Ashen Winter (36 page)
“This guy’s a lid,” Ken said. “He hasn’t even given his call sign.”
I had no idea what he meant by a lid, but it didn’t seem important. I picked up the mic.
“He said to keep the channel clear,” Ben said.
“Whatever.” I mashed down the push-to-talk switch on the mic and said, “Come in Pastor Manny, come in.”
Pastor Manny kept right on reading from Matthew.
“He can’t hear you when he’s transmitting,” Ken said.
“Oh.” That presented a bit of a problem. Pastor Manny barely paused to take a breath, let alone long enough to let me talk. We listened to him talk about Matthew’s end-of-times predictions for ten minutes or more. Then Pastor Manny announced a reading from Revelations, and our speakers filled with static. Maybe he was hunting for the right verse.
I pushed in the switch again. “Pastor Manny, come in, Pastor Manny.”
“You’re acting like a lid, too,” Ken said. I ignored him.
The static ceased “Another new listener? How wonderful. Please keep the channel clear out of consideration for our listeners.”
“This is urgent. I need to contact someone in the government. Maybe FEMA.”
“Put not your trust in princes.’”
“This is urgent. People are disappearing.”
“Son, I asked you nicely to keep the frequency clear.”
“Do you even have any other listeners? Why aren’t they transmitting?”
“Of course I do. They’re far more courteous than you.”
“How do you know? That anyone else is listening if they never talk?”
“I prayed on it, of course. Ah, here’s the next reading, Revelations, chapter thirteen.”
He read breathlessly for another ten minutes. He was an excellent reader—hollering and whispering, changing his voice to suit the words. I might have been impressed if I weren’t so pissed off.
The next time he stopped, I broke in immediately. “Please, Pastor Manny, do you have any idea how we could get in touch with FEMA? Preferably someone high up?”
“‘The worries of this life, the deceitfulness of wealth, and the desires for other things come in and choke the Word, making it unfruitful.’”
I slammed my free hand down on the tent floor. “I’m going to transmit right over your program unless you try to help me. People will hear a babble of both our voices and tune out.” I wasn’t sure it would really work that way, but when I looked at Ken, he was both nodding and glaring at me, so I figured my guess was right.
“You would dare thwart the will of the Lord?”
“I would and I will if you don’t help us.”
“Blasphemer!”
“Whatever. You want me off your frequency, I want some help.”
The radio crackled with static for a moment. When Pastor Manny came back on, his voice was quieter, resigned. “Florida is in the green zone—it’s one of the less-affected areas. There isn’t much FEMA presence. The Florida National Guard is handling security here. I probably couldn’t find anyone from FEMA even if I were inclined to abandon my calling to look. But the seventeen-meter band is usually full of transmissions in the late afternoon. Most of the signals are coded, but sometimes there’s a clear transmission—I think some relief units are reporting in to Washington that way.”
“Perfect. Thank you.”
“Now will you keep my frequency clear?”
“Sure. Sorry,” I said, although I felt anything but. Would it have killed him to tell me about the government transmissions right away?
Ken, Ben, and I fiddled with the radio for a few more hours that night. We found several other stations broadcasting. Most were in other languages: two that might have been Spanish, one that sounded vaguely Germanic, and another that Ken said was Russian. One station broadcast nothing but a woman reading numbers, which struck me as highly bizarre.
I talked to a guy for a while who called his station “Radio Free City.” But when it became clear that we couldn’t help him with food or “taking the fight to the fascist FEMA pigs,” he lost interest and signed off.
I would have liked some news. I knew in Worthington they were monitoring their radios and posting anything they heard on the town’s bulletin board. We tuned the radio to AM for a while but didn’t pick up anything useful, so we shut down the transceiver to save the batteries and went to bed.
The next day, we trimmed the antenna to twelve feet, eleven inches on each side, which Ken said would help optimize reception on the seventeen-meter band. It didn’t make sense to me—why wouldn’t a longer antenna be better than a short one? But when Ben and I had messed around with the radio on our own, we’d reached no one, so we took Ken’s word for it.
About the middle of the afternoon, the seventeen-meter band changed. Suddenly there were dozens of transmissions. Most of them were high-pitched static—I thought maybe someone was sending in code, but Ken said it was probably just data.
