by Debra Tash
But it wasn’t over yet, not by half.
Not asking for help, not wanting any, I attempted to find the sick bay on my own and got lost in the facility’s underground maze. There were no signs in that complex. People passed by in the sterile corridors, eyeing me momentarily. Their mouths opened with unvoiced demands for my identity before they seemed overtaken by an inner epiphany. They knew who I was. Everyone there seemed to know. It was as if an advisory had gone out identifying Poole’s concubine, the lover of a man they now called “Commander.”
I finally found the sick bay. Off to one side, there was a room with what looked to be a stained-glass display in a small non-denominational chapel. The hospital itself had white walls and spotless white tiles, making it feel even more barren than the corridors I’d just ventured into. But it wasn’t as barren in comparison to the room I’d shared with Poole earlier in the day. No, those white walls belonged to an even starker landscape. Deven Michaels’ quarters wore no semblance of humanity.
The air in the sick bay smelled of some sweet outdoor scent…close to pine. Definitely a disinfectant, one that tugged at my senses, a reminder of the world outside that antiseptic space. Everything appeared quiet, nearly deserted. I stood in the main hallway, uncertain into which room they had taken my mother. “Ms. Sanders,” someone said in a barely audible voice.
I turned to a woman who had on a simple light-blue, short-sleeve shirt, with matching slacks pulled tight at the waist by a drawstring. Her graying hair was tucked under a cap. Such a small, stupid detail to be fixated on. She was wearing hospital scrubs.
“You must be looking for your mother.” She motioned for me to follow. “I’m the doctor in charge of this unit.”
I couldn’t move. I swallowed. “Sorry, it’s been a rough day.”
“On all of us. Now this way, Ms. Sanders.”
I trailed her to a room at the far end of the hallway. A soft rhythmic beeping chimed, the echo of a beating heart. Inside, Mother lay on a hospital bed, her jeans and sweatshirt replaced with a gown. Toasted air blew in through the vents, warming the room. It was still sterile and not at all comforting. Dr. Andrews sat beside her bed, checking the monitor and adjusting various gauges.
“Becky,” my mother said in a weak voice.
I came up beside Dr. Andrews as the woman in charge slipped out of the room. “I’m here, Mom.”
Beneath the clear plastic oxygen mask, her mouth curled into a smile.
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to keep my tears from escaping again.
Dr. Andrews slid out of the chair and offered it to me. I would have refused him but I felt so beaten down. I took his place and that’s when I broke in two.
“Mommy,” I said…a child’s plea. “I’m so sorry.”
She threaded her fingers through mine, the smile still on her face.
“Dr. Daniel Andrews.” A device, the size of a ping pong ball, floated in the open doorway. A small beam of light fanned out from a pinprick-sized source on its metal sphere. At the end of the cone of light was a hologram of Deven Michaels. “Dr. Andrews, please follow this pager. We are attempting communication with the militias and your assistance is required.”
“They can’t break my ciphers,” Andrews said with a smug look on his face.
“They could if they had the time. They don’t have any left,” my mother said, her voice even fainter. “Go help them, Gilly. Please.”
He hesitated. Then he let out a deep groan, nodded, and spoke to the pager, “Okay, take me to the little prick.”
When he’d gone, I studied my mother, the way she looked at the deserted doorway. “You care for him just as much as he cares for you.”
“Always….” Her smile grew brighter as her eyes widened.
“Mother?”
“Your father,” she whispered, then her gaze found me again.
“My father?”
“Never anyone else for me…ever…”
I understood now. Everything. How she had sent my father away, helped save him and another woman, her friend. Two people who would marry, lead another life, one in which my mother had no place.
“Let Gilly work. No matter what. Okay, Becky Baby? Let him be for now.” Her grip tightened. “I’m not alone anymore.”
