Our War

by Craig DiLouie

  “I captured this little girl. She’s hurt.”

  The doctor glanced at her. “She’s in shock.”

  “She’s a lib fighter. I don’t want to take her prisoner. That facility is no place for her, and I can’t send her back. She’s a kid. She needs to be out of the war.”

  “Then keep her out of it.”

  “I can’t take care of her. We’re in the middle of a battle.”

  “And I have loads of free time, is that it?”

  Mitch growled and turned on his heel to leave.

  “Take her to the UN,” the doctor called after him. “UNICEF. When they’re not plotting Marxist tyranny, they’re actually doing some good. And, Lieutenant?”

  “What?”

  “I hope they kill you for what you did to the Indy 300.”

  Mitch dropped a pack of Camels on the desk on his way out. “It wasn’t me.”

  He returned to the waiting area and found two walking-wounded soldiers from First Platoon. “You two. Find any libs here and load them in my truck. I’m taking them to their lines.”

  The men glanced at each other. “Are you serious?”

  “Move,” he said, “before the doc has to tweezer my bootlaces out of your ass.”

  They snapped to it. “Yes, sir.”

  The soldiers hauled the wounded libs and set them in the truck bed. When all of them were loaded up, Mitch tied a bloody sheet to the aerial and got in.

  “Stupid,” he thought aloud.

  Hannah Miller said nothing, still feeling around her holster as if her gun might magically appear.

  He started the truck. “I’m trying to help you, kid. Don’t ask me why.”

  Sure, she reminded him of Jill, and he felt like he owed her for ditching her and her mother on the road to Indy, but that wasn’t enough to justify what he was doing. The entire militia was beating it for Fairfax, the libs hot on their heels, and here he was driving around looking for the UN.

  To hell with it. He stepped on the gas and started moving. He was doing this, and that was it. He didn’t owe anybody an explanation except maybe himself. If he survived, he could wrestle with it later. All he knew right now was he wanted her out of the war. As long as she was in it, Abigail was right—it wasn’t worth fighting.

  He said, “You should know I had a soft spot for your brother, don’t ask me why on that either. I can tell you he was a good kid. A good soldier too.”

  Hannah said nothing, which was just as well.

  A knot of fighters flagged him down. He pulled over and rolled down his window. “What’s your unit?”

  “Third Platoon. You’re Mitch Thornton, Second’s commander.”

  “That’s right.”

  The soldier eyed the white sheet hanging from the aerial. “Are we surrendering?”

  “Keep it moving,” he said. “We’re going back to Fairfax.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He drove back onto the road. Soon, he’d run into the libs and probably get drilled full of holes for playing the Good Samaritan.

  They were going to kill him.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he said.

  The first libs he found were Free Women. They emerged like wolves from the darkness as he approached honking. He turned off his radio and extended his hands out the window for them to see. He hoped they saw the white flag and that a white flag still meant something.

  They didn’t shoot. Maybe they were too damn surprised. They surrounded the truck and pointed their guns at his head.

  A woman peered inside and settled her eyes on him. “You lost?”

  “I’m looking for Abigail.”

  She scowled as another fighter called out, “He’s got our wounded in the back!”

  “I’m bringing them to you so you can take care of them. The docs can’t handle it.” Mitch gestured to Hannah. “I also brought her.”

  The woman turned to her comrades. “He’s got Hannah Miller with him.”

  “I want to bring her to Abigail. Abigail Thornton.”

  “Thornton’s her married name. She isn’t married.”

  “Abigail Fulham then.”

  “How do you know her?”

  “I’m the guy whose last name is Thornton.”

  The woman’s face stretched in an unfriendly grin. “So you’re Mitch.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re crazy, is what you are. I should shoot you now and make her day, but she’ll probably want to do it herself.” Her facade slipped. “You know you just put yourself in deeper shit than you can imagine. What are you trying to do?”

