by Justin Bell
“Wish we could figure out what was going on.” Grady reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick padlock, brushed metal and indestructible, then looped the hook through two links of the chain. As he pulled it around his body, his hand brushed the black leather holster at his hip looking as if it were poured around the Glock 32 .357 Magnum tucked within.
Irving stepped back and looked at the squat, brick structure, a simple sign advertising the medical supply store contained within the four unremarkable walls.
“I can’t believe we’re going through all this crap,” he mumbled. “I mean, the entire city is up in flames and our boss has us runnin’ around throwin’ padlocks up.”
“Oh you thought security was more glamorous than this?” Grady asked, chuckling. “Welcome to the world of World Class Business Defense Systems, boyo!”
“Business Defense Systems. Chains and padlocks for crying out loud.”
“Well, I don’t think anyone saw this coming, huh? Whatever we can put up as deterrents…”
“There’s a big glass window,” Irving said, gesturing toward the flat pane where the business name was etched in carved glass.
“The entire fricken city is burning down,” Grady said, rolling his eyes. “We do what we can and we move on. We gotta long list of places to hit.”
“Man I knew I shoulda signed up for that union.”
“Get the heck outta here,” replied Grady. “At least you’re not in the middle of the city risking your stupid life, trying to peel dead bodies out of a wrecked plane. Come on, man. You got some union job in mind where you can run around with a pistol strapped to your hip besides being 5-0?” He walked past Irving back toward their white van. It was a basic, medium-sized panel van with tough looking block letters painted on the side. World Class Business Defense Systems. As they approached, a large yellow firetruck rolled slowly down the road, moving steadily in their direction, slowing, then turning, its brakes steaming as it pulled into the parking lot alongside their vehicle. It was a large ladder truck and parked how it was, it completely blocked their exit from the small lot.
“Hey!” Grady shouted. “What’s the deal, man? We gotta get out you know!”
The truck sat there, the engine ticking, a figure sitting in the driver’s seat. Grady glared up, trying to look through the window, and it looked almost as if the driver was wearing fire gear. He had a full face plate mask and helmet and thick canvas jacket, but his lower half was beyond the bottom of the window and not clearly visible.
“Aren’t all the fires downtown?” Irving asked. “You’re a little outside your jurisdiction up here, man.”
Slowly, the driver’s side door eased open. Grady looked over at Irving and pointed toward the side of the ladder truck.
“See that? Massport Fire Rescue,” Grady said. “Boston Logan International Airport.”
“What the heck?” asked Irving.
The driver shuffled down out of the seat, hitting the ground, his heavy boots thumping on the paved parking lot. He was wearing a heavy fire-retardant jacket pulled tight over broad shoulders and dark, thick pants. Gloves covered both hands and a yellow fire helmet was pulled tight over his head, an opaque breathing apparatus flush over his featureless face underneath. By the angle of his head, Grady could tell he was staring past them at the medical supply store just behind them.
“What are you looking for, friend?” Grady asked, taking a step toward him. Irving watched this motion and drew back slightly, letting his hand move down to his hip where the Glock was holstered. While the firefighter looked at Grady, he slowly unbuttoned the lock strap on the holster so his weapon was accessible.
Without speaking, his breath coming in metallic rasps, the man in the firefighter gear extended his arm and pointed a gloved finger toward the building, then patted himself on the chest.
“You need medical help?” Grady asked. The firefighter nodded his masked head.
“You know there’s no drugs or anything in there, right?” Irving asked pointedly. The man turned and glared at him through the smooth surface of his breathing mask.
“Let me call 9-1-1 for you,” Grady said. “Cell service is out, but there should be a land line in the building, okay?”
There was no response. Irving stood in a prepared stance, his hand at his hip. Grady looked from one man to the other. Again, the firefighter pointed to the building, then gestured at himself, a bit more urgently.
“Can you speak English?” Grady asked.
