by Ryan King
"Leave? What are you talking about?"
"He came in a week ago and asked for a couple of weeks off," explained Luke. "Said he wanted to go clear his head. I think he even mentioned camping or something like that. Asked to sign out one of the big three-wheeled bicycles and I signed the authorization."
Nathan's mind was swirling. "Why in the hell would he go camping at a time like this?"
Luke shrugged. "I can think of worse ways to unwind. David is a good officer, but he's a little intense. I think this will be good for him."
"But how do you know that's what he's doing?" asked Nathan. "He could be anywhere."
"Where else would he be?" asked Luke.
Nathan thought about his last conversation with David. "Someplace near the action, where he could do something noble and stupid and get himself killed."
"Sir, I came to the conclusion a while ago that nothing was going to kill David Taylor except David Taylor. I wouldn't worry."
Nathan left Luke's office, worried.
Chapter 11 - Nothing Personal
Harold Buchanan and the rest of the New Harvest delegation arrived in Fulton in the evening and were taken to what they were told was the President's House. They were given comfortable rooms in the spacious mansion and the soldiers they brought with them were allowed to stand guard outside their rooms. They dined together in one of the rooms on delicious roasted quail and potatoes served to them on fine china.
"Doesn't seem like they're hurting," said Butch Matthews around a mouthful of food.
"This is all show," said Doctor Brien. "Trying to make us think they aren't suffering food shortages like we are."
"At least they're treating us civilly," said Harold.
"So far," answered Butch with a smile.
After dinner they each went to their respective rooms. The official negotiations would begin early the next morning. Harold was just about to go to bed when he heard a knock on his door. He opened it to find two of his soldiers facing off against what appeared to be a Tennessee State Trooper.
"Sir, sorry to bother you," said one of the New Harvest men, "but this guy says it's important."
"Yes, Mister Buchanan," answered the state trooper. "President Schweitzer requests that you join him in the study. Alone, please."
"We go whereverPresident Buchanan goes," said one of his guards.
"It's okay," answered Harold. "If President Schweitzer wanted us harmed, he could have already done it and there would be little we could do to stop him."
"Right you are," said the state trooper. "There is no need to be concerned. You are a guest in his home."
Harold nodded and stepped out of his room and past the two guards. "Wait here, please. I'll be back in a little bit."
The state trooper nodded and began walking down the hall to a set of stairs that descended from the second to the first floor. At the bottom he turned sharply to the left and made his way to the main hallway. The inside of the house was brightly lit by electric bulbs that likely hadn't burned in months. They stopped in front of an imposing carved mahogany door and the state trooper knocked.
"Come in, please," responded a voice from inside the study.
The man opened the door for Harold and stood out of the way. Harold walked into a room comfortably filled with books and shelving. The chairs were puffy stuffed leather and obviously expensive. Several landscape paintings hung on the wall.
A small thin elderly man stood and walked toward Harold with a smile. "Welcome, so very glad to have you here. I am Ethan Schweitzer and you must be Harold Buchanan."
Harold was a little surprised by the friendly greeting and shook hands before he knew what he was doing. "Thank you, nice to meet you too."
"Please sit," said Ethan indicating a leather chair across from where he sat. "Would you mind joining me in a Scotch and cigar?"
"Actually," said Harold, "that sounds great, thank you."
Ethan carefully selected two cigars out of a large humidor while the state trooper filled tumblers about halfway with expensive Scotch. The trooper set the glasses on the table in front of them and then stepped back toward a corner of the room. Ethan clipped the ends of the cigars with a cutter and handed one to Harold while he held the butane lighter. After Harold lit his, Ethan sat and lit his own before picking up his glass.
"Let us drink a toast," said Ethan. "To new beginnings and peace."
"I guess I can drink to that," said Harold and took a small sip of the amber colored liquor. It burned all the way down into his stomach, leaving a comfortable smoky flavor. He felt himself relax and took a drag on his cigar.
