by A. R. Shaw
Invasion was phase 3 in an elaborate five-step world domination plan for jihad. First they implemented the H5N1 virus by weaponizing it via several self-sacrificing subjects; once virulent with the deadly strain, they boarded airplanes with circulating air systems, thus making each passenger also contagious. The unsuspecting couriers then returned to their colonies to die and, in doing so, achieved genocide by spreading the virus exponentially.
Second, they waited and let the hand of death take its toll. While manipulating their own statistics to reflect a higher mortality rate than they suffered was the easiest of deceptions, the sacrifice of thousands of their own for jihad prevailed as imperative. However they committed the deed, it was essential that they use hate in any form to wipe out most of humankind—no offense was too vile, no taboo ruled out, nothing considered sacred.
Since the infiltration took place early on, Europe fell easily and was destroyed from within. Now, all that remained of the United States would soon be dominated as well. Jihad was a long-term plan. With the first steps implemented, they were gleeful with the results so far—America, as it had been, was no more.
Dutch had been on his second tour in Iraq when an improvised explosive device took out his lower left leg, right below the knee. That was it for him. Throughout his recovery and remarkable transition to prosthetic use, he had tried to convince his supervisor that he was in even better shape than before. Rules were rules, however, and section 313 of the army regulations had clearly put him in the discharge column. After a long recovery, he’d packed up his gear and headed back to the States.
After making his way to his father’s abandoned ranch south of Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, he threw himself into farming and ranching with every shred of intensity he had used in war. He had no other real options. He’d never married, and his parents had passed only one year before his injury. He was happy it had happened this way; he wasn’t sure if his mother could have taken it. His father, on the other hand, would have expected him to stand until the end.
His brother Clive lived in California. He’d called Dutch twice when the pandemic hit hard. The first call was to say that his wife had the virus, and the next call brought the news that their daughter had passed right after her. Dutch was not surprised to hear him say he was going to take his own life right after he hung up the phone, and he did not try to stop Clive. He couldn’t blame him. What was there left to live for? He said only, “I love you, brother,” before the call ended.
Dutch had heard this same sad story all over the country, and he waited to catch the inevitable virus. He welcomed its presence; he even went out to a couple of local bars—after nearly killing himself working on the ranch—in anticipation of contracting the damned thing, but it just never took hold in him. He woke up with the sniffles once and thought, Okay, here it comes, but in a few days they cleared up. In time he found himself, well . . . disappointed.
Dutch helped his neighbors and took care of their livestock when he could. Then they began to die off, one by one, until one day he realized he was the only one driving through town. He went around to the deceased farmers’ spreads and let loose their livestock: cattle, horses, donkeys, pigs, sheep, goats, and chickens. He just opened the gates and watched them roam away, tentative at first but free to graze along with the mule deer and roaming elk herds. No one else was coming to care for them, so he figured it was his duty to let them go rather than to let them starve in their stables; at least they stood a chance at adapting to the wild side of life, rather than die outright of starvation.
Then he started listening in on radio transmissions for any traffic coming or going. He hadn’t heard much until a few months ago. The first intelligent noise he heard was a Morse code transmission on the high-frequency band coming from the northeastern area of Washington state. At first he thought it was an automatic repeater beacon someone had never taken the time to turn off. Dutch was a bit rusty on translation, and it took him a while, but when he finally figured out the dits and dahs, it came as a shock to find there were more survivors out there.
He wanted to make contact, but didn’t trust anyone out there just yet. He waited, leaving the option open for later. Then Dutch began overhearing transmissions of a different kind, and that set his mind reeling. He wasn’t as thrilled about this new discovery. It was a voice transmission in a language he’d only run into in faraway war-torn lands where bombs lay hidden and even women and children were suspect because they, too, might kill you.
After a few days of increased activity Dutch’s mind began connecting the dots. Could this whole thing have been a planned attack? There were no other inferences to make. The conspiracy theorists had been right all along. At first it had been only a suspicion that the virus was weaponized; now he was sure those suspicions were founded on truth.
