American Blackout (Book 2): Slaves Beneath The Stars Read online

  Ethan wanted to ride along, and Fritz asked him to stay with his brother and guard the “back forty” with the mechanics during Hank’s surgery and treatment.

  Inside, Hank was dozing lightly and Sister Marie was finally smiling.

  “No internal bleeding from what I can see, and I found two pieces of leather that account for the material missing from his belt.”

  “Oh, I’m bleeding on the inside,” Hank said, suddenly awake.

  Sister’s eyes widened.

  Hank touched Sister’s arm. “I mean my son, George. Can’t believe he died so terribly. As I nodded off, I saw him, walking by himself, some quiet street, said he had to go it alone… that he loved me.” Hank whistled a long sigh. “Everything’s sad right down the line—Judy losing her husband. Fritz, his dad. Me, my boy.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sister said. “But I need you to fight now, Hank. We need you. These children need you.”

  Sister motioned to the bottle of honey on the dining room sideboard, and Cricket handed her the jar.

  “Nothing in nature more beautiful, perfect, and ready to heal our deepest wounds than honey.” Sister poured the thick, golden honey directly onto the wound. Hank blinked rapidly and said nothing. Lee Ann and Lily let go a big “wow” in unison.

  “Do you sew up Grandpa now?” Lee Ann asked, still staring at the thick, golden honey mingling with tiny streams of blood.

  The ends of Sister’s curly gray hair shined with sweat. “I’m going to wait twenty-four hours before I sew up the wound. If there’s any infection, it’ll start to show by then.”

  “I don’t know if I could get real close and check,” Lily said. “I’m sorry.”

  “I could,” Lee Ann announced.

  “I don’t want to look either.” Hank surprised everyone, once again alert. “Honey is a natural antibiotic, girls. There’s so much to be grateful for in God’s creation. And the honey bee is right at the top.” In the past weeks he had taken the children on the honey bee’s journey from flower to his serious-looking machines—Lily’s description—for honey extraction and making wax.

  Hank Holaday eyed Cricket with moist eyes. “I want you to go out to the barn and get something for me.”

  8

  The God Notion

  Hank directed Cricket to the loft and to a black metal trunk on the back wall. In the barn the orange lanterns were still lit; Cricket climbed the wooden ladder and one of the horses knocked his stall door loudly, and her heart thumped painfully. She looked down on the quarter horse in the stall closest to the door. “Hey, horse face, don’t scare me when I’m climbing the ladder.”

  Hay bales lined the back wall. More would be needed before winter to feed the horses and cows kept in a smaller barn farther from the house and alongside the chicken coop.

  Mostly in shadow, the trunk had an enormous padlock on the front. Its base was a thick metal plate bolted to the floorboards and studs beneath.

  Cricket didn’t have a key, and she didn’t need one. Hank had told her the trick—simply lift up the top—adding that she would have figured how to open it without any instruction. She was baffled by his game with the so-called secret trunk.

  She lifted the top and, though heavy, it came off easily. Shredded newspaper was the packing. She started sifting through it carefully and felt something with a top and sides, and pulled out a carved manger that was detailed and painted beautifully. Slowly, she felt for the individual figurines and lifted each out. Even with limited light, she was amazed at the delicacy and perfection of Mary and Joseph and the baby Jesus in his cradle.

  She gathered all the pieces and used a large leather pouch that Hank had said would be hanging on the back wall. She started down the ladder when she heard the tractor pulling up alongside the barn.

  In the orange light of Halloween, Doctor Claubauf entered the barn.

  Claubauf looked even taller alongside the table with punch and cookies. His head struck one of the paper lanterns. “So, it’s only Halloween and my friend’s starting his game early, with new players.”

  “What game’s that?” Cricket firmly gripped the leather strap of the large purse-like pouch hanging from her right shoulder.

  “The game of going out to the barn to find the magic chest that holds the magical Holy Family.”

  “He sent you out?”

