Last Call America- Last Call Before Darkness Falls

by Debra Tash

  The captain stopped the Humvee in the middle of the road. “Head of the local militia,” Maggie explained as she opened the rear passenger door.

  Dressed in a thick winter coat, olive green pants, and heavy boots, the stranger had his face covered with a ski mask. “What a show, Mags, what a show,” he said as he slid onto the seat and pulled the door shut. “Too bad about the house, though.”

  “Everything of value is in the Bunker.” She cocked her head in my direction. “And right here.”

  The man set his hat to the side and pulled off the knitted ski mask to reveal a middle-aged face, round with full cheeks. Flushed from the cold, his skin was ruddy, his eyes brown, small but piercing, and his mouth thin, serious even, as he cracked a smile. He extended his hand. “Dr. Daniel Andrews. Medical doctor and later a trained psychiatrist, for what it’s worth nowadays. Former DHS in psy-ops.”

  Poole and I returned the gesture and shook his hand as we introduced ourselves.

  “You weren’t the one taking potshots at us yesterday?” I asked.

  “Me and my team,” the doctor confessed. “We all love to take potshots at anything from the government.”

  “Even though you were once from the government,” I observed, skeptical.

  “And just like your mom here, I realized I had to stop them.”

  “Well, whatever made you turn, thank the good Lord we were in an armored vehicle when you and your team tried your best to pick us off,” Poole bellowed.

  “Amen, brother!” Dr. Andrews shouted as he pulled off his gloves and blew on his hands. “Now let’s ride, Commander.”

  Poole paused a moment as if absorbing the sound of his new title—Commander. He threw the Humvee in gear and hit the gas.

  Sergeant Hernandez grabbed the poker and jabbed at the logs toasting inside the stove’s iron belly. The fire stirred to life. Maggie and Dr. Andrews were on the couch with Christina seated to one side of them, her legs curled beneath her, gaze cast downward. I sat on the floor in the corner of the room opposite them, while Poole lounged in the office chair behind Father’s desk, a near-empty bottle of beer in his hand.

  The captain leaned forward, elbows planted on top of the desk as he asked, “Have a question for our keeper of human experience?”

  David put the fire screen in place and turned his back to the stove. His features were calm as his gaze settled on his superior officer.

  “You think we have a chance of making some history tomorrow?” Poole asked.

  “Did they think they were going to make any at Lexington and Concord?” Hernandez mused.

  My sister lifted her gaze, her beautiful brown eyes wide as they focused on the sergeant.

  “Lexington and Concord?” Poole raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  David let out a deep sigh. “Did they think they were going to start a war? Face down the biggest military force of their time?” He shrugged. “Does anyone think that? Or were they just trying to take a stand? Say—enough.” He crossed his arms. “Maybe they knew something would change. Maybe they understood it needed to change. That spring morning the colonists waited for the British regulars. They met them on the green in Lexington. Outnumbered. Outgunned. But the colonists stood their ground. For posterity or for themselves? It’s anybody’s guess. But it sure didn’t matter to seven of them. That’s the truth.” He uncrossed his arms and jammed his hands into his pants pockets. “The ones who died.”

  I swallowed.

  “Seven American militia. No one knew who fired first. Maybe you know that. But who remembers the British went on to Concord to search for the colonists’ stockpile of arms? They were met on the bridge. It was the regulars who were outnumbered and outgunned that time. They made history that day. All of them. And some of them paid a high price for it.”

  Poole raised the bottle. “Here’s to history and the hope we aren’t turning out the lights.”

  “On ourselves?” I asked.

  “On posterity. ‘A thousand years of darkness.’ Quoting Reagan.” His mouth tipped up at one corner. “David’s not the only one who knows his history.” He downed the remaining beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Let’s hope for another shot heard around the world.”

  Everyone remained silent as the fire crackled in the stove and the wind bellowed outside.

  I got to my feet, heart thudding as I started for the door. “How about another beer?” Poole called.

