Burn District 1

by Jenkins, Suzanne

  “Oh my God, what’s wrong?” Beverly cried. “Stop screaming, Shannon! I can’t understand you.”

  “It must be a terrorist attack, mother! They’re bombing East Lansing!” Beverly repeated what she’d heard to Ben, but he already knew what it was. They in essence had taken their daughter to school in the middle of a deteriorating neighborhood, ripe for Winston Clarke’s destruction.

  “Tell her we will come and get her. To sit tight.” He wasn’t sure how much longer they’d have cell phone service at the rate Eastman bombed; the last minutes could be ticking by. Even Ralph had admitted that Eastman was off his rocker and the problem was escalating exponentially. “Tell her if she must leave to try to get in touch with us, leave us a text message or send an email so we know where she is. Something.” He was energized. He was able to log onto his favorite travel site, but when he tried to get a flight out of Detroit Metro, he discovered there were no flights available because air travel didn’t exist. The airport had closed; neighborhoods surrounding it burned. The only alternative was to take the car. They could drive to East Lansing in twelve hours. He looked at his watch. It was just past four in the afternoon. He wouldn’t remember destroyed roads meant it would take days to get to Michigan instead of hours.

  “Tell her we’ll be there by six tomorrow morning.” He sprung into action, going to his office, a small space off the living room, and sweeping everything off his desk into his briefcase. Beverly came in ready to argue and he let her have it.

  “Don’t say another word. Do you want to save your children’s lives? Get Mark and Claire and have them gather their electronics and anything they can’t live without. We have one hour and then we’re leaving. Take your computer and any important papers. I’m not kidding you when I say we need to get out of here right away.” She nodded and fled the room. The sound of drawers opening and closing, packing tape ripping off the roll, doors slamming and voices murmuring with gasps echoed. Feet running up and down the stairs, the front door opening with a crash, the car being pulled into the driveway because there was no way you could load it up in the narrow garage meant progress was being made. Desk and file cabinet emptied, he carted boxes out to the car. His son was a wiz at organization. Loading boxes in to get the optimal storage, Ben went right to him and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, son. With you here we can take twice the stuff.”

  The family worked together in silence until five-thirty. “We’re ready,” Beverly announced.

  “Let’s go then,” Ben whispered to his wife. “We don’t need to lock up since I doubt we’ll be coming this way again.” To his kids he put on a different face.

  “Ready for an adventure? Shannon, here we come!” They buckled up their seat belts, chatter all trips start out with deafening, but in a good way. Putting the car into reverse, Ben rolled down the driveway and came to a stop at the street, waiting for a black sedan to pass. It stopped midway between the Adamiac’s and a neighbor’s house before the passenger side windows rolled down, emerging assault rifles blowing the family to bits.

  ***

  General John Eastman took early leave Friday dismissing his bodyguard and driver. Wanting to be unfettered by strangers, he was stopping by his daughter’s house in Arlington to pick up five-year-old twin granddaughters. First, he had to go home to get his wife. A lovely brick colonial in the tony neighborhood of Glennside in D.C, it had been a great place to raise a family. In addition to being a gated community, Glennside was restricted. Unspoken rules in place for generations, women of the household didn’t work; staff was white and English speaking, and handicapped access was always to the rear of the property. Although Eastman was instrumental in initiating the handicapped rule, after his hip replacement he had a glimmer of the inconvenience it might have caused his neighbors who cared for their elderly parents.

  At the gate, a uniformed guard tipped his hat. “Good afternoon, sir,” he recited, pulling the gate open by hand. One of the wealthiest communities left in town, gates were always hand-operated at Glennside, a gesture of servitude and privilege.

  “If I wanted an automatic gate, I’d be living in a trailer park,” Eastman said jovially but firmly at a board of director’s meeting when a member made the suggestion to install a gate opener so the guard didn’t have to go into inclement weather. “That’s what gate staff is for.”