  “Yeah, a year ago, when the world was still somewhat normal.”

  “Don’t let Sister hear you reference magic with the Holy Family, unless you want a serious debate.”

  “I might enjoy that. I’m always fascinated with professionals, and intellectuals, who hold on to the God notion.”

  “What makes them tick?”

  “Exactly.”

  She patted the pouch holding the treasure.

  “I’m just a hair stylist, not even a pro, but I believe two thousand years ago the gentlest man in history was born. Great story. My fave.”

  “Make-believe about a good daddy who’s left a light on for us so we don’t stumble in the dark on the way to the bathroom, or to heaven.”

  “Makes the most sense to me. The way a great song or beautiful painting makes me feel.”

  “The children need to be taught to fight in order to survive, like Lee Ann did, using her brains, not lovely fairy tales. None of them needs wooden figurines to survive the next five minutes. Didn’t you tell them in the woods this morning to see the world afresh when you stumbled upon that scarecrow? We had a nice discussion about the experience earlier this evening. You helped them to open their eyes. Perception is the real God.”

  Cricket stared at Claubauf, saying dryly, “I think I just told the kids to avoid tunnel vision.”

  “Ethan felt bad about scaring the girls,” Doctor Claubauf said. “But there was truth in his teenage bravado. Tonight a bunch of scarecrows slid off their stakes and came looking for fresh meat. Our enemies are seeing the world with new eyes. Especially men like Ajax, strutting through a world backlit by fire and destruction, someone who grasps that reality itself is changing.”

  “You think this Ajax guy was behind the attack?”

  “Tonight smelled like his work. Friends of mine who live along the river see a lot of people on the move, hear a lot of stories. One I keep hearing is of a powerful drug lord stranded here after the attack. A police sketch artist would distill the information into a light-skinned Mexican, I believe. Bedroom eyes; strong, handsome features.”

  “Fritz heard—”

  “Oh, I’m sure Cleveland Command has heard stories. Some are true, others urban legends. Some say he’s an Austrian billionaire. I believe what matters is that he’s letting his soldiers sow chaos. Then he arrives on a white horse bringing order. Whether he’s Mexican, Austrian, or Klingon, he wants a larger fiefdom when the electricity returns.”

  They both looked toward the house when the generator stopped.

  Claubauf said, “I told them to get that thing off as soon as Sister could do without. Might not hear the next attack coming.”

  The sound of a plane flying low over the barn made the two rush outside. A small aircraft flying toward the moon headed west over the pasture and the shadowed hills, sparkling dark skies above. From its distinctive shape, its low horsepower, and slow speed Cricket recognized the J-3 Cub, the same two-seater her dad had owned and died in on the Fourth of July. Claubauf raised his rifle, and Cricket pulled the barrel down and got in his face.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  He remained unfazed. “Somebody’s checking us out, connected to the attackers.”

  “Your imaginary Ajax character sent him on a mission?”

  “You’ve been through a lot. I admire your survival instincts. Your strength.”

  She knew he wanted to add “your beauty” and was glad he didn’t.

  “There’s a connection between the sly scout overhead, the monsters that attacked us tonight, and a singular face all of us should be aware of, including the children. There’s nothing to be gained by p
raying to wooden dolls from an ancient fantasy.”

  “Only the survival of body and soul.”

  Claubauf chuckled.

  Big Phil left Ajax and used a small campfire to find his way back to his tent and his latest catch, two teenagers, a brother and sister. In their pockets Phil had found articles of their faith: a rosary and a necklace with a small gold cross. He hung both ornaments from the tent’s vertical pole and said to the whimpering brats that a dozen hours had passed and no God of Sunday school had bothered to come to their rescue.

  When the girl ran a litany between sobs of all the things she missed, Phil lunged at her, an old bear’s first warning. Both kids froze. Big Phil reached into his knapsack and pulled out some jerky he kept for such occasions. He looked away as they tore off chunks and chewed loudly.