After skipping through five or six machine transmissions, Ken happened upon a person talking. “. . . bales of chain-link fencing, 850 pounds of coiled 8-gauge wire, 410 16-foot posts . . .”
When the guy took a short break from reading his list, Ken broke in. “KJØB.”
The radio hissed. “QLR.”
“That means he’s busy,” Ken explained. “QRA,” he said into the mic.
“QLR.”
“Rude bastard. I asked him for his call sign, and he basically told me to buzz off.”
I took the mic from Ken and mashed the switch. “We have an emergency.”
“I repeat, QLR. This block of frequencies is reserved for interagency coordination. Clear the frequency.”
“Interagency—like, the government? That’s great, I need to speak to someone high up in FEMA.”
“Under the Federal Emergency Recovery and Restoration of Order Act, I am authorized to confiscate your radio and place you in summary detention if you do not clear this frequency immediately. QLR.”
I shot a worried look at Ken. He shook his head. “They’d need a sophisticated triangulation setup to even find you.”
“This is life and death,” I said into the mic. “We’re in a refugee camp. The DWBs are kidnapping people. The guards know, but they aren’t doing anything—they’re getting paid off by the DWBs. We need help.”
“What sector?”
“Sector? We’re in the refugee camp in Maquoketa, Iowa.”
“Hold.” I heard papers rustling for a moment. “Call 18,160 kilohertz in one hour. I’ll notify the coordinator for your sector. QLR.”
“Thank you,” I said, but he was already reading another list.
We shut off the radio to save the batteries. Ben went to find Dad and tell him about our success. I started counting off an hour, one boring Mississippi at a time.
Dad joined us just as I hit 3,600 Mississippi. I turned on the radio and double-checked the frequency selector dial—it was still set to 18,160, where Ken had left it. I picked up the mic and offered it to Dad.
“You go ahead,” he said. “I’ll just listen in.”
I mashed the push-to-talk switch under my sweaty palm. “Alex at Camp Maquoketa, calling the sector coordinator.”
“Say ‘CQ, CQ from KJØB,’” Ken said. “It’s proper radio etiquette.”
I was tempted to say “Thank You, Miss Manners.” I mean, who cares about radio etiquette when people are getting killed? But it was easier just to do it his way. “CQ, CQ from KJØB.” Nothing but static answered my call. I repeated it, over and over, at about one-minute intervals for what seemed like an hour. Had they forgotten? Or worse, was the guy I’d talked to just trying to get me off the frequency by lying about connecting me with the sector coordinator? Dad drummed his fingers on his knee and shifted his weight incessantly.
Finally someone responded. “KJØB here is N7ØVF. This is George Mason with the CBO’s FERROA Oversight Committee.”
“What’s the CBO?” I said.
“Congressional Budget Office. I was told you wished to file a complaint?”
“I thought I’d be speaking to the sector coordinator?”
“She’s busy. And anyway, we control their appropriations. What’s your complaint?”
“So what does that mean? That you control their appropriations?”
“It means that if we don’t give the say-so, they don’t get paid. Well, next year, anyway.”
Dad was making a rolling motion with his arm. “Get on with it,” he mouthed. So I launched into the story—how people had been disappearing from the camp, especially young women. How we’d captured some of the Dirty White Boys. I glossed over the way Dad had gotten Shawn to talk and didn’t explain what had ultimately happened to Shawn.
Talking on a shortwave radio had a huge advantage. The CBO guy couldn’t interrupt me. So long as I kept the transmit lever depressed, there was no way he could break in.
Finally though, I’d said everything I needed to and lifted the transmit lever.
“Those are serious allegations. Can you substantiate them?”
“There are dozens of witnesses.”
“Physical evidence?”
I looked at Dad, not sure what to say. “Blood stains,” he whispered, “captured knives and other gear. Black Lake buried the people who died in the attacks. They could be dug up.”
I passed on that information to the CBO guy. “Very serious allegations,” he added. “Monitor this frequency for instructions. N7ØVF.”
I wiped my forehead. I was sweating despite the cold. Dad clapped his hand against my shoulder. “You did good, son.”
“Thanks. So that guy was from Washington?”
“The location code in his call sign was zero,” Ken said. “That’s the code for Iowa, Minnesota, and some of the states west of here. If he were out of Washington, his location code would be three.”
