From the Indie Side (35 page)

“I’m sure, Phillip,” Goffrey said. “Besides,
Sam and his bunch are heading up here as we speak. With his crowd
joining me, we’ll have more good men and women, and I think we can
hold this place thanks to everything you taught me.”

Phillip smiled at his new friend. “I’m glad
Sam’s coming up.”

Goffrey nodded. “We’ll do fine.”

Phillip, Nigel and Rob shook hands with
Goffrey before deciding that a handshake wasn’t good enough. One at
a time the men embraced the trembling artist, and Phillip kissed
the man on both cheeks.

“We thank you for your hospitality, Goffrey.
May God keep you and protect you until we meet again,” Phillip
said. He had tears in both eyes as he broke from the hug.

Goffrey looked down at his boots and shuffled
his feet. Unsure of himself. Part of him wanted to break and run
down to Texas with Phillip. A larger part of him wanted to hold
this place and declare to the world that some things are simply not
destined to fall into the hands of the lawless. “You all keep your
heads up and your powder dry.”

“Change your politics,” Phillip said with a
smile.

Goffrey looked Phillip in the eye. “I don’t
have any left. Except this place. This place is my politics.”

“I think we’re finally on the same page.”

The three men mounted up and turned to face
down the mountain.

As the horses began to move down the drive,
breaking the snow with their hooves, Goffrey raised his hands and
shouted after his friends…

“Give peace a chance!” His voice echoed down
the valley.

“Give peace a chance!” the three riders
shouted back, as each lifted a fist in solidarity.

In the distance, a hawk circled in the sky,
unconcerned with the declarations and mantras of men.

Being a lifelong Russophile means that my
stories usually have a decidedly Russian flavor to them. Most of my
readers have come to know this, and even if maybe they don’t prefer
it, at least they expect it. In most Russian short stories, the
point of the thing is more subtle than it is in American
literature. Americans generally want action or mystery happening
right here and right now. Don’t get me wrong, there is action in
Russian short stories too, but often it is
happening 
around
 the story. There are bombs going
off and people may be dying, but those things are
happening 
over there
, and we see their effects on our
characters in a more indirect way. The action is often the frame,
and not the picture itself.

“REDOUBT” is a short story set in the
same universe as my apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic
stories 
WICK
 and 
The Last Pilgrims
.
WICK 
tells the story of the apocalyptic collapse of
modern society as it took place in the American Northeast.
The
Last Pilgrims
 takes up the story of that collapse twenty
years later, and is set mainly in Texas and New Mexico. “REDOUBT”
parallels 
WICK
 in that it takes place at the
beginning of the collapse, but it deals primarily with characters
who figure in
The Last Pilgrims
.

After writing two long novels in this
universe, I wanted “REDOUBT” to shine a more direct light on the
human interactions that happen when the world goes south. Some
people might say, “But nothing happens.” I hope they don’t say
that, but if they do, then to them I say, "Happening is
overrated."

I want to thank David Gatewood, Brian
Spangler, Susan May, and all of the other wonderful authors for
allowing me to participate in this anthology. I'd also like
specifically thank Jason Gurley for recommending me to such a
talented group of people in the first place. I am humbled and happy
to be included in this work.

Kareem woke to
the
sound of coffee dripping from his brand new De’Longhi coffee
machine. With each drip, the aroma swelled in his tiny apartment.
For a moment, he just lay there savoring the smell, enjoying the
absence of an alarm clock. Instead of the jarring sound of a fake
car horn or faux-African drums or even a rock song shuffled from
his smartphone, he woke to what at first sounded like rain falling
gently on the windowsill. The soft hiss of steam reminded him not
to drift back to sleep.

Kareem opened his eyes and stretched, sitting
up on the side of the bed. The clock read 7:20.

Another day, another dollar. Living for the
weekend. Huh, he thought, these were clichés, but somehow they
defined his life. What day was it? Wednesday or Thursday? Damn, he
thought, picking up his phone and checking the date. It was
Tuesday.

“Thank God it’s not Monday,” he mumbled to
himself, vaguely aware he’d butchered yet another cliché in his
drowsy state.

Kareem got to his feet and staggered,
reaching out for the dresser to steady himself. He felt dizzy,
almost to the point of nausea. For a moment, he held himself there,
holding himself still while the world swung around him.

“Oh,” he moaned, feeling like he’d been
kicked in the head. “I’ve got to lay off the hard stuff.”

His mind was cloudy, hazy. He had no
recollection of drinking alcohol the night before, but he must have
been on liquor. Beer wouldn’t do this to him. Wine would leave him
slightly dehydrated and a little dusty. Only whiskey knocked him
around this bad. That was the worst thing about getting blind
drunk, he decided: not really knowing the next morning whether it
was worth the thumping headache or not.

“Ha,” he said to his empty one-room
apartment, smelling the fresh coffee wafting through the air.

He poured himself a cup of black coffee and
then thought better of it, adding some artificial sweetener and a
drop of cream. Steam rose from the cup. He inhaled, savoring the
rich smell. Closing his eyes, he sipped at the coffee, feeling
better already.

In the back of his mind, Kareem remembered
something, something about yesterday. Damn, he thought. There was
something he was supposed to do today, something he should have
written down. It was important, he knew that much at least, but
what it was escaped him. Maybe a hot shower would distract him and
that memory would return naturally.