  9

  New Fears

  Looking out the window from their attic bedroom of the Holadays’ house, Fritz took Cricket in his arms. Both showered; they said little, the last few hours still unwinding in deep looks recording their survival.

  “You missed some dirt.” Fritz snatched a washcloth off the iron bedpost and dipped it in a basin of clean water and wiped his wife’s face and neck.

  “You can’t stay troubled for more than a few minutes,” she said, pissed and amazed at his inability to stew and grow dark. The recent deaths of those she loved, and the chance of monsters arriving at any moment, had darkened her spirit, making her long for revenge. Her husband was a cheerleader in the face of calamity.

  Pitching the washcloth back onto the bedpost, he said, “Two of the attackers had their throats slit. Really? We had killed them all.”

  “Except one. None of the children saw it. I just finished off the scumbag before he slaughtered one of us trying to load him onto the trailer.”

  “And the other one?”

  “Insurance. Turned out he was already dead.”

  He wasn’t in the mood to argue, but his look told her he feared something cold-blooded growing inside of her.

  She held him tighter. “Doctor Claubauf mentioned a name, Ajax, a drug lord, wealthy creep.”

  “Command has already told us about some cartel figure stranded in Cleveland; that’s one of the names. But sending gangs of misfits into southeastern Ohio? I doubt it. Since the lights went out, even drug lords need to stay close to home, on their own turf, and make the best of it, like the Brazilian. She needed only a little corner of the world under her thumb to run her carnival. Maybe this Ajax character is battling for Cleveland, or he’s just a new name for all the chaos.”

  Cricket turned away from her husband and thought of the seriously wounded attacker who, with a group of thugs, had shot down her father’s J-3 Cub. Working for the Brazilian, they continued to spray the plane with gunfire after it had crashed. The one survivor was then paralyzed by a bullet from Fritz’s P-51, and Cricket had told him to expect coyotes that night. Even now she felt righteous, delivering that sentence.

  Tonight, again, she had felt muscled, like a gladiator, destroying the costumed attackers. Yet her husband was the brave and sensible one, who had his head on straight, who would have kept an attacker alive and learned something important.

  Fritz brought her back from a dark spiral with a long kiss, yet Cricket feared kinship with the woman from up north, the Brazilian, who had buried reason, steeping herself in blood and pleasure, making her own rules.

  The boys ran to their father. Lawrence Davies had saved both Cricket and Sister Marie back in Little Falls against the Brazilian, a self-proclaimed mother goddess with huge appetites powering a new religion. Holding on to his wife, he hugged the boys with his free arm.

  “I’ve been gone only two days,” said the handsome thirty-eight-year-old father, hugging tighter his wife, who fought back the tears.

  The boys attempted to cover the previous night’s attack with shout-outs to the adults. Cricket made the time-out sign.

  “Let your father get something to eat first.”

  Sister Marie ushered the boys outside and Diesel followed, trotting over to a long wooden bench next to a mammoth stone fireplace, “home” where Sister Marie often sat and played the guitar.

  Once the door closed, Ann sobbed, “Why aren’t they here?”

  Lawrence made his case. “Ann, I begged them to come back with me. They’re so frightened. Your dad wouldn’t talk.”

  “A Hilltop guy, Ed Cline, talked about a prison break.” Cricket walked over to the counter to pour herself a glass of water and check on Sister Marie, entertaining the kids. “Any signs?”

  “Nothing. I’d expect prisoners to be sloppy, leave a mess in their wake. Like what happened here last night.”

  “Oh, God, those monsters were prisoners?” Ann asked, dumbfounded by another level of horror.

  “Maybe,” Cricket replied. “Claubauf and Fritz found plenty of tats reflecting that lifestyle.”

  “They’d travel that fast?” Ann asked.

  Lawrence walked his wife to the table, and they both took a seat. “With wheels, sure. And from what the mechanics told me, they sure were evil bastards, off the charts, heavily drugged.” He directed his thanks to Cricket. “Your bravery—everyone’s—helped to save my wife and sons.”