Dutch rarely spoke aloud in his lone residence unless it was to his two dogs. When the reality sunk in about what the overheard transmissions meant, he said to the empty room, “You couldn’t fight us man to man . . . you goddamn cowards.”
After monitoring the Morse-encrypted transmissions for a few more weeks, Dutch realized that the worst of his fears had come true: an invasion of the United States was in progress. They had already sent several teams ahead to secure major cities. Hell, they were already here during the virus phase, just lying in wait and hiding in the shadows. Dutch knew they must have had some kind of vaccine available to them, or they wouldn’t take the risk.
Then, after a few more weeks, the enemy moved north of him by dark of night. They were traveling the interstate highways in long, raucous convoys and clearing communities of survivors. He mounted a reconnaissance strategy to scope them out on horseback before making plans to bypass them and warn the northerners. He couldn’t risk them intercepting a radio transmission from him that would expose his own location. Traveling by horseback wouldn’t be too daunting; he only had to go from Saint Maries to Coeur d’Alene.
During a reconnaissance outing on a dark, cold, spring night, Dutch had heard the ramping up of hostile chatter and then witnessed the death blow as a survivor—another one who couldn’t live with the intruders’ ways—begged for his life; eventually the man put down his weapon and submitted to his own demise by a brutal beating not fit for even the worst of criminals.
That was the same night that Dutch had encountered the redheaded girl dressed in a black burka. She fled through the darkened forest toward him like a scared deer, nearly revealing their position; when he caught her she fought bitterly. He saw the terror and the bruising, and contemplated breaking her neck without delay to put her out of her misery; doing so would have been merciful. Instead, when she became limp in his grasp and opened her frightened light-green eyes to the horrific scene, as if trying to wake from a nightmare, he pulled her backward. Using the night to blanket their retreat, he kept her from uttering a sound until they were miles away.
When he removed his hand from her mouth, she didn’t speak—not even when he asked her name. She only held onto his torso with clenched fists, gradually becoming limper as he guided her away under the cover of darkness.
Dutch didn’t sleep that evening; instead, he packed up his campsite. He loaded his belongings, and then the girl—as though she were one of his possessions. Then, on horseback, they made their way back to his ranch in Saint Maries. She was asleep when they arrived at his cabin just before dawn.
He had pulled her limp, frail body down from Gus, the same lineback horse who was now in the lead of those pulling the wagon. After laying her down in the cabin, the dogs Elsa and Frank began to investigate the stranger; they nudged their wet noses into the flaming red hair that fell over her sleeping face until Dutch gave the hand signal that never failed to correct the well-trained, ex-military Belgian shepherds. Instead of investigating, they guarded her while Dutch took care of the outside chores.
Shortly after dawn the girl had opened her eyes through the sleepy veil and immediately retreated up and away from the canines until her bac
k met the wall. She was terrified of the pair’s gleaming eyes, even though their tongues lolled out of their mouths, forming ridiculous smiles for such supposedly fearsome creatures.
Dutch couldn’t help himself, and he chuckled as both dogs eyed her curious behavior. As she spun in his direction, he caught her wild look —one that meant to murder him in cold blood if possible.
“Hey now,” Dutch said in reproach while he signaled with one hand for the shepherds to lie down. As they moved away, so did the girl’s deadly stare, and Dutch watched as her attention fought to seek which was the greater threat in her view.
“No one’s going to hurt you.” He paused, and then added, “Unless you try to kill me; then, forget it.”
She refocused on him, not uttering a word. Then he watched as the inevitable happened: her eyes followed the line of his tall frame down the right side of his leg where instead of a boot, as expected, she saw the metal prosthesis. It never bothered him, and he’d gotten used to the occasional stares. He’d never been one to beg for sympathy, so he seldom commented on it. He wasn’t angry about it either, as counselors would have had him believe. He wanted none of the bullshit that went along with being injured. To Dutch, they won if he gave them that satisfaction, so he had ignored the conclusion he knew her mind would eventually come to.
