Feral Recruit (Calm Act Book 5)

by Ginger Booth

  “He worked hard to build a coalition to break those orders. He got backing from all the suburbs. That they were willing to feed us survivors, take people in. Proved out his quarantines to keep Ebola and the other diseases from spreading. MacLaren’s girlfriend Dee built a media empire to back him, too. It wasn’t easy, Ava.”

  “Some think it was too easy. Something prevented Cullen from doing it, from saving us. Something that MacLaren had the power to get past, and Cullen didn’t.”

  “Just public opinion, I think,” Guzman differed. “Cullen wanted to, but it was against the rules. He didn’t know how to get the burbs to back him. MacLaren and Dee got the whole region unified behind Project Reunion. That’s all.”

  “That’s the story,” Ava agreed. “But the U.S. is dead. And it’s still like somebody, or something, is making everybody play by a set of rules. I want to find that power.”

  “For revenge? That won’t bring back our dead.”

  “No,” she agreed. No, I want to join them. “Yeah, I’m sure, Guzman. You picked the right gang rat. I want to join the Army.”

  Guzman nodded slowly. He’d have to talk Margolis around. “Well, congratulations. Let’s go home. It’s freezing.”

  8

  Interesting fact: At this time, five Hudson ‘lead’ Rescos commanded lower-ranked Rescos, as well as Cocos. The best known was Lt. Colonel Emmett MacLaren, who led Project Reunion, the half-year campaign to resettle survivors outside the Apple Zone.

  “Colonel MacLaren? Yafuel Guzman,” the ville chief greeted the Savior of New York City over the phone. Guzman’s home office had rare voice-over-Internet. “Sorry to call so late. Could you spare a few minutes?”

  “Guzman! Good to hear from you,” Emmett MacLaren returned, from his current bedroom in Newark. “Let me say good night to Dee.” Dee Baker was his common-law wife now, Guzman heard. The line switched for perhaps twenty seconds, then Emmett was back. “What’s up?”

  “This Army recruit thing,” Guzman replied. “Margolis overruled my top pick.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Any way around that?”

  “Look, Guzman, Ash Margolis is your Resco now.”

  Lt. Colonel Ash Margolis, like Emmett MacLaren, was a ‘lead’ Resco. Margolis was even first in line on the Hudson succession, analogous to a vice president or lieutenant governor. As such, he outranked MacLaren. The two had ruled the Apple Core together after Project Reunion, to get Project Rebuild off to a strong start. But the Governor didn’t want two of his five lead Rescos on the same problem for long, while urban North Jersey languished unresolved. Emmett MacLaren moved on in September. Two months later, the apples weren’t yet reconciled to losing their savior, whether Jersey needed him or not.

  “Margolis is good,” Emmett continued. “Right next door to you, Lower East Side. Go talk to him.”

  “I talked. He didn’t listen.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Alright, he listened. But I have my reasons for this recruit pick.”

  “Margolis didn’t like your reasons?”

  “Margolis said she’s too small,” Guzman admitted. “But she fits the guidelines. I mean, she needs to gain weight. They all do.”

  “How small?”

  “She’s five-one, ninety pounds. But listen, Emmett, she’s tough as nails, hell of a fighter. Used to be queen bee of her gang. And she’s smart. Went to Brooklyn Tech. She talks, tells me stuff, tries to make the ville work for the kids coming in from the gangs. Registered voter, attends all the town meetings, active in the community. Practically runs her salvage crew. She stood up at the DTM the other night to get her supervisor cashiered. Endangering one of the crew. Sent her out on a citizen committee, to investigate the supervisor hoarding.”

  “High-functioning gang rat,” Emmett acknowledged.

  “Exactly. That’s why I want her with the first recruits. Emmett, you know how hard it is to get the feral kids to talk to us. The other kids on my list, sure, I can send them to boot camp. But when they flunk out and come home? They’ll just say, ‘It sucked.’ Panic would tell me exactly what’s wrong and how to fix it. She wouldn’t wait til she flunked out, either.”

  “Sounds useful in the ville. Why not keep her?”

  “I want her to debug the boot camp thing. Because I think it’s her best hope for a future.”

