Harder Ground

by Joseph Heywood

  CO Pokey Clare drove toward home thinking a lot of strange thoughts and having feelings she’d not felt in a long time. Naturally and predictably, her mother Ione had to make a grand psychic entry with her litany of you must not, should not, cannot, will not, do not, on and on with unlimited limits and walls and ceilings and strictures, and not once an encouraging word other than a side-armed “Love you,” or a sloppy verbal “kish-kish,” the latter after she’d been drinking, which had not been all that often, and that was a good thing because Ione was a drooler drunk. She didn’t bob or weave, but slid along on some kind of alcohol-induced carpet, leaving a trail like a slug. Ione married Number Four, an intellectual pipsqueak named Barry who had been an MP in the Army for two years and could regale himself for hours with the same two stories of arresting famous Hollywood actors who’d been drafted and not taken to Army life.

  All streetlights were out, and many of them were new and solar-­powered, so what the hell is that all about? And no house lights, no nothing, just stars in the sky and no moon, and many of the stars occluded by passing cloud banks, leaving the night even darker than usual. Up here in the far north, light pollution was rarely an issue, and nights tended to be far darker than farther south in the towns and cities below the bridge.

  She quickly ran into her rented house, put on her uniform, climbed into her patrol truck and headed out. Five miles up the road she saw a van on its roof, wheels up, no dust in the air, meaning it had been there awhile. She turned on her emergency flashers, got out, and approached the van just as a shot sounded a couple hundred yards down the county road. Followed by a second.

  Oh crap. She could almost predict this one: Some old guy with a gun had gotten spooked by the power failure, and when people from the wreck came up on his house looking for help, he’d opened up on them, seeing them as zombies, or God knows what, some sort of insidious force looking to take over the world. Get rid of all old people with old-time values and drive Jesus out of America. Her county was filled with such folks.

  She drove her truck closer to the source of the shots, leaning sideways to reduce her silhouette, got to where she wanted to be, shut off the engine, and opened the door, leaving it open like a protective wing. “Hey, this is Conservation Officer Clare. What’s going on? Hold your fire, repeat, hold your fire!”

  “We’ve been shot,” a female voice said weakly.

  Clare unsheathed her .308 and made her way toward the voice.

  “My name is Pokey, who am I talking to?”

  “Renee. I’m hit in the shoulder and Frank got one in the foot.”

  The Fagans, Renee and Frank. They lived two hundred yards away. “You overshoot your driveway?” Clare asked.

  Renee laughed painfully. “Frankie got a wee-bit over-martinied tonight, overshot the landing.”

  Frank was a retired Blue Goose pilot.

  Pokey Clare realized where they were, stood up and yelled, “Kangas, you fucking madman, you just shot the Fagans!”

  “Liberals!” Kangas shot back. “Let ’em go get Obamacared!” The man laughed maniacally. Cell phones not working, police radio silent, no help coming, up to you, sis, she told herself.

  Can’t believe I’m asking a civilian this question. “How many rounds has he fired?” she asked Renee Fagan.

  “Six or eight, including the last two. We both got hit in the first salvo.”

  Which must’ve taken place before Clare arrived in the area.

  The conservation officer made her way over to the wounded couple, assessed wounds. The foot was nasty but not critical, Renee’s shoulder only a nick, more or less.

  “What are we going to do?” Renee Fagan asked.

  “I’m thinking on it.” Training never quite prepared you for unreality, which was sometimes the job’s prevailing reality. Kangas was a semi-­hermit, a bigmouth drunk who loved to bully anybody he could.

  “Women cops are losers,” her mother used to proclaim.

  “What’s that make those loser cops’ mothers?” she’d retort, which usually ended the discussion.

  “I’m going to talk to Kangas,” Clare told Renee. “Give me a few minutes and yell out that the state police are here.”

  “The troopers are coming?”

  “Just yell it out.”

  By the time the yell came, the game warden was on the shooter’s porch. His front door was open, only a screen between them. “Gig’s up Forddy, troops are on the scene. You know they’ll come in shooting.”

  “Fuck them,” Kangas said. “And you too, you cunt cop.”

  CO Clare went through the screen with her flashlight in the man’s face, sending him backwards with her on top of him. She heard a gun go off in her ear and then a ringing and no other sound as she roughly rolled him face down, pulled his arms back and cuffed him. “Goddamn you, Forddy, you might’ve killed your neighbors. Or me.”

  “Fuck them, fuck you,” the man muttered.

  Suddenly it was daylight, so white and bright that even in the man’s cabin she kept blinking.

  “God’s here,” Kangas said.

  Pokey Clare got him up and walked him out into the light. There was no sun, just a massive coating of white light burying everything. She’d never seen any such thing, never even heard of it.

  “It’s God,” Kangas said again.

  She said, “With cops tied up everywhere, I guess he figured to send someone to fetch your sorry ass. It’s not God.”

  “It ain’t?”

  “Does that hot sky look like fire, maybe?”

  The old man said, “Uh huh.” Then, “You mean?”

  “You’re in deep shit, moron. Shit deeper than any court.”