The man shook his head, then thrust his finger back toward the building with a sense of desperate urgency, taking a step forward.
“Okay, let’s take it easy,” Grady said calmly, stepping toward the man and holding his hands out in gentle gesture.
Even with all of the heavy gear on, the firefighter moved faster than Grady could follow. His right hand shot out like a piston, clamped fingers striking Grady in the throat. Breath locked in his lungs as his esophagus collapsed, his eyes widening and mouth prying itself open to draw in breath that would never make it to his lungs. He gasped and gurgled, stumbling forward.
“Okay that’s it!” Irving shouted, sliding the pistol from his holster and swinging it up. The firefighter shifted and was already on top of him, swatting his arm aside, then swiveling as he moved forward, wrapping his other arm around Irving’s head. He torqued as he bent forward, flipping the security guard over his shoulder, moving with him down to the ground, his arm locked tight around the guard’s head. He struck the hard pavement, tailbone first, his fingers releasing the pistol, and the man in the firefighter gear jerked back and left, breaking his neck with a dry twig-bundle snap.
Three seconds, two men dead.
Standing upright, the firefighter calmly walked toward the discarded pistol and swept it up skillfully, playing with the balance of the weapon as he strode toward the double doors of the medical supply store, all bound up with the chain and padlocks. He aimed toward the large plate glass window and fired the weapon once, punching a narrow hole into the large flat glass surface, which immediately spider-webbed, shuddered for a second, then fell, scattering across the lower section of brick and sidewalk, spraying all the way over to the parking lot.
With a sweep of his gloved hand, the man in the firefighter gear removed his helmet and mask, revealing the burnt and ruined face beneath, already layering with calloused-over second and third degree burns, lumpy and hard like the layer of skim on yogurt. He stepped over the bottom sill of the broken window and moved inside, vanishing into the darkened facility.
***
When he’d woken up yesterday, Clark Bradley never suspected that he’d spend the night at a Massachusetts state park ten miles outside of the city of Boston, heading west toward Connecticut. He pushed himself upright, sheltered by a wooden gazebo, nestled among trees and grass on a sprawling wilderness area which looked remarkably out of place so close to the city.
After stopping by Melinda’s apartment she’d shared with her parents, the group had begun their trek out of Boston, heading west, and it quickly became evident that they’d have to take up shelter somewhere or they’d be collapsing along the side of the road as they made their way to Connecticut. They’d followed meandering back roads and deserted townships on their way to the Blue Hills Reservation area and decided that was the best place for them to camp out for the night. There was limited shelter, but even fewer people, which was what Clark, Jackson, and Broderick had been most concerned with. Now, as the sun continued its determined trek through the early morning sky, Clark lifted his eyelids, blinking away thick vestiges of exhaustion after only a few hours of sleep, the wooden slats of the gazebo hard against his back. Glancing to his left, he confirmed that Melinda still lay next to him, covered in a blanket they’d grabbed at her apartment, and huddled up next to the stuffed hippo that had come with her as well. Clark couldn’t tell precisely how old she was but suspected she was past the age of depending on stuffed animals for comfort, but after the events of the past twenty-fo
ur hours, her return to younger childhood was certainly understandable.
Pulling himself to his unsteady feet, Clark used the posts supporting the roof to help him work his way upright, and he looked out onto the grass surrounding him. Broderick and Javier were right where they’d been last night, but from this vantage point he couldn’t see Jackson anywhere.
Moving through the opening of the bandstand structure, he stepped out onto the grass, stretching his arms high above his head. In front of him, the trees drew apart slightly, revealing a clear path of sunlight into their wooded area, the light passing through the scattered leaves of the tree. For a moment it was easy to forget what was happening in the city of Boston. What was happening in New Hampshire, in New Jersey, and even all the way west into Illinois. Here, they were surrounded by the peace and tranquility of nature, the sheer beauty of an early morning sun forcing its way through the scrags of leafless trees in the middle of winter. It was almost December but felt like late March or April this morning, a small favor that Clark relished, though he knew here in New England, the weather changed more often than his socks.