“Hmm. Maybe he’s a field agent or something?”
Ken shrugged.
We had a long wait by the radio. More than an hour, I guessed. The light was starting to dim when the radio crackled back to life, “CQ, CQ, this is N7ØVF to Maquoketa inmate station.”
“This is Alex. Inmate?”
Ken was cringing, and I realized I’d messed up the radio etiquette again. But it didn’t seem to matter.
“Sorry. Just jargon. Fortunately there’s an inspector not far from you. Congressional Liaison Orley. He’s in Rock Island. I’ve issued orders for him to move to Maquoketa tomorrow.”
“Great. When will he be here?”
“When the other inmates, um, refugees gather for dinner, Orley will meet you at the gate. Be sure to bring absolutely everyone who can provide a statement related to Black Lake’s corruption. We’ll need all the corroborating evidence we can get. Okay?”
“Got it.”
“Good. N7ØVF.”
• • •
We spent much of the next day debating who should meet with Congressional Liaison Orley. If the corrupt Black Lake personnel discovered that we were reporting them, anyone who came along might be at risk. Mom was adamant that we all go despite the danger. Any chance to stop the kidnappings was worth it, she argued. In the end, we decided to keep the group to a minimum. Dad and I, because we’d heard Shawn confess; Ben and Alyssa, because they both had firsthand experience with the flensers’ slave trade; and Mom, because she kept the lists and knew exactly who had disappeared.
At dinnertime we gathered in a knot near the gate. The two guards on duty glared at us. Usually this part of the camp was deserted at dinnertime—everyone was in the food lines.
We waited quietly for fifteen or twenty minutes. We were all tense—nobody seemed to feel like talking. A Black Lake guard in camo BDUs strode up to the gate guards and said something to them I couldn’t hear. They stepped away from the gate. The new guard called out, “You here to see Orley? He’s waiting for you in the vehicle depot.”
I glanced at Mom and Dad. They were trying to keep their faces impassive, but I could tell they were worried. Maybe as worried as I was. But if there was any chance at all of keeping the DWBs out of the camp, we had to take it. If we solved that problem, maybe Mom and Dad would try to escape with me. I marched slowly through the gate with Alyssa, Ben, Mom, and Dad right behind me.
The guard led us to a huge tent directly adjacent to the highway. Inside, the front part of the tent was clear; the back was packed with vehicles: bulldozers, snowplows, Humvees, and modern military trucks Ben said were FMTVs.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim light coming through the open tent flaps behind us, a figure stepped out from among the parked trucks. “Orley?” I said.
Then I saw his face. It was the bastard who had run Camp Galena when Darla and I were imprisoned there last year: Colonel Levitov.
I stepped back and shouted. But a dozen more guys in camo were already emerging from amid the trucks. They carried jagged-looking black assault rifles.
Dad sighed heavily, burying a word I’d never heard him use before under his breath. Five of the Black Lake guys detached from the rest, moving behind us. If we turned to run, they had clear shots. If we fought, some of us were going to get killed.
A guy about a foot taller than me forced my arms behind my back. I knew resisting would only make it worse. I felt thin plastic bands brush my wrists between my gloves and coat, and then the ties bit into my flesh. He kicked the back of my knee, and I fell to the ground, landing with a painful thud.
Within moments, all five of us were handcuffed and sitting on the unforgiving, frozen ground. Ben rocked back and forth, but he wasn’t moaning. Maybe getting cuffed had become so common that it felt like part of his routine now.
“Now,” Levitov said, “you’ll tell me everything you were going to report to Orley.”
“Does Orley even exist?” I doubted it—what a sucker I’d been.
“That’s immaterial. Talk,” Levitov ordered. An even worse thought occurred to me: What if Orley did exist and was working for Mason’s FERROA oversight committee but had reported me to Levitov instead of investigating? Had the U.S. government been completely co-opted by Black Lake?
Dad shrugged, wincing as the cuffs cut into his wrists. “Might as well talk.”
I was fuming. “This guy ran the camp outside Galena—the one where everyone was starving to death,” I said to Dad. “How’d you wind up here, anyway?” I shot an impaler’s glare at Levitov.
“Promotion. For exemplary performance at Camp Galena.”
“Very funny. Mass starvation and a breakout won you a promotion? Right.”