Kareem walked around the bed toward the
bathroom. It was autumn. It would take a couple of minutes before
the frigid New York water became warm enough for a shower, so he
figured he’d catch up on the news about the terrorist attacks
crippling the country. With the flick of a button on the TV remote,
his television started talking to him. A commercial for shaving
cream came up on the screen. Rubbing the stubble on his chin,
Kareem ignored the ad and wandered into the bathroom.

He glanced casually in the mirror in the
cramped bathroom with its chipped tiles and moldy corners. A
stranger stared back at him. It took Kareem a moment to recognize
himself. Blood soaked through a bandage wrapped around his head.
Numerous tiny cuts and scratches stretched across his face, all
running from lower left to upper right. His eyes were puffy, as
though he were suffering from allergies. 

“What the...”

A packet of painkillers sat on the sink below
the mirror. The label on the side had his name typed out, but he
didn’t remember getting them. He didn’t remember anything that had
happened yesterday.

“How in the hell?” he said absentmindedly,
slowly unraveling the turban-like bandage. The side of his head had
been shaved. Stitches ran from his temple to behind his ear.
Gently, he touched at the wound, trying to get a good look at the
cut in the mirror. Had he been in some kind of accident? Perhaps he
had amnesia, or was still in shock and was subconsciously blocking
out painful memories. As a paramedic, Kareem understood that was
possible. Car crash, he wondered? No, he thought, hit-and-run. The
lines on his face were consistent with road rash.

The TV blared in the background. Kareem
turned on the shower and wandered back into his tiny apartment,
struggling to recall any memories from yesterday. He had no idea
how he’d been injured. He’d clearly been to the hospital. The label
on the painkillers noted they’d been issued by the pharmacy at the
Downtown Emergency Department in Lower Manhattan. In some ways,
that made sense. That’s where his ambulance was stationed, but how
had he gotten home? Getting back to the Upper East Side was a pain
in the ass on public transport. Someone had to have dropped him
off, but he had no recollection of any of it.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he flicked
through the TV channels until he picked up the news. 

“...while later today,” a pretty young
newscaster began, “President Addison will speak at the social
justice reform program in Manhattan.”

The president faced the camera. At first,
Kareem assumed he was speaking from somewhere in Washington, D.C.
He could have been in the White House, Kareem speculated, but the
walls behind him were covered in photographs.

In his groggy state it took Kareem a moment
to realize that the president was standing in front of a memorial
wall, the kind hastily erected in the aftermath of some tragedy. As
the camera panned, taking in a scene of devastation beyond the
makeshift wall, Kareem recognized the intersection. The windows in
the buildings had been shattered, but it was the corner of State
and Pearl; he was sure of it. He used to get coffee from there.
President Addison had to be in New York.

“We will not be intimidated by cowards,” the
president began. “We will find those responsible for the attack on
Battery Park and we will bring them to justice.”

Battery Park. Yes, he remembered picking up a
middle-aged man from Battery Park a couple of days ago. Or was it a
week ago? The poor man had had a heart attack while walking to
work. Kareem and his partner had saved the man’s life.

This was the second attack Kareem had heard
of in New York, after the bombing of the museum. Prior to that,
there had been bombings in Los Angeles, Seattle and Chicago, but
only ever one attack in each city. Hearing of a second attack in
New York caused the hair on the back of Kareem’s arms to stand on
end. 

“We will not have our way of life changed by
extremists. We will not bow to their hatred of freedom.”

The president kept talking, but the volume
dropped as the reporter spoke over top of him.

“President Addison has vowed to keep to his
schedule in New York, speaking at the civil rights conference
before touring the hospitals that are treating those injured at
Battery Park. Police are asking anyone in the area who may have
seen one of these two men to come forward to help with the
investigation.”

Some sketch artist had constructed two
computer-generated mug shots. On the screen, both men looked sullen
and morose. They appeared to be in their mid-twenties, and had the
classic Arab look, with short-cropped dark hair and sharp jawlines,
but really they could have been from any southern European country.
Those dark bushy eyebrows could just as easily have originated in
Greece or Spain as in Saudi Arabia, Kareem noted. Tweak a few of
those features a little more and it could have been a sketch of
either him or his brother.

“What about the bomb at the museum?” Kareem
asked the TV. Living less than four blocks from the first blast,
Kareem wanted to know if the police or the FBI, or whoever was in
charge, had any leads. Were the blasts related? Were they
coincidental? Could it be a copycat was at work? Not surprisingly,
the TV reporter didn’t respond to his question.

“The stock market is in free-fall,” the
anchor said. “Wall Street is in turmoil following the attack on
Battery Park, with the SEC calling for the suspension of future put
options as billions in losses pour into what the Fed is calling an
economic black hole.”

Steam swirled within the shower.

As tempting as it was to sit there and watch
the TV, mesmerized by the regurgitated news, Kareem felt he had to
get clean. He’d have to avoid getting his hair wet, but his weary
body cried out to soak beneath the warm jets of water. Anyway, he
knew the networks would run these stories to death, although death
probably wasn’t the appropriate term, given the gory subject
matter. Anything he missed would be replayed over and over again
throughout the day. Eventually, there would be something about the
attack on the museum.

The shower felt wonderful. Kareem stood there
beneath the streaming jets for almost half an hour, soaking his
body, relishing how the tension washed out of his muscles. There
were bruises on his arms and chest, but his legs were fine.

After he got out of the shower, Kareem gently
sponged the wound on his head, cleaning away the blood. He dressed,
shaved and brushed his teeth. He was a little strange in that
regard. He’d brush his teeth before he had breakfast, even though
that habit caused his Cap’n Crunch to taste of mint afterward.