  “Sure,” I answered, with no intent on fetching him another one from the cellar.

  Instead, I went to the bedroom Dad and Vera had shared. For the last week, Christina and I had bunked there. We’d given up our rooms to accommodate Maggie and Dr. Andrews as we hammered out the details for our own Lexington. I went to the window and drew open the curtains. Brilliant moonlight streamed through panes dusted with icy snow. With both hands on the cold glass, I tried to calm myself, but I couldn’t quite catch my breath.

  “Rib?”

  I turned at the sound of Tina saying my pet name.

  “Tiny.” I confided in a hoarse whisper, “I’m so afraid.”

  “Not you. You’re strong.”

  I stepped away from the window, sat on the edge of the bed, and folded my hands in my lap.

  She took a place beside me. Several long moments went by before I finally admitted, “It’s too much.”

  “Rib?”

  “It’s too much,” I repeated, revealing my buried wound. “All of it. What Maggie said about Vera and Dad. What’s happening. Too much.” Tears pooled in my eyes. “I’m afraid, Tiny. For you. For me. More afraid than I’ve ever been.”

  She drew her fingers through my hair like Vera used to do when I would wake up from a nightmare. I started to tremble. I’d told her the truth. I was more frightened and unsure of myself than I’d ever been in my whole life.

  Someone cleared their throat. Startled, we both looked to the doorway to see Poole with the others standing behind him. “Another beer was a bad idea. Hernandez and I are leaving.” He gave me a small salute. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow,” I echoed.

  The two officers departed, leaving Maggie and the doctor behind.

  “Goodnight, ladies,” Maggie said. The doctor bid us goodnight as well.

  Tina got up from the bed and looked out window as I had done moments before. The night was bathed in a heavenly light. It flowed around my sister, surrounded her to form an angelic crown. “Tomorrow,” she murmured. “Maybe after tomorrow no one will have to be afraid again.”

  PART 2: REVOLUTION

  CHAPTER 9

  My toes were numb as the cold seeped through my winter boots. Heavy snow had fallen that morning, and though it’d stopped for now, the ground wore a deep frosted coat as we stood in the long line at the Distribution Center. Christina slapped her arms around her middle and danced from foot to foot in an attempt to get warm. This was the fourth Thursday of November, Thanksgiving Day, so different from all the other Thanksgivings I’d shared with my sister. Memories of coming with her and Vera to the building we now waited to get inside; those were different Thanksgiving Days when we’d shop for the holiday meal at our local supermarket. Even last year with no store-bought turkey to be had, Christina roasted a fat chicken and made a pie filled with canned cherries from our stash in the cellar. It’d been a desolate celebration with our father’s chair vacant at the kitchen table. We whispered a toast, given with love to his memory. Now, there was this year with no chicken and no pie, and for most of our neighbors, it would be nothing more than what the government would give them.

  Mrs. Bradley and her son were directly behind us. She kept picking him up and cooing in his ear. Then she would set him down when he got restless, repeating it again when the cold chilled his small toes. My stomach knotted at the sound of her comforting words.

  Today. It would start today.

 
; As we approached the Distribution Center’s front door, I jammed my hands into the pockets of my heavy jacket to steady myself. The soldier standing guard had to be a year or two younger than Tina. His complexion, ruddy from the cold, had been scarred by acne. His lips were drawn taut, his jaw flexing as if he were mustering his courage. We kept looking at one another, our gazes fixed, our exhaled breath steaming plumes in the cold winter air.

  The young soldier finally unshouldered his rifle and aimed its barrel straight at me as he announced in a shrill voice, “No more rations today!”

  People craned their necks. Mrs. Bradley gasped as the line behind her rippled like a restless snake ready to strike.

  “By order of the Federal authority. This Center is closed for today!” the soldier bellowed.

  “Closed!” I yelled, that rifle pointed at my heart. “Bastard! That’s our food in there! You have no right to keep us out!”

