Emergency Transmission

by Sean McLachlan

  Yu-jin sighed. “Not with that guy preaching that my people should be killed.”

  David gazed at her serenely. “You should forgive him.”

  “Forgive him? Are you crazy?”

  “Hating him won’t make him stop hating you.”

  “He’s the hater. I thought the world of him. Now that I see what he’s really like, why the hell should I forgive him? It’s not like he’s ever going to forgive me.”

  “Be the first to forgive.”

  Marcus, the elderly assistant mayor, limped out of the bar.

  “The Doctor wants you back in there. Everyone’s just sitting around the table grinning at each other.”

  “Can’t Hong-gi translate?” Yu-jin asked, irritated. Did she have to be at his constant beck and call?

  “We tried that. Pablo keeps distracting him with fart noises. I think they’re drunk. We need someone with a bit more gravitas.”

  David laughed. “I think you’re needed.”

  “I better go,” she said, standing up. “Will you be staying long?”

  “I’ve found where I need to be.”

  Yu-jin smiled at him and followed Marcus with a light heart. Something about that man told her that things were going to get better.

  Soon she was back to translating for Reginald and Captain Wang. Like two men of business, they got into a technical discussion of how they could fix the well. Reginald still hadn’t admitted he didn’t have enough concrete and was suggesting alternate ways. Captain Wang seemed to be under the impression that Reginald was holding out on him, and insisted that concrete, and a lot of it, was the only solution.

  While the two leaders talked, Yu-jin kept half an eye on the scene in the bar. The crowd was pretty thick, and while that left Yu-jin with a warm feeling inside, she knew this represented only a fraction of those who lived in the Burbs. Most New City residents hadn’t dared venture outside the walls today. Even the kindest well-wishers kept a wary eye on the door. While some welcomed the Chinese, everyone looked at them as a source for potential danger.

  That was proven a few minutes later when a series of shots crackled the air in the street outside.

  The guards scrambled for the door as the crowd surged away from it. Roy yanked a gun out from behind the bar.

  “Calm down!” Reginald shouted, climbing onto the table and accidentally stepping on his plate of spring rolls, “Everyone calm down and move to the back of the building.”

  They were already moving. Any Burbs resident knew how to handle themselves under gunfire.

  Captain Wang’s guards brandished their weapons, casting suspicious glances at everyone around them, while the captain himself shouted at them to lower their guns. Yu-jin shouldered her way through the crowd and peeked past Clyde and one of the guards who had taken up position by the door.

  The crowd outside had scattered except for a few of the tweakers whose minds couldn’t function fast enough to figure out what to do. They had curled up in plain view in the street or simply sat, staring dumbly around them. David had hunkered down behind a heavy wooden cart that he had overturned, gripping a rock in his hand.

  On the other side of the street, one of Reginald’s guards lay bleeding. Another two were withdrawing down the street in the face of more than twenty of Reverend Wallace’s followers who advanced through the warren of shacks and tents, firing as they went.

  Clyde and the other guard fired at them, and the mob turned its attention to the bar. Bullets thumped into the sturdy wooden walls. Someone pulled Yu-jin back.

  Reginald.

  “Stay back!” he shouted.

  “Stay back yourself,” she replied, pulling him away from the door. A couple of guards joined them and convinced him to move away.

  Yu-jin turned back to the door in time to see the guard next to Clyde take a bullet in the upper arm, just below where his Kevlar stopped protecting him. He cursed and fell. One of his comrades dragged him away.

  The wounded guard in the road outside tried to crawl to them, making it a little way before slumping to the ground. David burst from behind the cart and ran in a crouching zig-zag to him. Gunfire continued to snap from both sides as he hauled the guard over his shoulders and rushed to back to the shelter of the cart.

  The gunfire increased in tempo, hammering on the walls.

  “We gotta bust out of here,” Clyde said. “I’ll take care of those scum.”

  “Someone will get killed!” Yu-jin said.

