When Totems Fall (41 page)

Beep.

C:>inserttext>Do You Fear God?

C:>|......

The sniper glimpsed this last transmission
drawing itself again. Assuming it was only adding to Zeb's upheaval, she tried to prod the near-catatonic, motionless Dalton into action.

"Zeb.
Zeb,
what do we do!!?"

Sensing he was losing control, Loch took one step closer with gun hand shaking slightly, unbound anger overwhelming his usual steadiness.

"You want to know a secret, Dalton? I was sent along with you for
this
very moment. Some very important people didn't think you'd do what needed to be done, either. This isn't some kind of child's game we can walk away from because we dooon't like the way it went down. Pretend it never happened? Who are you kidding?! The Chinese took this plot of land because they want more. They want our resources. Our people. They will not back off. They will not give it up."

Not finished yet, Loch's face flushed a deep red, veins in his neck and forehead throbbing viciously.

"And do you think the rest of the world will find us to be level-headed, applaud us when we go baaack to our normal, everyday lives? No, this is an invitation for others to attempt more of the same in the future. Our only response, the only one securing peace, is to show strength nooow."

"So yes," he declared. "We will strike. We will strike first. We will strike haaard... "

Beep.

C:>inserttext>Do You Fear God?

C:>|......

This time, Dalton barely heard it.
Still the recurring, incessant visual and all it represented only ratcheted up his already unmanageable emotions.

Four words.

Yet they served as a focal point for a lifetime of pain, disappointment, and disillusion.

His father. The shame and anguish. His young, tender faith crushed against the hard, jagged rocks of the misdeeds of another, someone so trusted. Everything that mattered, ripped away from him, turning him toward bitterness and detachment from bigger things, critical things. His soul was a caldera, finally spilling over its ridges and violently reshaping everything in its path.

Dalton couldn't keep it in any longer.

Beep.

C:>inserttext>Do You Fear God?

C:>|......

Loch pressed in toward him,
using the weapon in his hand to emphasize each part of the final, unequivocal directive.

"... you
will c
omplete this mission, soldier. You will finish this job, regardless of the sacrifice."

Beep.

C:>inserttext>Do You Fear God?

C:>|......

As excruciatingly difficult as it was,
and with monumental effort, Zeb moved his fingers.

"Do you hear me, Dalton?" Loch screamed, no longer trying to maintain any sense of decorum. "
Dalton?
!!"

Shots rang out.

The small, enclosed space became easily overwhelmed by their report off the aging, concrete walls. At first, Zeb struggled to register the sound as real. That is, until his chest warmed and a circular stain grew slowly over his right pectoral muscle group.

Dull, aching. Fibers and nerve endings frayed. Dense fluid filled his lung; impossible to push through. Respirations slowing, his heart beat unevenly. Dalton's system was off-balance. Too much of the precious deep red liquid was making its way to the outer surface of his skin. Coughing uncontrollably, spraying crimson onto the workstation in front of him, Zeb's field of vision constricted.

Smaller.

Smaller still.

Black.

EPILOGUE

Ten Days Later: Critical Care Unit,

Harborview Medical Center—Seattle, WA.

"Hey, I hear they keep busted up old signal corpsmen in this place. Is that true?"

Zeb moved his head ever so slightly,
responding to the question floating in from the doorway. Sanchez leaned there against the industrial metal frame, encouraged by the sight of Dalton on the mend. Though he didn't look great at the moment, his present state was certainly an improvement over how she'd seen him last. The heavy, uneven beard growth and tangled mess of hair would do for now. His body was taking care of business. Dalton was weak yet lucid. His voice: quiet and scratchy.

"I... don't remember. Can't remember what happened, Sanchez."

Pausing, clearing his vision.

"Nobody around here will tell me a flippin' thing. Every time I wake up somebody puts more sleepy-juice in my pic line."

Zeb coughed, his words trailing off raspily as they exited his worn and weary throat. Jessica took two steps into the room, approaching his bedside. Offering him the top end of the plastic straw protruding from his water bottle, Zeb took a sip and then sat back into the bed's elevated position, exhaling heavily for the effort. He tried again through dry, cracked lips.