I sat there quietly, never moving, even as her grip softened. Her hand grew lighter as if it had become part of an empty shell. With her eyes still open wide, her smile never diminishing, I sat there, knowing with certainty how much she had loved all of us. I sat there as her soul slipped free and the echo of her beating heart fell silent.
In the next half hour, I managed to make it to the staging area and quickly got lost in the activity. Finding a helmet and a uniform that fit, I armed myself.
With head lowered to avoid being recognized, I clasped the strap of the rifle slung over my shoulder as I entered the troop transport. This would be penance for my mistake. The transport rumbled to life as I sat pressed between soldiers seated on one of the benches inside the armored vehicle.
Above us, the large section of snow-covered asphalt tipped upward. Outside, the sun had broken through the mat of clouds. The first sunshine I’d seen in a long while streamed into the cavernous chamber, and showed on the transport’s video screen up front by the navigator. Somewhere inside me I felt a strange relief, almost a divine peace. I could die, reconciled with the ghosts of all those who had perished that day.
The transport moved, rocking us as it headed out for the Battle of Boston.
CHAPTER 19
The confines of the troop carrier were claustrophobic, no openings other than a ramp, and now that was closed. We were shuttered from the outside world. The only thing we could see was the large vid screen positioned for the navigator’s and driver’s use. It afforded a glimpse of the road ahead and a sliver of sky. We were encased in a green metal box. Long steel benches lined either side of the vehicle, just large enough for ten of us to sit packed together. Opposite were another ten seated across the narrow aisle. The chilled air smelled of sweat and boot leather. Worse yet, the transport shook with every pothole and bump. That and the closeness added to the chaos already plaguing my gut. The messed-up strikes on the bases, the loss of my mother, all in one incredibly shitty day and not even noon yet. I rested my head in my upturned palms.
“Must be a civvy,” someone said in a gruff voice. “And a scrawny one at that.”
I cocked my head and snarled, “Don’t worry, asshole. I’ll fight.”
“Maybe you will.” The man seated next to me chuckled. “As scrawny as you are.”
I sat up and pushed my back against the cold, unforgiving metal. “Are there many civilians?”
“On this trolley?” The man snorted. “Most of us here are from Poole’s company. But plenty of civvies have volunteered. And even more regulars coming to the staging areas to join up. Us regulars will be the backbone. You can count on that. We have the numbers, too. Scrawny, we’re a fucking army now.”
I studied him a moment—a large man, ill-kempt, black stubble on his face nearly long enough to count as a beard, faded uniform worn through in places. He looked ragged but not beaten. There was a certain resolve behind his analytical gaze.
“What about DHS?”
Now he outright laughed. “You are raw. Not on this ride or anywhere in the outfit.”
“But Cap—” I cleared my throat. “I mean, I heard Commander Poole was going to give DHS agents a choice. Join up or leave.”
“From what I heard, most are getting a bullet to the head when they’re captured.” He shrugged. “That ain’t much of a choice.”
I hunched over again, my stomach twisting even more, remembering what Poole had said when we were at the captured DHS base. The discussion between the captain, Mother, and Dr. Andrews. Jason was going to give DHS the opportunity to choose sides.
“You look
like you’re going to heave, Scrawny. Hell, you should have stayed holed up in your own damn living room. You ain’t got the chops.”
My hands balled into fists as I snapped, “Shut up!”
He whistled.
“I’ll fight. And I’ll have your back,” I grumbled, “It’s one hell of a big target.”
His mouth twisted up in one corner. “Maybe you do have the chops.”
I rested my head in my hands again. I had made my own choice and now I knew the truth. Poole had lied to me, proving himself no better than the people we’d risen up against to win back our freedom.
When we came to a halt, the large panel at the rear of the transport slowly lowered. Without an order given, we rose to our feet in unison, formed two lines, and silently exited the vehicle. My breath caught when I saw we were inside a DHS base. I braced myself for the casualties, the vacant stares of corpses, the wreckage Michaels’ weapon had wrought. But the field had been cleared of bodies. Instead, that snowy parade ground bustled with activity—people exiting transports similar to the one in which we had been ferreted, MRAPs, other conveyances, and a great deal of equipment all either parked or in the process of being positioned for use.
