American Blackout (Book 2): Slaves Beneath The Stars Page 19

  The man had a thick beard and a full head of hair that reached down his back. The woman, whose hair was bushy and long, had a high forehead that glistened in the light. They wore long coats, and the man tended to a piece of meat suspended over the fire. Except for what looked like a couple of backpacks, the area was uncluttered. The only obvious weapon was an assault rifle leaning against the nearest tree. Cricket had her villains, and she was sure they were armed.

  Do it now! But she didn’t. Colt in hand, she walked out of the woods and confronted the couple. Facing the man, she was sickened by what she saw. When he lifted his head, without fear, she saw that the ridged forehead and most of the shaved head were lumpy, the skin drawn tight, angry with infection. The woman turned in a panic and went for a weapon inside her cloak, and Cricket had the gun on her.

  “Talia, don’t do anything stupid,” the man said, his voice Barry White deep. “We have a guest.”

  Cricket could see the same ridges fanning across the woman’s forehead and scalp.

  “Thoros, she’s a danger.”

  “We are the only danger tonight in these here woods.” The man sliced into the meat with a long hunting knife, examining the bloody roast, grunting his approval.

  Cricket took a step back and twisted left and right, expecting accomplices, before again targeting the strangers.

  The man shot her a dark look. His eyebrows were bushy and long. “I’d ask you to have dinner with us, but you’re full of fear and not interested in eating. Am I right?”

  “What are you doing here?” Cricket replied, her voice weakening. At this the woman threw her head back and laughed, exposing a row of sharpened front teeth.

  “If you mean this planet, we’re temporary visitors.” He smiled and his teeth were large and unfiled. “You think we’re the only ones here in this forest?”

  Her skin crawling, Cricket didn’t take the bait. She kept her gun on the man. The woman kept laughing, but the man looked confident that all of this would play out quickly.

  “We’re part of a great empire.” The woman twisted her torso away from the fire and started a serpentine motion, arms raised. Cricket took an awkward step backward and nearly fell. The woman strongly resembled her friend Claire, who had disappeared shortly after high school from their hometown of Woodburn.

  The man carved a thick piece from the roast and dropped it on a metal plate. “Your shots will bring the entire Klingon Empire down on your fair head. Our supreme commander will have his revenge.”

  Cricket leaned toward the duo, shouting, “Did Ajax order you to kill one of my people today?”

  The woman growled, again showing her sharpened teeth.

  “We haven’t heard of this man.” The play-acting Klingon shrugged. “No earthling gives us orders. We hunt.”

  We kill is what Cricket heard.

  The man stuffed a piece of meat into his mouth, no longer looking at her.

  Cricket nailed Thoros the Klingon with a headshot. The woman, faster than Cricket expected, was nearly on top of her, knife drawn, her wailing hitting its highest decibel as Cricket fired and missed.

  The two collided and the knife cut her sweatshirt, sliced her right arm, and she dropped the Colt.

  Cricket pounded Talia’s knife hand against the ground and used her free arm to block head-butts from the rocky forehead that was bleeding profusely. Inches from the killer’s face, she witnessed the demonic reincarnation of her friend Claire. Cricket lost precious seconds staring in disbelief, until the woman started using her heavy engineer boots to attack. They punched and kicked each other, and both landed blows with their fists. Leper from hell! Cricket thought, astounded by the smell of rotten flesh.

  Cricket landed a solid blow and felt the woman’s mouth cave in from the punch. She bear-hugged the Klingon woman from behind, immobilized her knife hand, and rolled toward the fire. Cricket maneuvered the woman so that her head battered Cricket’s chest and not her face. Both fighters yelled and screamed. But Cricket kept to one-word epithets, while the Klingon talked continuously of home-planet stuff and details of her planned torture of Cricket.

  With a mighty yell, Cricket Hastings drove the Klingon headfirst into the fire.

