by Steven Bird
“What’s up?” I asked, running to his side.
“I underestimated my injury. You’re gonna have to help me,” he grunted from the pain of supporting Hanson on his good side.
“Sure thing,” I answered as I took one of Hanson’s arms and helped pull him off of Ronnie’s shoulder.
Hanson was unconscious and sweating profusely, but his breathing and pulse were strong.
With each of us holding him up with an arm under his, Ronnie held the ODF case in his free hand and gestured with his head, saying, “In there. Hurry.”
We dragged Hanson through a set of unlocked double doors and into the building. “That way,” Ronnie again instructed, gesturing down the hallway.
Reaching the bottom landing of a set of stairs that led up to the second floor, Ronnie grunted, “Up there.”
Upon reaching the second level of the building, we traveled halfway down the hallway before Ronnie said, “In there. This will do.”
Reaching out with my free hand, I turned the knob and opened the door to reveal a utility closet of some sort. “Are we just gonna leave him in here?” I asked.
“With the case,” Ronnie quickly replied. “They’ll find the MRAP any minute now, and the tracking device in the case will lead them here to him where he can begin to get the help he needs. They’ll assume that we, or whoever they think took the case are in here, and they’ll make a careful, deliberate entry into the building, clearing it as they go. That’ll take a little time, allowing us time to be long gone before they put together an idea of exactly what went down.”
As we carefully placed Hanson on the floor, Ronnie checked his vitals once more and whispered, “Sorry, bud. Good luck.”
Turning to me with a serious expression on his face, Ronnie said, “Now, let’s get the hell out of here while we still can. Go straight to the Tahoe and get her running. I’ll be right there.”
After I ran back down the stairs and out of the building, I climbed into the driver’s seat of the Tahoe, started the engine and shifted the transmission into gear. Holding the brake with the transmission in gear and the engine running, I waited nervously for Ronnie. “C’mon! C’mon!”
Seeing Ronnie round the corner of the building, he ran up to the passenger door and quickly climbed inside. I immediately noticed that he, too, had changed out of his uniform and was wearing a pair of khaki work pants, hiking boots, and a black nylon jacket.
“Where to?” I asked.
“Just get us the hell out of here,” he grumbled.
“Which way?” I asked again, not at all knowing what he had in mind.
“West!” he declared with a smile.
“That’s kind of vague,” I sarcastically replied.
“Yes, it is. Now, drive!”
“Whatever you say, Ronnie,” I acquiesced as I pressed the accelerator and drove away from the construction site.
What seemed like only a few minutes later, several helicopters flew overhead at rooftop height in the direction from which we had just come.
“Looks like they’re heading for the MRAP,” Ronnie noted. “I’m surprised it took them this long. Not only did they know the exact time we should have arrived, but that case also had a tracking device built in.”
“What did you do with Hanson?” I asked, remembering how he had stayed behind as I exited the building.
“I didn’t do anything with him!” Ronnie exclaimed. “What, do you think I offed him after you left?” Shaking his head, he said, “He’s still hanging in there. And like I said, I figured that would buy us some time while they track the case’s location and make an entry. We’ll be miles away by the time the building is cleared, and then Hanson will get the help he needs.”
“Won’t he be able to tell them everything? Who was in on it? They’ll know what we did!” I exclaimed.
“Yes,” he sighed. “He will, just as you or I would if we were in the same position. But I just couldn’t kill him. He’s an innocent. I had reconciled what was necessary with the others as they were, like I had explained, all in for the OWA, despite the evils that have been perpetrated on all of humanity. They were willing accessories to the guilty party. I can deal with that. But Hanson, he’s just like us, before we really knew what was going on. He’s just a guy who got caught up in it all.”
“Did you know him?” I asked.
“Enough,” Ronnie replied.