"Tell me what happened."

Turning a folding chair backwards and leaning in beside him, Sanchez recounted the last time they had seen one another. The sniper recon didn't ease into it. Not at all.

"I killed him, Zeb,"
she confessed. "I killed Loch."

"Three shots fired. The first one was mine… and the last. I couldn't let him get the drop, didn't know how much time he would give you. I had to. I tried to wait him out. He gave me no choice."

Her voiced slowed, quieting as she talked, the regret of taking another soldier's life resonating in her now softening tone.

"You were bad. Blood everywhere, body slumped over the keyboard. I got you to the floor and did what I could to slow the bleeding."

She stopped again, the image of Zeb's limp torso and ashen face still etched on her mind.

"I have no idea how but your pulse—barely there—evened out. Best I could do was dress the wound with some shreds of your shirt. Barely made a difference. Then there was nothing left but the waiting."

Her pace quickened.

"And then the good guys showed up. I mean, they took two whole days and you stunk pretty bad but they came to get us. Some kid straight out of Ranger school busts down the door and looks so surprised to find us alive."

Zeb, smiling some now as his partner regained her mojo, attempted a question again.

"We did it... really?"

"Yeah, I guess we did, Dalton. Whatever you typed just as you were hit did the trick."

Sanchez wanted to probe more but wasn't sure the time was right. She took the chance.

"I gotta ask. What was it you keyed in before you went down?"

Zeb nodded his head in a "yes" motion, his warm amber eyes communicating so much more to her than the physical gesture or single word ever could. What he didn't try to explain at the moment was the two other quick sets of line commands he had punched in after replying to the odd query on the screen. Although the actual triggers restoring nuclear controls to the U.S. military, they were also a reduced set of directives leaving American forces at a virtual deadlock in warheads to the Chinese.

Zeb had gambled on a stalemate.

Sanchez stepped in again.

"Well, that cued our unknown friend on the other side that we wanted to stand down. And that sent the diplomats into overdrive. Everyone decided they had little stomach for either WWIII or Armageddon. They recognized the opening and took it. The Chinese began their pullout within forty-eight hours. Amazingly, they were gone in another thirty-six."

"There's talk of war crimes," she continued. "Who knows if the UN will do anything. One thing's for sure, U.S.-Chinese relations are screwed, totally. It will take decades for this to fade, if ever."

The look on his face; she saw it again as Zeb tried to calculate the data, to make sense of the timeline.

"Zeb, you had such a massive infection. It went septic. Not many people thought you'd make it. You've been basically unconscious for the last ten days."

Sanchez filled in a few more details
about the aftermath of the invasion, punctuating the moment with a joke about how at the end of the day the residents of Western Washington had at least been given an opportunity to learn a foreign language. Zeb's body arched as he laughed, clearly uncomfortable but with a slight smile painting his weary, worn face.

"Dalton. That question:
Do you fear God
...

... you answered yes, right?"

He nodded and then spoke quietly.

"Yeah, apparently I did."

"So," she probed gently. "What does it mean?"

"Honestly, Sanchez, I don't know, at least not yet. But given all that's happened, it makes sense I should spend some time trying to figure it out."

After a few minutes more of small talk Sanchez rose, leaving him to recuperate. Remembering something, she paused where she stood.

"Hey, one last thing Dalton."

Finding his voice, he answered with more strength, more attitude this time.

"Yeah, what would that be? You need me to help you save the world
again?
"

He coughed. She laughed.

"Nah. I found this on the floor of the comm room after they medevac'd your sorry butt out of the place. Thought you might want it."

Sanchez pulled the general's totem out of her pocket and placed it upright, setting the wooden piece onto the side table next to the bed. Then she simply left, silently—as was her specialty.

Zeb looked the figurine over, comforted that his body was healing yet realizing that his mind and soul needed repair as well. For the first time in a long time, he held a glimmer of hope that just might be possible.

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When Totems Fall
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So, now you now what happens "When Totems Fall."

What's next for Zeb and Sanchez? You can have some input by joining the conversation at:

https://whentotemsfall.wordpress.com/2016/06/10/whats-next-for-zeb

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From the Author—
Wayne C. Stewart