  The woman’s scream was immediately followed by the sick scent of burning hair. The heat of the fire scorched Cricket’s face, her forehead tight with pain, a dumb two-hour suntan compressed into mere seconds. When the woman attempted to raise herself from the flames, slashing at Cricket, Cricket seized her wrist and drove both their hands into the fire. In the pain department Cricket outlasted Talia, who screamed wildly, losing the weapon to the flames.

  Cricket’s last punch rendered Talia unconscious as the flames danced along the crazy woman’s clothing and softened the ridges across her forehead.

  Cricket rolled away and didn’t bother to stand, but went for the gun on her ankle. As the moaning woman again made a feeble attempt to raise herself from the flames, Cricket emptied the magazine into Talia the Klingon.

  Talia’s face blackened, eyes milky as she started to fry; she died searching the sky for a Klingon battleship. Cricket lifted herself from the ground, grabbed Talia’s legs, and tossed her completely into the fire. The flames brightened and then quickly dimmed, and the surrounding darkness returned to claim two crazed human beings, not Klingon warriors.

  Cricket approached Thoros carefully. The headshot had flung him back, but his massive size and seductive voice had given him an otherworldly persona; Cricket wanted to ensure his death. The bullet had entered his right eye, and the back of his head was mostly gone. She brought out a Mini Maglite and to her disgust could see that ridged plastic had been forced under the scalp to create a Klingon skull.

  Thoros had two pistols on him, and Talia had a revolver. She gathered the ammo and guns and slung the M1 rifle over her shoulder and headed for the pasture. She’d take care of the knife wound and burned hand at the house. The bruised ribs and calf muscles would soon heal.

  The evil of these two had swollen the forest air with their wickedness. Hank’s “genies” were always life-giving, connected to the person who strove to do the right thing. The genies of the dead Klingons were malignant, rising up from the subatomic level. An unholy visitation. A distortion of life at its deepest level.

  Nature was often brutal, mysterious, but it wasn’t evil, she tried to remind herself.

  45

  Klingon Blues

  Stripped down to her bra and panties, standing close to a kerosene lantern perched atop the back of the toilet, Cricket patiently allowed Sister Marie to examine her for punctures and cuts. After cleaning her burned hand, Sister applied aloe vera to soothe Cricket’s skin and start the healing process. Fritz, who sat on a chair outside the bathroom, opened a large bandage for Cricket’s knife wound. He looked up at his wife.

  “Judge, jury, and executioner. I think you enjoy all three titles.”

  “Fritz, you would have handled it the same. I just know that bastard Ajax inspired the monsters who killed Ann.” Cricket finished her sentence, and her entire body shook from a bone-deep chill: Ajax knows you, and those you love.

  Ajax momentarily excused himself from the festivities by simply bowing his head and listening: a “love letter” had been sent his way. He experienced the young woman’s shiver as deeply as she did—attraction and repulsion. Too bad she couldn’t partake in the meal carved from the large “roast” being hand-turned on a spit.

  Fritz said, “A couple of nutcases deep into Star Trek. Ajax, whether it’s a gang, person, or cartel, is not manipulating thousands of random weirdos. Some drug lord was stranded in Cleveland. That’s all we know for certain.”

  Sister Marie cleaned a long scratch down Cricket’s forearm to her wrist. Cricket knew that whenever they talked about lunatics across the “fruited plain,” they all personally referenced the “goddess” from up north. Cricket saw dread in Sister’s eyes, some new wave of terror, worse than the Brazilian’s.

  Fritz, a clean towel drape
d over his arm, unscrewing the cap from a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, pressed on. “But these strange people posed no immediate risk to you. Once you located them, you could’ve come back and gotten us.”

  “They were on the move. Traveling light. No permanent camp.”

  “We’ve been married almost three months. I’d like to make it to our first-year anniversary. Sister, if hatred overwhelms us…”

  “Cricket knows how I feel,” Sister said, examining the main wound, pouring a long stream of hydrogen peroxide that sent Cricket into a quick dance. “This is one of the worst wounds I’ve ever cleaned on you.”

  “I saw Claire in the woman I killed. It was all so horrible. It still is.”

