Divided We Fall

by Trent Reedy

  Then two Apache gunship helicopters dove down out of the sky from Idaho. One fired its cannons danger-close to the Humvees. The other tore up the ground right at the edge of the road, providing suppressive fire to keep the Fed soldiers down. Kemp must have come through, probably calling the governor himself to get this air support.

  “We’ll go to our doctors,” I said, pressing the accelerator again.

  As the Apaches kept firing, keeping the Fed soldiers distracted, I drove ahead. “Hang in there, Mom. We’re almost home. Just like I promised.” I could see the little dirt road that let civilians bypass the roadblocks to leave Idaho. We’d use it to get back in.

  Then a Fed gun Hummer rolled up to cut us off. The border was completely blocked.

  “Oh shit.” I looked over at Mom. She wasn’t crying, wasn’t moving. I looked back at the road. The Fed had piled up that big dirt berm on the highway across from my company’s wire obstacle, probably to use as cover in case of a firefight. It was the only way home.

  “Everybody get in a seat and strap yourselves in! Now!” I screamed, pressing the gas pedal all the way to the floor. “Hold on to something!” The Beast’s engine roared. JoBell scrambled into the backseat.

  “Danny, no, don’t!” Becca shouted. She must have figured out what I was planning to do. “That stuff only works in movies.”

  “We’re about to find out!” I kept the Beast right on course for the dirt berm. When we reached it, I was knocked back into my seat as we shot up the six-foot, sloped barrier and then into the air over the anti-vehicle ditch.

  Out the busted windshield, all I could see was sky. The engine roared louder as the wheels were suddenly free of the road. I fought hard to keep hold of the steering wheel so the tires would be straight when we landed. I let off the gas and put on the brakes instead.

  We hit the wire obstacle hard. Two tires exploded at once. A green steel picket burst up through the floorboards, barely missing Mom’s legs. I heard metal scraping on metal as the wire wrapped itself around the axles and driveshaft, then the other tires burst. My seat belt dug into my chest as the Beast ground to a sickening, crunching halt. Steam rolled out from under the hood as the engine shut down, the temperature gauge spiking. Something must have hit the radiator. But we were in Idaho territory, and Mom could get help.

  I had to push hard against the handle to open my dented door. “Medic!” I screamed. “I need a medic now! Call a medevac chopper!” I high-stepped through the barbed concertina wire as fast as I could to the other side of the truck. I opened Mom’s door and reached across her to unbuckle her seat belt. She felt cold and looked so pale.

  “Come on, Mom. Hang in there. You’re fine. You’re fine. Where the hell’s that damned medic?” I shouted to the soldiers, who weren’t running fast enough. Mom wasn’t saying anything. I couldn’t tell if she was breathing or not.

  I lifted my mother into my arms and carried her, stumbling a couple times in the wire. Finally, two soldiers took her from me, setting her down on the grass beside the road, cutting away her shirt and getting a dressing on the wound. A third medic pulled me back and started wrapping my left hand. JoBell appeared beside me and slid her arm around my back.

  I winced as the medic finished bandaging me up. He waved his hand in front of my face to try to get my attention. “I don’t have enough gauze to wrap this right. It should stop the bleeding for now, but this is going to need stitches, maybe surgery.”

  I pushed him aside and stepped toward Mom. The medics were trying CPR, but her eyes … They were dull and not focused on anything. She didn’t move, didn’t breathe.

  She was dead. My mother, Kelly Elizabeth Wright, was dead.

  I promised I would always look out for her. Promised to bring her home safely. That’s all I wanted to do, bring her home. I clenched my fists until blood began to soak through the bandage on my wounded hand.

  My mother was dead. The damned Fed had ruined everything.

  “They killed her,” I whispered.

  One medic shook his head. The other looked up at me. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “They killed her,” I said louder. I rushed to JoBell and grabbed the AR15.

  “Danny, no!” JoBell shouted.

