The Remaining: Trust: A Novella

by D. J. Molles

  The Remaining: Trust

  A Novella

  D.J. Molles

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  ONE

  The biggest decision of Abe Darabie’s life came on a day that started warm and ended cool. October in Coronado was a trick of nature. During the day, the sun baked the sands along the coast but never seemed to have much effect on the cold Pacific. Then the sun would set, and the winds would gust along the beach, and the sand would begin to feel as cold as moondust.

  The fact that they’d shipped them all to Naval Base Coronado told Abe all he needed to know about what was in store for them. He felt out of place in his ACUs. A stranger in a strange land. When he’d first arrived, he’d passed one of the SEAL instructors, a stout man wearing his dark cadre sweatshirt. The instructor had smiled and nodded, like he’d known something Abe didn’t.

  Just before dawn on the day of that decision, when the sun was still just a red smudge being birthed on the eastern horizon, the sixty candidates for Project Hometown gathered in a classroom that smelled of humid must and salty sea air. White walls and white linoleum that had seen better days. Fluorescent lighting that seemed overly bright.

  At the front of the class, a serious-looking man in khakis and a black polo handed out a single piece of paper to each of them as they entered. Written on it was a solid block of text, and at the bottom, a line marked SIGNATURE. When everyone had found their seats and settled into expectant silence, the man in the black polo read them the entire page in a clear, commanding voice.

  Then he interpreted it for them.

  “This is essentially a gag order.” He held it up. “If you sign this document, you are pledging to the United States Government, under every penalty you can possibly imagine, that you will never talk about Project Hometown. You won’t write about it. You won’t blog about it. You won’t e-mail people or post it on whatever social networking site you’re into. And you certainly won’t use it to pick up chicks in a bar.”

  There was an uncomfortable laugh.

  “This is a lifetime order,” the man in the black polo said. “That means from the moment you sign this piece of paper until the day you die. No communication whatsoever with anyone not directly involved in Project Hometown, about anything we do, any of the training you’re about to receive, or anything about the mission itself.” The man tapped the piece of paper with his finger. “Does everybody understand what this document is asking them to promise?”

  A bunch of yes sirs.

  The man nodded. “Okay. Now fold it up and put it in your pocket.”

  The classroom filled with the sounds of rustling papers and Velcro pocket flaps being opened and closed. The sixty of them did as they were told, stowing the paper and stealing confused and sometimes worried glances at each other.

  The man in the black polo set the paper facedown on a table in front of him. “You men already know why you’re here, and you know what you’re capable of. So I’ll spare you the ‘hand-picked, best-of-the-best, cream-of-the-crop’ bullshit and get right down to brass tacks.” He planted his hands on his hips. “Twenty-four hours from now, there’s gonna be a bus in the parking lot outside this building. You’re either gonna be on the bus or you’re gonna be in this classroom. Which one is completely and totally up to you. If you are in this classroom tomorrow morning, then you’ll sign that paper I just read to you and find out what this whole Project Hometown thing is about. If you are on the bus, you’ll go back to whatever you were doing before, with our blessing and understanding that the life we’re asking you to live is not for everyone.”

  The man’s eyes traveled the classroom, his face becoming very sober. “There’s a reason we’re giving you twenty-four hours to make this decision. You’ve got a chance to make history here, to be a part of something that’s never been done before. To be an integral piece of something that we hope will preserve the American way of life. But you’ll never get any credit for doing it, and your future is a life of hardship and solitude and secrecy. And in the end there is a chance it will consume your entire life, and be that way for a very, very long time. I wish I could explain what I mean by that, but I can’t.” He shook his head slowly. “I do not envy the position you now find yourselves in, but it’s just the way this one goes. It’s not a decision to be made lightly, and I would advise that you make it by yourselves, in the solitude of your individual dorm rooms, and not discussed by committee. This is a decision you can only make for yourselves.”

  And then the man in the black polo shirt left the classroom.

  They all filed out a moment later, back to their rooms. As they walked, they looked around at each other, catching eye contact and throwing it back with tiny shrugs and motions of doubt. Sequestered in their rooms, they spent the remainder of their time thinking and stewing. The rooms were small and the air conditioning felt overabundant. Meals were delivered to their rooms. Lunch was turkey sandwiches. Dinner, a dubious rendition of chicken Marsala.

  Abe slept for a while. He did some pushups, then sit-ups with his feet stuffed beneath the corner of the bed. He sat, propped against the plain headboard, for a while and he considered everything he could possibly consider. But in the end, the closeness of the walls became a hindrance to him. He could not focus. He could not remember the things he had just thought.

  At 0200 hours he left his room, feeling tweakish with the desire to be free. The cool October wind came off the Pacific, carrying with it the smell of all things ocean. He dipped back into his room long enough to grab a sweatshirt, and then he ran. Not from anything or toward anything. He just ran. It was not a jog, but a long, protracted sprint of nervous energy. He ran to get his heart rate up, to clear his mind in the thundering silence of his pulse, to cleanse himself with lactic acid.

