by Pike, JJ
A man—it had to be a man, he had two arms and two legs and a plastic bag sticking out of the top of his uniform where his head should be—slid down the side of the convoy. His hands, both of which were also wrapped in plastic, were in the air.
Alistair didn’t indulge any more—not alcohol, not drugs, nothing—but this vision in plastic was precisely the kind of thing he’d expect to see if he’d been eating magic mushrooms with his buds out by the bleachers.
“General Hoyt here.” The plastic man sounded like a regular human. There was going to be an explanation, Alistair couldn’t imagine what it would be, but Josephine Morgan wasn’t a woman who messed with idiots, so it was going to make sense. To someone. He was 99.9% sure.
“I’d ask that you step aside and allow us to be on our way.” The general ripped the plastic from his face. He was sweaty and blotchy, but otherwise looked like an ordinary man. He left his hand coverings in place. “I don’t want any more bloodshed.” He didn’t get any closer to Josephine or his soldiers. There was something strange going on. Alistair didn’t like it.
Josephine turned to face the newcomer. “Wolfjaw is an independent community, General.”
Alistair had to smile. Josephine, for whatever reason, used a turn of phrase that was not likely to inflame the passions of the listener. “Independent community” had a nice ring to it.
“What does that mean?” said the general.
“We’re a small community who—as Josephine points out—place a high value on independent living. We seek to do no harm to those who mean us no harm while defending what’s ours as allowed by law.” What Alistair thought privately was a different matter. That vision would be effectuated later. For now they needed to look and sound and smell like law-abiding citizens, albeit somewhat idiosyncratic in their approach to modern living.
The corporal raised his weapon, but it was no longer pointed at Alistair. The muzzle was directed over Alistair’s shoulder and to the right. It was going to be Jacinta. She’d never let him down. He’d asked for the shooter and she was delivering what he’d requested.
“That’s my associate, Jacinta. If I may?” Alistair held both his hands in the air as he turned.
Jacinta pushed the man—middle-aged, paunchy, non-descript—ahead of her. Alistair didn’t recognize him. He had to be new.
“This is the man who shot your colleague,” he said.
The corporal swore under his breath.
“What would you have me do with him?”
“Eye for an eye,” said the corporal. “He killed Lopez.”
In one smooth move, Alistair bent down, retrieved his rifle, and shot the man in the eye then returned the rifle to its place on the ground. “Justice,” he said, “swift and sure. We take no prisoners.”
Alistair felt the ripple of shock run through the soldiers. It wasn’t just the collective gasp or the fact that they’d taken a micro-mini-step back, but something more primal. A chemical had been released into the air. It hovered between anticipation and panic, feeding Alistair’s delight.
Josephine Morgan stepped forward, her foot on Alistair’s gun.
“I’d never hurt you,” he said.
“You shot a man in cold blood.”
“No. I carried out the sentence as prescribed by your corporal. What’s your name, son?”
“Sandrino,” he stammered. He’d lowered his gun. That’s what decisive action did to people; it rewired them, immediately. Alistair had taken a gamble and it had paid off.
As the realization set in, the soldiers buzzed and shuffled, but that was to be expected. Blood had been shed. At their behest. They were right to be rattled. He’d have been disappointed if they’d been cold or detached. He wanted passionate people, committed to ideals. They were the ones who’d follow him to the end of time.
“This isn’t the Wild West,” said Josephine. “We don’t take justice into our own hands.”
Alistair didn’t move his feet, but he braced his shoulders, straightened his spine, and made sure his head was facing forward. He held the space around him and then some. “How is this not the Wild West, my friend?”
Josephine shook her head. “This is not the time to talk about…”
“I know. We’ve talked this over many times. And still, violent crime in New York City is forty-one percent higher than the national average.”
His favorite teacher sighed as he knew she would. If you weren’t kindly disposed, you might call her “predictable”. He thought of her as “consistent”. She had ideas and didn’t waver from them. He could respect that. It also meant he could steer the conversation the way he wanted it to go. He set it up, she’d knock it down, and on they’d go.
“Non-violent crime is down.” She went where she always went; to the “good” that had been accomplished. Small potatoes, but he let her make the point. “The police have made terrific inroads into…”
“Rape, murder, muggings, theft—they’re just a part of city life, right?” He was baiting her and it was all going according to plan.
“You skew the data, Alistair. Crime is down statewide and non-violent crime in the city is lower than the national average by a whopping…”
“How is that an acceptable answer?” He raised his voice, let his feelings leak out, put on a bit of a show for the listeners. This was powerful stuff he was sharing. No need to soften the blow. “Why are you inured to the fact that you have a one-in-five chance of being mugged on the street? That on any given day you could be robbed at knifepoint, have your car jacked, your home burgled. Why is this okay? Because it’s lower than the national average? Shame on you for accepting those odds. Shame on you Josephine Morgan. You should do better.”
“That’s not what I’m saying and you know it.”