  Sweeney and Cal were still back by my busted-up truck, yelling for me to stop, but I didn’t listen. I ran up beside the wire obstacle, closer and closer to the border, clenching my left fist at an angle above my head, trying to stop the blood that was already soaking through parts of my white bandage. I held the rifle in my right hand, the stock supported under my armpit, as I came to within a dozen feet of the state line. The Feds over there must have been scared of the Apaches coming back. They stayed behind whatever cover they could find. “You killed my mother!” I shouted across the border. “Why the hell can’t you leave us alone!”

  I opened fire. One, two, three rounds at a cement barricade. Soldiers ducked behind it. Another Fed shot at me from behind a tree. I gave him two rounds, but my shot went wide.

  “Come out and fight, cowards!” I shot again and again, most of the Feds staying covered, my adrenaline keeping me moving as a few rounds struck the ground around me. “You want war? We will give you a war!”

  Finally, the trigger brought only a dull click as my rifle ran out of ammunition. Idaho Humvees rolled up next to me and soldiers rushed out to stop me. I dropped to the ground, sobbing, feeling as empty as my weapon.

  —• As governor, I did approve PFC Daniel Wright’s leave, as he said he needed to settle some things at home since his mother was trapped in Spokane. I did not know about, and I certainly did not authorize, his mission into Washington. The death of Staff Sergeant Kirklin is a tragedy, but it was the result of self-defense, as Wright had committed no crime except for trying to help his mother return to her home when Kirklin attempted to arrest him. Specialist Barlon, the turret gunner that Wright was forced to wound, is in good condition and expected to make a full recovery. The air support assets I deployed to protect Wright were ordered to provide nonlethal cover fire, and I’m pleased to report no Fed soldiers were hurt.

  Unfortunately, federal troops did wound Wright. They did kill Wright’s mother. His father was killed in action in Afghanistan years ago. Now this seventeen-year-old soldier is without parents. I offer my condolences to Private Wright and to the family of Staff Sergeant Kirklin, and my apologies to Specialist Barlon. We are faced with tragedy upon tragedy as a result of the federal blockade. •—

  —• More bad news from the New York Stock Exchange today as investors who had been encouraged by recent negotiations between Idaho and the Fed are retreating in light of recent shootings in Spokane, Washington, and on Idaho’s borders with Washington and Nevada. Some markets declined as much as •—

  —• The president today said that he does not accept Governor Montaine’s explanation of the recent events surrounding Private First Class Wright, and demands that the young soldier stand trial for wounding Specialist Barlon and for the death of Staff Sergeant Kirklin. The president said, quote, “In order to honor Specialist Barlon as well as Staff Sergeant Kirklin’s wife and two children, Wright must be held accountable for the shooting. Until then, there can be little hope for progress in negotiations between the state of Idaho and the federal government.”

  NBC News has also learned that Daniel Wright has been placed on special bereavement leave and reduced two ranks to private, the lowest rank in the Army. Governor Montaine insists this disciplinary action is not related to the shooting in Spokane, but instead results from Private Wright applying for leave under false pretenses. •—

  It was a warm day for late October. A light breeze rustled the bare limbs of the trees overhead, but the sky above was the deepest blue I could ever remember. The world all around was bright and fresh.

  And completely wrong.

  “… beloved wife and mother, Kelly Wright devoted herself …” Chaplain Carmichael droned on beside my mother’s grave. JoBell, sitting to my right, squeezed my hand
. Becca, on my left, pressed her hand to my shoulder, over the new suit she and JoBell had bought for me.

  “Lord, we thank You for sustaining us through these difficult times, and we ask You to please help us avoid open conflict,” the Chaplain continued. “We need to have faith that this will remain, just a training exercise.”

  “Amen,” said the small crowd gathered at the graveside.

  “Danny.” It was Mom’s voice. At first I thought it was coming from the coffin, but then I figured I must be hearing things. “Danny, it hurts,” the voice came again.

  I turned around and saw Mom standing a few feet away. She stumbled toward me, holding her bleeding chest, and I ran to her.

  “She’s dead,” JoBell said. “You can’t change that.”

  “Yes I can! There’s still time!”