  Driving through the pristine neighborhood, the trees were finally bare; not a leaf dare fall upon the lawns. It was a finable infraction to have unswept lawns. Washed windows, neat landscaping and maintained homes were the statute. He pulled into the rarely used circular drive in front of his house. Standing at the front door with her coat over her arm, wife Mary waited. They had a routine that was sacrosanct. She wasn’t to move until he got out and opened the door for her, a charade put on for the neighbors that gave him great pride, emphasizing the heights to which he had climbed in life after marrying her. Wealthy Washingtonians, his in-laws courted him for their daughter. It always bothered him that they had so little respect for her; Mary could have done fine finding a husband on her own. He still loved her as much as he was capable of, and she’d been happy to share what little passion he could muster with the United States Army.

  Daughter Amanda, their only child, was the love of their life. Married with twins, John and Mary did everything in their power to ensure she had a comfortable life including buying her a home, setting up trusts to pay taxes, paying for an expensive private school for the girls. Money was important to John only for the comfort and prestige it afforded his immediate family.

  So when Winston Clarke, whom he esteemed above all men in Washington, approached with his strategy, Eastman was beside himself with wonder. Fulfilling what Clarke was suggesting would be the culmination of his life’s dreams; to be in control of the destiny of the United States, and to abolish the practices put into place by the worst president in the history of the country; Franklin Roosevelt. Every ailment the country suffered from pointed directly to the New Deal. Under the umbrella of the Social Security Act, unemployment and Aid to Dependent Children drained billions of dollars. The antiquated system of welfare, having started out life in the US colonies as the British Poor Laws, moderately improved by Bill Clinton’s Personal Responsibility and Work Opportunity Reconciliation Act but not much.

  He stood aside, holding the car door for his wife. “You look nice today,” he said, closing the door and walking around to his side. As he climbed in, she smiled.

  “Thank you, dear. So do you.” She tried not to examine him too carefully; always groomed to perfection in the past, he was getting a wizened, maniacal look of late, like an old man who needed a shave and a shower. Suffering accelerating dementia, it was a toss up whether his demise began before or after getting involved with Winston Clarke. She knew all about Clarke, dreading the man and his philosophy, but there was a side of her that credited Clarke for John’s renewed interest in life and work. That drive and enthusiasm he had for each day faltered after he retired. When Clarke called him in, in the name of national security, Mary saw the excitement return, but the dementia remained.

  Her daughter voiced concern earlier. “Mother, should you even be driving with him? I’m not sure I want the girls to be in the car when Dad is behind the wheel.” However, Mary was not going to confront John. He was a decorated war hero. What could she say? Honey, your driving sucks. Our only child won’t let her children come in the car with us anymore.

  They drove side by side in silence except for an occasional road rage outburst by John. Amanda lived thirty minutes from Glennside, in a similar type of gated community, but without the pedigree and a much lower price tag.

  “I can’t wait to see our girl,” John said. He truly loved his family, encroaching insanity not altering it. Standing at her front door with two little angels waiting side by side, they clapped for joy seeing the car pull up and when he came to a stop, Amanda released them into their grandparent’s grasp. Running to Eastman, the girls screams for joy brought a rare
smile to his face, but his daughter, seeing how grizzled he appeared, was shocked. She’d just seen him, hadn’t she?

  The gossip in town swirling around her father’s involvement what was called Clarke’s Horror had reached her ears. Slowly, the name was morphing to Eastman’s Horror. By morning, the true extent of what they’d done would be broadcast internationally as the collapse of the communication system drew near. With little time to spare, Amanda’s husband, Norm was hoping to confront Eastman, just to see how much he was willing to admit. Now, seeing his physical condition, she wondered if he was responsible for anything he had done.

  Watching her aging parents walking up with the girls, Amanda brushed away a tear. Her father had always been the omnipotent, larger-than-life love of her life. Now, if what she’d heard was true, he was a monster bordering on the likes of Hitler. Holding the door open, her mother came in first and Amanda kissed her cheek. “I have to speak with you privately,” she whispered. Mary nodded, curious, wondering if her daughter was going to mention John’s appearance.