  He touched his wife’s face lovingly. “Ann, your parents’ town looks perfect. The lawns are mowed, the windows clean, yards neat. I spent an entire day knocking on doors, trying to get some information. People were cordial but subdued, thanking the police for passing out food to families who needed it. No complaints about no electricity, or jealous of a neighbor with a generator.”

  “What did the police have to say?” Ann pulled a crumpled Kleenex from her jeans and wiped her nose.

  “Not much. They watched me, like—I don’t know; this sounds crazy—like I was going to set off an alarm and get them all in trouble. Ann, I’m sorry, but I went through your parents’ desk drawers, even ventured into their bedroom when they were on the front porch. I found nothing. Only a calendar on your dad’s desk got my attention. One of those calendar pads with a saying for each day. It was peculiar because the next date was the tenth of November, nine days from now. Is that their anniversary?”

  Ann uttered a soft no and raised her head, looking squarely at her husband, prepared for a new round of tears.

  “Most people wouldn’t bother to keep up with a calendar. There’d be an old date or they’d have the right date, or at least close to it. Keep sane that way. All the dates leading up to the tenth were torn away. Bits of paper in the ringer.”

  “Did you venture out at night?” Cricket asked.

  “Yes, both nights.”

  Cricket imagined Ajax as a beast zigzagging across a barren landscape, straightening out like some evolutionary timeline from ape to man as he drew close. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, shaking off the daydream as Lawrence continued.

  “That night—not too late, no kids out, no cops on patrol either—I went to the station and asked why they weren’t patrolling.”

  Lawrence stared outside at his sons listening to Sister and found the courage for a half smile. He turned to Cricket and his wife.

  “The cops told me to get lost.”

  10

  The Right Genies

  Several days later, shortly after the sun had risen and gifted the atmosphere with a clear fall light, Hank sat up in bed talking with Ethan when Cricket entered the room carrying a heaping plate of scrambled eggs and rice. The two had discussed a host of subjects, from deer hunting to the miracle of antibiotics and the fierce spirit of the honey bee. Ethan blurted, “On a scale of one to ten, Grandpa, what’s the current status of your pain?”

  “I’d call it a five, son. Working on dragging it down to an easy one or two. I got a lot of projects I need to get back to.”

  “We still need to watch out for infection,” Sister called out from the kitchen. “Stitches look fine.”

  “I can help with the bees,” Ethan volunteered. “And my brother and me real
ly like canning vegetables, making jam.”

  Hank smiled and thanked Ann for such good boys when she walked in with a cup of tea.

  “Well, the canning’s done for the winter, but there’s plenty of work left. Hunting will be a weekly thing, making a lot of sausage and jerky to keep through the coldest months. The adults have a list they’re always updating. Batteries and bullets are at the top. Maybe Fritz can pick up a few things when he flies into Wright Patterson. Now, I’ve got fifty supers stacked in the honey shed ready for extraction. Doctor Claubauf will be your guide this morning. If the mechanics have that beautiful Mustang in shape, they’ll lend a hand, too.”

  Hank sipped his tea. “Honey bees are incredibly self-sufficient creatures. What you watch out for is really low temps during the winter months and making sure they’re eating. They’ll keep the nest at seventy degrees for the queen and themselves, but once the surrounding food is eaten, they won’t stray even a few inches to get to the honey and chance lowering the hive’s temperature. They’ll freeze to death first.”

  Ethan asked, “How do they know to do all that stuff?”

  “They just know. God’s given them that gift.”

  “Instinct,” Sister Marie offered, walking in with clean bandages. “Communicated from their DNA.”

  “She’s right.” Hank nodded. “There’s all kinds of fancy terms used… well, I just call them genies. God passes out the right genies to the right creatures. We’ve got the human genie, and I’m real happy about that. Helps us to pick beauty over ugliness; good over evil. Bees obey their genie that says keep the queen warm and well fed. No other option. No time for selfishness, regrets.”