  Mom fell to the ground. I kneeled, and from the cargo pocket of my suit I pulled the field dressing, unrolling it and pressing it to Mom’s wound. “Can someone help me!? She’s lost a lot of blood. Can someone start an IV?”

  The boots of that Fed medic stepped up to me. “It’s too late,” he said.

  I looked up at him, but it wasn’t the medic after all. It was the staff sergeant I’d killed in Spokane. Blood leaked from his chest and his mangled stump of a hand. He stood next to the Humvee gunner I’d shot during the chase.

  When I looked back at my mother, the redheaded girl from Boise lay dead on the ground next to her.

  I jumped up and backed away from the girl, her blood soaking through the legs of my pants. My mom was gone. At the grave, her silver casket slowly descended into the earth.

  “I’m sorry, Danny.” Becca stood next to me in her rodeo jeans, her shiny “Cowgirl Up” belt buckle shining right below her belly button. She shivered a little in a purple lacy bra and slid her arms around me, her fingers tracing my cheek. We kissed softly at first, but then with more hunger. When she stepped back, her arms and chest were covered in my mother’s blood. “I’m so sorry… .”

  I sat up in bed quickly. Each night, the nightmare was a little different, but it always involved one last phantom chance to save my mother. It had never involved kissing Becca before, though. I was glad I wasn’t one of those people who spent a lot of time trying to figure out the meaning of dreams. Though as for that, if dream Becca wanted to make out with me, I would rather have that and skip the horrible funeral.

  We’d held the real funeral a couple days after Mom died. After she was shot. After those Fed bastards killed her. After I killed her, trying to get her back.

  I’d lived at Sweeney’s house in the two weeks since. There were too many memories where me and Mom had lived. Eventually, I’d have to go back there and clean the place out so I could put it up for sale — not that anyone was buying houses in Idaho. Still, now that nothing got into the state except for stuff the ICC smuggled in, good secondhand items sold well, and I could probably make some money selling some furniture, her dishes, and some of her clothes.

  I groaned a little as I swung my feet out of bed. I never could manage to get back to sleep after these nightmares. Whenever this happened, I had to go out and take a walk around the lake. I’d been taking a lot of walks lately. My head ached a little after last night’s drinks. I pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, still a challenge with my bandaged left hand, but less and less so as time went on and my injury healed.

  I picked up my new .45 and stared at the gun, squeezing the grip. My friends and I were always taught that guns were dangerous, that they had to be respected, that they were absolutely not toys. Still, guns had seemed so cool, especially after I’d first enlisted. Whenever I held the weight and cold metal of a weapon in my hands, I felt a certain excitement, maybe power.

  I stood up and strapped my belt and holster around my waist. I hated guns now, but I never went anywhere without my .45. I needed it for protection.

  My shooting of that sergeant had made the news. So had my mom’s death. Someone had even put a video online of me carrying her out of the Beast, her lifeless arms dangling as I screamed for help. That video had only been viewed twenty or thirty thousand times. The real viral hit was the video of me holding my bleeding hand up and shooting at the Feds. Someone was even making T-shirts and little flags and stuff with the image of my crooked fist wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage, the red-and-white tail hanging down.

  Privately, the governor was absolutely furious at me for my border run and for killing Kirklin. He flat-out told me that he wanted to turn me over to the Fed or prosecute me himself, but that he couldn’t “afford the political liability at this critical time.” So publicly he still protected me. It was lucky for me then that he survived his recall vote. While the majority of those who voted in the special election wanted to remove the governor from office, that majority still wasn’t more than the number who had elected him in the first place. Montaine treated it like a huge victory.

  The air was cool and crisp on that bright November morning. Well, I’d slept late — it was more of a beautiful early afternoon. I tried to focus on the trail, on the rocks and trees and the cold clear water of the lake. On anything but all that had happened. But waking or sleeping, I couldn’t shake the memories of my mother screaming and bleeding, of the way she’d lain so still on the ground after she’d been shot. The way she’d been so peaceful in her casket. My eyes stung and I wiped away hot tears.