  He found himself on the beach, the shifting sands cool under his feet where they had been hot before. Down the coast, several hundred yards from him, he could see the strings of green lights bobbing in the surf, each a glow stick attached to a SEAL recruit pushing his way through BUD/S. When the wind kicked up, it carried the sounds of their misery to him.

  He turned and ran the other way.

  North, with the beach to his left.

  He didn’t know how long he ran. He went until his feet and legs ached. Until each breath didn’t carry enough oxygen. Until his shoes were so full of sand that they abraded the skin off the balls of his feet. Then he stopped and he planted his hands on his hips and bent over, sucking the salty air out of the ocean wind.

  It took him a moment to realize he was not alone.

  He straightened up, still breathing hard, and he looked to his right where he could see the dark shape of someone standing there, feet planted where the wet sand met the dry. Abe recognized him from the classroom earlier. He was a little taller than Abe and leaner in the build, as taller men often are. He had intense, searching eyes that belied his otherwise relaxed manner of carrying himself. Abe had noticed him earlier simply for that reason. In a sea of type-A, aggressive per
sonalities, it was rare to come across someone who didn’t puff his chest—literally or figuratively. A man who was comfortable enough with his abilities that he felt no need to show them to the world. And he could have passed himself off as any other profession but a soldier.

  Except for the eyes. They gave him away.

  The man quirked an eyebrow and spoke in a vaguely southern accent. “You lookin’ for me?”

  Abe shook his head. “No. Just running.”

  “’Cause you ran right to me.”

  Abe just shook his head again, smiling as he sensed a bit of latent humor.

  The man looked out at the black ocean. “For a second there I thought I was in trouble for leaving my room. Then I recognized you from the classroom. So I figured you’re just another poor sap trying to figure out what the fuck to do with the rest of his life.”

  Abe snorted, then spat in the sand. “Yeah, that’s about the size of it.”

  The man extended his hand with a small smile. “Lee Harden, by the way.”

  Abe took the man’s hand in his sweaty palm and shook it once. “Abe Darabie. Nice to meet you.” Abe dabbed a bit of sweat from his forehead and turned back in the direction he had come from. “Well, I’ll let you get back to thinking…”

  “What do you think this is all about?” the man named Lee asked.

  Abe hesitated, worked his jaw. “Yeah, I don’t think we’re supposed to talk about it.”

  Lee shrugged. “They said they strongly discouraged it. Didn’t say we couldn’t.”

  Abe considered it for a while. Would a discussion with a man he didn’t know really have an effect on his decision? For that matter, had he actually reached a decision? Did he already know what he was going to do?

  Maybe.

  Abe stretched his back a bit. “Fuck, man…I have no idea.”

  Lee laughed. “Yeah. Me neither. Honestly, I can’t really make heads or tails out of what that guy was talking about.”

  “Hunting domestic terrorists?” Abe suggested.

  Lee bobbled his head, not looking convinced. “What’s up with the ‘life of solitude and secrecy’?”

  Abe made a raspberry noise. “What’s up with the damn brain test they gave us?”

  Lee shook his head. “That was some weird shit.”

  Then they stood in silence for a while, contemplating what was ahead of them, and the silence was not strained but almost familial. The man named Lee heaved a big sigh and stepped backward to avoid an encroaching wave. Abe let the water touch his shoes, waited for it to soak through his socks. Felt the cold sting of it on his toes. Then he stepped back as well and joined Lee in the dry sand.

  Abe looked at the other man with some curiosity. “You figured out what you’re gonna do?”

  Lee smiled grimly. “Yeah. I guess I have.”

  * * *

  The cold, electronic sound of his watch alarm brought Abe out of his sleep. One of those small noises that snuck its way into dreams and memories and implanted itself there, where it grew and grew out of the background, until your dream self could only focus on that one noise. And then you were awake.

  He found himself twisted under cold covers. He always seemed to be tangled up these days. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept peacefully. When he did sleep it was interrupted by twitches and jumps.

  His breath fogged the air in front of him. Memories from that long-ago and far-away beach frosted in the chill of the Colorado air, and they shattered and broke apart against his stark reality. They had power, but not for such frivolous things as heat. And certainly not before the sun was on the solar panels. The generators could be used in an emergency, but they sucked up valuable fuel that was needed elsewhere. He’d been told that reopening pipelines and oil refineries was a top priority. But these days everything seemed to be a “top priority,” depending on whom you asked.

  He rolled out of his bed, turned on a battery-powered lamp. The light sprang out but fell dead against the walls of the room. Textured walls with homogenous paintings of nonoffensive subject matter hanging on them. He wasn’t sure why he’d kept them on the walls. Perhaps to fool himself into thinking this was still a hotel room, and hotel rooms were temporary. This was all temporary. Things would get better.

  Maybe that’s what he was trying to make himself believe.