Opening the glove compartment, he handed me a pair of sunglasses and an old, well-worn Washington Nationals baseball team ball cap. “Facial recognition software,” he said as he, too, donned a pair of glasses and a tan cap with a trucking company’s logo embroidered on the front. “Keep your hat pulled down low. It will defeat facial recognition from cameras that are scanning from a downward angle. The glasses have a reflective coating on them that reflects NIR light, which will help from other angles.”
“What the heck is NIR light?” I asked.
“Near Infrared,” he explained. “It’s light we can’t see with our naked eyes, but when it’s bounced off our glasses, it distorts the view of a camera, adding one more layer to our anti-facial recognition defense strategy. It won’t be a big deal once we get out of and away from the city, but you know as well as I do, there’s almost nowhere around here where you aren’t being watched.
Impressed with his foresight, I nodded and said, “I’m glad you’ve put so much thought into this.”
“I don’t take committing treason lightly,” he chuckled.
“So…,” I asked with hesitation. “What’s next in your plan?”
“Next?” he quipped. “We’ve got one more stop to make before trying to get out of town.”
“What’s that?” I asked, seeking a little more information than his vague statements were providing me.
“It’s an impromptu stop. It wasn’t really planned, but I had it in the back of my mind in the event one of us was injured,” he explained. “An old friend of mine is handy with gunshot wounds. He was a Navy hospital corpsman… on the green side.”
Seeing that I didn’t exactly follow, he explained, “Fleet Marine Force. He was a Navy corpsman assigned to a Marine unit as a combat medic. This will be like putting a Band-Aid on a scratch for him. He’s seen it all.”
“Good,” I replied. “Are you sure he’s home? It is the middle of the day and all.”
“He called off sick today,” Ronnie said with a smile. “He felt like he was coming down with something.”
“Gotcha,” I grinned, again relieved that Ronnie had put so much thought into things.
After carefully driving through town, we began to reach the outer edges of the still-populated D.C. area, beyond which was a vast expanse of uncertainty that neither Ronnie or myself had much experience with, as we’d spent virtually all of our time since the collapse inside the safe confines of global government.
“Just up ahead,” he grunted as the pain was beginning to take its toll on him. “Take a right. Here. This one.”
Turning onto a street in a suburban neighborhood, Ronnie looked at his notes and said, “It’s the third street down. Yeah, that’s it. Wilshire Circle.”
As we approached Wilshire Circle, he said, “Stop here.”
I looked around the upper-middle-class neighborhood for signs of activity. All of the homes appeared to still be occupied. “They seem to be doing okay around here,” I commented.
“Yeah, well, the people living here now aren’t necessarily the people who lived here before,” he explained. “My buddy is one of the few original occupants. He owns his place. The rest are loyalists who were given the homes of those who died or fled, as part of their compensation packages. Let’s just say, he’s not too fond of his new neighbors. He’s a kindred spirit of both you and me.”
“Who are we here to see?” I asked.
“You’ll meet him soon enough. I’d rather you not have any beans to spill if our visit is stopped before we arrive.”
Simply nodding in reply, both Ronnie and I exited the
vehicle with our CX91 stocks folded, making them compact and concealable by our jackets.
With the backpack slung over his good shoulder, Ronnie mumbled, “Don’t look around too much. Let’s just fake a conversation while we walk.”
Chuckling, I said, “It’s funny how it’s virtually impossible not to look suspicious when you’re trying not to look suspicious.”
“You’re looking through the eyes of a seasoned cop. Things like that are more obvious to you than most,” he replied. “There,” he pointed. “The white house.”
“That’s where he lives?” I asked.
“Of course not,” he chided. “What kind of fool would meet two fugitives wanted for treason in his own home? No, this place is supposed to be currently unassigned. My guy just happens to be the ‘community manager’ for the ODA’s housing authority. To the average onlooker, it’ll look like he’s merely showing the place to a prospective resident.”
As we approached the front door, Ronnie said, “We’ll just knock and wait to be let in like everything is normal and routine.”
