss would last, I wanted to believe. I wanted so much to believe.
Eight
Over five hundred people attended the service in the cemetery, crowding between the headstones of old graves, thick layer of snow atop grass browned for the season. There was no lowering of caskets, as there was no wood to spare for making so many on such a short notice. Instead, by the time the first people arrived to pay their respects, the departed had already been placed in rectangular holes cut eight feet into the earth by one of the town’s two working backhoes. Words were spoken by Reverend Harold Morris. It was twenty minutes total in the chill of the wintry afternoon air.