  “Clear the street!” he barked, waving his weapon in the line’s direction.

  No one left.

  “The whole company’s been called out! Disperse. Now!” Still no one made a move to leave.

  “Bastard!” I cried. “Let us in!”

  A roar rose from the crowd, a guttural howl. The people transformed into a pack of animals that’d been starved for far too long and were now driven by fear. The line congealed into a mass with one goal—to get through that front door and overwhelm anyone inside. Christina and I were pushed forward. I tried to grab her hand but my sister fell behind. I fought to keep my place and let the throng swarm past me. But I couldn’t help but be swept along. Shoved ahead, I nearly tripped over the soldier who had stood guard at the door. He’d fallen and just managed to roll clear as the mob surged forward.

  There was furious disorder inside the Center as people poured through the doorway. They fanned out in the open space, attacked anyone who had already been given their provisions. Those unfortunate souls were mauled as their goods were ripped from them. Government workers and the few guards who had been standing watch were dragged from behind the folding tables where they’d been parceling out supplies. They were pushed into the open area and beaten. People retrieved boxes that had lined the walls behind the tables.

  I scrambled to find my sister, but couldn’t spot her in the ululating beast of the mob. There were hundreds and hundreds of people, nearly the whole town, it seemed, crammed into that massive space. The Youngmans, who lived across the street from us, my old history teacher, childhood companions, neighbors, friends, all familiar faces whose features were contoured with hysteria as they fought for scraps.

  “Christina!” Her name flew from my mouth when I finally spotted her. She stood all alone, but the Bradleys were nowhere in sight.

  I fought my way forward, finally latched onto her hand, and dragged her clear of the tumult. We managed to take cover behind the supermarket’s old meat counter. We sheltered there, that rusty metal shell our only protection as the mob grew even more frenzied. I saw an older couple I knew from church. Someone shoved the wife and sent her tumbling to the floor. The husband struggled to get her to her feet even as she was pushed down again. I stood, ready to help, when the tat-tat-tat of gunfire sounded. Another barrage let loose until everyone froze.

  “Americans! This is your Last Call!”

  I turned, my muscles tight with strain even though I knew that voice all too well.

  There stood Poole, his entire company lined up behind him, blocking the front entrance. I glanced to the rear exit. Those who were assigned to guard the Distribution Center stood at the back door, rifles aimed at the mob. Those troops had been bloodied, but not seriously wounded. Maggie and Dr. Andrews came out from what had been the stockroom of the market. The double doors swung closed behind them as they shoved their way forward through the throng until they had a clear view of Poole and his men. Dr. Andrews held a small pencil-sized camera capable of sending a sophisticated broadcast. Maggie had her tab, making sure that broadcast remained locked on a secure channel. We were on a live feed to every node in their closed, and very secret, network.

  Christina and I rounded the counter just as Poole took a few steps toward the silenced crowd. They backed away, eyes wide, mouths slightly open, palpable fear rippling through them.

  “Stand your American ground. This ground—yours by God-given right!” His voice boomed, and his gaze set on the crowd, even as he played to the camera. “Your property. Your food. Your medicine. And no son of a bitch bureaucrat should have the power to take it from you.”

  As if they had just been given leave to carry on their looting, a few in the crowd stirred.

  “Stop!” Poole ordered.

  A collective breath drew in as everyone stood still. The captain squared his shoulders. “Do you really think this government is on your side? Haven’t you noticed your rations being cut?”

  No response.

  “Have they sent you home hungry?”

  Timid murmurs, a few clear answers—“Yes.”

  “And if you didn’t go home, you’d be dead.” Silence again, then scattered words of denial.

  “We have orders to shoot you.” He motioned to his men, then swept his hand toward the crowd. “Shoot anyone who causes trouble. Shoot anyone who won’t comply. Shoot on sight. Without question. Is that the American way? Without a trial? No judge. No jury. Just shoot!”