The layout looked familiar. I knew so little, at first thinking maybe all these bases were configured the same. But it was the surroundings, the lack of any buildings in the immediate area, and a large stand of trees not far outside the western fence line. It had all happened so fast that Thanksgiving Day, the way Poole had taken us up to the entrance and into the compound. The hangar with its open bay door, the Command Center and barracks off to the right…I’d been here before. This was the base we’d captured, then abandoned. The exact same place Michaels had used to demonstrate the weapon. A chill ran along my spine, one much deeper than anything the cool December breeze could have caused. My mother had collapsed here, the spot not far from where I stood, and the people from Farmsworth had been herded by DHS agents outside that entrance, brought here as human shields.
“Look lively!” someone barked. I snapped to attention.
We were ordered to form up with another group of recent arrivals. With a sharp turn, we moved together—left, right, left. Our unit marched over, forming two neat lines of ten behind the others. They were regulars, not a civilian among them, at least from what I could observe standing in the back row. Farmsworth, my hometown, and this base, kept nagging at me. I remembered watching as the device was deployed. The DHS agents who had entered with weapons readied were caught by the second wave, along with Lois Bradley’s son. I searched but couldn’t find any sign of her or the child she’d lost or the agents Poole had ordered executed here.
We were told to join up with an even larger contingent. As we marched, I fell back, quietly slipping away from my unit as I snuck through the front entrance. There, just outside the gate, was where DHS had held my neighbors at gunpoint. The same spot where those neighbors had gone on the attack. Traces of blood were still visible on the ground. It’d dried to a dirty smudge and been pushed down into tire tracks. I pressed a hand to my chest and tried to quiet my breathing. But it still came in short gulps as emotions tore at my heart. There had been too much today, way too much…memories piled on top of regret.
The wind blew, whipping up swirls of snow beyond the rutted tracks. It smelled fresh as it carried the promise of a respite from the recent storms. It was the same smell from my childhood, after the snow had stopped falling and we could take out our sleds and ride down the nearby hill. Such a sweet memory to hold as I stood near that ground stained with blood.
I took a step back and looked off into the distance, anything to stop seeing that dirty smudge marring the snow-covered earth at my feet. Sunshine played along the crystals of ice set to flight, causing them to shimmer as they danced and fell back to earth. A cloud skittered across the sky, momentarily swallowing the daylight as it sent its fleeting shadow across the winter landscape. There were shouts, the sound of machinery, and that wind clearing the heavens of clouds all chattering in my ears.
“Rebecca Sanders.”
I started at the sound of my name. Hand tightening on my rifle, I turned to face a ghostly figure standing by the gate. Lois Bradley had armed herself with an automatic. Clothing in disarray, hair tousled, she looked at me with eyes reddened from a thousand tears.
“They killed my son,” she cried in a hoarse voice loud enough to be heard above the clamor behind her and the whistling wind.
I remained mute, not wanting to confess I already knew, or how I knew. It wouldn’t help, not now, not ever. How could it?
She pointed her rifle in my direction, not at me, but to a place beyond. “He’s there. I buried him under that maple tree.” Her voice choked. “He loved maple trees. The candy…really.” Bradley lowered the rifle. “That’s where I buried my son.”
With that, she walked away, disappearing into the activity as we prepared to go to war.
CHAPTER 20
Once again, I sat in a troop transport, this time with no way to see the passing landscape. There were over forty of us sandwiched inside the larger conveyance. Firearms were stowed in easily accessible racks on the ceiling as we sat shoulder to shoulder, our boot-clad feet planted on the steel flooring. The closeness made it feel warm even as our breath, frothing into vapor, gave proof of the freezing temperature. I tried to stretch my legs and not think about the discomfort. But I had little to do but think.
