Authors: David Berardelli
To avoid another encounter with Rozzie or Luke, I awoke early and, using
only my parking lights, forced the van through the thick fog and back out onto
the main road.
Reed didn’t say much as I hurried along the Interstate. He was probably still
troubled by the incident the night before. I welcomed the silence. The
confrontation with Luke had rattled me.
The passage of years takes a toll on the human soul. Stress, trauma, and
frustration wear one down. When I was young, I tolerated punishment easily and
healed quickly. I was invincible and had no qualms about engaging in dangerous
activities. I didn’t even entertain the notion of death at such a young age. That
came much later, when I’d personally seen some of the horrors life can deliver.
After recovering from the knife wounds I’d sustained in the firefight with the
Russians and Albanians, I was sent to Pakistani Brighton, where a bloody
revolution was taking place. Fundamentalist Muslims frequently battled the
extremists, prompting daily suicide bombings as well as massive destruction to
mosques and stores. My unit was given an intensive bomb-deactivation training
course then immediately deployed. I spent my first two weeks locating and
disarming bombs and tracking down the terrorist cell responsible for planting
them.
Chasing a vest killer—we called them veekays—is terrifying. He is not
reasonable or balanced, is interested only in blowing up as many people as
possible in the name of religion, and seldom leaves clues.
I was forced to read body language and evaluate clothing at a glance then
react instinctively before a bomb could be activated. Capturing a veekay alive,
without endangering my own life and the life of anyone else in the kill zone, was
impossible. That’s why they gave us strict orders to kill all vest killers before they
could detonate their bomb.
I found more than twenty pipe bombs in nearly a dozen locations during my
stint. I’d killed four veekays and successfully evacuated three groceries and one
business center minutes before the entire block exploded into rubble.
I’d served with forty other men. We guarded twenty square blocks of
Muslims, all of whom claimed to be a peaceful people and tolerant of everyone.
But late at night, their rogue gangs routinely prowled the neighborhoods,
shooting and stabbing innocent people, setting fires and planting car bombs.
One night, an argument broke out and assault weapons came into play. The
crowd scattered, but many were cut down in the crossfire. People lay dead or
dying in the street. A Hispanic boy about ten years old crawled beneath a parked
car for safety.
As I sprinted across the street to save the boy, someone lobbed a grenade that
exploded dangerously close to my former position. I hit the ground and crawled
over to the vehicle to grab the kid and pull him out of the line of fire.
Cold fear rolled heavily down my back when I saw the gun in his hand that
was aimed at my face. Before I could duck out of the way, another grenade went
off, this one closer. The kid’s gun fired, slamming me in the left shoulder. I rolled
out into the street. Just then, one of our armored vehicles crept by. The crew
spotted me and stopped, enabling me to crawl underneath for cover. Another
grenade whizzed by. Seconds later, the parked car exploded, turning the kid into a
husk of screaming flame.
After about an hour on the road, Reed broke his silence. “You never said where
we’re going.”
“I’m driving back home to be with my mother.”
“Where’s home?”
“Gibsonia, Pennsylvania. It’s about half an hour north of Pittsburgh.”
“You think she’s all right?”
I didn’t want to voice my suspicions. I figured that if I kept my fears silent,
Mom might be all right. I knew the reasoning was silly, but I couldn’t help it. “I
don’t know. I’ve got to find out. This could be my last opportunity.”
“My parents are both dead,” Reed said. “I know it sounds harsh, but I’m glad
they’re gone. They don’t need to see any of this.”
“No one does.”
He sat back in his seat and stared at the roof of the cab. I could tell he’d gone
somewhere else.
“Bad memories?” I asked.
No reply.
“It couldn’t be worse than what’s happening now. Nothing could be worse
than that.”
“Sometimes I feel that way.”
“Just sometimes?”
He didn’t reply.
“Does this have anything to do with your teaching days?”
“That’s what scarred me up,” he said. “Even now, after all this ... this
horror ... I can still feel them.”
“I’ve got the time.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Most things are.”
“I wanted to get in my car and just drive,” he said softly, as though speaking
to himself. “I wanted to go somewhere I’d never been. A secluded place, with
trees and land and no people. I didn’t want to hear traffic ... or planes ... or any
sounds of modern civilization. I wanted to hear birds singing. I’d been living in
St. Cloud much too long. I felt like ... like I needed fresh air. I ... had to get
away.”
“You never got the chance?”
“Family activities and business pressures got in the way. I soon forgot all
about it. But I never forgot my needs. My urge occupied me constantly. I’d been
so wrapped up in business and family issues I lost my sense of direction.”
“When were you planning to take this trip?”
“Three or four years ago, I guess. I’d left teaching and started in software. I
did well financially, but it was a culture shock. A whole different class of people.
It didn’t take me long to immerse myself in it. Once I did, I trudged on. But in
doing so, I’d forgotten who I was. What I was. How I felt. I’d found another
profession but lost myself. So I decided to take a leave of absence and just drive.”
“You and the family?”
“I needed a clean break. I know how callous this must sound, but I thought
my family would influence me somehow. I wanted to discover things by myself,
without interference. But by the same token, I was afraid of leaving them. Of
coming back and feeling differently toward them. It had been so long since I’d
been by myself I didn’t know how I’d feel once I returned.”