  Cricket talked about her best friend to her husband. Sister knew the story and said nothing, since the memory of Claire always brought up the memory of Cricket’s abortion and Claire’s opposition to the procedure.

  Sister said, “There comes a point, for all of us, when hate makes us lose our connection with God. Loss of our humanity follows.”

  “I’ll never lose my love for either of you,” Cricket said quietly. Fritz mouthed okay, eyes lowered—not the best time to argue.

  “You’re a wonderful woman, not Wonder Woman,” Sister added.

  “Thanks, Sister,” Fritz said. “She’s paying a real price for sticking her neck out, like tonight.” Cricket saw that he couldn’t let go of her one-woman heavy-assault campaign. “You were supposed to scout for troublemakers, come back, and get the rest of us. We’re a team. That crazy person could have cut an artery.”

  “Could’ve, should’ve, would’ve,” Cricket sassed back.

  “We’ll fight hard, watch each other’s back,” he said, trying to ignore her dig. “We don’t go it alone.” She extended her hand and he took it in his. He was repeating himself, his energy fading, unable to stop his wife’s Joan of Arc run.

  Cricket said, “I never thought I’d be crashing a Star Trek convention.”

  “They sullied a great series with their depravity.” Sister helped Cricket put on a long-sleeve cotton blouse. “Klingons were all about honor, not killing a woman for target practice.” Sister sighed. “The boys haven’t been able to sleep and, of course, Caleb won’t approach me.”

  “I blame Claw for the kid’s attitude.” Cricket had one leg in her sweatpants, and Fritz held her up using her good arm. “He hates our religion.”

  Fritz said, “Cricket, he’s an atheist. That doesn’t make him hateful. My grandfather could never be friends with someone truly hateful.”

  “Your grandfather doesn’t see it.”

  “But you do.”

  “I see it, too,” Sister Marie said, opening the door to the kitchen, the room softly lit with several candles and Ethan at the table, staring out the window.

  “Caleb’s with my dad, at the bunkhouse,” the boy said. “I can’t sleep.”

  “None of us can.” Fritz sat down with the boy.

  “I can’t say anything to my brother. He won’t listen to me, just tells me to shut up. I’m sorry, Sister, he was so mean to you.”

  Sister Marie stroked his thick dark hair. “He’s hurting like you are. Lots of confusion and pain.”

  “I know, but I’m not angry with you. I tried to tell him that this is some kind of test, a God test, to see if we believe at a real sad time.”

  Sister gave Ethan’s shoulder a good squeeze. “That’s wise, Ethan. Job, a good man from the Old Testament, was repeatedly tested by God.”

  “You boys are both going to succeed.” Fritz went to hug Ethan, and the boy ran into his arms, releasing hours of sadness.

  Sister motioned to the door, and both she and Cricket stepped out into the chilly night air.

  46

  Battles of Air, Land, and Sea

  Alone, Cricket unclipped her bra and tossed it on the dresser. Fritz never came to bed, making himself comfortable with a blanket on Hank’s living room chair. She knew she was more selfish, more indulgent than her husband. He was bound by a military code that put the team, the mission, always ahead of self-indulgence. He too would have liked to smoke the maniacs, and had recently exhibited a hard-core side when going after the kidnappers, but his reason and civic duty kept returning, requiring that he maintain protection of the Holaday farm by tradition and established rules. Often, since the EMP attack, pure instinct had guided Cricket.

  She was without military training, though her father had given her the best informal training, not only in firearms but in respect for the rule of law. Paul Hastings always thought that the average person did a much better job of living up to those standards than the politicians, especially when grounded in faith. She prayed that the first female president would balance her political skills with love of country and love of God, since President Binita Michaels devoutly practiced the same faith as Cricket.

  Over the summer and fall, not much had been heard from the politicians, at either the federal or state level. The world had broken into regions, different climes. Through Cleveland Command, Fritz had learned of Washington’s retaliation against Iran, but the demands issued to the states were ignored by local and state authorities if they didn’t move the needle for survival.