  Amanda’s phone beeped as John came through the door carrying a girl in each arm. “My granddad is the strongest man alive!” Becky called.

  “No, mine is!” Annie replied. The bickering and laughter continued and John and Mary sat down among the girls toys and started to play with them.

  “I have to take this call,” Amanda said, holding up her phone. She went into the kitchen and closed the door. “They just got here,” she said into the phone to Norm.

  “Don’t let them take the girls. I just got a video from Miranda Garrison who, it appears was never murdered after all and is in hiding. It implicates your father in the burns.”

  “But he swears it was to halt the dissemination of the virus,” Amanda cried into the phone.

  “It’s a lie,” Norm replied. “Don’t say anything to him, don’t question him or cross him. He’s out of his mind, Amanda. I’m on my way home right now.”

  “How am I supposed to keep the girls from leaving?”

  “Just tell them I want to say goodbye before they go. I’ll be home in an hour.” She said goodbye and hung up. Walking back out to the living room, her mother was reading a storybook to Annie and her father was on the floor playing Barbie with Becky.

  “Norm wants to see the girls before you leave, so why don’t you stay for dinner?” Amanda said. “I’m making spaghetti and meatballs, your favorite, Dad.” It was a lie, but she had a jar of sauce and frozen meatballs. She could pull something together. The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach grew. Could what Norm had said be true?

  Chapter 21

  After the excitement of the day, Laura, unable to sleep, opened the window shade just enough to see the stars as she lay in bed. The absence of artificial light contamination out in the desert provided an opportunity to view the splendor of the Milky Way unless the moon was full, when its light would obscure all but the brightest stars. Concentrating on the heavens helped Laura block out the mental noise of her life, the constant fear that the camp would burn foremost. There were other, more terrifying fears she refused to acknowledge but that would surface in her dreams. Her children getting sick and not having medical care available was one of the greatest and she’d wake up in a cold sweat as the possibility disrupted her sleep. Apparently, the family doctor was yet another of the benefits of living in civilization that she took for granted.

  The newcomers brought an element of chaos to the camp that Laura didn’t like. “It’s just further loss of control over our environment,” Carol said, recognizing her struggle. “Let’s adhere to our schedule tomorrow. Today was special, that’s all. It’ll be a rare occurrence.” But Laura was worried that it would happen more often as the conditions outside worsened. According to the newcomers, the government was on the verge of collapse, the military taking over Washington.

  Her hopes dashed of leaving for Yuma, she had a recurring fantasy that the camp was going to become a city. She pictured it in her head; the rows of trailers, having to dig wells and enlarge their septic system, find more solar panels.

  Murmuring coming from the boy’s room got her attention. It grew louder as Junior talked in his sleep during a frightening dream. It was loud enough to wake Mike and the two of them ran to the boy’s room. Laura saw Kelly and Steve in the living room, the light on, waiting to see if they should intervene.

  “He’s okay,” Mike called.

  “Hey buddy,” Laura said, kneeling at his bedside. “What’s going on?”

  Junior awoke, covered in sweat. “I had a dream,” he said calmly. Chris was lying on his side on the blow up mattress, watching the family drama unfold but not saying a word, figuring out the Junior was probably stressed out about the adventure they had the previous afternoon.

  “I’ll get him a washcloth,” Mike said, relieved, leaving the room for the bathroom.

  “Let’s get a dry shirt on,” Laura said. “Lift up your arms.” She pulled off Junior’s shirt as Mike came back with a wet cloth, handing it to Laura.

  “A bad man put a gun to grandpa’s head today and I blew his hand off with my gun,” Junior said as Laura wiped his face. Mike brought a t-shirt.

  “Put this on buddy, so you don’t get cold. That sounds like a bad dream, but it’s just a dream. You’re safe here with us.” Junior cackled.