  “Not if she flunks,” Emmett said. “About that too-small thing. Margolis is right. The new training plan calls for recruits to hump a fifty pound ruck nine miles.”

  “Humpa huh?”

  “Sorry. Army jargon. They put a fifty-pound rucksack on her, then a timed forced march. Hills, no sleep, short rations, after a marathon of other tests. It’s brutal for a man my size. Like selection for Army Ranger, or Navy Seal. We pushed back. Not a reasonable baseline. Most serving troops couldn’t pass that test. Anyway. Bottom line, a girl that size can’t hump a fifty pound rucksack. She’ll fail. She can break her heart trying. But you can’t argue physics. She’s too small.”

  Guzman got mulish. “You said you owed me, Emmett. You said I had good insight into the feral kids. That was important. You valued my work trying to bring them in, build them a new life.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “We’ve got two sets of rules. One says she qualifies. The other says she can’t win.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m asking.”

  “You’re asking me to overrule another Resco. And, he’s right.”

  “I’m trying to solve the feral kid problem. You know we’ve got to find lives for these teenagers. The boot camp thing is key. So I’m asking.”

  Emmett sighed. “Alright. I owe you. You know, Guzman, I’m in Jersey now. You need to work with Ash Margolis. He’s excellent. You’re excellent. So excel together. You know?”

  “I know.”

  “Name?”

  “Ava Panic. No, wait – Pawic is her registered name.”

  “Found her. OK, she’s got a waiver. I hope you’re right, Guzman.”

  “Thank you, colonel.”

  “No. You’re right. The kids need better options. I’ve got them in North Jersey, too. Cameron’s swimming in them on Long Island. That boot camp needs to work for us.”

  “Panic told me something the other day,” Guzman added thoughtfully. “The insurrectionist groups are recruiting in the gangs, Emmett.”

  “Yup.” After a pause, he added, “She mention which ones?”

  “White Rule recruited her gang. That’s where she parted ways from the gang leader, and came into the ville.”

  “Guess we should have expected that,” Emmett mused. “Good to know. Anything else?”

  “I’m kicking myself for not realizing this before. But most of these gangs are racist. She says on the street, kids all clung to their own kind. She’s white, so she can’t bring in the other colors. Her old gang was white supremacists. Already signed on to White Rule. Not good news.”

  “Hell,” Emmett agreed. He thought a moment, then added, “You’re right. Why didn’t we realize that? Because these street kids won’t talk to us. That’s key.”

  “I’ll try to develop others. But like I said, Panic is special. I owe her, Emmett.”

  “Understood. Hey, Guzman? Write up some of these things you’ve learned from her. Pass us a memo.”

  “Will do.”

  “See you for Thanksgiving? Two years in a row.”

  Guzman was starving last year, fresh out of delousing, the day he met MacLaren. That was the beginning of the end of the Starve. Margolis and MacLaren would host another feast this year for the Apple leadership. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “We’ve come a long way, Guzman. Remember that.”

  Ava never doubted the Army would accept her if she deigned to apply. It was the speed of the thing that caught her off guard. First thing Monday, while she donned her coveralls for work, she received a text message.

  Boot camp wasn’t supposed to start until after New Year’s. But as an underweight candidat
e, she was to report no later than the Monday after Thanksgiving, seven days away, for fitness camp. Optionally, she was invited to report on Wednesday evening, and enjoy Thanksgiving dinner with the Army. Please RSVP.

  She gazed around her crew, likewise pulling on protective gear, mouth hanging open, calculating. Wednesday evening, Monday morning, doesn’t make any difference for the crew. Four day weekend. She pursed her lips, eyes gradually settling on Dido, the female of the couple on her crew.

  “Why are you staring at me, Panic?” Dido asked in discomfort. Her doormat of a boyfriend glanced up briefly, then back to tying his steel-toed boots. As gang rats went, those two were fairly human.

