by Tom Abrahams
Clayton’s fists tightened. He glared at the New World Order-crat.
“I’m going to need all of you on your knees, hands behind your heads,” said Treadgold. “I can’t have you leaving here and letting people know how—”
The explosive percussion that interrupted Treadgold’s Goldfinger-esque diatribe knocked everyone to the ground. Clayton’s ears were ringing with a tone so loud he couldn’t think. He tasted dirt in his mouth and felt it under his fingernails as he grabbed at the earth.
He rolled over onto his back and tried focusing when another pair of rapid blasts roared through his body. His world was blurred, the ringing was so deafening, but he could see the spin of a semicircle chain-feeder and the flash of muzzle fire from atop his JLTV. Bert was behind the thirty-millimeter cannon mounted on the truck, his hands gripping either side.
Clayton grabbed at his ears as his vision focused and he rolled back onto his stomach. A third shot from the tank-eating weapon tore over his head. He dragged himself forward, shakily drawing himself to his feet. He surveyed the apocalyptic scene in front of him, straggling toward Chandra, who was still on the ground. Sally was on her side, rolling around in apparent agony next to the M4.
There was no sign of Treadgold or the man who had his gun pointed at her. A red mist hung in the air, a darker splatter coating the open door of the truck. Its windshield was shattered, as was that of the mangled vehicle next to it.
Clayton staggered toward the opposing trucks. Both of them were awash with carnage. Either glass, shrapnel, or the thirty-millimeter hog of a round had obliterated all signs of life. He walked back toward Sally and Chandra, using the JLTVs to balance himself. He reached the spot where Treadgold had stood moments earlier. The ringing was still the only sensation of which he was aware until he felt a hand on his shoulder and jerked around ready to attack.
It was Bert. He had headphones around his neck and was saying something. Clayton tried to read his lips but couldn’t.
“I can’t hear you!” Clayton yelled. “I can’t hear. The ringing. I’m deaf.”
Bert nodded. He mouthed, “It. Will. Be. Okay.” He pointed over Clayton’s shoulder. “All dead. All dead.”
Clayton dropped to his knees, covering his ears. More people had died so he could live. Ill-intended or not, people had died.
Bert squatted in front of him. “We need to go,” he mouthed and pointed back at the truck. “Let’s go.”
With Bert’s help, Clayton made it back to the JLTV. He sat in the front passenger seat. Chandra and Sally climbed into the back. All of them were dazed and obviously wounded from Bert’s heroics.
Bert jumped behind the wheel, sped from the airport, and headed south.
CHAPTER 20
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 29, 2020, 4:17 PM CST
COUPLAND, TEXAS
Rick watched his son from a distance. Kenny was standing alone where Karen had died at Gus’s ranch. He’d been there for ten minutes. As far as Rick could tell, the boy hadn’t moved. He was blankly staring at the ground, at the dark smudge that marked the spot.
The others were in the main house, cleaning themselves and getting resettled. Rick had parked the truck and ATV inside the garage. He was leaning against the door, his hands stuffed into his pockets. The painful swell crept back into his throat. He swallowed against the knot and took a deep breath. He needed to say something.
Crossing the short distance between the garage and the eastern edge of the main house, flashes of Karen’s bloody death flickered in his mind. He could hear her final rattling breath, see the life drain from her sad, frightened eyes. Rick knew without anyone having to tell him he’d always live with the guilt of her death. He would shoulder the burden of what he’d done during her life.
“Kenny,” Rick said, nearing his son, “you okay?”
Kenny’s arms hung from slumped shoulders, his head down. It was only when Rick reached him that he noticed his son’s swollen eyes and the tears that drained from them. His nose was running. The collar of his shirt was soaked, and the boy’s chest fluttered as he cried quietly in place.
Rick stepped to his son and put his arm around his shoulder. Kenny flinched, stiffened, and shrugged off the embrace. Rick withdrew his arm and uncomfortably tucked his hand back into his pocket. He stood silently, waiting for Kenny to say something. It was several minutes before he did.