  “I ain’t afraid,” Kangas said.

  “That just makes you a dumb ass.”

  At some point Deputy Gibb Pawlowski drove up in his cruiser. “You okay? I seen the girls at Laurie’s place and they said you come to get your work truck, only nobody seen you since and they’re all worried. Got to your house, but no you, so I nosed up this way and seen the truck.”

  She explained what had happened and he said, “Good grief, Pokey.”

  “Ain’t my fault. Them people attacked my house in the dark,” Forddy Kangas told the deputy. “I got proof,” Kangas added.

  “I bet you do,” Pawlowski said and turned to Clare. “I’ll run Kangas into the jail.”

  “I’ll get the Fagans to the hospital. The jail got power?”

  “No, everything’s black except the sky. Any idea what the hell is happening?”

  “The devil coming for Kangas,” she said. “This whole thing’s his fault.”

  •••

  The light in the sky lasted three hours and blinked out. The Fagans were at the hospital getting treatment. Pokey Clare drove back to the restaurant to check on her friends. She found them sitting at a table with candles, drinking wine.

  “You see that sky?” Curry Boland asked.

  “I saw,” the conservation officer said. She looked over at the ten-year-old. “You wanted to talk to me, Gainey?”

  “Not here,” the girl said. “Outside.”

  Standing in the dark the girl said, “This is not the end of the world. It’s a CME”

  “Come again?”

  “Coronal mass ejection, like a massisimus solar flare.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I read about this kind of stuff all the time. Beats Facebook or dumb games. The light in the sky says this is a big deal, like an X-class flare. Geomagnetic fluctuations and disruptions, messed up GPS, all that crap. It will last nine hours and be over.”

  “For real?”

  “Yes ma’am. I’m gonna be a geophysicist when I grow up.”

  “Good for you, Gainey.”

  “The women inside are driving me crazy with end-of-the-world wah-wah-wah,” the kid said. “Wil
l you please tell them everything will be fine, especially Ms. Boland. She’s like on the verge of losing it totally.”

  “Okay,” Pokey Clare said. “Why don’t you tell them yourself?”

  “Nobody listens to a kid.”

  The CO explained and this was met with doubt, but eventually they settled down and Clare excused herself and continued her patrol and found Gainey waiting out by her truck. “Geophysicist, eh?”

  “Or dolphin trainer,” the girl said. “I’m like torn, ya know?”

  Pokey stuck out her pinky. “Sisters?”

  The girl hooked her pinky through the adult’s. “Sisters.”

  Pokey Clare smiled until the power came back, precisely nine hours after it had gone out.

  Gravy and Bear Breath

  “At ease, Graveraet.”

  Meanderbelle Graveraet said, “Yes Sergeant.”

  “That name, Graveraet, where’s that come from exactly?”

  “My mom and dad.”

  “Don’t be a wiseass. I said at ease, not off the wall.”

  “Sorry, Indian and Dutch, Sarn’t.”

  “You a tribal, Cadet?”

  “No, Sergeant. Never signed up.”

  “But you qualify?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Listen to me Graveraet, I really mean it. At ease. This isn’t commander to cadet. This is just the two of us.”

  “Whatever you say, Sergeant.”

  “Are you hardcore, Graveraet?”

  “No Sarn’t.”

  “Know what your classmates call you?”

  “No, Sergeant.”

  “Gravy. They say everything flows easy for you. Good looks, smarts, great shape, tough. Gravy. You like that name?”

  “No opinion, Sergeant.”

  “You know why we’re here, just us two?”

  “No Sarn’t.”

  “Because I see buds of leadership qualities I want to see in full bloom. Who’s the best all-around cadet in the class here, Gravy?”

  “Me, Sergeant.”

  “Bit conceited, donchuthink?”

  “No sergeant. That’s how I see it.”

  “You’re a weirdo, Gravy. Air Force Academy, third academically in your class, seven years in the Office of Special Investigations, rank of captain, and you signed up for this abuse?”

  “Affirmative, Sergeant.”

  “Mind explaining? It doesn’t add up for me.”

  “Bored. Second looey, first looey I got to work and make cases, captain they plopped me more and more in an office. I’d made major, the office is all I’d’ve seen. Not for me, Sergeant. I hate desks.”

  “Why’d you go to OSI?”

  “Couldn’t pass the physical for PJ school.”

  “Bullshit. You earned your jump wings at the academy.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “So why wouldn’t the PJs make an exception?”

  “Just how it is with them, Sarn’t. No nuts, no can do.”

  “No female PJs?”

  “None I know or heard of.”

  “Piss you off?”

  “No Sergeant. Well maybe a little.”

  “So here you are.”

  “Affirmative Sergeant. Here I am.”

  “Who in the class beside you has the most promise?”

  “Barnes,” she said.

  “Bear Breath?”

  “Yes, Sarn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Book smart, common sense, good emotional control.”

  “He was a pretty fair college football player but he can’t cut the physical program here.”

  “He can,” she said.

  “Why isn’t he?”

  “I don’t know, Sergeant.”

  “Don’t you give a shit about your classmates?”