"I have heard much about you," said Ethan. "They tell me you used to run a prison before N-Day. Is that true?"
"In a sense," answered Harold. "I was a prison guard. Chief of Security at Hancock Prison when the bombs fell. Warden took off like a bunch of the other workers and I took charge."
"Even though you could have run off yourself," said Ethan. "And here you are again in charge of something that you did not seek, am I right? You must be a man with a great sense of duty and responsibility."
"I don't know about that," said Harold. "I was just brought up to not walk around problems. If you can help, you do so."
"What a fine and noble thought," said Ethan with a smile. "I wish more people maintained your same outlook. I'm sure there are downsides to that philosophy though."
Harold unconsciously touched his eye patch. "Sometimes, but it's worth it."
"In hindsight," said Ethan, "if you'll excuse the pun. We can say in hindsight it is worth it. However you lost your eye, I bet if before you knew that was going to happen you might not have thought it was worth it."
"Hindsight is always easier than foresight," said Harold.
Ethan shook his head. "I'm not so sure. I think we often convince ourselves of that after the fact. If we knew it would have all come to this would we have built atomic bombs? Would we have fathered children? Would our two peoples have fought each other?"
"Are we starting the negotiations now?" asked Harold. "I thought that wasn't until tomorrow morning."
Laughing lightly Ethan waved a hand at Harold. "No, not tonight. We're just talking, getting to know each other. We likely want the same things for our people."
"What's that?"
"Stability, prosperity, security, those elusive intangibles."
"What about freedom?" asked Harold.
Ethan smiled again. "Freedom is a luxury that people demand after all those other needs are met. Are you from around here, Mister Buchanan?"
"No," answered Harold. "I grew up in Texas."
"Ah, a great state," said Ethan. "I grew up in the east Tennessee mountains. We didn't even get indoor plumbing until my father died. He said it was disgusting to shit in the same house where you ate and slept. That attitude isn't far off from west Tennessee. My point is that these are a simple people. Much like Kentuckians. They want to be safe and fed and after that as long as you don't push them too far, everything is fine."
"Don't you think starving and imprisoning them is going too far?" asked Harold with a puff of his cigar.
"I do indeed," answered Ethan. "Unfortunately, those things are necessary for the benefit of the whole. You can't let one unreasonable person burn down your house no matter how badly he wants to do so. As a former prison guard and warden, you should understand that."
"Actually, I'm not sure I understand. Those things are different," said Harold.
"What I'm saying is that these people can't handle real freedom yet," Ethan said slowly. "That comes later when they are willing to accept the responsibility that goes along with freedom. And let's not even get started with democracy and all the contradictions there. What is best for this people is for us to lead them and tell them what to do and take care of them like the simple children they are."
Harold took a sip of Scotch and thought. "That seems like a pretty pessimistic view of things."
"I haven't seen anything yet to contra
dict me."
"I'm afraid I'm no match for debating political theory with you. I have a friend that would love to talk about those things with you, but we decided it was best he didn't come."
Ethan smiled. "Oh, really. Who is your friend?"
"Reggie Philips," answered Harold keeping his face neutral. He saw the man's mask slip slightly before he regained control. He'd seen intense hatred and evil darkness for the tiniest fraction of a second.I'm sitting in the room with a monster, he thought suddenly.
"That was a wise choice," said Ethan, composed. "We had our...shall we say, difficulties."
"He claims you tried to have him killed," Harold said. "His wife lost her leg in the attack."
"I had nothing to do with that," insisted Ethan. "I told Mister Philips as much, but the poor man wouldn't believe me. I think he needed someone to blame and I was conveniently there. He almost killed me. Still have blinding headaches sometimes because of it," he said, touching a light line on his scalp.
"We all carry our scars," said Harold with a half smile, putting a finger next to his eye patch.
"Indeed we do," said Ethan. "I see it is getting late and I do not wish to keep you. Thank you for meeting with me. I must say that I find you very likeable and hope we can be friends."
