The Myriad Resistance (4 page)

I could see two little girls in the back of the line and they curiously turned and looked over their shoulder as the truck drove past. They both wore naïve girlish grins on their shimmering faces as if this was another day at the park. These girls were innocent children and they didn't deserve this. I knew any action on my part would be fruitless, so I forced myself to withdraw from the opening in the canvas. I bit my lip then carefully placed my head in my hands. In my mind's eye, I saw my daughters … my father's granddaughters. The whole damned mess made me want to cry.

We bounced along for about ten minutes until I felt the truck starting to slow. I pulled up the canvas about an inch on the side and peered out. We were approaching the guard post at the west gate. There were at least five armed guards on duty, all carrying M16 assault rifles. The truck creaked to a halt and I heard Burt talking to one of the guards.

“We're going for another Impal pick up in Fredericksburg,” he said, attempting to sound boastful. “Heard they netted about a hundred of them in an old house near the battlefield.”

There were a few moments of muffled conversation then what I heard next made my blood run cold.

“Private Sanders, you check underneath the truck and I'll check the back!”

I could hear the sound of boots walking around the truck. A long dark silhouette twisted around the canvas as the soldier walked in front of the guard post spotlight. When he reached the back, the flap flew open and a head crowned with a Kevlar helmet protruded through the opening. His gaze fixed on me. I was about to attack when he turned his attention to the interior of the truck. The soldier unceremoniously swept his flashlight beam back and forth a couple of times before withdrawing. The ambient light from the spotlight caught the soldier's face for an instant. I could swear he winked at me.

“Nothing back here,” he said. “Private, you find anything underneath?”

I could hear the sound of someone scampering to their feet then dusting their clothing.

“No sir, it's clear,” the Private reported.

“Okay Captain Golden, you are free to pass. Good luck to you!” the unknown soldier said.

As the truck began to rumble forward, I pressed myself hard against the bed, not daring a peek. I didn't want to do anything to derail our good fortune. Unfortunately, it happened anyway. I estimate we were only twenty yards beyond the post when the unthinkable happened. Private Readnour, for some unknown reason, felt the need to get down in the bed of the truck with me. When he did, the batteries dropped out of his pocket with a clatter.

I don't think the soldiers could hear the noise over the diesel engine of the truck. Nevertheless, I knew they could see the shimmering light shining through the loose back flap. A moment later, I heard shouts and a couple of warning shots, and then the truck began to accelerate.

Grasping the bed of the truck desperately for purchase, I was thrown about a foot in the air when we ran over a large bump in the road. I screamed in agony, as every injury on my body seemed to flare at the same time. Intense pain paralyzed me, making it difficult to breathe. Even as pain overloaded my senses, I couldn't help feeling lucky. My travelling companion was not as fortunate.

Private Readnour was a victim of his own stupidity and perhaps dumb luck. For the most part, Impals can control their movement through solid objects. However, it takes a small amount of concentration. His panicked reflex to hide on the floor with me, coupled with the loss of his batteries, sent poor Private Readnour into a state of utter shock. When the truck bounced, he flew air-borne like me. However, when he landed, he didn't land in the bed of the truck. He went straight through it and landed on the pavement beneath. A couple of his batteries bounced off the bed after he passed through it.

Despite my pain, I managed to pull myself up and pull back the flap. Private Readnour was on his hands and knees in the middle of the road a short distance behind. As we rounded a corner in the road, my heart stopped as a pair of headlights appeared on the other side of the private. They didn't have time to stop. Tires squalled as the Jeep passed through the Impal and skidded sideways before coming to rest on its side.

It is a good bet the occupants of the jeep were injured, how severe I did not know. The one thing I was sure about was nobody died because the only shimmering form in the vicinity was Private Readnour. He stood in the road for a few moments, staring at the wreck, then turned and bolted full speed into the woods. I hoped he made it and I said a silent prayer for him. In spite of what he did to me, he didn't deserve what would happen if he got caught … nobody did.

