Apocalypse Dawn (11 page)

Bill handed rocks back like a machine, able to make his selection from the myriad of stones before him, seize it, heft it, and pass it to Goose.

Standing almost knee-deep in the loose sand, Goose grabbed the chunk of rock. His hands burned and ached with the effort. Muscles cramped in his back. Sand and small debris had managed to get inside his BDU and under the Kevlar vest. Anchored by the constant stream of perspiration that covered him, the sand and grit chafed at him. He pushed himself past the discomfort, thinking of the people they had yet to save and the ones who would be lost if they didn’t hurry.

The next person in the rock removal line was a woman in her late twenties. She was a brunette with dark eyes, dressed in torn khakis and a light purple blouse. Her hair was cropped short, ending at about the nape of her neck. She was slender, and the way she handled herself told Goose that she kept in shape.

She took the chunk of rock from Goose’s hands. Pain and fear registered in her eyes as she looked at his face. The rough use had torn skin from her hands and forearms. Bloody patches held clots of sand that Goose knew had to be uncomfortable. But she kept at the work, swinging around and passing the rock to the next person in line.

Goose took the next rock Bill handed him. He handed it to the woman.

“Danielle,” she said as she took the rock. She turned to pass the stone on, then turned back to Goose. “My name.”

“Oh.” Goose handed her the current rock, swiveled, and reached for the next.

“Danielle Vinchenzo. I’m a reporter with FOX News.” Danielle coughed, choking on dust.

“Sergeant Samuel Gander, ma’am,” Goose responded.

“I work this hard for you, Sergeant,” Danielle said, “I’m going to want an interview.” She coughed again but kept shifting rock.

“If we get out of here alive,” a heavyset man with a florid face said.

“We’ll get out alive,” Goose said with conviction.

The man made a show of looking around at the carnage that had been left of Glitter City. “A lot of people haven’t.”

Goose didn’t have anything to say to that.

A few minutes later, Bill had finished clearing the leaning wall section. He surveyed what was left, then looked at Goose. “We could try to dig him out, Sarge. Sand’s loose enough, and it would make quick work.”

“But the sand’s helping hold the wall back,” Goose said, realizing the difficulty they faced.

“Yep.” Bill took his helmet off, wiped his forehead with a grimy arm, and clapped it back in place. “We’re gonna have to get it off.”

“We’ll bring the section up with the crowbars,” Goose instructed, his mind quickly providing a possible solution to the problem. “Brace the section with rocks, then keep raising till we get the clearance we need.” He chose a relatively flat rock, hollowed out a place under the fallen wall, and set the rock into place.

Bill did the same.

“Hurry,” the man cried out from under the rock. “It’s getting … hard … to … breathe … in here.” The voice sounded weaker, and constant fits of coughing and retching echoed within.

When both crowbars were in place, Goose swapped looks with Bill. “On three,” Goose said. He counted. On three, he pulled up on the crowbar, straining everything he had. Black spots swam in his vision and he felt dizzy.

Slowly, inexorably, the wall section shifted, coming up a few inches. Sand flooded in from the sides, filling the cavity that had been left by the partial collapse.

The man inside screamed in terror. “It’s falling! It’s falling!”

United States of America

Fort Benning, Georgia

local Time 12:18 A.M.

“Gerry,” Megan said softly.

The boy sat up in the middle of the hospital bed. His unruly auburn hair stuck out in places from uncontrollable cowlicks. Freckles spattered the bridge of his nose. His hazel eyes remained fixed in awe on the television suspended from the ceiling in the corner of the room. His right arm hung in a clean white sling. Gauze pads covered scrapes on his arms and legs. He wore sweat pants with the knee out and a long-sleeved sweatshirt.

Megan knew Gerry had worn the sweats to try to hide the bruises on his arms, legs, and back. She sat quietly beside the bed, trying to keep herself relaxed in spite of everything rocketing through her mind. Watching the basketball game on television was grueling when she knew Goose was in action-in danger, she amended. She wanted to switch over to one of the news channels, but she tried to convince herself that if ESPN wasn’t interrupting the live game broadcast with news of the military engagement in Turkey, things couldn’t be too bad.