  “I didn’t want her growing up in a prison camp. I’m taking her to Abigail. She’ll know what to do with her. This girl needs to get out of this war.”

  The woman stepped away and talked on her radio while Mitch sweated in the truck and hoped Hannah stayed quiet.

  “Mount up, sisters,” the woman said. “We’re going to see Abigail.”

  She went around to the passenger side and hopped in. The women climbed into the back and tapped the roof. They were ready to go.

  “You want me to drive?” Mitch said.

  “That a problem?”

  “I thought you might want to blindfold me.”

  “Because that’s how you think. We want you to see our strength. I will, however, be sitting here with a gun pointed at your head.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Mitch drove east. The libs grew thicker until crowds of them marched down the streets. Many of them carried torches and flags. He spotted Free Women, Indy 300, Rainbow Warriors all marching together and chanting, “THE PEOPLE, UNITED, WILL NEVER BE DEFEATED.”

  “Take a good look around,” the woman said.

  He already was. They had impressive numbers, he had to give them that. Plenty of weapons, including quality weapons captured from dead patriots. No police, though. The IMPD was still staying on the other side of the White. This was useful intel. The libs weren’t as united as they thought they were.

  The crowd thinned as he drove on toward Stringtown. The woman told him to park in front of a Catholic church.

  Abigail came out glowering. “Mitch Thornton. You’ve got brass balls, I’ll give you that.”

  He got out of the truck and appraised her. “You look good, Abigail.”

  Her glare softened a bit. “I see your ankle’s still bothering you.”

  “Nothing I can’t handle.” His eyes dropped to her arm in a sling. “Looks like we dinged you.”

  “And we dinged you back. A whole lot of women, Blacks, Latinos, and gays who aren’t taking your crap anymore. How about that?”

  He shrugged. He didn’t care what his enemies looked like or did in the bedroom. He only cared they wanted a different country than he and the founding fathers wanted.

  The women started unloading the wounded and bringing them into the church.

  She said, “So what is all this, some kind of mission of mercy?”

  “Call it whatever you want.” He jerked his thumb toward the truck. “Mostly, I’m here because of her.”

  Abigail ran over and led Hannah out by the hand. “What happened?”

  “You know she had a brother named Alex?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Yup. And she was the one who did it.”

  She hugged the girl tight. “Oh, baby.”

  “She doesn’t belong here. I’m hoping you can get her out of it.”

  “This was our war,” Abigail said to the girl. “We never should have involved you. I’m so sorry.”

  “You can get her out,” Mitch repeated. “Talk to that UNICEF woman.”

  “Mitch Thornton.” Abigail stood. “After all this…”

  “Don’t get sappy,” Mitch said.

  “Don’t tell me what to feel. I’m trying to say you did good.”

  “Just paying a debt.”

  “I’ll let your conscience decide that. And now you’d better get going before somebody shoots you. Patrice, take him back to his people
.”

  The woman who’d accompanied Mitch here glared at him. “Just like that?”

  “I came under a flag of truce,” he pointed out.

  “That used to mean something before you started shooting prisoners.”

  “That wasn’t me.”

  “Yeah,” Patrice said. “You were just following orders, right?”

  “I said it wasn’t me. My militia doesn’t shoot prisoners.”

  The woman said to Abigail, “Sabrina will know what to do with him.”

  “No,” Abigail said. “It ain’t a dictatorship. At least not yet.”

  “She’s the commander.”

  “Wasn’t I your commander for a year? Did I do wrong by you? We all know what his people have done. Sometimes, we can put the war aside for a minute and do what’s right. He just did. I figure we can do the same.”

  Patrice stared at Mitch as if picturing his balls in a vise. “All right, sisters, you heard the lady. Mount up!”

  “Thanks, Abigail,” he said. “I know you’ll take good care of her.”

  “You take care of yourself, Mitch. Watch yourself out there, because we ain’t playing around anymore. We’re coming for you.”