"Let's see how tomorrow goes first," said Harold.
"Fair enough," Ethan rose and shook hands with Harold again.
"Thanks for the cigar and Scotch," said Harold downing his drink in one gulp and walking toward the door that the state trooper held open.
"Any time, Mister Buchanan. And sir..."
Harold stopped and turned.
Ethan looked sad. "Whatever happens tomorrow, please keep in mind that it is nothing personal."
"It hardly ever starts out that way, but it always ends up personal," said Harold grimly before turning to go back to his room.
Ethan sat silently for several seconds before looking up at the State Trooper still standing in the corner. "You know what to do. Make sure it looks like an accident."
The large man nodded and quietly left the room.
Chapter 12 - Sacrifice
David reached the outskirts of Fulton just as the sun was going down. He knew from asking around that the truce negotiations would take place tomorrow morning at President Schweitzer's new home, which folks told David was near downtown. He figured he didn't really have to find the place, just get close.
He coasted down a hill on the three-wheeled bike, the luggage rack behind him stuffed with a large rucksack, camping gear, and other supplies. He also carried a silenced pistol hidden where he could get to it quickly, but so far he hadn't needed it. People noticed him, but then as soon as they saw the giant black and silver shepherd, they focused on the dog. It was rare these days to see a large healthy dog that wasn't feral.
David had tried to chase Cujo off, but the dog had followed him faithfully all the way from the dam. At night the shepherd curled up close to him to share his warmth. David gave the dog his food scraps and had even taken talking to him. He was glad the dog was with him, that he wasn't alone.
"Come on now Cujo, keep up boy," he hollered back at the dog as he coasted downhill. He spotted an open patch of ground ahead dotted with a few scattered trees. As he drew closer he saw it was a graveyard. His initial reaction was to go someplace else, then upon further reflection he decided it would work fine. Riding between buildings, he saw new graffiti with sayings like "Ethan Isn't Hungry," "Bring Back the JP," and "Never Forget Brazen."
At the bottom of the hill he was forced to pedal again and Cujo trotted up beside him. David rode the bike through snow-covered grass and across graves toward a patch of three large maple trees. He stopped the bike there and looked around. He chuckled when he saw a granite tombstone nearby with the name Taylor on it.
"Looks like this is the place," David told Cujo.
The dog ignored him and went off to explore.
David wasn't concerned. The dog would come back when he smelled David's food, although it would likely be a cold meal. He didn't want to risk a fire this deep into Fulton. Any attention was bad attention in his book.
He took out a tarp and, laying it on the snow-covered ground, sat down with his back against the Taylor tombstone and watched the setting sun. The wind wasn't too cold and actually felt pleasant on his face. He saw a flock of Canada geese flying south.
"It's a little late for that, isn't it, boys?" he asked them.
They either didn't hear him, he figured, or chose not to respond, just kept on flying. Part of him wondered what it would be like. To be that free and fly away to the south.
I could do that too, he thought and then pushed the idea away. He had a job to do.
Waiting until the sun was down and only the faint orange and red glow remained to illuminate this part of the world, he pulled out a can of tuna and some crackers. Opening the lid carefully with his can opener, he drank the juice and winced at its saltiness. Soon Cujo was right there in his face, sniffing around, his tail wagging.
"Oh, what the hell," said David and dumped the tuna out of the can onto the ground. Cujo pounced on the food and woofed it down. David went to his bag and pulled out his last can of tuna and opened it up. "This one's for me," he told a hopeful Cujo. "I'll give you some crackers in a minute." Cujo licked him in the face to show his appreciation.
He poured the tuna juice out on the snow and Cujo licked up the fishy ice cream. David ate his portion on crackers slowly, savoring the taste and watching the light fade from the sky. Once he was full he used the crackers as rewards for Cujo.
"Sit," he told the dog.
Cujo sat.