He looked away from Josephine and towards the crowd. “At Wolfjaw Ridge we have no crime…”
“That’s because you live in one of the safest counties in New York State…” She’d keep trying to steer the conversation away from his talking points, but he already had the upper hand. She’d delivered him to the debate point that he wanted to hit.
“No,” said Alistair, “we have no crime because we know our own value and the value of those around us. We don’t settle for ‘a better percentage than St. Louis’, which is the murder capital of the nation. We don’t look away or accept that this is an acceptable way to spend our lives. We reject that notion, utterly and completely.”
Josephine shook her head. She’d talk if he let her, so he kept going. He had a mission. He was not about to be thrown off course.
“We at Wolfjaw Ridge live by a code. A code that binds us together. We’re not alienated from our neighbors. We know everyone around us. There are no strangers, no surprises, no threat. We live in harmony. In peace. With a common purpose. We seek to thrive. We don’t ‘make do’ like you and your friends, Josephine Morgan. We know we can do better—as individuals and as a group—and strive to make that our reality.”
“You’ve done an amazing job, Alistair. I don’t argue on that score. All I’m saying is you can’t kill a man in the street because you claim he killed first.”
It was too soon to go there. The soldiers behind her were still in shock. He believed in the justice of his kill, but they wouldn’t buy that until they’d been with him for a good long time. They’d see it as murder, rather than a balancing of the scales. She might want to talk about it, but he did not.
“We only have your word for it.” Josephine stepped closer. He’d never seen her so inflamed. “Not even your word. It’s Jacinta’s word…”
Jacinta snorted and stepped forward, almost breaking the line where Alistair stood. She wouldn’t cross that line. She understood that things were done a certain way in order to maintain order and peace. He was the leader which meant he took the pole position. As long as he stood firm she wouldn’t lash out at Josephine physically.
The women glared at each other. They’d never gotten along. Alistair had fostered that enmity. Th
e closer you got to the source of power, the fewer friends you were going to have. Thus would it ever be. He didn’t make the rules; he only used them to his advantage.
“Who’s to say your lap dog didn’t fabricate a story in order to murder this man?” Josephine hadn’t taken her eyes of Jacinta.
It was time to put an end to Josephine’s fantastical claims. They tended in the wrong direction. He had to take hold of the story and present his case. Now that he was down among the people, he found he wanted to turn this situation to his favor and take not only the vehicles, which would be a boon in the coming days, but also some of these healthy young people who’d signed up to do a tough job. More willing and able bodies would only be a good thing once they’d closed the gates. The women in particular were going to be essential if they were to survive long term.
Josephine hadn’t given up. She pressed her case. “She does things, Alistair. Things she doesn’t tell you about. Jacinta is…”
“You’re upset.” His arms itched to reach out and touch Josephine. It would have diffused the situation. But with the guns pointing at him, he knew better. He smiled broadly. He didn’t do it often which made it that much more effective.
Josephine smiled back. It was a reflex, not a decision. The human animal seeks safety. Alistair knew how to play to that impulse.
“Jacinta only did what I asked her to do. As always, responsibility flows up the chain. If anyone is to be held accountable here, it’s me.”
“Fine” said Josephine. “If that’s what you want. You killed a…”
“I wish you’d tell them how welcoming we are.” He flung his arms wide, a gesture that usually earned him at least a few nods of approval. This time it garnered three gun barrels coming two feet closer. He allowed his smile to fall. Fast. “See how little faith they have? See how they live in fear? It is a sad indictment of modern life that a man might not welcome his neighbors…”
“It’s a realistic reaction to a situation in which you shot a member of your own team in front of us…” Josephine had done it again. Turned the conversation away from his target.
He had to ignore her and move on. He was more persuasive than Josephine Morgan. She was reserved where he was outgoing; mousey where he was flamboyant; reticent where he was sure-footed; and vacillating where he was utterly and completely sure of his convictions. She’d never out-argue him in spite of her book learning. She wasn’t capable.
He paused. It would be a mistake to allow his conviction to blossom into arrogance. Looked at in an impartial light, Josephine had steered the argument back to the topic she wished to discuss—namely the dead body before them—more than once.
He had no choice.
He had to tackle that topic head on, then return to his invitation to join Wolfjaw. If he worked quickly, he could blend the two arguments. Who of this number were going to be paying close attention to the rules of debate? Maybe one? Two, perhaps, in addition to Josephine who tracked everything he said with great precision. No one else would notice. He could address what she wanted him to address and fold in his invitation to join Wolfjaw.
“We’re an independent community made up of free thinkers. We don’t believe in beating about the bush or half measures. Neither do we believe in a justice system that delivers no justice.”
“But how do you know it was him? How do you know for a fact that he killed Lopez?” Sandrino stuttered.
That was the perfect question. Alistair could make his case now. Thank goodness for the predictability of the grunt. He turned to Jacinta. “Did you confirm he was our shooter?”
Jacinta nodded.
“Three eyewitnesses?”
She nodded again.
“There,” said Alistair. “He was your shooter. Confirmed. Justice was served.”