  “I survived twelve years of marriage. I figure I can make it through this.”

  On impulse, she gave him a hug goodbye with her good arm. Before he could return it, she turned and led the girl by the hand into the church.

  That hug. After so long, it felt surprisingly good.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Aubrey bicycled to the offices of the Indy Chronicle through cheering crowds and the distant peal of church bells. Everywhere, people hugged and leaned out apartment windows to bang pots and pans. They spotted the Chronicle placard on her bicycle and waved. She waved back laughing, feeling light as a feather as she zoomed past.

  Yesterday, while Aubrey slept off her crushing New Year’s hangover, Leftist militias destroyed the First Angels and put the Liberty Tree to flight. In the end, not much had changed. After fierce nighttime fighting, the rebels held in Fairfax, and rumors had it another rebel militia was moving in to support the line. Nonetheless, it had changed everything. A stunning victory. The rebels weren’t invincible. The oppressive atmosphere of fear and dread had lifted.

  She locked her bike in the lobby and tramped up the dark stairs until she reached her floor. As always, staffers shouted across the bull pen while they clacked on their typewriters, the air stale and foul with cigarette smoke. After spending the last few days with Rafael in Castle luxury, it was like returning from a great vacation, trepidation at returning to reality mixed with the comfort of coming home.

  Aubrey had finished her story and saw it published in one of the world’s most respected newspapers. Now she was ready for whatever came next.

  “Eckert wants to see you,” Garcia called from his typewriter.

  “What’s his mood?”

  “He’s got the holler tail this morning. I saw dimples.”

  When Eckert was pissed off, he ground his teeth, which resulted in dimples winking on the sides of his face.

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  Garcia ignored her, already back to his story.

  The editor looked up from his desk as she came in, his good eye glowering. “You don’t know how to answer a phone?”

  “I tried to call you back—”

  “But my phone’s been busy, right.” The dimples winked in a steady rhythm on his stubbled jaw. “Because I’ve been talking to Mr. Webb trying to strategize how to contain the damage you did.”

  “The Guardian would have gotten onto it anyway.”

  “Are you sure you’re a reporter? Because you always seem to miss my point by a mile, even when I spell it out for you in crayon. Your name is on the story.”

  “The story’s out,” Aubrey said. “It’s done.”

  She thought of one of her favorite quotes, something Mark Twain once said. When the world tells you to move, you hold your ground for truth and tell the world, No, you move.

  He sighed and ran his hands through his hair. “Grab a seat. Let’s talk.”

  She sat across from him. “Have you gotten any blowback?”

  “No,” he admitted. “Not yet.”

  “I don’t think anything’s going to happen. I really don’t.”

  “We’ll see.” He smiled. “I guess I should say congratulations on getting published by The Guardian before I let you have it any further.”

  “Are you firing me?”

  “No, I was going to yell at you some more, but screw it.” He sighed again. “What’s done is done, like you said. If something’s going to happen, saying we fired you won’t make any difference.”

  “I’m sorry I put the paper at risk,” Aubrey said. “I really am. But this was—”

  “Please stop. I smell platitudes coming on.” He fished a Marlboro from its pack and thumbed it to his lips. “You gave us some distance by getting it in another newspaper. That doesn’t put you in the clear, though. Frankly, I’m more worried about you than the paper at this point.”

  “I’ll be all right.” Though she was no longer sure about that.

  “Just watch your back. Okay?”

  “I will.”

  “Okay, new business. What have you got for me?”

  “The first UNICEF shipment is coming into the airport today.”

  Eckert lit the cigarette. He put his feet on the desk and inspected the cloud of smoke. “My last pack.”

  “Looks like I may be calling in sick tomorrow.” She didn’t want to be anywhere near him if he couldn’t find more cigarettes.

  He snorted. “Work the UNICEF story. Now that your pet project is over, I want you beating the street until you come up with more—”

  Their phones rang at the same time.