  Poole’s gaze grew intense. “Is this the land of the free? The home of the brave?” His voice became tinged with disdain as he asked, “Or are you all just a bunch of sheep?”

  Not a whisper, not even a shout of anger, nothing.

  “And why?” He paused. “Is it because they’ve taken everything away from you? And then what? Did you rise up to take it back?” He spread his arms wide. “You didn’t do anything.” His arms dropped to his sides. “Well, let me tell you, they plan on taking until they finally take your life. Without wasting a bullet.” Poole squared his shoulders as he looked directly into the camera. “By the end of winter, most of you will be dead.”

  Frantic words were exchanged, with people shaking their heads. The captain walked up to the man who used to run one of the two dry cleaners in town. “You hungry?”

  Visibly shaken by being singled out, the man managed a single nod.

  “Starving?

  He nodded again.

  “That’s just what they want,” Poole spat. “The fewer of you who survive, the easier the rest will be to control. A brand new world would have dawned for America! The sheep have been”—he stomped his boot-clad foot—“smashed!”

  “Help m-me,” the dry cleaner spurted. “Ple-please.”

  The captain put his hand on the man’s shoulder, his features softening for a moment as he said, “You’re going to have to help yourself. You understand?”

  “How?” came the question, barely audible.

  “How?” Poole repeated in a loud voice. “By first realizing what they’ve done to make you sheep.” He left the man standing and walked before the crowd again, pausing here and there to fix his gaze on one person or another. “They’ve plucked away your freedoms one at a time. Taxing more of your money so they can take care of you. Telling you all what to do with your own property. Penalizing you if you don’t obey the millions of rules they’ve made. Whittling you down. For your welfare. For your safety. To be fair. To be kind. Until—damn it–you’ve forgotten how to take care of yourselves!”

  He pointed to the middle-aged woman who used to have a gift shop on Main. “You!”

  She tried to step back.

  Poole moved forward as he continued to single her out. “Tell me what’s left of America?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t you? Come on now. Think and tell me what’s left?”

  Her weary features brightened as she finally gave him an answer. “Me.”

  “That’s right, my f
riend.” He took her hand and drew her to his side. “We’re still here even after they legislated away our guns. Muffled our free speech with political correctness. Stole everything we’ve earned. Yes, thank God, we’re still here.”

  Poole drew in a deep breath and shouted, “For now! And only if you take a stand today—with me!” He pointed to the floor. “On this American ground answer the Last Call. Make them account for what they’ve robbed from every last one us of—our freedom!”

  Poole motioned to his men, each of whom I would come to understand were absolutely loyal to him, just as Maggie had said. They stepped aside, right down the center of their ranks, revealing a large truck filled with the armaments Father had stockpiled in our cellar. “Now you finally have a real choice. Not an easy one. But a choice. Stand and fight. With us and for yourselves. Fight and you may just win. Do nothing and you’ve already lost.”

  No one stepped forward to take up his challenge. I prepared to start things, just as I had baited the crowd outside the front door. But before I could move, someone else walked up to Poole. The woman had a young boy at her side. “Protect my son and I’ll stand with you.”

  Christina came forward, knelt, and held out her arms. His mother didn’t have to urge the child to go to my sister. The boy ran to Tina, letting her shelter him in her embrace. That day, Mrs. Bradley would be the first of many to fight. So many, nearly every single soul gathered there, would volunteer to win back their lives.

  Poole gave a signal to Maggie and Dr. Andrews to stop broadcasting. That was enough to win over their network. The captain gave an order to his men. “Provision these people. Make certain everyone has something to eat. Clear out everything in this warehouse.”

  His next order came to me. “Just as we discussed, Beck. You know what to do.”

  I did. I worked with Poole’s men, telling the soldiers who among all the townsfolk with whom I’d grown up could be trusted with a gun, and who was better left unarmed. Some understood already how to fire a weapon, while others would have to be shown the basics. One hundred or so of our townspeople were given rifles.