Seeing Lois Bradley at the gate caused me more pain, when I couldn’t even bear what already lay on my soul. I had remained outside the wire for a long while after she’d left. It had taken all my will to head back inside and join my company as we prepared for the assault. We were told what to expect and what was expected of us and what to do when, not if, we came under fire. Still, I hadn’t paid much attention. My focus remained on Bradley, that heartbreaking image of her standing there broken, all alone in the cold December light.
The rumble of the engine shook me out of my brooding. We’d been idling and I had no way of knowing for how long. Now we were moving down the road again. I studied the men and women who traveled with me. Their expressions were stone, their jaws set and their eyes fixed ahead, seemingly locked on something unseen. They were part of an organic killing machine programmed for conquest of their own countrymen. I should have stayed focused. I should have listened. But with my mind in tatters, my soul torn, I’d disconnected, uncertain of the purpose I now served. Were we liberators or executioners? Poole…the man who had taken me to bed. I stared at my boots, studied the waffled pattern of the steel flooring, as I tried to think of anything but Poole.
“Scrawny.” Someone nudged me. I lifted my gaze to see the big lummox who had taunted me earlier on the other transport. He had gotten out of his seat, come over, and touched his index finger to the side of my helmet. “You listening to the tap?”
“What?”
He grunted. “Civvy.” He took that index finger, slid it inside my helmet, and pushed on a spot located close to my right ear.
My line of sight became veiled with an electronic screen, transparent enough to see through but opaque enough to hold an image. A map, or maps, one after the other were being displayed, exhibits for the ongoing dialog I could hear now.
“You see and hear the tap but no one else can,” he said. “You get it?”
I nodded.
“Damn, civvy.” He grunted and returned to his seat.
We were being given orders, along with a continuous tactical feed of our deployment. My education would be swift as I forced myself to move beyond the muddle of emotions and give my attention to the tap being shown on the vids. Our unit belonged to an infantry company with three rifle platoons, our group being one of them. Again we stopped, but this time I knew why. We were forming a convoy, gathering up troop carriers with enough men to make for a full battalion that would be well over twelve hundred strong.
&nbs
p; The strategy envisioned concentric rings, each one closer to the city’s heart. We would secure a ring, then push forward. Battalions would be positioned as far out as Cambridge, Brookline, Revere, Somerville, and Dorchester at the start. Then inward, circling downtown as we moved across the Charles River over bridges and through the Callahan and Sumner Tunnels under the inner harbor. We would be an invading horde. There must have been massive desertions and then some to our side. A large number of the rank and file of enlisteds were with us. But I had no idea if the local militias were involved. Could Sergeant Hernandez, our designated commander for this operation, have organized an army and put a plan in place this fast?
We stopped again, but this time, through the tap, we were ordered to exit the vehicle. The convoy had arrived at our first objective, Cambridge, on the eastern edge of the outer ring. Guns locked and held ready, we fanned out from our starting point on Cambridge Street where it intersected Broadway. Leaving Harvard at our rear, we were to secure all the area from there to Charles Park along the river.
The helmet screen guided my advance, giving a template as it showed me the direction and pathway to take. On it were red blurs skittering across my field of vision. Thermals, people attempting to run and hide from our advance. Supply trucks pulled in behind us on Broadway. But these weren’t loaded with ammunition. They were provision haulers, bringing food and other goods to a starved and ragged population. Thermals started to come out of hiding, hands up, surrendering when they weren’t even combatants.
I could see beyond my vid to the hollow-eyed emptiness on their faces, the deep and brutal look of want, as they moved quietly past armed troops to grab stores being offloaded from the carriers. We would win this round of the battle giving handouts from DHS installations that had been emptied of rations. These wearied souls didn’t need a plastic card to redeem the foodstuffs we offered. The only thing they had to do was present themselves. They were easy to identify, Americans who had been cheated of their life, and our first tactical move was to give it back to them.