  “To be perfectly frank, all I care is that they don’t get in my way, Sergeant.”

  “Seems like an anti-team attitude, Cadet Graveraet.”

  “No, Sergeant. We become a team only after we graduate. Except in exercises where teamwork is required.”

  “That’s cold-blooded.”

  “So’s life, Sarn’t.”

  “How many tours you pull in Afghanistan?”

  “Two.”

  “Your record says Purple Heart and Bronze Star with a V.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Spill any blood, Graveraet?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Like to spill mine right now?”

  “I’ll take the Fifth.”

  “This ain’t a court.”

  “I still take the Fifth.”

  The sergeant stared at her and shook his head. “Bear Breath, that’s really your opinion?”

  “It is, Sergeant.”

  “Are you tightly wrapped and all business, Cadet Graveraet, a Zoomie to the core?”

  “No, Sergeant.”

  “Way I see it, Gravy, you don’t like men and class competition is some kind of personal vendetta.”

  She stared at him. “You’re entitled to your opinion, Sergeant.”

  “You always in control, Gravy?”

  “I try, Sarn’t.”

  “You one of them Lebanese types, Gravy?”

  “Beg your pardon, Sergeant?”

  “Lebanese, carpet-muncher, like that.”

  “None of your business, Sergeant.”

  “You gonna boohoo and call your lawyer now?”

  “No Sergeant. I handle my own fights.”

  “This a fight, is it?”

  “If that’s how you want it to go, Sarn’t.”

  “The others aren’t real lovey-dovey with you, are they Gravy?”

  “No Sergeant, they’re insecure.”

  “They are? Tell me three things I don’t know about you.”

  “One, afraid to fly. Two, can’t hold my liquor. Three, I love to fuck.”

  The sergeant laughed out loud. “Jump wings and afraid to fly?”

  “Is what it is, Sarn’t.”

  “Are numbers two and three connected?”

  “They can be, but no.”

  “Bear Breath. Seriously?”

  “Yes, Sarn’t.”

  “Could he top the class?”

  “It’s probable.”

  “Top even you?”

  “Yes, Sarn’t.”

  “Good. That bother you if he finished numero uno?”

  “Not if he earned it.”

  The sergeant stepped back. “Okay, Gravy, do that.”

  “Sergeant?”

  “Do what you said.”

  “Which is?”

  “Make Bear Breath compete and push you for the top slot in the class.”

  “Isn’t that your job, Sergeant?”

  The sergeant stiffened. “I see you as a leader, Cadet Graveraet. Prove it to me, prove it to everyone, prove it to yourself. Barnes is your test. You think that’s unfair?”

  “No Sergeant.”

  “You must think something.”

  “If I told you, I’d have to use the word asshole and I choose not to do that.”

  “I talked to your academy coach. You hold every physical fitness and long distance running record in academy history. All five-feet-three of you. No more dicking around, Graveraet. I think you’ll be a top officer and I want you to lift Bear Breath and the rest of the class.”

  “How?”

  “Push them until they hate your guts.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because the hate won’t last. It will convert grudge to respect over time, and respect into love. You want to be loved, Gravy. We all do.”

  “If you say so, Sergeant.”

  “Twelve Mike,”
the sergeant said. “Focus on that. You run as far as you can in twelve minutes, carry a day pack and a .308. We want you to push the whole class to a class average record.”

  “Why me, Sergeant?”

  “Because I can’t run that far anymore. Want to know what you get out of this?”

  “Satisfaction, Sergeant?”

  The NCO chuckled. “You ever at a loss for words, Gravy?”

  “Not so far, Sergeant.”

  He looked her in the eye. “I think those PJs fucked their own doggie when they passed on you. Now beat it, skedaddle. I’m all out of chittychatshit.”

  •••

  Barnes was in a study room. His given name was Rob. She sat in a chair next to him. “Wanna be my workout partner?” she asked.

  “Why me?”

  “I need a partner who can push me.”

  He laughed out loud. “I’d have to catch you to push you.”

  “I know,” she said, deadpan.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Damn right.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Mornings before they get us up. And at our free hour every night. Aerobic, anaerobic, free weights, all of it.”

  “Why me?” he asked.

  She put her face to his. “Kiss me.”

  He did and she said, “Sweet breath, not bear. Partners?”

  “More kissing too?”

  “Not likely.”

  “So I don’t have to stay on top of dental hygiene?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “For the record, you don’t taste like Gravy,” Barnes said.

  Graveraet punched her training partner in the bicep. It was like striking a cinderblock filled with cement. “We’re gonna beat the Twelve Mike record,” she said.

  “You, maybe.”

  “You, me, all of us, the whole class.” She looked him in the eye. “Trust me, Partner. You just won the lottery.”

  He grinned. “What did you win?”

  “Nothing special,” she said, knowing that she would not be treated special, which would make it special, and normal.

  Working the Problem

  “What the hell is going on?” husband Ronald threw at her seconds after rolling off her. “Used to be twice a day and now you’re gone a week and you’re too tired?”

  “Leave it alone, Ronald. I hardly had enough strength to walk into the house.”