  “No, Dad, it is not a dream. It really happened. We were at a red light and a bad man put his gun against grandpa’s head. The rule is I’m only to shoot if my life or the life of a loved one is in danger, and so I shot him. The bad man’s gun went off and the bullet shot grandpa’s Cadillac window. That’s why we have Chris’s dad’s car.”

  “I wondered where the Caddy went,” Mike said, trying to stay calm. Laura was beyond speech. “Just take it easy there, woman.”

  “Ah, I don’t think so. I’ll be right back.” Mike grabbed her hand but she pulled away, closing the door after her. Steve was waiting for the repercussion, looking sad as his daughter came to him.

  “Before you say anything, I’m sorry.”

  “Dad, this is all wrong. He’s just a young boy. He’s not as….” She was tempted to say he wasn’t as….what? As smart? Junior read and did math at his grade level in school. He had phenomenal reasoning skills and intuition. That he wasn’t as strong physically? He was as strong if not stronger than the other men in the camp were. He was more conscientious about his weight and exercise than most teens his age. And evidently, he was a better shot, too.

  “I know what you’re saying, honey,” Steve replied. “But Junior proved that he is part of our team. He pulls his own weight. If anything happened to us, he’d be able to defend himself. I’m really sorry about what happened. But I’d be dead if your son hadn’t followed my directions today.” Laura looked at Kelly and the old Kelly was staring back at her, the Kelly that she’d asked to share their life on the run.

  “I saw it, Laura. Junior was amazing.”

  She turned and went back to Junior’s room. “Come on buddy,” she said. “Let’s go out to the living room so you and grandpa can explain to me and your dad what happened today.”

  Junior crawled out of his bed, smiling. “Don’t be mad at grandpa,” he said. “I knew you’d be upset if you found out I blew someone’s hand off.”

  “Stop saying that, Junior,” Laura chided.

  “Well, it’s true,” Junior said, eyebrows up. They went out to the living room and for the next half hour, while Laura made Sleepy-time tea for everyone, the family listened to the story of the day Junior saved grandpa’s life.

  ***

  It was well after midnight by the time the newcomers had showered and were ready for bed. When dressed in their hand-me-down garb, the social-class differences of each member faded a little more. The fifth wheel was packed with an assortment of political ideology, starting with Victor Garrison, who was conservative to his constituents, but in private, a rabid right-wing fascist.

  Katherine didn’t normally think of her own political belie
fs, but in the past forty-eight hours, she decided that if her husband embraced it, she would fight it. They took over the master bedroom of the fifth wheel, Katherine biting her tongue as Victor paced back and forth, wringing his hands.

  Grace Baker was an anomaly in her southern community; a genteel, sweet-tea-drinking liberal. Widowed after her husband died in the Persian Gulf War, she raised Ed and his brother, Frank alone, supporting them working as a registered nurse. Isolation and depression had slowly robbed her of much of the joy she once got from life. When she’d told Alex her dream was of being with Ed and his friends, it was true, and she felt she was achieving that dream in spite of the nightmare they were living through.

  The young people had varying degrees of political beliefs, from Miranda’s socialism to Danny’s libertarianism.

  “I hope my son Frank is safe,” Grace suddenly confessed, her voice penetrating the eerie darkness. “I feel awful I haven’t thought of him before this.”

  “Mom, Frank is fine,” Ed answered from his bunk. “I’ll try to contact him in the morning.” Frank lived in Oregon, on the Canadian border. Although Ed didn’t bring it up then, he was considering Frank’s place as a destination if Arizona didn’t work out.

  “We might have to do it in secret,” Alex said. “I was told they don’t want the internet here, just in case.”

  “Go down the road then before you log on. I don’t want anything we do to piss anyone off,” Miranda said from the upper berth. “Excuse me, Mrs. Baker.”

  “Oh, no need to apologize. I’m a little pissed off right now myself. Why is this happening? Everything was going along so nicely.” She laughed out loud, an uncharacteristic, throaty guffaw. “Ha! Like I know anything.”