  He walked across the small room to the even smaller bathroom, taking the lamp with him. As he took his morning constitutional piss, he inspected himself in the mirror very deliberately. Very critically. It seemed that every day brought more change to him. The temple of his body slowly collapsing in on itself. Ribs were standing out. Shoulders were sharp. Cheeks hollow.

  He scratched at his jet-black beard. Smoothed it out.

  Shook himself off, sneering at his image in the mirror.

  He had a toothbrush. He had a box of baking soda. He had his two jugs of personal use water. There was a sink in the bathroom, but just like he hadn’t flushed the toilet, neither would he run the sink. It was not his day to partake in the marvel of running water. He was on a Tuesday/Saturday rotation.

  He took a big mouthful of water from one of his gallon jugs. He swallowed a bit, held the rest in his mouth, and stuck his toothbrush in to wet it. Then he dabbed the toothbrush into the baking soda and brushed away. Toothpaste could still be had, but it came with a price these days.

  He dressed in his usual attire—MultiCam pants, brown thermal, brown fleece cap.

  He strapped into his rifle. One in the chamber. Safety on.

  He supposed it wasn’t truly necessary, as far into the Green Zone as they were. But he preferred it. The security protocols were not perfect and sometimes some starving wretch got through and chased someone down. And there were the regular people to think about as well. Not all of them were of what one might call “upstanding moral character.”

  He made his way to mess. It was just beginning to get noisy. He had his ration card in his pocket—good for his daily allotment of approximately 1,800 calories—but still he bypassed the food that had been prepared for everyone at HQ and grabbed a Styrofoam cup of coffee. Black. No sugar. He knew he should have been hungry, but what he felt was just some greasy emptiness in the pit of himself. He chose to kill it with hot caffeine.

  Self-punishment, perhaps.

  Well deserved, perhaps.

  He made his way to the command center, cup of coffee warming his hand, rifle nudging him in the back as he walked. The command center was one of the large conference rooms in the Hampton Inn and Suites in Greeley, Colorado. The hotel had been converted into their headquarters, and most of the command staff had taken up residence in the rooms, just as Abe had. They were situated on W. 29th Street, which had several other hotels within a block of each other. These had all been repurposed as barracks of sorts. And when they had been filled, they had taken over the Greeley Mall about a quarter mile down the road. In about a fourth of the entire mall, soldiers now slept in the walkways between shops. The rest of the mall had been converted into a sort of “air wing,” and the wide-open parking lot was now cluttered with helicopters and refueling stations.

  Their little straight section of W. 29th Street was sometimes referred to as FOB Hampton if one were feeling snarky, but more commonly just The Strip, and it was guarded, just like any military installation. Only military went in and out of that section or had access to anything along it, including the nearby warehouses where all the food and supplies were stored. The civilians in the outlying suburban areas—sometimes packed two or three families to a house—were provided ration cards, though their allotted calories were much less than was afforded to the soldiers. Still, between the rations and some creative scavenging, you could avoid starvation.

  The command center was dark, save for a few screens that glowed blue on the faces of a few tired soldiers. One screen showed a map of the Greeley Green Zone. The other showed a map of the entire Green Zone, which stretched out into Fort Morgan, Colorado, and then along the I-76 corridor and
into Nebraska, where it stopped at the eastern edge of Lexington.

  Abe sipped his coffee, felt it burn in his empty stomach.

  Captain Lucas Wright appeared beside him, holding his own cup of coffee and rubbing his face. The Coordinator for what had once been the State of New York, Lucas was an odd-looking little redheaded man, but he was one of the best operators Abe had ever met.

  Lucas eyed his superior up and down. Knew the look on Abe’s face and gave a wry smile. “Burning couch day?”

  Abe cracked a smile back. It was a reference to one of Abe’s favorite comic strips. A guy named Dilbert, aptly describing how “motivation” feels when it so tragically fails to motivate you. An observation that, rather than feeling “light and energetic,” failed motivation felt more like being pinned under a burning couch. It had since entered into the lexicon of Abe and Lucas’s personal communications. A way to express their misery without de-motivating the others around them. A secret language of sorts.

  “Yeah.” Abe nodded tiredly. “Burning couch day.”

  Lucas drummed his fingers on his Styrofoam cup. “Well. Let’s get to it, then.”

  The two of them crossed to the far corner of the command center, where an area had been sectioned off with cubicle walls. Inside were a long table, several chairs, a projector, a small white screen, and a computer. This was the area specifically reserved for Abe and his Coordinators. They went in and closed the door behind them. It was limited privacy, but they made do.

  The cubicle walls were cluttered with images. A collage that paid homage to the call signs of all the Coordinators inside the Greeley Green Zone. All their call signs were references to the states they were assigned to. Abe’s state was Colorado, and his call sign was “Rocky.” For him, there was a picture of Stallone, sweaty and black-eyed after a bout with Apollo Creed. Lucas’s call sign was “Yankee,” and for him there was a New York Yankees bumper sticker taken from a sporting goods store. Captain Tyler Bowden, currently on a supply run to his assigned state of North Dakota, had been given the call sign of “Fargo.” His picture was from the movie poster.