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fiction: serial fiction
faraway: chapter ten
Collins stood on the yard, a flashlight aimed down at a list written on toilet tissue. People streamed past him, as the rebel prisoners prepared to descend en masse into the prisons lowest regions, formerly inhabited solely by women inmates. Engrossed in deciphering the scrawl, he didn't look up as Damu approached him.
"Khari," Damu said calmly, settling his rifle over his shoulder, "got a second? Just wanted to hip you to what just happened."
Collins looked up from the hastily penned list, handed to him after he'd dictated it hours ago, and regarded Damu. Tall and possessed of a wiry tautness that could be mistaken for weakness, he carried himself like a man come to discuss literature or music, his rough beard and week's worth of fuzzy hair more academic than bedraggled in appearance. If the strain of this decades-old plan was taking a toll, Collins was hard pressed to see the signs, a slight grin tugging the corners of Damu's mouth.
"What's up, brother?" Collins asked, switching off the penlight, absently folding the paper and putting it in a pocket.
"Well, there's good news and there's bad news," Damu smiled as they began to walk away from the crowds, towards the bonfires on the perimeter. "They're both the same bit of data: Spaulding intends to hold this place. He offered us 'freedom' in exchange for a cessation of all hostility and 'safe passage' through the outer defenses."
"If they're as well fortified as we think," Collins said thoughtfully, tapping his flashlight on his palm, "that could be more work than it's worth, to take them out. He won't leave, huh?"
"That all but confirms that the plan is on target," Damu said. "If there was anywhere to run to, they'd jump at a chance to leave. I'm sure they probably kept the few people who can fly the 'copters on a very short leash."
"So what are we supposed to do next?" Collins asked.
"Well," Damu grinned, "the original plan of making for the roof is a bit more work than it's worth, so I've got a new idea, one that makes moving downstairs even smarter."
Collins considered that, stroking his alabaster beard. "Do you need me to do something different?"
"No, sir, you're doing exactly right," Damu thought, shaking his head. "We're gonna split command, you running the downstairs and me staying here. The people who are definitely gonna live through this are gonna be with you."
Collins looked hard at Damu, who stared impassively in return. "Ishmael, what are you trying to tell me?"
"As little as possible, honestly," Damu returned with a brave smile. "Things don't get easier, they get harder from here on out. Winning is almost worse than losing."
"Look, they respect me and all, Ishmael, but they believe in you," Collins said, putting his hand on Damu's shoulder. "You're a hero to these people, someone who can help them figure out what's going on. You can't be replaced in this."
"I won't have to be, alive or not," Damu replied, squeezing Collins' hand with his own. "I'm just acutely aware that anything can happen, even to me, oracles and all notwithstanding. In either case, you'll have people downstairs who can make it out of this."
Collins looked down at his feet, then hard back at Damu. "I need you to tell me what's going on."
Damu shrugged and relented. "You'll be moving about 60% of the people downstairs, which will be cozy, but as it's co-ed that's not as much of a problem. I have a pretty strong vanguard of maybe six thousand men with nothing to lose and enough violent tendencies to make it happen. I'm gonna smoke out Spaulding, burn beds and rubber and whatever I can to send toxic smoke at him. Then, when I think he's down, I'm gonna use as many gas masks as we grabbed, send in an advance force, and have the rest ready to back them up. It's that or sit and wait, which will make everybody crazy and dangerous."
"Hm," Collins said grimly, holding his chin and thinking.
"With the numbers Jonesy pinched, that leaves, what, like 19,000 people downstairs with you, counting the injured, plus a bulwark of maybe three or four thousand more between you and whoever survives what we do. We won't need all the guns, because we're gonna overwhelm them, so you'll be safe. Judging from the way we looked at rationing, we can be good on food for another nine months before resorting to Donner Party levels, right?"
Collins closed his eyes and said, "I don't like this. You know most of those men you send in there are going to die."
"Most of those men have been dead for years," Damu replied coolly. "Serial rapists, gang bangers ... I asked for volunteers through word of mouth. The ones with me? They all literally fought their way to get this chance, a chance for mayhem. Organizing 'em is the biggest problem. They have no problems giving their lives for any chance at payback."
"I don't think Doctor King would approve of this," Collins said with a wan smile.
"I don't think you approve of this, which is why you're takin' your sit-in, protest-ready self downstairs," Damu laughed. "How long until you're all squared in?"
Collins shrugged off the old ideological argument, which he'd had with Ishamel's father when the younger Damu was still toddling around. "Six hours, maybe eight. We had all the supplies moved down there first, and we're just getting the wounded all cleared out."