  “Thinking,” Ava replied. “You two. Ricochet. Need to talk.” She drew them out of earshot from the rest and explained her spur-of-the-moment decision. The couple could take over watching the youngest nine. Ricochet was the best they had for training and riding herd on the gang visitors. In theory Smuts, and the other two girls on the crew, belligerent Cavey and quiet Marina, were legal adults who reported to Das. Das was supposed to supervise all of them, after all. Cavey never listened to Ava, anyway. So rather than having anyone take over Ava’s role, the three of them could share the two crucial parts, and leave the rest to Das. That should work.

  “And Ricochet, remember. The goal isn’t to drive them off by morning break. You want them to stay, come back tomorrow. Right?”

  “Whatever.”

  Fair enough. It was his job now. He’d do it however he liked. Next Ava drew on her little translator to explain the situation to Das. He was effusive in his praise. Or something. Ava eyed the little translator in misgiving as she supplied about one word of English for every twenty Das uttered.

  This isn’t my problem anymore, Ava reminded herself.

  She was to repeat this mantra several times an hour for the next few days. She found it surprisingly liberating. Especially biting her tongue while Ricochet drove off yet another promising gang rat. If this crew wasn’t good for day laborers without her around, they’d be added somewhere else. Dido, with her faithful doormat assisting, did pretty well managing the halflings. Das seemed intent on improving his English pronunciation.

  Ava had nothing left to do but strip pipes on her own behalf. She racked up some nice productivity bonuses that way. In retrospect, she wondered how long Dido and Tyrone and Ricochet had quietly earned more money than she did, while she was minding everyone else’s business. There was a probably a lesson in that.

  Over Monday lunch, she checked with the Soho Village office about what she needed to do with regard to vacating her apartment. It was simple. She could leave her key with the building super on the ground floor, and let him know when she planned to be back. If the building didn’t have storage, she could stow a few boxes at the community center.

  Before supper, she went home to preview her packing problem. On reflection, most of the stuff might as well stay with the apartment. Without an apartment, she had no use for sheets and towels and solar-charged reading lamps. The furniture came with the place.

  She sorted the rest of her worldly possessions into two piles, keep or donate. The keep pile, mostly wardrobe and weapons, would still fit in the duffel she brought when she left the gang. The rest she could drop off at a clothes shop on the way to supper.

  That was it. She’d discharged her obligations to her life in Soho Ville. When she left the gang, she imagined it caused an earthquake in its social order, and probably devastated Frosty, whether he showed it or not. No, he wasn’t made of stone. It would have shown. And she grimaced to imagine the cat fights as girls jostled for position as new queen bee. And into Frosty’s bed. She wondered how long he waited for that.

  She surprised herself by crying at that thought. She hadn’t cried since the day she left him. When she snuffled to a stop, she belatedly RSVP’d to the Army that she would report Wednesday afternoon. Why not? Easier to establish her role in the pecking order if she showed up early.

  If she stayed over the weekend, she’d go out to say good-bye to Frosty in person. Better to just go.

  She tore his card in half along the fold. She tucked his note into her keeper pile. On the back of the glittering snowman cover, she wrote,

  Frosty,

  I join the Army on Wednesday. Miss you too. Wish me luck.

  Love, Panic

  She tucked the note into her waist pack. Maybe she’d spot someone who would bring it to him. On second thought, he must have joined the meshnet by now, the phone-to-phone text message communications system used throughout the Apple. If anyone could figure out what name he was under, she could.

  Ava swallowed nervously, then set her chin and strode into the library. She hadn’t faced Samantha since LaTisha was carried away. She almost walked by without looking, but she wasn’t such a coward as that. She turned back to the librarian’s desk, and nodded to Samantha stiffly.

  The old woman looked terrible, eyes reddened, deflated. She looked ten years older than she had last week, and she’d already looked a hundred to Ava’s eyes. Her skin hung in wrinkled folds from meatless face bones and jaw, eyes cloudy and broken across the crack of thick bi-focal glasses, wispy white hair too thin to hide the age-spotted scalp.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Samantha.” Ava dropped her eyes, and started to turn away.

  “LaTisha took her last oxycontin pill this morning,” Samantha told Ava gently. That was how they usually carried out the death sentence. Put the condemned in a cell with a bottle of oxycontin, to finish it at their own pace.