  He frowned at the number before answering. “Eckert.”

  Aubrey went out into the hall. “Aubrey Fox.”

  The signal wobbled but was legible. “This is Abigail Fulham with the Free Women.”

  “Oh.” Her gut sank. The woman was calling to let her know she didn’t appreciate how the Free Women were represented in the article. A courtesy heads-up the militia was coming to kill her. It wouldn’t be the first death threat in her professional career, but certainly the most serious. More like a death promise.

  But that was her fear talking, nothing more. Eckert had made her paranoid. Abigail had been there when she and Terry had interviewed Hannah. The story had been factual and fair. Why would she be upset about it now?

  The woman said, “Hannah Miller needs to get out of the war.”

  Aubrey listened to the girl’s story with mounting horror. The terrifying assault by the First Angels, the midnight suicide run against the rebel lines, killing her brother in a massive blast.

  “The militia will use her again,” the militiawoman said. “It’s total war out here now. I want you to talk to Gabrielle and get her out.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Whatever you can do, you need to do it now.”

  “I understand.” The militia was going to put her back in the fight soon.

  “I’m not sure you do. The other reason for my call is to warn you.”

  Again, that sinking feeling. She swallowed. “Warn me of what?”

  “Everybody out here knows about the article. Watch your ass. Better yet, run.”

  Aubrey terminated the call and stared at her phone. She was trembling. She took a deep breath and called Gabrielle, who picked up on the third ring.

  “I’m glad you called,” the UNICEF worker said. “Everyone in New York is talking about the article. They’re getting calls from American media. The story is going to spread.”

  “Did you get in any trouble?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle. You?”

  “I might be in some trouble,” Aubrey said.

  “I can help you.”

  “I’m not sure you can or should.”

  “I can maybe—”

&nb
sp; “There’s something else I need you to focus on.” She told her Hannah’s story. “Can you help her?”

  “I—”

  Shouting erupted in the bull pen down the hall. The reporters were booing. The sinking feeling returned and wouldn’t quit this time.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “I said I’ll help her,” Gabrielle said. “I promise. I wish I could help you.”

  The shouting grew louder.

  “I think it might be too late for that. I have to go. And Gabrielle?”

  “Yes, Aubrey.”

  “Thank you.” Meaning it, from deep in her heart.

  She ended the call before the UNICEF worker said anything that might ruin it. She returned to Eckert’s office on trembling legs.

  Her editor stood behind his desk, loading bullets into a big, ugly revolver. “That was security calling. Go out the back stairwell.”

  “Eckert…”

  His hands were shaking. “Nobody fucks with my staff.”

  “No,” she said.

  His good eye glared at her. “What do you mean, no?”

  The Mark Twain quote about standing for truth flashed through her mind again. The exact quote said to plant yourself like a tree by the river of truth. Never budge or waver when you were in the right.

  Tell the world, No, you move.

  “Don’t do this, Eckert. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

  “I have to get you out of here.”

  “And go where? Do what? Hide? Without this job, well, I might as well give up. And I’ll never let them see that.”

  Breathing hard, he looked down at the gun. He slapped it on the desk. “I’m going to do everything I can to get you out. I’ll never stop. I’ll put your arrest on the front page.”

  “I know you will.” Aubrey mustered a smile. “You may be an asshole, but you’re one of the best friends I’ve got. And you’ve never lied to me.”

  Before he could say anything else, she hugged him.

  “It’s not worth it,” he said.

  “You know it is.”

  “Not when it’s somebody you love.”

  He leaned into her with a choking sound, and in the end it was her comforting and protecting him.

  She pulled away and took his hand. “Let’s go.”

  In the bull pen, three militiamen in dirty, ill-fitting uniforms stood with automatic rifles leveled at the crowd surrounding them. Their red-faced commander roared at the reporters to stand aside. The reporters howled back, Shame! Shame! Shame!