  “And it’ll be us if we don’t break out of here. Sooner or later they’ll come back with some biofuel and burn this building down around us,” Clyde replied.

  “If we have bloodshed, we’ll never reconcile our people.”

  “Tell them that. I didn’t start this fight, missy, but I sure as hell am going to finish it.”

  Another bullet panged off the metal door. Clyde looked around at his men, making eye contact with each one in turn.

  “Ready? We go out firing and spread out quick. On the count of three. One—”

  “Not in my name!” someone shouted outside. Yu-jin’s breath caught. That was Reverend Wallace’s voice.

  “Stop firing!” he shouted.

  Yu-jin dared a peek outside. Clyde tried to pull her back. She slapped his hand away.

  Reverend Wallace ran down the street, his hands cuffed behind his back and two guards chasing him.

  “Stop firing!” he shouted again.

  A couple of muzzle flares from the tents made him duck and the guards veered off. He stopped directly in front of the bar, facing the gunmen.

  “I said—”

  Another muzzle flare and he fell.

  “Cease fire!” a call came from the tents. “That’s the Reverend you hit, idiot!”

  Reverend Wallace struggled to his knees, leaning all his weight on the left one as blood flowed freely from his right thigh.

  “Stop it!” he cried, his voice laced with pain. “Don’t do this for me. I was … wrong. I-I hated the sinner instead of the sin.”

  Suddenly Yu-jin knew what she had to do.

  And the thought terrified her.

  She ran to where Reginald had just finished patching up the wounded guard, snatched the medical pack out of his hands, and bolted for the door. Clyde tried to intervene but she dodged around him.

  And then she was outside, an easy target for any racist who wanted to kill her.

  She ran over to the Reverend Wallace and knelt by him, her shoulders tense, thinking at any moment she’d feel a bullet.

  “Lie down,” she told him. “I need to patch that wound before you bleed out.”

  “Get away from him!” one of the attackers shouted. “She’s trying to kill the Reverend!”

  Yu-jin flinched. She hunkered closer to Reverend Wallace, hoping they wouldn’t dare try to shoot her when she was so close.

  “Cease fire!” Reverend Wallace repeated. No one had fired for several seconds now. He fell on his side. Yu-jin pulled out a knife, shielding it from view of the gunmen in case they took the knife as proof that she was going to kill him, and cut away his trousers leg.

  The bullet had gone through the fleshy part of the thigh, and while it bled freely, it did not look like the bone was broken.

  She pushed some bundled-up gauze into the wound and wrapped a bandage around it, keeping a steady pressure. The Reverend Wallace lay there quietly, his face pained. He did not look at her.

  “Help me up,” he croaked once she finished. “Let them see me.”

  Yu-jin grabbed him by the middle and lifted him up. With his hands cuffed behind his back he couldn’t help much, but he managed to put some of his weight on his good leg. Yu-jin realized if she let go, he’d fall.

  It would serve him right, she thought. That would send the wrong message, though.

  She glanced over at the cart. David, still kneeling by the guard he had saved, gave her a thumb’s up. She replied with a shy smile.

  “Go home,” the Reverend Wallace said, his voice sounding wea
k. “I was wrong. If this drifter can minister to the tweakers and break bread with them, who am I to judge the Chinese? I was … wrong. Go home.”

  The Reverend Wallace bowed his head. The rioters dispersed, disappearing into the tangle of crude shelters. People began peeking out from behind cover. David stood and walked over to Yu-jin and the Reverend.

  He put a hand on the Reverend’s shoulder.

  “You did the right thing,” he said.

  “You did,” Yu-jin agreed.

  The old man only nodded, still looking at the ground.

  Reginald rushed out and checked on the wounded soldier David had dragged to safety. He examined the expert field dressing David had given him and studied David for a moment, his brow furrowing.

  Clyde and his men spread out and secured the area.

  “Hunt those motherfuckers down!” Reginald called to him.