  Ava sucked in her lower lip. She didn’t want to hear the gory details of how LaTisha died. Samantha reached out, as though to pat Ava’s arm, but stopped short. She patted the air next to Ava’s arm instead. Ava flinched.

  Samantha continued, “LaTisha was spacing the pills out, you see, to make her life last as long as possible. She must have caught a poisoned one. The poor little sparrow.”

  Ava stepped away from the creepy air-patting.

  “Everyone matters, sweetie,” Samantha said tremulously. “I hope you see that. I know what she did was wrong. She wasn’t perfect. None of us are. But we have to forgive ourselves. Don’t you see? We’re all so very precious.”

  “I don’t have to forgive myself, Samantha,” Ava denied. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Well, I doubt that.”

  Ava shot her a glare, and strode over to a study carrel. She wouldn’t seek Samantha’s help tonight. Somewhere on the Internet, she must be able to access a list of every meshnet id issued in Soho Ville, and the person’s name. Not the voter rolls, but the resident rolls. Found it.

  Drat. Would Frosty be on Soho Ville’s registry? Or Midtown? Maybe even Chelsea. White Supreme was based in Chelsea. But Chelsea’s leader, a middle-aged businessman, left to live with a cousin in Massachusetts. So Chelsea never formed an official ville. Yes, there was a small Chelsea registry. And Midtown’s list was huge. She combined the three into a spreadsheet, and started hunting.

  The lists provided registered name, meshnet id, last known address, and ville of residence. She doubted even she had her true address listed. She checked – nope. She tried Frosty’s real name, Cade Snowdon, in all the permutations she could think of. She tried a few addresses on their block, but no joy there either. She tried the address of the dojo, their headquarters – bingo! Not Frosty, but Maz, Frosty’s right-hand man.

  She texted Maz, asking for Frosty’s meshnet id. Maz responded, but refused. When pressed, he agreed to forward a message. Ava wasn’t sure she believed him. Maz could be protective to a fault. But it was getting late, and she didn’t see a better option. So she typed in her note verbatim and sent it, just as she’d written on the Christmas card.

  Rec’d. Good luck.

  Ava tried to argue herself to leave it at that. But she succumbed to the itching desire to know.

  Is Frosty OK? RU?

  Maz’s answer surprised her.

  @FNUNCHAKU

  Frosty�
�s meshnet id. He liked nunchucks, a karate weapon made of two cylinders connected by a chain. They were showy and intimidating, and rare because they used to be illegal in New York. Ava learned to use nunchucks back in Texas, before they moved here. Nunchaku was the Japanese.

  TY, Maz. Take care. I care.

  He didn’t respond. Maz didn’t like getting between Frosty and Panic.

  She sat staring at her phone. She should have waited. Now each time the phone vibrated, she’d lurch to check and see if it was Frosty.

  She blew out long and hard, and tried to center herself. Turning back to the library computer, she wiped her files and Internet history, and logged out. Mission accomplished. Only two more good-byes. Well, maybe more.

  On the way out, she stood before Samantha’s desk again. “Good-bye, Samantha. I’m leaving on Wednesday to join the Army. Thank you for your help.”

  “Oh, how wonderful,” Samantha said, tears rolling down her cheeks. “I’m so happy for you.” But she looked even more miserable than before. Ava let the ancient woman hug her, though it made her skin crawl.

  Tuesday night Ava took care of an errand she should have seen to long ago. If only climbing to the 16th floor was the worst of it. The stairwell still reeked of urine, and old smoke from the fires. At least the bodies were gone. It was better than the last time.

  She laughed at herself softly when she realized the apartment door was locked. Her memory was blank regarding the key – whether she tried to keep it, lost it, nothing. She tried to kick the door open, and failed the first kick. For the second kick, she tried the wall next to the door frame instead. She had practice breaking through drywall lately. Another few punches, fist balled into the sleeve of her jacket, got her hand through to unlock the door from the inside.

  She was emotionally prepared for the place to be ransacked. But not for it to be intact. A thick layer of dust and soot coated everything. To spare her rechargeable flashlight, she located candle and matches, right where she’d left them. The artificial Christmas tree still stood by the slider to the balcony. They hadn’t put presents under the tree. Ebola arrived early in December.