“Gerry,” Megan tried again.

The boy pointed at the television screen. “Did you see that?” he asked excitedly. “Did you see that?”

During the past twelve minutes of the precious thirty Helen Cordell had graciously allotted, Megan had talked basketball with the boy, mostly listening. She had picked up some of the players’ names. Only a minute or two ago, Gerry had bemoaned the fact that the Knicks guard was scoring on the Lakers player. Gerry was a major Lakers fan.

“Gerry,” Megan said in a slightly sterner voice. “We’re going to have to talk about what happened tonight.”

Without looking at her, Gerry drew away, curling himself into a ball. He drew his legs up, wrapped his uninjured arm around his knees, and protectively cradled his injured arm between his stomach and his thighs. His attention never wavered from the screen.

Thankfully, the Lakers called for a time-out and the station shifted to a commercial.

“Gerry, are you listening to me?”

“Yes, Mrs. Gander.” The boy reached for the half-empty bottle of chocolate milk on the tray beside the bed. He made certain the cap was on tightly, then shook the bottle vigorously.

The action reminded Megan of Joey at that age, and sometimes even now. When she saw him. Between school, his friends, and the part-time job at the small cafe in Columbus, whole days passed lately that she and her eldest son spent only minutes together. But where Joey took chocolate milk as a given, Gerry seemed to treasure the bottle he had, doling it out to himself in small sips.

“We need to talk,” Megan said.

“About what?” Gerry kept checking the television screen, but he was studiously ignoring her. He took an Oreo from the small pile of cookies on the paper plate and unscrewed the treat. He licked at the white filling.

“Your fall.”

Gerry shrugged. A twinge of pain flashed across his face, blanching his cheeks white under his freckles. ‘I just fell.”

“From the roof of your house?”

“Yeah.” He licked at the cookie again tentatively.

“What were you doing on top of the house?”

“Looking at the stars.”

‘Why?’

“I don’t know. I guess because I like stars.”

Megan went with that patiently, knowing the clock was working against her and that the commercial on television couldn’t last forever. “What do you like about stars?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you looked at them before?”

“Yeah. All the time.”

“You’ve never mentioned that in one of our sessions.”

“So?”

“We’ve talked about other things you like. Basketball. Biking. It just seems kind of strange that you’ve never mentioned an interest in astronomy before.” Gerry preferred to talk about anything other than his father and his relationship with the man. During some sessions, Gerry had even stooped to talking about homework problems and assignments.

“Maybe,” Gerry said, “it’s ‘cause you didn’t ask.’

Megan let that statement sit between them for a moment. By assigning the blame to her, Gerry was trying to distance himself from the conversation. She remained silent, knowing from experience that arguing the point was the wrong thing to do. Gerry was a good kid. Not all of the ones she worked with were, but Gerry Fletcher was one of the good ones in a bad spot.

Looking at her, guilt flashing in his eyes, Gerry said, “Sorry. You ask lots of questions. It’s not your fault you didn’t know. You just didn’t ever ask that question.”

That was a start. “Tell me about your telescope.”

A trapped look creased Gerry’s thin face. For the first time, Megan saw the deep purple bruise that marred his left jawline. The back of a hand? she wondered. Or a collision with something else?

Her stomach turned and she had to push back from the line of thinking and the images that came to mind. Boyd Fletcher was a big man physically, and he lived on adrenaline. A definite type A personality filled with anxiety, tension, and aggression.

“What about it?” Gerry asked defensively.

“What kind is it?” Megan started slow, working with small details that would gradually tear away the fabrication Gerry was presenting. If she did it, here and now, with him knowing she was on his side, maybe it would go easier when the MPs presented their questions and Helen and Dr. Carson accused Boyd Fletcher of abusing his son.