"Okay, let me know when you're done. I'm up drilling and prepping these guys in the halls, getting them ready for close quarters work."
Damu patted Collins' shoulder and smiled before making for the halls.
"Ishmael," Collins called.
Damu turned, a slight smile on his lips. "Yes, sir?"
"Did we ever find out which one of those guys was El Mysterioso? I was just curious, figured it might streamline some stuff ..."
Damu chuckled. "Funny thing about that -- I've talked to Munoz and that Manuel guy, and they were each told that one of the other four is El Mysterioso. They implied they heard the same from the other three. Whichever one he is, he doesn't want anybody to know, and Manuel thinks he wasn't even with them, that the young guy was his agent." Waving a hand dismissively, Damu concluded, "It's probably not worth worrying about."
With a shrug, Damu turned and left. Collins tried to remember the bright eyed little boy with ears sticking out like wings, falling down every five minutes, somewhere deep within the bruised soldier walking away. Shaking his head to clear his reverie, Collins reached back in his pocket and switched his penlight back on.
• • •
Spaulding managed to keep up the facade of control, his haughty manner shield enough to keep the tactical officers from asking questions. As they approached the staff front line, he ordered them to go immediately to Simpson and keep an eye on him from the stairs. No need in putting that much dangerous information too close together.
Spaulding searched through the cavernous cafeteria, the dim light of flashlights and butane lanterns making the faces of all he passed grim and haunted. The smell of sweat and gunpowder hung in the air like thick curtains. Spaulding was amazed when a gritty little boy snapped to attention and saluted as he approached. Spaulding looked down at the boy -- bandages wrapping his head from some injury, his striped shirt smudged and torn in places, a little girl with tear-streaked cheeks lying on a cot nearby.
"Albert Madison ..." Spaulding remembered. It felt like it was a hundred years before, when he had walked so happily down the corridors and found this boy chastising his sister. Spaulding kneeled down, and saw that the little girl had lost an arm, but she clutched a battered teddy bear tightly with the one she had left.
"We're bein' good soldiers for you, Mister Spaulding, sir!" the boy said, trying to be quiet and not disturb his sister.
Spaulding looked at the boy with so much pride that it threatened to burst from the front of his throat. "Yes you are, Mister Madison," Spaulding said, an inkling of emotion creeping into his voice. "I really appreciate all your hard work and sacrifice, and I'm going to do my best to end this as soon as possible."
Albert sniffed a little, he'd clearly been crying but had managed to get himself in some semblance of control as Spaulding approached.
"Where are your parents?" Spaulding asked, glancing around at the endless rows of overturned tables and makeshift cots.
"My mommy's getting medicine for Tina," the boy managed, "and she says Daddy's out there making sure we're safe."
Spaulding decided he knew too much already. He stood and ruffled the boy's hair, saying, "Just hang in there for me, sport. You're a good boy, and a good soldier, and things will get better. I promise you." Spaulding fired off a snappy salute, which the boy grimly returned with slow certainty. Slowly, Spaulding made his way away from the scene.
Spaulding shook his head as he walked, trying to get Albert Madison's face out of his mind. He found Grayson moments later, pistol drawn, overseeing food preparation as they tried to extend the limited supplies into a gruel that would last a little bit longer, just a little bit longer ...
"Can I have a moment, Stuart?" Spaulding said quietly when he was close enough.
Grayson turned, the years and the strain showing on his haggard, drooping jowls. "Of course, Ken. Carry on, men."
Spaulding led Grayson to the foot of the stairs to the executive dining room, positioned above and in the middle of the cafeteria, and currently serving as a temporary headquarters. Spaulding glanced up the steps towards the two tactical guards and sighed.
"We're in major trouble ..." Spaulding began.
Grayson visibly blanched. "I never imagined you could say that sort of thing, Ken."
"Why do we want to stay here, why do we want to hold the prison?" Spaulding asked.
Grayson played along and ticked off the reasons on his fingers. "Because it's impregnible, because it's a perfect base of operations for any strategic moves in the whole western part of the country."
Spaulding rubbed the bridge of his nose and asked, "What if the other side had the same idea? Worse, what if the other side put somebody in here to make sure they could take it?"
Grayson's eyes grew wider than bus headlights. "The man you've been hunting ..."
"... whether it's Damu or Collins, is that force," Spaulding said, shaking his head. "Remember how you said, 'It was like they all had it planned?' What if they did, Stuart? What if we've been sitting on our haunches, proud of our spy games and our technology, and they've snookered us all?"