Stepping up onto the porch, Ronnie reached out to knock on the door as it began to open before his knuckles even touched the glass. “It’s good to see you, old friend,” a voice said from within. “Come on in.”
Once inside, a man who appeared to be of Native American descent quickly closed the door behind us. “Let me introduce you two gentlemen,” Ronnie announced. “Hey You, this is Him. Him, this is Hey You. Any questions?”
Ronnie could see my confusion, and said, “I’d rather you two not know each other’s details. I’ve seen one too many people crack under… um… interrogation, who never intended to speak. The less each of you know, the better.”
Nodding that I understood, I followed the two men down the stairs and into the basement, where Ronnie’s friend had an array of first aid supplies spread out on a folding table. “Who’s hit?” the man asked.
“Me,” Ronnie replied as he removed his jacket, revealing a blood-stained shirt underneath. “I think it went all the way through. It hurts like hell, though.”
“Lucky you,” the man chuckled. Looking me in the eye, he then said, “Hey You, why don’t you go back upstairs and keep an eye out. This may take a while, and we don’t want any surprises.”
“Of course, Him. I’d be glad to,” I said with a nod as I turned and worked my way out of the basement and up the stairs.
Once I reached the first floor, I took a seat on a chair by a window with a good view of the street. I unfolded the stock on my CX91, locking it into place, and positioned the weapon across my lap. Pulling the curtains back just enough to get a good field of view, I sat back and tried my best to calm my nerves as the events of the previous day and up until that moment flooded my mind.
I understood why Ronnie was being so secretive, and why he wasn’t letting me in on such details as the name of the man who was helping us, but I couldn’t help but worry if I was being used as a patsy. It would be easy for them to slip out while I kept watch, only to have the ODF’s OSS surround the house, taking me out before I even knew what was going on. Any feeble attempt to defend myself against what would undoubtedly be an overwhelming force would give them the perfect cover to get away.
I didn’t want to think that way, but I had to face facts. The guys that we took out in the MRAP didn’t see themselves as disposable, either. They thought their mission was one thing, but in reality, they were pawns in Ronnie’s game. Just because I believed in Ronnie’s game, didn’t mean I wasn’t a pawn as well.
After what seemed like an hour of paranoid thought and worry, I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. I gripped my gun, preparing for the notification that my services were no longer needed, only to have Ronnie and his friend appear, both smiling and pleased by how things downstairs had gone.
“Are you about ready to get the hell out of here?” Ronnie asked.
“Absolutely,” I replied.
The other man handed Ronnie a set of keys, and said, “It’s a blue Toyota pickup truck with a matching fiberglass canopy on the back. You’ll find it two blocks over. The tank is full, and there are four six-gallon gas cans in the back, as well as other provisions I thought you may find useful. I’ll take care of the Tahoe. Did you leave anything important in it?”
Thinking it over for a brief moment, Ronnie answered, “Nothing we need, but you may want to scrub it.”
“I’ll take care of it,” his friend assured him.
“Thanks,” Ronnie said, reaching out to shake the man’s hand.
Disregarding the handshake, the man leaned in and embraced Ronnie, giving him a hug. “Take care, old friend,” he said. “What you’re doing… it’s… it’s much bigger than anything any of us have done. I… I just don’t have the words.”
As they released each other, Ronnie looked him in the eye and said, “Thanks. And thanks for everything. You’re a big part of this, too. If it all works out, whether I make it or not, well, you’ll know you were key to making it happen.”
The man then turned to me and said, “Take good care of Ronnie. He’ll push himself too hard if you let him. He needs to heal up. We’re all counting on you. Even people who don’t realize it just yet need you to succeed.”
“I will,” I said as my paranoid fears began to wash away.
Ronnie patted his friend on the shoulder, then turned and walked out the front door, saying, “Let’s get going,” as I nodded to his friend and dutifully followed along behind.