David gave him a cracker.
"Lie down," he said.
Cujo lay down and looked at him with his big sad eyes.
David gave him another cracker and rubbed the dog's big head.
And so it went until the crackers were gone. David then went and pulled out his sleeping bag and laid it on top of the plastic tarp. He spread it out and climbed inside. Cujo knew the routine and pushed up close to David even before he could get settled.
"Give me just a minute, will you," said David.
Cujo barked at him to hurry the hell up.
"Shiss," said David. "We don't want anyone to know we're here. This is a secret mission now, boy. Don't want to give us away, now, do you?"
Cujo lay down, his head on David's stomach.
He supposed he dozed during the night. Not really asleep, yet not fully awake either. At one point he thought he saw ghostly figures walking nearby through the graveyard, though he knew that was either a dream or his imagination. Cujo would be up in a flash if anyone came near them. He watched an owl in a tree hunting for food and thought he heard mice scurrying nearby even though they should be hibernating.
Maybe they're like me, he thought.Can't sleep.I wish I could hibernate. Go to sleep someplace warm for ten or twenty years and then wake up when things are different.
The first rays of light didn't seem real at first and he thought it was only his imagination till he began to make out details around him. Soon the light became more pronounced. Grey turned into red and then orange like the promise of wonderful things to come. A new day where anything was possible. When the edge of the sun finally slipped over the edge of the earth and shone on David, he felt an irrational urge to weep at the very beauty of it.
David closed his eyes and kept them closed until he had regained control of himself. "Don't be weak," he said. "You've got a job to do."
Cujo stretched and pushed against David's side.
Reaching down, he stroked the dog's chin and chest. "What a good dog."
The dog's tail thumped up and down on the ground.
David sat still for another half hour before making himself get up. Cujo moved over to assume the warm spot David had just vacated. Normally he found it necessary to push or tug the dog off the sleeping bag, today he decided to let him lie there.
Walking over to the bike, he gra
sped the heavy rucksack and took it over to the tombstone facing him across from the Taylor one. He set the bag down and opened up the top. Making sure the battery was hooked up, he pulled out the keyboard and the orange laminated card from the middle of the military manual he read on the way down south. David carefully typed in the series of numbers and letters from the orange card, having to squint occasionally in the dim morning light. When he hit the last digit two red lights shone brightly on top of the device. He turned two switches and both lights went from red to green.
David took a deep breath and looked around. "No stalling," he told himself. He grasped the two joystick handles and pulled them out while walking backward toward the Taylor tombstone and Cujo. Pulling slowly so as not to hang on the duct-taped and spliced area on the right cord, he sat back down on the sleeping bag once the joysticks were fully extended.
He scooted under Cujo to get onto the bag and the dog dutifully lifted his head and dropped it back into David's lap. Holding the joysticks in one hand, he rubbed the dog's head. He had always loved dogs. That was one of the worst memories of fleeing Maryland after N-Day was how Daisy their yellow lab just stopped walking and died. The look in her eyes at the end still haunted him.
"I wonder if my eyes look like that," he said to Cujo.
The dog ignored him and closed his own eyes.
"I'm glad you're here with me," David told the dog. "Sorry about throwing rocks at you and yelling at you earlier to try to make you go away. I didn't want to be alone at the end and I'm happy I'm not. You are very good dog, I hope you know that."
Cujo's tail thumped on the ground.
After rubbing the dog's chin for a few more moments, David wiped the tears off his face and took the two joysticks in his hands. It couldn't be more than a half mile to Schweitzer's house. He was plenty close. It would work.
But what if it doesn't? he thought and tried to ignore that voice. David knew this was the only way. Schweitzer was a diabolical snake and you needed to cut off the head. He would have loved to find a way to get close enough to just kill Ethan, but that was out of the question. Since Reggie's attack, Ethan had become paranoid to the extreme. No one got close to him anymore and Ethan was never without lots of guards and security around.