  The authorities were composed of local and state police, along with the National Guard, for the citizens’ protection and food access. Civilian leaders, mayors, and governors were more like consultants than decision-makers. Both Fritz and Cricket had heard that Cincinnati was an exception, with all civilian leaders and the metropolitan police maintaining law and order.

  The sun was rising, and she lowered the blind. Sister was still in bed, and Fritz had spent some time with Ethan and Caleb before flying off to Wright Patterson to receive intelligence updates and acquire more antibiotics. Before she left for bed, both boys had wandered into the kitchen for a glass of water. Caleb never even glanced at her.

  Cricket lay down and in moments was sinking quickly through pillow, bed, house, and the earth itself. She screamed for Fritz, but her voice and body were paralyzed. The panic worsened, and she was in a black world where even the light from a campfire belonging to a pair of maniacs would be a welcome sight.

  A voice, not hers, gave her an option—Struggle and you’ll wake up. Relax and you’ll start another journey. She made her choice by laughing at the instructions. She needed sleep, not an otherworldly experience, but her release of fear allowed her to float above the ground of the Holaday farm. She found the same day beginning, the same soft lighting, except that the barn and house were distorted, leaning and slightly elongated, but not unattractive.

  Now she was flying, right above the treetops. She hungrily took in the branches and leaves and sky with wonder. The world was heartbreakingly beautiful. Over the river she raced near the water’s surface. Her thoughts articulated by her own inner voice sounded strident.

  The energy that streamed in from head to foot crackled with power. She glanced at the shore off to her left: grass, shrubs, and trees, along with roads, power lines, abandoned cars, looked integrated, a painting for the ages.

  Ahead the sky darkened, yet the river and surrounding terrain were lit bright by a sun that was fully present but unseen. Across a darkening sky came battles—air, sea, and land—of her great-uncle Tommy’s war, and his survival at Omaha Beach using the ocean for cover, face up, breathing through his nose and letting the tide eventually take him to shore.

  It was as though she were in the largest theater ever constructed, watching newsreels from eternity’s film database. Her emotions climbed and crashed with the victories and unbelievable sacrifices of the greatest generation.

  Then a personal scene stretched along the horizon: the account her uncle had given her of being held up on a farm in France, hiding out in the barn and being taken care of by the family. He had been forever grateful to that family and also stunned by a bottle of French wine that allowed an afternoon to become the most perfect and life-giving of all his moments on this earth. Uncle Tommy was leaning ag
ainst the barn door at nightfall, smiling at the rich fields with the stone house in the distance, and turned to Cricket, a young man once again, seeing her across time and space and death.

  Her speed over the water slowed, and she found herself on land and felt her feet touch the ground, which was warm and solid. The sadness she experienced was still life-giving but not strong enough to break her heart. Perhaps if she were awake, a remembrance of her great-uncle might have depressed her, but in this strange dream state it somehow fed her soul, energized her. She walked for a distance, amazed at how any object held her attention: an abandoned car, broken glass, an old mattress in a field.

  Cricket began to float uphill, rising to treetop level, and soon saw a bombed town, torn apart by some battle. She saw no bodies but sensed a large death toll. She wanted to do something, to help, but then she was whisked away, carried off by a blackness that induced panic. Her limbs no longer moved, and she saw nothing.

  Immediately, she knew she had returned to bed. Helpless, she struggled to move, scream, anything to get Fritz’s attention. Her sight returned but she remained paralyzed, like with the first out-of-body experience. She expended great energy in order to lift her right arm. Nothing. She again felt a falling sensation and redoubled her efforts by first trying to move her hand. She did, but it was like being a mummy bound by three-thousand-year-old bindings. She moved a few fingers.

  When her vision narrowed and darkened, she shrieked, knowing this was Death’s hand around her. She whipped through a Hail Mary, an Our Father, and continued with the rosary. The panic subsided and the paralysis vanished.

  Dressing quickly, she headed downstairs and found Lawrence with Hank.