Chapter Five
Walking down the sidewalk of the abnormally well-kept suburban neighborhood, I couldn’t help but think of the alternate universes that existed, now that the OWA had seized control of the governments of the world. If you’re loyal to the cause, and they continue to find your loyalty of use, you’ll live in a nice neighborhood surrounded by other loyalists. You’ll eat well, receive medical treatment, and most importantly, you’ll receive your regular dosage of the lifesaving medication needed to fight off the virus they themselves inflicted upon the world.
In the world’s other reality, if you’re either deemed to be unimportant to the OWA, or you stand against them and what they have done, you live in what is now a hell on Earth. Survivors outside of the comfortable, strictly controlled domain of the OWA face death if exposed to the virus, as well as a daily struggle against hunger, extreme poverty, and a lawless world where brutality is, more often than not, the only law they know.
The world… that other reality, was the one I was about to voluntarily step into. I had turned my back on the comfort and security I’d had in the D.C. area, as well as a career that had served me well and promised to keep the gravy train rolling on along. Like Ronnie, though, once I knew the truth, I just couldn’t continue living a lie. My false enthusiasm and my contempt for the beast that was the OWA would’ve eventually betrayed me.
One day my coworkers would hear that I was no longer there and had been replaced. More than likely, not one of them would bat an eye at my disappearance. It was a comfortable prison without bars. It was a charade I couldn’t keep up forever, and I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I did. No, that dangerous, threat-filled world I was about to step into at least offered me one thing... redemption. I had served the beast, but if I could help bring it down, maybe I could respect myself again someday.
“There it is,” Ronnie said, interrupting my internal rambling.
Looking ahead, I saw the blue Toyota pickup truck that Ronnie’s friend had described. It was a mid-nineties extended cab with four-wheel drive. It had dark tinted windows, which would come in handy in trying to avoid being noticed, a bumper mounted winch and all-terrain tires.
Good choice, I thought, knowing that what lay ahead was all a mystery and that the additional capabilities it offered compared to the average car, may come in handy in ways we may not yet foresee.
Turning and tossing the keys, Ronnie said, “Here, Joe. You drive. My shoulder is killing me, and the pain meds he gave me ar
e starting to go to my head.”
“Sure thing,” I replied as I reached out and caught the keys.
Reaching the truck, I unlocked the driver’s side door with the key as Ronnie patiently waited on the passenger side. Once inside, I leaned over and unlocked his door because this particular model was economically equipped, with no power locks or power windows. It was powered by the base-model four-cylinder engine mated with a five-speed manual transmission. It was so bare-bones simple it didn’t even have air conditioning.
“At least it’s an extended cab,” Ronnie said as he reclined the passenger seat. “I can barely fit in a regular cab Toyota of this vintage. Not comfortably, anyway.”
As I pushed in the clutch and turned the key, the 2.7L four-cylinder engine came to life, quickly idling down and purring like a kitten. “Which way?” I asked.
“West!” Ronnie again proclaimed as he pulled his hat down over his eyes as if he was settling in for a nap.
Exhaling, I conceded, “Okay, then.” With that, I released the clutch, and we began the next phase of our journey.
I opted to take the smaller roads, avoiding interstate highways, knowing that it would be much easier to duck on and off the road as needed on the more rural routes than a freeway with limited onramps and exits.
After a while, all was going well as I drove down Lee Highway in Fairfax County. Hearing Ronnie snort and cough himself awake, I asked, “How are you holding up over there?”
“Ah, man. How long was I out?”
“About a half an hour,” I replied. “I’ve seen a few drones flying overhead, but that’s to be expected.”
“Where are we?” he asked.
Pointing up ahead, I said, “We’re on Lee Highway in Fairfax County, heading toward Willow Springs.”
Raising his seat back, he looked around and said, “We’re nearing the edge of what can be best described as the civilized area. Another half hour down the road and we’ll no longer be in the OWA’s preferred real-estate. With most of the resources being devoted to the OWA’s strongholds, the rest are left to fend for themselves.”