  “It’s all clear now,” Clyde said. “Best to let it slide.”

  “Let it slide?” Reginald fumed. “They wounded two of our men!”

  Clyde looked at David and the Reverend with open respect.

  “Yeah, but there isn’t going to be any more of that. Sometimes words really can be stronger than weapons, Doc.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Two days later, David sat in his tent, resting after a long day of preaching. Although his body was tired, his spirit felt joyous. He preached every morning, every noon, and every evening. Each time he went to that open spot in the Burbs, more people showed up. There had been no more violence against the Chinese, although David was not fooled into thinking that all the haters had seen the light. The Reverend Wallace had not spoken publicly since that day. He had closed his church and was under house arrest until the mayor could decide what to do with him.

  David had no doubt that Wallace was praying and making his peace with God and himself.

  What made him even happier was that Yu-jin had started to come whenever she got a chance to get away from her duties. Any time he saw her pretty face in the crowd, his oratory would soar to new heights. He hadn’t seen a woman smile at him in ages.

  Not that he’d try anything. He’d lost his right to do that after what he’d done on the march. Women, he decided, were forbidden to him.

  Still, it felt nice when she came.

  He lay in his tent staring at the khaki canvas a couple of feet above his face, thinking of something more pressing. He had heard about the offshore well that was leaking toxins and causing all the hard rain. He had heard they needed concrete to cap the well. When a farmer had told him that at the bar of $87,953, he had fallen to his knees and given up a prayer of thanks to the Lord. That had gotten him some looks, for sure.

  Now he knew everything had been written. The concrete had been a test of his faith, and although he had stumbled, in the end he had passed. Everyone needed that concrete, and it was his to give.

  But the Devil, as they say, was in the details. And the Devil was being a wily one.

  He could lie and say that he alone had found the bunker. He could simply give the concrete to them. Then he could remain here, in this comfortable place, and build his ministry. Or he could ask for a bit of trade. A church building, perhaps, and some land so he could support himself. Surely that wouldn’t be asking too much.

  But that would leave Aaron and the others out in the cold. He couldn’t do that.

  Or could he?

  By any measure they were savages. They had raped and killed and burned their cancerous way across the land. They needed to be cut out of the world like the surgeons of old had cut out tumors.

  That way lay hypocrisy, for he had raped and killed and burned as much as the rest of them. He carried an equal burden of guilt.

  No, the Lord have given him these people to save through his leadership. He could not abandon them.

  So that meant he had to admit he was part of the Righteous Horde, and that would mean his death. If he died, his new ministry would die, and the Righteous Horde would lose its leader. That would lead to all sorts of trouble, and no doubt more bloodshed.

  The problem went round and round in his head, offering up no solution.

  He tried praying, and even that didn’t give him any answers.

  But of course it didn’t. He wasn’t some prophet of old. No burning bush would ever talk to him. God would give him answers, but they’d come quietly, subtly, and in their own time. He needed to be patient.

  In the meantime, the Chinese freighter remained moored offshore while its captain and the mayor conferred. That in itself was a good thing. As long as they were talking they weren’t fighting. Plus, Captain Wang had initiated a new policy. Now groups of unarmed sailors came ashore, protected by New City guards, and traded small items in the marketplace. Mostly they traded bags of rice or Old Times artifacts of minor value. And what they wanted most was fresh food. The journey across the sea must have been rough, and the sailors delighted in having fresh eggs or a plate of vegetables. A Chinese boy in a sailor’s uniform translated for them. These trading trips had become a twice-daily occurrence and people were beginning to get used to them.

  Maybe David could wait for his answer for a few more days. God had been kind. He had moved the winds so that no more toxic rains had come. He was granting David time for His plan to come to fruition.

  The sudden wail of a siren tore him out of his reverie. It was the New City siren, sounded every morning and evening to mark that the gate was opening and closing. But it was the middle of the day.

  David hurried out of his tent.