“Do your part, don’t steal from me, and we’ll get along fine. I’m leaving here, and I can use your help. If you don’t want to go, you’re welcome to stay here. I’m warning you, though: the cabin won’t be safe for long with the invaders around. The decision is yours to make. You probably want time to think about it, but we don’t have the luxury of time. I’m headed northwest to a camp with other people; I’ll bring you with me. It’ll be safer in numbers against these guys. You can come, if you help get us there. Tell me now. We leave at nightfall.”
The dogs Elsa and Frank had followed the conversation and turned their heads in unison for the girl’s answer. After a moment’s contemplation, she simply nodded.
Dutch remembered the sullen expression she had given him that day. That was weeks ago now, and they’d finally made it into Cascade, where the Morse code message beckoned them. He’d escorted both of them safely out of danger and kept them fed. He thought she at least owed him a little faith by now, but she still didn’t show any sign of trusting him—not even enough to tell him her name. And now, he figured, he’d never learn it because they were about to be eaten by ravenous wild dogs.
Of course, he wasn’t about to let that happen easily; at the very least, he’d make sure they choked on every bit of him.
Chapter 2 Required Reading
Macy pulled her feet out of her hiking boots and leaned back in the office chair. She propped her feet, which were covered in knitted socks, upon the metal table with loud, purposeful thunks. Through the pinned-back tent door, the drip, drip of spring rain sounded. With a heavy sigh, she turned to the next chapter of the radio manual that Rick had given her to read. She tried to engross herself into the meandering writings of someone she considered a nerdish madman.
As Macy read, the most peculiar kind of static came over the receiver. She listened for a minute, decided it was nothing more than interference of some kind, then reached over to turn the potentiometer knob down so that she could concentrate on the infuriating manual. The material was an indecipherable foreign language to her; she reread the final paragraph of the chapter three times, and still she failed to grasp Ohm’s law and his definition formula for “current equals voltage divided by resistance” and “why volts matter over watts,” or who would even care anymore, but Rick was relentless. She knew he wanted to keep up the standards from the old world, but this . . . this was ridiculous. “Ugh!” Macy heaved the ARRL Technician Radio manual to the floor, startling Sheriff who had just begun his afternoon nap.
“Why? Why do we need to keep up with the old rules?” she asked Sheriff, who seemed mildly disgruntled. The dog’s ears perked up while he tilted his head at her question, as if to say, Hell if I know. Don’t throw things at me, woman.
Macy’s chair squeaked as she bent down and sank her fingers into his scruff, scratching him behind his ear. “You adjusted to this new life much better than the rest of us, didn’t you, boy?”
She didn’t think Sheriff cared much about her inquiry; he appeared to be more interested in her getting to the spot just behind and to the left of his ear. She watched as he lowered his eyelids over those deep-brown, soulful eyes as he dipped into his comfort zone.
When she was about to break the moment and retrieve the discarded manual, Rick strolled into the communications tent.
He looked at the manual on the ground, picked it up, and handed it to her. “How’s it going? Any new contacts?” he asked.
As if!
“No. Same as usual. There’s no one out there, Rick. It’s only us. I don’t even know why we try listening,” Macy lamented.
He play-punched her in the shoulder. “Someday there might be. On the other hand, someday, someone else might think to listen in and find out that more people are out there. You never know, ye of little faith and hope. What’s up with you today, anyway? You’re usually upbeat, but I see you’re somewhat down. What is it, Mace?”
She stared at him. Darn, I’m cornered. Rick had always annoyed Macy to no end, but he treated her in a younger sister kind of way. She didn’t like that he could “see” how she felt. She’d forgotten whom she was complaining to, and now she was faced with having to “share” her feelings with him. What could be worse?