  Later, I was walking a low path that ran along the base of a cliff, a few feet from the lake. When I saw someone coming toward me down the slope on the path ahead, I instinctively reached for my weapon.

  “Hey,” JoBell called down to me.

  I relaxed, sat on a boulder, and looked out at the water. I was halfway around the lake. She had walked far to find me.

  “Care if I join you?” she said as she sat down next to me.

  I took out a small cigar, clumsily clipping the end, working the cutter with my bad hand, and lighting up. The cigar had been a present from Cal, one of only a handful that he’d smuggled on our stupid so-called rescue run. It cost about eight bucks in Washington, but due to the short supply of tobacco, probably sold for nearly thirty here in the sanction zone. I owed him. I owed all my friends, big.

  “How you doing?” JoBell finally said.

  “Shitty,” I said. “Same as always.”

  A crane or some other large bird flapped its huge wings and took off from where it had been swimming on the lake. Its wings beat the surface for a while, cutting a line in the smooth cold glass, and then it soared off. A cool breeze blew in off the water, sending a shiver through me despite my coat.

  JoBell slid her hand up my back and rubbed my neck. I closed my eyes and let the warmth from her fingers flow through me in waves. We’d been together so long that we didn’t always have to talk much to say a lot.

  “You were right,” I whispered.

  “What?”

  “You were right,” I said louder. I covered my eyes with my hand. “I’m so sorry. I should have listened to you, JoBell. If I hadn’t gone to Washington to get Mom. If I hadn’t …” My throat tightened up. “Maybe she’d still … Should’a listened to you. You were right. Shouldn’t even have enlisted. Now both my mom and dad are dead, both killed because of the Fed. I got no family. I’m alone.”

  “Shh.” JoBell gently touched my cheek and turned me to face her. “Don’t talk like that. You’re not alone. You have me. You have Cal and Becca and Eric.” She wiped away my tears. “And don’t apologize to me. That’s why I came out here today, Danny. I wanted to say that I’m sorry.”

  I shook my head. “No, you see, I’ve figured —”

  “Let me finish,” she said in her firm no-argument voice. She kissed my cheek and pressed her face to mine. “I’ve been so hard on you, Danny.” She shook her head. “You’ve been wrapped up in this thing that’s so much bigger than either of us. So much has happened that you couldn’t avoid, and all I’ve done is tell you to run away from it, as if it were your fault.” She kissed me on
the lips. “I’m so sorry, Danny. I’ve been wrong. And now with everything that’s happened, I can’t go to Seattle. I’m staying right here. Maybe I’ll head down to Boise State after everything calms down. If everything calms down.”

  Since Mom’s death, I’d felt a very real, physical cold weight somewhere in my core. Now, hearing this from JoBell, I noticed a little warmth there. I felt like thanking her, almost like celebrating, but I knew that I had to say what was right. “JoBell, you can’t give up your dream.”

  “Like I said, this is bigger than either of us. During the chase, I was firing in self-defense, but the Fed won’t see it that way. I’d probably be arrested if I went anywhere near Seattle.”

  Was that the only reason she was giving up all her plans and dreams? Because my botched rescue had ruined them? I’d passed my problems on to her, made her a part of all of this. I looked down and kicked a rock off the trail.

  JoBell leaned down so I’d have to look at her. “I want to stay, Danny. I want to be here with you.”

  Her arms slid around my waist. We kissed, long and deep and warm, like we had before I’d proposed and everything got so weird between us.

  Like we had when Mom was still alive. The memory of my mother came on so fast that the tears started before I could even think about trying to stop them. “I’ll never … never see her again,” I gasped. “Never talk to her ever again.”

  JoBell rested her forehead on mine. “I know,” she whispered. “I know. I miss her too. I loved her too.”

  We stayed like that for a long time.

  * * *

  A while later, as we walked hand in hand along the last part of my lap around the lake, JoBell stopped me. “I have to warn you. I tried to talk them out of it, but they wouldn’t listen. Sweeney and Cal think the best way to help you right now is to have a little party tonight.”

  I sighed. “Well, maybe they’re right. Maybe it will help me get my mind off all the horrible things that have happened.”