“I want to blame you,” Kenny said, his voice raspy with phlegm. “I want it to be somebody’s fault.”
Rick didn’t respond.
“You always think of yourself, Dad. You’re selfish. Mom wasn’t selfish. She always thought of everyone else.”
“You’re right,” Rick said. “On both counts.”
Kenny looked up from the ground and at his father. He blinked and sniffed. His nose crinkled and he wiped snot from his upper lip with the back of his hand. Rick started to reach out again, but Kenny stepped back.
“When you and Mom got divorced, I went to see somebody.”
“I know,” said Rick. “Your mom said it helped.”
Kenny shrugged. “She talked about the five stages of grief. You know, the way you feel after something bad happens and how it changes over time.”
“Yes.”
“The first part is denial,” said Kenny, “where you don’t want to believe it’s true. When you got divorced, I didn’t believe it. I kept thinking you and Mom would get back together and we’d be a family again.”
The aching knot in Rick’s throat swelled.
“When that didn’t happen, I got mad,” said Kenny. “That’s the second stage. Anger.”
Rick swallowed past the ache. He withdrew his hands from his pockets and folded his arms across his chest.
“There are a whole bunch of stages after that,” said Kenny, pulling his shoulders back and standing up straight. “It ends with acceptance. Finally, you just get okay with bad stuff. It doesn’t make it better. You just live with it.”
Rick realized in that moment he’d never asked Kenny about his feelings regarding the divorce, about his leaving them. He’d told Kenny it wasn’t his fault, explained that he loved Kenny and he loved Karen, but it was better for everyone if they weren’t married anymore. He’d even admitted he was to blame and that Karen had every right to be mad. He’d assured Kenny his mother was a good woman and he’d never said a bad word about her. But not once, as Rick thought back to the conversations they’d had as father and son, had he ever spent the time to listen to Kenny’s feelings.
“Mom has been dead for a few hours,” Kenny said flatly. “It doesn’t seem real. Like, I expect to hear her voice and see her face. That’s the denial part. It’s the first phase. I’ve spent all day in the denial phase, acting like everything’s okay. I mean, as okay as it can be.”
Rick thought Kenny somehow seemed older. The way he stood, the words he used. He didn’t sound like a little kid anymore. He was more like a young man.
“But I’m already at the anger phase too, Dad,” he said, his eyes glaring. “I want to hit something or someone. I don’t have a mom anymore. My mom is dead. The person who loved me most in the world is gone. I’m angry at you for that. I blame you. I don’t want to blame you, but I do.”
“I understand, son,” said Rick. “I really do. You—”
Kenny’s face curled with a sudden swell of anger. “I don’t care whether you understand,” he barked. “I’m going to feel how I want to feel whether you get it or not. You left me because you wanted to. You had a choice. Mom didn’t have a choice. She didn’t want to leave.”
Rick’s chin quivered. His eyes welled. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, trying to suppress his emotions. He took shallow breaths in and out of his nose, trying to calm himself. Kenny stepped toward him, his fists balled and shaking at his sides.
“I’m stuck with you now,” he said. “And you’re stuck with me. That would be okay, except I know you want to be with that Nikki woman. You want to go get her. I know you do.”
&nbs
p; Rick couldn’t deny the thought had crossed his mind. He did miss Nikki. He did want to see her, hold her again. He needed her comfort. His son had him pegged.
“You’re right,” Rick said. “I do want to see her.”
Kenny’s eyes widened. His brow arched with surprise, his mouth hung open, and he blinked. Rick knew he’d caught his son off balance with honesty. As quickly as Kenny’s guard was down, it returned. His jaw set.
“I knew it,” he snarled. “I knew—”
“I’m not going anywhere, Kenny,” Rick stated. “I’m not leaving.”
Kenny huffed. “Why? Because you feel guilty? Because I’m mad at you and you know you’re selfish and that everything I said was right?”
“Maybe that’s part of it,” Rick admitted. “But I’m not going for two other reasons.”
“Yeah?”