"... and you couldn't just kill one or both in case they had countermeasures, like that thing in Kazhakstan ..." Grayson muttered before asking, "what happened at the meeting?" Grayson settled himself on a step. People nearby glanced over, worried, but no one approached.
"I met Damu, who had a team of serious people" Spaulding started slowly. "He skipped over second level negotiations, uninterested in materials or favors or what have you. I played the card, offered them a way out, and he turned around and offered it to me."
Grayson blanched. "They want the prison ..."
"Exactly," Spaulding said grimly. "I've gotta get some people -- wounded, women, children -- out of here. He used the word 'abattoir,' which I take to mean that bad things are going to happen. So you're getting on a transport 'copter, second trip at the latest."
"Where do you intend for me to go, Ken?" Grayson laughed. "I almost got shot down over NORAD. The Union's 'safe' territory, if those idiots could hold on to it, is thousands of miles away, farther than that 'copter can go safely."
"Either our forward observer point in the mountains, or there were a number of independant settlements that weren't anti-government," Spaulding replied. "We kept a map of them, tucked away places we barely found ourselves, filled with loners and kooks. Luckily, I had hard copies made a few months before the lights went out. The copters will take a squad of men and some of the noncombatants to secure a few of them, then ferry as many as we can there over the next ... however long we have."
Grayson opened his mouth as though he were going to say something, then closed it again suddenly.
"How many do we have?" Spaulding asked quietly. "After that explosion fiasco?"
Pulling a folded and bent piece of paper from his pocket, Grayson told him, "We're down to 1,300 or so tactical-ready troops, counting ourselves and recommissioned regular duty guards. Another thousand wounded, and about seven thousand noncom. The explosion crippled us, crushing four or five platoons. The noncoms are mostly in shock."
Spaulding looked away and said, "I've seen that first hand. I want you to go, and I want two kids, Albert and Tina Madison, and their mother, with you and the wounded. You're outliving this place, Stuart."
Grayson only looked sadly at Spaulding and said nothing.
• • •
The hatch opened with surprising ease, and Spaulding considered the bright, unforgiving sunlight that streamed down. He looked back into the gray, smoky passageway, now lined with battered men, tired women, terrified children. The selection lottery had been messy, with lots of discontent, but once everyone had been assured the families would be taken to relative safety and that the 'copters had enough gas to make multiple trips, they were placated.
"Identify, friend or foe!" a harsh voice called from the other side of the hatch. Good, Spaulding thought to himself, the guards up here were still on task.
He closed his eyes and remembered the list of passwords he'd instituted before hoarsely responding "ID Friend, passcode Tango Foxtrot Lambda Swordfish. Please give counter code."
After a moment's silence, the same voice called out, "Counter code Alpha Delta Quebec Charlie! You are authorized to advance, slowly!"
Spaulding stepped out into the light, dazzling in its intensity, his eyes taking too long to adjust. He held up his left arm to shield his vision and noted the platoon of men, all nervous but steady. One approached, lowering his weapon before saluting.
"Major Daniel Ellis, sir," he said, "awaiting orders."
Spaulding was so overcome by relief to see Ellis, the choppers intact, a pilot suited up, that he could have embraced the major. Instead, he retreated into formality.
"Major, you will continue to garrison this position," Spaulding said stiffly. "We will be ferrying a little over two hundred staff members, wounded and non-combatants mostly, via transport 'copters to a hopefully less dangerous locale. According to our math, we will be able to make seven trips, counting slight excursions for fuel, on our existing supplies. Does that gibe with your numbers?"
Ellis, worn and tanned by his time at the top of the world, nodded. He seemed far more relaxed than the guards Spaulding had seen the last few weeks, even more isolated from events up here, and ordered to kill anything that tried to get to the 'copters without permission. Ellis was obviously one of the more militarily-minded troops stationed here, finding more comfort in his rank than his name, and his calm professionalism settled Spaulding's nerves.
"Richards! Start loading!" Spaulding yelled, as a stream of people began to emerge from the hatch. "Any problems up here, Major?"
"We engaged enemy forces approximately four days ago, sir," Ellis said, his southern accent slipping into his words, "seven hostiles armed with assault rifles. Two of them surprised us, winging Davis, coming up out of a previously unknown egress point. We were able to take the rest of them without much problem."
"The weapons?" Spaulding asked carefully.
"Confiscated," Ellis said with a slight nod, proud of himself.
Spaulding nodded, wondering whether or not this man would have gone as mad as Simpson given the same opportunity. "Corporal Richards there is my liason. Do you need anything for your men, Ellis?"
Ellis considered that a moment and shook his head. "No, sir. We're good."