“Nothing, I’m fine.” she lied, hoping to divert Rick from her melancholy. She avoided his gaze as she closed the manual and put on her hiking boots for the trek back to Graham’s camp.
Rick scratched his bearded chin while evaluating her, and Macy could still feel his eyes on her. “Okay, if you don’t want to talk about it now, that’s your business. I’m here if you want to share, though. Okay?”
She blinked up at him and nodded her chin. There was a lot she was holding inside of herself. She couldn’t help it. She didn’t want to burden Graham—or Rick, for that matter—with her problems. Right now, her sister was far from the person she could “talk” to.
Macy often felt close to tears. The long winter was over; spring brought flowers and hope, but it rained far too much to be happy for long. Tala would understand, but she was busy dealing with fear over her unborn child, so Macy didn’t want to confide in her either. As it was, they were all trying to make Tala’s life easier now because she physically did too much to keep them all going. They were all trying to pave the way for a trouble-free delivery as if their future hinged on a healthy and safe birth.
Macy finished tying her boots and put on her green slicker. “Okay. Thanks, Rick,” she said. She felt Sheriff bump into her calf as he ran to catch up to her in the doorway when he realized they were leaving.
In the drizzling rain outside the tent, she waved good-bye to Dalton’s boys, Hunter and Kade, who were dutifully moving firewood from one location to another. The little brother stacked logs onto the bigger brother’s outstretched arms. Hunter partially waved with his overburdened load and Kade called after her, “Bye, Macy!”
She smiled to herself as she set out, heading toward the crossing at Skagit River and closing the gap between this world and her own. She made the trip twice a week to take her shift at the communications tent to learn what she could from Rick . . . and to get away from Graham’s camp. She did it to have a sense of normalcy and escape from something she could not name.
As she neared the rushing river she realized that, had she been with someone on her walk besides Sheriff, she wouldn’t be able to keep up a conversation over the resounding roar of the water. Since spring had started and the snowpack had begun to melt, not only had the river gone from a trickle to a powerful torrent but the earth itself mixed with water and became a thick, sludgy mud. Past residents knew this time of year better as “mud season.”
As the rain came down in a
rapid cadence, Macy stopped a minute and zipped up her jacket so that her holstered gun would not become soaked. As Sheriff stopped, Macy noticed that the thick brown paste covered his paws.
When they hit the bridge, Sheriff hesitated until Macy was halfway across. She turned back, patted her thigh, and called to him to come to her.
“You’re really a big sissy, aren’t you?” she asked him as he scampered across, ran ahead of her, and continued to the other side of the river. Once she had traversed the wooden planks, her boots sank into the moist earth, and it took effort not to slide in the slick, messy mire before she gained footing on the rockier ground.
They headed into the forest, where the raindrops had a harder time reaching them through the evergreen canopy. Instead of her feet sinking into the mud, they fell on a bedding of soft needles that emitted a fresh pine aroma with each step. This section was the part of the trip Macy liked the best. She felt more at peace hidden within the forest, almost as if she were in her own mind entirely and left to figure out her worries in silent contemplation. As she often did, she lingered under the veil on her path home as she sifted and sorted through all the confusing events of both past and present. Here was where she had spent most of her time in the days following Ennis’s death because she felt him here the most. Graham had found her here in the woods on more than one occasion. He knew she needed her space, and had only asked that she let him know before she left the camp.
Macy respected Graham’s request and didn’t stay out too long because she didn’t want him to be concerned about her. And even though her pace slowed, she too soon came to the light that broke at the end of her journey. Macy and Sheriff emerged just as the rain subsided and the crack of a hammer drove a nail home.
Chapter 3 To Fix Them
Sheriff ran ahead to greet Bang as they entered the clearing at Graham’s camp. Bang stood near the ladder, waiting patiently to hand Graham the next cedar shake, ready for its place among the others on the roof of the new partition. Graham held a nail between his lips and mouthed, “Hello” to Macy when he saw her.