“I love you. You’re all I’ve got too. You’re my son. You’ll always be my son. I’ll always be your dad, and my job is to protect you, to keep you safe. Plus, I owe it to your mom.”
Kenny’s features softened. His fists relaxed and he knuckled the tears from the corners of his eyes. “You’re not going. Really?”
“Really,” said Rick. “I’m staying here.”
Kenny nodded. “I’m still blaming you,” he said. “It’s going to be a long time until I get to the acceptance stage. You staying here doesn’t change that.”
“I’ll be here when you get there,” said Rick. “And I know it doesn’t help right now, but I blame myself too. I know I’m responsible for a lot of the bad in your mom’s life. Remember though, Kenny, I am also responsible for the best thing that ever happened to her.”
Kenny rolled his eyes.
“Are you hungry?” Rick asked. “There’s food in the house. Later, if you want, we could have a service for your mom, say some prayers.”
“Pray?”
“It never hurts.”
Kenny started toward the house. “Okay.”
Rick resisted the urge to put his arm around his son as they climbed the steps onto the front porch. He held the door open and Kenny walked inside. Rick watched the boy stride through the long hall to the kitchen. Kenny’s shoulders were broader than he remembered, his walk somehow more purposeful, more confident. Rick took solace in that little victory. Kenny was maturing into a sensitive, articulate young man who could express himself without fear. Rick knew it was more than he could say for himself at that age or at thirty. Maybe in the midst of all he’d done wrong, he’d done Kenny right.
“I was wondering when you’d join us,” said Reggie Buck. He was seated at the large farm table with his wife and Candace. They were eating peanut butter sandwiches. “Can I make you something to eat?”
Rick moved to the table and sat in an empty chair. “No, I’m not real hungry at the moment. I’m sure Kenny would like a sandwich.”
Kenny was at the sink, elbow deep in a bag of white bread. “Is there jelly?”
“Marmalade,” said Candace. “It’s in the refrigerator.”
“The fridge still works?” asked Rick. “They didn’t shut it off?”
Reggie shook his head, his cheeks bulging with sandwich. “No, it’s working. Pretty lucky.”
“Luck is a funny word right now,” said Lana. “Doesn’t hold the same meaning it did a week ago.”
“We should count every blessing,” said Candace. “That’s for sure.”
“Thanks again for coming to get us,” said Reggie. “You don’t even know us and you risked a lot.”
Rick nodded. “Sure thing. I’d like to think you’d have done the same.”
“I wish I could say I would,” said Reggie. “If I’m honest with myself, I don’t know that I would. What you did was pretty selfless, Rick.”
Kenny slid out the chair next to Rick and plopped a plated sandwich on the table. It was cut diagonally, the way Karen used to do it, peanut butter and orange marmalade oozing from between the pieces of bread. Kenny gave Rick a glance and then stuffed most of one half of the sandwich in his mouth.
Reggie raised a glass of water to Rick but addressed Kenny. “I say we all toast your dad, Kenny. He was our hero today.”
Rick tried to wave him off. “That’s okay.”
“Don’t be shy about it,” said Reggie. He lifted his glass higher. Candace and Lana did the same.
“I don’t have a glass,” Kenny said with a mouthful of sandwich. He stuffed another bite into his mouth without having finished the first and wiped his hands on his pants.
“Okay then,” Reggie said, “you can toast him in spirit. Here’s to Rick, a selfless hero who risked his life to save ours.”
Rick blushed and lowered his head. He felt Kenny’s eyes’ burning intensity and couldn’t look his son’s way. He looked over at Reggie and forced a smile.
“Thanks,” he said. “That’s unnecessary, though. I think if anything, we should be toasting Kenny. He’s a brave kid. He did everything I did and he’s a third my age.”
The group cheered Kenny. Rick still couldn’t look at him.
Reggie’s smile evaporated and his brow furrowed. “We are so sorry about Mumphrey. And your mother, Kenny. And your cousin, Candace.”
“Thank you,” said Candace.
Kenny shoved another bite of sandwich into his mouth. The room grew uncomfortably quiet until Lana cleared her throat and switched the topic.