To my relief no other vehicles pursued. Ten minutes later, we pulled off the highway onto an overgrown path, which once served as an old logging road. When we were out of sight of the highway, Burt stopped the truck and he and Sam got out and came to the back.

“All right, change of plans,” Burt said throwing open the flap. “I don't know what the hell happened. We were made. They'll have MP's and the Virginia State Police out searching for us.” He paused for a moment and pointed at us with his index finger as if he were counting heads.

“Wait a minute, weren't there three back here?” he asked.

I told him the story of what happened to Private Dansby. Burt shook his head with solemn respect. In contrast, Sam's face flashed extreme anger and satisfaction. He remained silent even though he might as well have commented, “Good, he got what he deserved.”

I glanced back at Staff Sergeant Beeson for the first time since the ordeal. He sat in utter silence in the corner near the cab. His expression suggested he might be sick at any moment.

“Come on sergeant,” Burt said. “We've got more traveling to do.”

To his credit, he managed to hang onto his batteries. He seemed as solid as the rest of us, until his right hand accidentally sank through the tailgate as he climbed out. I suppressed a shudder. As much as I believed in the rights of Impals, it was hard for me to get used to their physical characteristics. In a way, it made me feel like a hypocrite or even sometimes a racist. Although I am not certain the latter term applies to this situation. The Impals weren't a different race, were they? I guess the answer to that question lies in a person's individual belief of what it means to be human. Flesh and blood does not make a human any more than a milk carton makes milk. Unfortunately, the Supreme Court, in all its wisdom, disagrees.

“Readnour was a good man,” Beeson muttered, shuffling the batteries in his pocket.

“Good at brutality,” I thought.

Sam turned in disgust and started walking towards the road. Burt and I followed with Beeson close behind. For the first time since I had been outside, I realized how oppressive the heat and humidity were. Mid-September in Virginia is rarely pleasant, and tonight was exceptionally uncomfortable. I reached in my pocket and retrieved a handkerchief then began dabbing my head and neck as we walked and listened to Burt's plan.

It was simple; he was going to call someone to come pick us up, which would require at least an hour of lying low and hiding in the bushes. Of all the other troubles facing us, the first thing I thought of was snakes and then poison ivy.

We found a small thicket to the side of the road where we would be well hidden with a good view of the road. The freakish ultraviolet light emitting from the night sky provided as much light as a full Moon. I was reasonably certain I wasn't about to step on any snakes. Burt sat down on a fallen tree and pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. He hit a few buttons then held the phone to his ear, within a few rings someone answered.

“We got four bags of groceries and don't have enough money, can you help us out?” Burt asked. He paused for a few moments as the person responded. “That's great, that's great,” he continued. “Send the check to the address on file.” He then hung up, pressed a button on the phone and placed it back in his pocket.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said. “I suggest you get comfy because it's going to be a little while.”

“Who did you call and what were the groceries?” I asked.

Burt winked at me. “That, my friend, was the leader of our little resistance and I couldn't very well say,
hey, come pickup me, my two friends and an Impal,
could I?”

“What is the address on file? Did you make arrangements for us to be extracted from here?” I asked.

“Not in my wildest dreams,” Burt said. “I didn't expect anyone to figure out you were missing for at least a couple more hours … by then we would have been safely back to base.”

Burt took a breath to continue before Sam interrupted.

“Then that stupid Impal screwed everything up. I told you we should have left them there!” he snapped.

The comment offended Sergeant Beeson. He got up and walked a short distance away with his back to us. Burt held up a hand to his subordinate in a gesture suggesting he understood his aggravation, however now was not the time to express it. Sam scowled and fell silent with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Back to your question,” Burt continued, “the address on file is the tracker on my phone, a simple app which is on millions of smart-phones. It locates the phone by pings off the cell tower.”