Walking forward, he let his eyes scan the trees and grass, but still didn’t see Jackson, and continued his walk forward through the parting of the tall trees, remarkably full for this early in the year. As he cleared the gap between foliage he saw him, standing on the slight curve of a grass hill, bracketed by sun and a near cloudless sky. Jackson was holding a sword in two hands, sweeping it left and right, at an upward angle and a downward angle, twirling it lightly from time to time.
“Careful with that thing, Crossfit,” Clark said, approaching him, and Jackson turned toward him. “You’ll cut off a finger.”
Jackson chuckled.
“You use one of those before?” Clark asked.
“Define ‘use’.”
“If I have to define it, then the answer’s no. Gimme that thing.” Clark took a step forward and held out his hand and Jackson looked at him crookedly, but pushed the Japanese sword toward him, letting him pull it from his palm.
“I was part of the Marine Corps Honor Guard,” Clark said. “Never handled a katana, but I knew my way around a saber pretty well.” He dropped back into a ready stance, sweeping the sword up at a left angle, twirling it skillfully, then sweeping it back down. He flipped his wrist and the sword spun, then he snatched it out of the air with his other hand, though the exchange was clumsy and unpracticed.
“Not too shabby,” Jackson said. “My gym doesn’t just have crossfit classes, there’s some Mixed Martial Arts stuff, too. We screw around with wooden tonfa from time to time.” He took the sword from Clark and spun it in a graceful circle, then clutched it in two hands, getting into his own ready position.
“The balance on this thing is insane. I think it’s real, not one of those fifteen dollar fake jobs that’ll break the second you hit something with it.”
Clark watched him, crossing his arms over his broad chest, looking past him into the morning sky, wide and visible over the sloping grass hills of central Massachusetts.
“What do you think was up with those guys at Mel’s apartment?” Jackson asked as he arced the sword over his head.
“Couldn’t tell you,” Clark replied. “But they were carrying Army issued Sig’s.”
Jackson stopped and looked over at him. “What? So they were military?”
Clark shrugged. “Just telling you what they were carrying. Doesn’t explain anything, but I found it interesting. I bet Broderick finds it interesting, too. I might pick his brain a little on that.”
Jackson nodded, turning his attention back to the sword.
“So what’s the plan?” Clark asked. “I know we’re moving west, we cutting through Rhode Island? Skimming north and moving directly into Connecticut? Where is this place you need to get to?”
“Aldrich,” Jackson replied, still focusing on the swinging sword. “It’s southwest of Hartford.”
“That’s gotta be over a hundred miles from here,” Clark replied. “What’s the transportation plan?”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead yet.”
“We may look like we’re in the hills and woods, but we’re not that far from town out here. We should at least try to shoot for snagging a vehicle. I figure the sooner we get down there the better.”
“Definitely.”
“Plus Broderick wants to get on the road for Fort Detrick as well. If everything is going to hell in a handbasket, we need him in a place where he can do some good.”
Jackson looked back at him. “There’s no commitment here,” he said. “I can head to Aldrich on my own. Especially if I can find a car.”
“Easy there, Crossfit, you’re not getting rid of us that easily.”
Jackson chuckled. “Maybe if you did crossfit, you wouldn’t be—”
“Hey there, smart guy. I’m your elder, and I’m ex-Marine. You swallow those words, you scrawny punk.” Clark smirked as he said it and Jackson nodded, smiling back.
“All right, kid,” Clark continued, “you keep on swinging that thing around, try not to cut yourself. I’m going to start packing up. Once Mel’s awake, we’ll rouse everyone else and get moving. Whether we find a car or not, it’ll be a long day.”
Jackson nodded and turned back toward the sun, balancing the sword in a practiced two-handed grip once again. As Clark walked away, he stepped back and swiped the blade horizontal, halted it abruptly, then down at a fierce diagonal angle.