Spaulding considered Ellis and asked, "What branch of the service were you in, Major?"
"Before the DOC?" Ellis answered, taken aback. "I served in the United States Army, sir. Fifth Tactical Desert Division."
Spaulding immediately recognized the reference, and his mind started spooling data, about disciplinary actions and labels like "loner." Spaulding smirked bitterly, seeing no better a second than Simpson had been.
"I'm very pleased with your work, Major," Spaulding said, patting Ellis' shoulder. "You and your men will be commended for this."
Ellis bit off a terse, "Thank you, sir."
"Dismissed."
Ellis spun on his heels and was yelling at his men before he'd made a step. The pilot was pointed at Richards for a flight plan, the rest were commanded to resume perimeter sweeps ... a cold, spartan efficiency that was so unlike the squallid operations of late, Spaulding reflected. Spaulding started back and saw Albert Madison and his sister being carried by a tactical guard towards the 'copters. Spaulding nodded to himself, and headed back downstairs.
• • •
Andrews stood six feet four inches tall, and his two hundred sixty pound frame was more muscle than fat. He walked slowly, balancing the twin mattress on his back, counting the stairs as he made his way towards the staff section.
Andrews grunted to three more men who walked past him in the opposite direction, black uniforms and tired faces. He finally arrived at the pile, a stack of mattresses five deep and twenty high, soon to be set aflame. When he reached it, he saw Damu pushing the stack so it would fit tightly in the passage and prohibit movement from the other side. Damu turned and noticed him.
"Hey, brother, how's it going?" Damu smiled brightly. He looked tired, as many of the reluctant rebels did, but he was excited and happy. That kind of infectious enthusiasm buoyed the people around him, and Andrews wasn't immune.
"I'm aight," Andrews said, letting the mattress rest against the wall. The top level of mattresses would only be put in after the other side had been ignited. "Thanks for switchin' me out for a few hours."
"I told them to switch you out period," Damu frowned. "You gotta get home to that lady of yours ... Mary, right?"
Andrews smiled at the mention of her name, and at having it remembered. "Yeah ... well, they was movin' stuff, and I figgered I could just help."
Damu walked over and set his hand on Andrews' shoulder as two more men carrying mattresses appeared, dropped their loads, and went back downstairs. "Every uniform you've passed up here is black. Yours is blue. These are guys with nothing to lose. You probably, what, stole something to support your family?"
Andrews nodded slowly.
"Get out of here, man," Damu said quietly. "Get a gun, guard those women down there, guard those soldiers who fell. Protect. These men up here with me ... we're already dead."
"When do you get protected?" Andrews asked seriously. "When do you get some time off? You ain't got nobody waiting for you?"
Damu smiles widely, a slow and satisfied grin, and said, "My sister. My dad. Nobody else."
Andrews wondered, "Don't you wanna see them again?"
"I've got a feeling I'll see my sister sooner than you'd think," Damu smirked enigmatically. "But like I said, don't worry about me. You take care of those people downstairs, and they'll take care of you, get you home. Okay?"
Andrews nodded reluctantly, and offered his hand. Damu reached to shake it, and Andrews pulled him into a hug. "Thank you," Andrews said quietly.
"Get the heck outta here, you woman," Damu said with a tremor in his chuckle, patted Andrews shoulder and went back to arranging mattresses.
Andrews regarded him a moment, words failing him, and walked back towards the stairs.
• • •
Grayson was to be the last one on the 'copter. Its twin blades rotated powerfully as Spaulding walked him towards the platform.
"You're gonna be all right out here?" Grayson asked, his dress uniform looking a lot worse for the wear.
"There's a very thin possibility we're going to live through this," Spaulding said, ticking off the possibilities on his fingers. "I'm not turning off the ground defenses at all. The air defenses were set for auto-response of hostile activity long ago. Just stay alive out there, okay?"
"We've got weapons, well-trained men, and the flag to wave," Grayson smiled. "I'm sure whatever hicks are out there won't give us too much trouble."
Spaulding sighed and remembered, "The last people who thought that had problems in Illinois."
Grayson grimaced. Spaulding saluted and then held out his hand. Grayson shook it solidly, saying nothing more, and climbed on the 'copter. Spaulding stood, watching it recede into the northern sky. Ellis walked over and offered him a steaming thermos.
Spaulding sniffed it and looked at Ellis incredulously. "Coffee?"
"There's enough paper up here for fire," Ellis explained, "and I'd be a pretty sorry soldier if I didn't keep my own stash of go-juice."
Spaulding laughed, his first honest laugh in a long time, and sipped the thermos as they watched the 'copter disappear.
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