“Huh, and I figured you would have some high tech military GPS,” I prodded.

“Are you kidding?” Burt asked in disbelief. “Anyone in the government or military would be able to track us with those!”

“Yes, I'm kidding,” I said with mock exasperation. “So, how long have you been with this resistance?”

“Three weeks,” Burt said.

“And I'm just now hearing about it?”

Burt cleared his throat and stroked his chin as he decided how to couch his answer.

“Well, Cecil … you've been a little out of pocket lately. With your trip to Arizona and the time you spent interviewing the Pendleton guy … we haven't had much of a chance to talk.”

“Who your father is didn't help things either,” Sam offered. “Quite frankly, we didn't know if we could trust you.”

The lieutenant's words stung, yet I knew they were the truth. If I was in their position, I wouldn't trust me either. Burt started to reprimand him for his brutal honesty until I held up my hand.

“No, it's okay, Burt,” I said. “I completely understand. It's going to take me a long time to distance myself from my father. How did you know you could trust me now?”

Burt shook his head as if I asked the stupidest question in the world.

“Uh … because you got yourself thrown in jail and beat up for trying to rescue an Impal from the Shredder. Either you're completely trustworthy or completely insane.”

I couldn't help laughing.

“Well, I think the jury is still out on the insane part,” I said.

I put the humor aside; there were more serious issues to address.

“You said you were ‘way ahead of me' when I asked you about my family, Burt … where are they? Are Barbara and the girls safe?”

“Fine,” Burt said. “Barbara is at the base where we are headed. I had her moved there earlier today when I heard about your rescue stunt.”

“The girls … Abby and Stefanie … are my daughters all right?” I asked. It worried me that he did not mention them. Abby was capable of taking care of herself. She is in her first year of college. Steff wouldn't even be a teenager for another year. Steff was smart, but she possessed the maturity level of a second grader. She required a little special supervision sometimes.

“Yes, I'm sorry,” Burt apologized. “I didn't mean to imply otherwise. I talked to Barbara. She told me she would take the girls and go.”

“And … you confirmed she was there?” I asked, my stomach starting to twist in knots.

“Absolutely,” Burt said. “Right before we broke you out of jail.”

“Did she say anything about the girls?”

“No,” Burt said, scratching his chin. “You and I both know she wouldn't go without them.”

I knew he was right, except it didn't make me feel better. I wouldn't feel better until I held them in my arms again. I hoped that moment would be coming very soon.

“Who was the soldier that let us pass through the gate?” I asked.

“Lieutenant Zach Gomez, a good friend and an ally,” Burt said with a worried frown. “I hope he's okay … I hope they don't suspect him for letting us through and I really hope he wasn't in the jeep.” He sighed and folded his arms. “He was supposed to defect first thing in the morning and join us at the base.”

“Defect … sounds like an old Cold War term,” I observed.

“Is our government any better than the old Soviet Union?” Burt asked.

I shrugged.

“In many ways, I think what they are doing is worse,” Burt said quietly.

He was not quiet enough to avoid being overheard by Sam as he continued his highway vigil across the clearing.

“Amen!” he called in a hushed shout.

After several minutes of alone time, Sergeant Beeson finally returned to our huddle. Sam gave him a cutting look, which I found disturbing me. I wasn't sure if his resentment toward the Impal was because he assaulted me or if it was more deep-seated. Someone with his attitude could be very detrimental to our cause. I trusted Burt and Burt trusts him, so for the time being I would give him the benefit of the doubt.

For the next hour, Beeson talked with Burt and me. Sam seemed completely disinterested in conversation. He stood up and moved into the tree line closest to the highway after the second state trooper blazed past with their lights flashing. The blue lights cast weird, undulating reflections on the ultraviolet night sky. Considering where we were in relation to civilization, they could only have been searching for us.

Beeson's Impal side turned out to be a stark contrast to his flesh-and-blood persona. He was polite with a rather dry sense of humor.