Gerry carefully raised and lowered his thin shoulders. “I don’t know. It’s just a telescope.”

“How long have you had it?”

“A while.”

“Did you get it for a birthday or Christmas?”

The presentation of the choice brought home to Gerry that he was going to have to be careful and more attentive to his answers. “Does it matter?”

“I don’t know. Is the telescope broken?”

“Probably,” Gerry replied. “It was a long fall from the top of the house. I mean, the fall banged me and my arm up pretty bad.” He nodded, more to himself than to her. “Probably the telescope got broke. “

The television had returned to the basketball game, but Gerry’s attention was riveted on his cookies and milk and the questions Megan had for him. He nibbled at one of the cookie pieces.

“Did you check on the telescope?” Megan asked.

“No.”

“1 was just wondering. You know how your dad is about your things.” Boyd Fletcher had a history regarding his son’s property. If Gerry broke or damaged something, the boy was made to pay a price. But if Boyd were mad at his son, he broke or disposed of Gerry’s toys.

When Gerry had claimed he’d had a bike wreck, Boyd Fletcher had gotten rid of the bike, which had upset Gerry terribly. The briefvery brief-conversation Megan had shared with Boyd Fletcher had been harsh and to the point: Maybe Megan could require the sessions, but she couldn’t require him to provide a bike for his son.

“He won’t care about the telescope,” Gerry said.

Megan nodded. “That’s good. Who got the telescope for you?” Hesitating, Gerry said, “My dad.” During the sessions, he always tried to build his dad up in her eyes. He was eleven years old and he knew that she didn’t feel good about his father even though she had tried to hide that fact.

“Is your dad interested in astronomy?” Megan asked.

“I guess so.”

“How is he going to feel about the telescope getting broken?”

“He’s probably not going to like it.”

There’s an understatement. Megan sometimes got the feeling that Boyd Fletcher deliberately gave his son breakable things or items that were hard to manage just so he could find fault with him.

“Probably not,” Megan said. “So what are we going to do about it?”

Panicked, Gerry looked at her. “What do you mean? It’s broken. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Don’t you think we’re going to have to tell your dad?”

Gerry was quiet.

“You know your dad doesn’t like it when you do something wrong and then hide it from him,” Megan said. Several of Gerry’s more severe punishments, including physical as well as mental ones, resulted from the boy’s attempts to conceal things from his father.

“I’ll tell him,” Gerry said. “Promise.”

“I appreciate you being willing to. But I think this might be something we’d do better together.” Megan slipped a glance at her watch. Only eleven minutes remained of her allotted time. It was time to turn up the pressure. Help me here, God. I’m getting in over my head, and there’s not going to be any turning back. She kept her voice casual. “We can tell him about the telescope at the same time we tell him about your visit here tonight.”

“I can tell him in the morning.”

Megan shook her head. “Sorry, guy. No can do. A visit to the hospital in the middle of the night requires Dr. Carson to report this.”

“To my dad?”

“And possibly to other people.”

Gerry gnawed his lip. “The doc called you, didn’t he?”

Megan thought about Dr. Carson. The man was young and bright and caring, and she thought Boyd Fletcher would probably rip through him like a buzz saw. No, Boyd Fletcher needed a more substantial target, someone who could stand up to every withering second of the argument that was surely forthcoming. Someone who could dish it back.

“Actually,” Megan said, “Mrs. Cordell called me.”

Gerry-seemed to relax a little. “Mrs. Cordell is a tough lady.”

“Yes,” Megan said. “One of the toughest I know.”

“She doesn’t believe I fell off the roof, does she?’

Megan didn’t hesitate. One of the bonds she had with anyone who saw her was unflinching honesty. “No, she doesn’t.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

Gerry glanced at the thick file on the Fletcher family that Megan had brought in with her. The boy deflated with a long sigh, finally giving in to the realization that events had progressed past the point of his ability to control them. “How much trouble is my dad in?”