“But…” Sandrino had gotten what he asked for only to find he didn’t want what he thought he wanted. Or rather, he wanted it but balked when time for words was over and the time for action had begun.
Alistair had no such doubt. They’d found a verified rule breaker; one who’d take them all down if allowed to flourish and spread dissent. The man now bleeding onto the road had killed someone, contrary to their community standards. First contact was always bloodless. That was the rule. When people arrived you gave them the benefit of the doubt. Shots were fired, but over their heads. The goal was to startle and confound them, cause them to scatter, not kill them. What use were they if they were dead?
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said. “You’re going to put your weapons on the ground, as I have done, and we’re going to talk about real life. Not about what you’ve accepted or allowed yourselves to agree is ‘good enough’ but how good it can be, if you put your mind to it.”
The general stepped closer. “We will do no such thing.”
Alistair lifted his left hand very slowly, crooked his index finger, and beckoned his remaining militiamen to rise up from the grassy verges along the sides of the highway. They appeared like wraiths emerging from a storm cloud, silent but filled with menace.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Aggie and Petra dragged Bill to the house and installed him on the loveseat on the back deck. His screams had turned to sobs, but they weren’t slowing. The noise had set the dogs off. One set of barks was deep and rumbling, the other high and insistent almost as if a windup toy dog had been paired with the bark setting of a sophisticated burglar alarm. The former made you want to kiss his little face, the latter would set you to running. Aggie tried to locate them. Where had Mom stashed the dogs? The yelps and booms were coming from the barn. Ok, good. So the dogs were safe at least.
Aggie hunched down and tried to get her dad to look at her. His eyes were glassy, staring off into the distance. His brain had disengaged from reality and left him swamped in pain and confusion. He repeated the same thing over and over: “She was too young. It doesn’t make sense.”
Mimi and Bryony were standing in the kitchen, watching through the picture window that looked out onto the back porch. Mimi’d had the good sense to keep the little girl inside, away from the panic and confusion. Bryony had her hands over her ears, even though her splint limited her range of motion.
They didn’t have time for this. Aggie had to beam Dad back into his body and get him grounded in reality so she could bundle him in a car and drive him to their salt mine. What wasn’t to like about that? It was just your normal, everyday, “got to get ahead of the nuclear fallout” kind of day. She couldn’t think about the freak-out factor. That would stall her. She needed to focus on small, manageable goals, all leading to the final back-of-the-net score. Betsy had talked him down. She could do the same. He always listened to her.
“Dad. Dad? I need you to take a deep breath.”
He did. One deep breath followed by three long howls that made the skin on her arms pucker like the skin of a Thanksgiving turkey before it went into the oven.
It was all going wrong. Mom and Dad had come back, but instead of things getting better, they’d gotten worse. Dad was groaning and writhing on the wicker loveseat, but he couldn’t stay there. They needed to get him drugged up—perhaps even knocked out if they couldn’t get the pain and panic under control—so they could move him to safety.
She shook out two oxy from the bottle, gave Petra instructions to get a LifeStraw and some water from the well, then handed her the pills. “Get those down him. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Where are you going? Don’t leave me here. He’s not doing well. I couldn’t bear it if he…” She didn’t need to say the last word.
“I’ll be right back. I’m going to get the car keys.” She didn’t wait for an answer or more questions.
Mimi cracked the back door and shouted after her, but all she heard was “dogs” and though she loved all animals—they were better behaved than people on most days—she couldn’t stop to take care of Mom’s new pets. She’d do that when she got back. Mimi would have to suck it up and deal with the fact that they were ba
rking their heads off.
As she pounded across the front yard she stole a look at Indie, who she’d left tethered to a tree over behind the backhoe. She, at least, wasn’t flipping out. If only she hadn’t gotten her all rigged up like that she could have ridden her through the trees. But the straps dangling off her rear would make that a total disaster. Aggie could have gone to the barn and tried to mount Floofy. She’d managed to get a saddle on the alpaca, but actually riding her, rather than using her as a pack animal? Floofy had never been ridden. It would be a disaster. Aggie had no choice, she had to run not ride.
The woods were familiar, but that didn’t seem to help. Every pokey-outey tree root was out to get her, every branch too low. Someone had taken the familiar elements of her world—home, Dad, nature—and jumbled them so they no longer meant what they’d meant before. She couldn’t conjure her dad’s voice to help her find her way. When she tried, all she got were his rabid screams.
She stopped at the Humvee. She had to look for the keys, even if the chances that Fran had left them in the vehicle were one in a million. She didn’t want to see Fran’s blood and brains again—all lumpy and gross like a cross between raw hamburger and bloody mushrooms—if she could possibly help it. She hopped into the driver’s seat. If the keys weren’t in any of those little places people tucked their keys she’d just have to tie a knot in her esophagus and get over there and tell Mom she had to rummage through a dead woman’s pockets because Dad was a basket case and she couldn’t transport this many sick people with one horse.