“It’s good you came when you did,” said Lana. “If you’d waited much longer, I don’t think you’d have made it.”
“Why is that?” asked Rick.
“Security,” said Lana. “We heard they’re not letting anybody through their roadblocks except for military trucks. That starts tonight.”
“And they’re adding more of them,” said Reggie. “Plus, no weapons get through. If people show up at checkpoints, they’re taking their weapons and making them give up their cars.”
“They’re offering them refuge,” said Lana. “But they’re actually taking them to camps like the one they took us to.”
Rick leaned on his elbows. “How do you know this?”
“We overheard it,” said Candace. “They called this phase three.”
“Phase three?”
“Yeah,” said Reggie after swallowing the last of his water. “Phase one was setting up the camps and the checkpoints. Phase two was rounding people up, actively seeking out people they deemed as long-term threats. Phase three is letting the people come to them.”
“I don’t get it,” said Rick. “You’d think they’d be helping people, not imprisoning them.”
“It’s all about population control,” said Lana.
“I heard that too,” said Rick. “Still…”
“Makes sense to me,” said Reggie. “Some natural disaster happens, you use it to advance some dark agenda. It’s happened before.”
Rick scoffed. “When?”
“9/11,” said Reggie. “Our government used 9/11 to go to war, to implement the Patriot Act.”
“You’re saying 9/11 was an inside job?”
“No, of course not. I’m saying it was an opportunity for our government to have a willing populace. Same here. It’s just more sinister.”
“Sorry,” said Rick. “I refuse to believe this whole New World Order conspiracy theory. It’s too much. It’s like you’ve been reading too many Steven Konkoly novels.”
Reggie shrugged. “The facts are what the facts are, Rick. We’re trapped here. We go anywhere and they’re snatching us up, putting us in a camp, and waiting for us to die. They’ll stick us in pine boxes and dump us in mass graves. All of those are facts.”
Rick pushed himself from the table, his chair legs squealing on the linoleum floor as he slid backward. He walked to the other side of the kitchen. He didn’t want to believe what they were telling him. He didn’t want to face the facts. Yet Reggie was right; they were what they were.
He paused at the refrigerator and gripped the handle. Instead of opening it, he marched from the kitche
n, down the hallway, and pushed his way out onto the front porch. His boots clunked on the wooden porch, the thin-framed storm door slapped shut, and the railing creaked when he leaned on it.
Rick had always been good at ignoring the truth, at refusing to swallow the difficulty life always seem to slop onto his plate. He grabbed the porch railing with his fingers and rocked back and forth, as if trying to pry the railing free. He couldn’t ignore it this time. This wasn’t something as temporary as an affair or lying to his wife about his whereabouts. It wasn’t as minimal as promising to call a hookup and then deleting her number from his phone or intentionally giving a woman the number to Carrabba’s Italian Grill instead of his own. This was permanent.
The storm door creaked behind him and Kenny slinked onto the porch. He held the door to close it gently and joined his father at the railing. He leaned on the rough-hewn cedar, mimicking his dad, and looked out onto the property, admiring the peaceful beauty of it.
“You were going to tell me about Eli Whitney,” he said.
“What?”
“When we were at the gin, you said to remind you about Eli Whitney. I’m reminding you.”
Rick smiled and faced his son. Kenny was getting taller. The top of the boy’s head was even with his nose now. It wouldn’t be long before the kid was taller than him.
“Well, for starters, he was your age when he began making nails in his father’s workshop,” Rick said. “He was a young entrepreneur.”
“What did his dad do?”
“For a living?”
“Yeah.”
“He was a farmer, I think.”
“And his mom?”
“She—” Rick paused “—she died when he was ten or eleven. So it was Eli and his dad for a while.”
“How’d she die?”
“I don’t remember,” said Rick. “I do remember Eli went on to become a pretty amazing inventor.”
“The cotton gin?”
“Yes,” said Rick. “He went to school, traveled, worked on farms. He figured out what a pain it was to separate the cotton fiber from the seeds. It was a lot of manual labor. So he invented a machine that would do it.”