Up in the Blue Hills, the world was at peace, and as Clark walked back to the gazebo, he had a suspicion that as days went on, their moments of peace would be fewer and farther between.
***
The ride into town hadn’t been smooth, and Lisa’s back still ached from the transport trek from her family’s farmland into downtown Aldrich. Her small hometown was the essence of New England charm, a simple two-lane Main Street lined on each side with small shops and restaurants, nothing truly remarkable about any of it, but a place that city urbanites would have called “quaint” and “charming.”
At this point it didn’t feel very quaint or charming. All Lisa felt right now was trapped.
She’d lived in Aldrich her entire life and had walked through downtown more times than she could count, and it had always felt like a small piece of home. Coming into town, the drug store rose up on the left, pressed shoulder to shoulder with a consignment shop that always had baby toys and sundresses hanging outside on the sidewalk.
There was the coffee shop, which she loved for its ambience, though the coffee wasn’t the best, and taking up three spots next to it was the small-town movie theater. She remembered seeing Titanic in that theater on her first date, a first date that wasn’t with Jackson, a fact that he reminded her of constantly. Smiling gently as she looked at the movie theater, right across the road from where she stood, she tried to think of simpler times. Better times. Different times.
“I’m sure you understand,” the voice said from behind her. Lisa was standing in the lobby of the Aldrich Town Hall, a wide, flat room, about the size of three of her living rooms put together. Three offices lined each side of the lobby area with a set of oak double doors on the far wall, leading out to the deeper concaves of the town building.
The man speaking had emerged from the double doors, wearing a button up shirt with the top two buttons unbuttoned. She’d never seen the man without a tie, but he wasn’t wearing one today, opting to go with a casual look instead.
Normally, it would have suited him. Today, Lisa could barely even look at him without feeling anger and frustration.
“Understand what, Mayor Harris?”
“This,” the mayor replied, spreading his palms out as if to indicate what he might be referring to. “Taking you from your home. Inviting you into this project.”
“That wasn’t an invite, that was a kidnapping. My mother is dying of cancer. I need to be home.”
The mayor shook his head. “Impossible, I’m afraid. You need to serve the grea
ter good. We all do at this point.”
“And what greater good is that?”
“I explained all of this in the transport, Lisa. I thought I was very specific.”
Lisa shook her head and turned back away, looking out the front door window of the town hall. The view showed her Main Street, which still had several vehicles lined up in parking spaces on each side, but also had several men and women in tactical gear walking store-to-store, rifles clutched in their hands.
“Apparently not specific enough,” she said.
“The world is falling apart, Ms. Martin,” Mayor Harris continued, his voice sharpening to a razor edge. “Boston is already lost. Hartford suffered a catastrophic disaster overnight. Power has gone out statewide, and we’re bracketed by cases of this mysterious virus in all directions. We need to come together to protect the town and protect ourselves!”
“So you kidnap me,” she said. “Weirdest protection ever.”
“Do you think this is a joke?”
“If it is, it’s not funny.”
“We’ve pulled back to essential personnel,” Harris said. “We’re fortunate that we have an Army National Guard outpost just outside of the town, and the guy in charge there is a close, personal friend of mine.”
“So what exactly are we doing?” Lisa asked, facing him again.
“Preparing, Lisa. Preparing for the worst. Because the worst is here.”
“And how am I supposed to help with that?”
Harris smiled. “Oh there are plenty of ways. Do you not remember helping with our wiring closet clean up a year or so ago?”
Lisa scowled at him. She’d done a lot of technical jobs for the local service provider and many of them bled together, but the wiring closet clean up in the town hall had been one of those monstrous undertakings that she was not likely to forget.
“Yeah, of course.”
“I think it’s a safe bet that as things continue to fall apart, we’re going to need some technical skills to keep our little society here up and running. Plus, you’re from here. You have an attachment to Aldrich. Why else would you have come back, leaving your fiancé in Boston?”