  The ragged band of tweakers waiting outside his tent rose up to greet him, except for one man who rolled on the ground wailing and holding his ears.

  David went over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Shhh. It will be all right.”

  The tweaker stopped his wailing and looked up at him.

  “It will be all right,” David repeated. The tweaker grinned.

  The others crowded close, touching him, mumbling half-coherent greetings and prayers.

  “Stay here, my brothers. I have to find out what’s going on.”

  Gently breaking through the circle they made around him, he saw that the Burbs were in chaos. Everyone rushed inside their shelters or gathered weapons. Parents herded their children towards New City. He followed. The tweakers followed him at a distance.

  A squadron of guards hustled past, moving to the edge of town, their boots thumping under their heavy weight. Atop the wall more guards stood ready. A machine gun poked from the parapet.

  A woman with a couple of children in tow was speaking to a crowd. He stopped and listened.

  “They let me go but took my husband!” she shouted as he came up.

  “Who did?” David asked.

  “The Weissberg people. They say we killed a crew of men riding that Hummer they stole. They raided my farm and all the farms around. They took everything we had and took all the men prisoner!”

  David froze and stared at the scene around him. Within the Burbs everyone readied their weapons. A couple of guards organized a crowd of men and women armed with rusty old shotguns or pistols. Those who didn’t have guns brandished bows or harpoons meant for hunting and fishing but deadly enough to kill human prey. Others hefted axes or mallets, boasting of what they’d do when they met the rebels.

  David looked on in despair. Everywhere he went, violence seemed to trail in his wake. He had caused this.

  Then inspiration touched him.

  He rushed back to his tent and gathered every weapon he had, and then headed for the marketplace, a Kalashnikov grasped in each hand. Even with all the excitement some stopped to greet him. With God’s help he had developed a reputation quickly. Some asked if he would join them in the fight against Weissberg. David told them to follow.

  David strode up to a blacksmith’s stall.

  “May I use your hacksaw and vice for a few minutes? I’ll give you some good scrap metal in trade.”

  The blac
ksmith stared at him for a moment. “All right.”

  David lifted his AK-47s up high and made a slow turn.

  “You trading?” some asked.

  “It’s the preacher! Are you going to join us, preacher?”

  “How much for the one with the camo strap? I got some .30-06 ammo and grain to trade.”

  “Got any spare ammo for them AKs you’d trade separately?”

  David set one of the assault rifles in the vice and tightened it. Grabbing the hacksaw, he began to saw through the barrel.

  “What the hell are you doing? Hey, what the hell is he doing?”

  “It’s an AK, not a shotgun, boy. You don’t saw off the barrel!”

  David kept working. The hacksaw was a good one, well preserved from the time when they used to make them. Within a minute, the barrel fell to the ground with a clang.

  “You’ve ruined it!”

  “Why are you destroying weapons? Don’t you know there’s a war on?”

  David wiped his brow and opened the vice. The rest of the assault rifle fell at his feet.

  As he set the other Kalashnikov in the vice, a man grabbed his arm.

  “What’s your game, buddy? I’ll give you good trade for that one.”

  David looked at him. “I wouldn’t trade this gun for all the riches in the world.”

  He got back to work.

  “He’s crazy! Just look at him!”

  Sheriff Cruz pushed through the crowd. “What’s going on here?”

  “This nutcase is destroying his guns!”

  “Hello sheriff,” David said, not stopping his work. “I’ve been asking around and I’ve heard good things about you.”

  “Are these guns your property?”

  “We own nothing but our souls, and most of us throw away our only possession.”

  “Answer my fucking question.”

  David paused. “Mortal law would say that these guns are mine. I obey a higher law.”

  “Not in my town you don’t,” Annette said. She turned to the crowd and waved her arms above her head. “OK, show’s over. If this idiot wants to destroy his guns, he’s got that right. No point gawking and blocking the way. We got a fight to win. Move it!”