“What triggered all this?”
“My teaching nightmare ... it came back one day to haunt me.” Reed’s voice
changed, growing softer, weaker. “My kids ... they were having problems at
school, and when my wife and I went to talk to the principal, and I found myself
in the midst of all the chaos I’d left not long before, I suffered a severe panic
attack. They had to take me out of there immediately. I thought I was going to
die.”
“What happened to cause all this?”
He didn’t reply.
“Reed, it’s all over. It can’t hurt you now. Everything’s gone.”
“In my mind, it’ll never go away. The scars ... like I said, they’ll always be
there.”
I knew what he meant. My military horrors would be with me until the day I
died.
“I know what you went through last night,” he said suddenly. “I didn’t have a
gun thrust in my face, but I know what it’s like to fear for your life.”
“My mother taught English Lit and Composition at Carnegie-Mellon until she
retired. She had a few stories to tell but never said anything about…”
“She obviously hadn’t seen the same horror I did. College kids usually go
there to learn. High school’s much lower on the food chain.”
His expression had become dark, as if someone had slipped a veil over his
face.
“I was a damn good teacher. I was conscientious. I actually
wanted
to help
my students find the right path.”
“Teaching used to be an honorable profession,” I said.
“It stopped being that long ago.”
“Why’d you even go into it?”
He groaned softly. “Like most everyone pursuing the profession, I wanted to
help another generation get a fair chance. In those days, I thought education was
everything.”
“What made you quit?”
“The Internet—what else? The ridiculous practice of texting, in my opinion,
lowered the level of the last few generations to that of pond scum. Texting and
cyber-bullying. The Web was originally a marvelous invention. But in the hands
of idiots it quickly became as dangerous as a handgun.”
“It’s been dehumanizing people for the last fifty years. We should be used to
it.”
Reed squirmed in his seat. “Forget this damned plague. Those idiots have
been walking around like zombies for years—texting in the halls, the classrooms,
on the roads, in their homes. I’ve seen them text at urinals, and what they’re
texting is worthless drivel. ‘Guess who’s fucking who?’ ‘Guess who wants to
fuck who?’ ‘Guess who’s not fucking who?’ ‘I have a hard-on.’” He frowned.
“It’s disgusting.”
“How did all this get you to quit?”
“One day during lunch I noticed a large crowd of students standing outside
the men’s room, some staring at their cell phones while others texted. I suspected
right off that something bad was going on. All kids made me suspicious in those
days—especially when they were congregated in a large group. I knew I had to
see what was going on. I wanted to stay away, but I still possessed a modicum of
principles in those days, so I braved the crowd and went in.”
Reed fell silent again. He stared down at his lap. When he raised his head, his
face had turned bone-white. “It was a scene right out of hell. There must’ve been
thirty students of both sexes grouped in a semicircle, watching the local jocks
taking turns raping a thirteen-year-old girl. They were standing in line, for God’s
sake. Those not participating were recording it on their cell phones. The ones
waiting in line were texting. Would you believe it?”
I didn’t reply. There was no need.
“I tried to break it up, but several of them rushed me and tossed me out.
Literally picked me up, carried me back out into the hall, and dumped me—as if I
were garbage!”
“Did you report it?”
“That’s what got me in trouble. The parents of at least twenty of those vicious
savages brought in their attorneys and threatened to sue me for assault if I
pursued it.”
“Assault?”
“When I tried breaking it up, they said I pushed a couple of them too hard. I
hadn’t noticed at the time because I was running on pure adrenaline and
concerned about the poor victim. One of the idiots I’d pushed tripped, while
another slammed into a urinal. The first one complained of a wrenched back and
sprained wrist. The second showed up with photographs of bruises on his arm. He
also claimed I’d knocked his shoulder out of its socket.”
“What about the rape victim?”
Reed shuddered. “She was dead before the police arrived. I have no idea how
or what caused it. They’d beaten her during the rape. Her face was a mess. A
bloody nose, swollen lips, and numerous lacerations. But the actual cause? I can’t
say. They could’ve choked her, accidentally or otherwise.”
“And that was that?”
“The jocks didn’t have to worry. Their daddies all had political clout, as well
as an arrangement with the football coach. Two of them had already landed full
athletic scholarships at big schools. Apparently, their daddies had been greasing
the right pockets for years, so they were untouchable.”
“Big money killed the whole thing.”
“They told me the dead girl was a slut who’d been coming on to the jocks for
weeks. They also said she’d arranged the whole thing. Everyone said her death
was an accident, so that was the end of it.”
“What about her bruises?”
“They said she liked it rough.”
“And since everyone filmed it, it could probably be argued that she actually
consented to it.”
“It never got anywhere near the courtroom, but the whole world saw it online.
I’m surprised you never heard of it.”
“I was never big on using the ’Net and never liked watching the news.”
“They put it on the ’Net and it received more than three million hits in one
day. One of them even charged twenty-five cents a hit. He made a fortune.”
“So you had to drop it.”
“The death threats convinced me.”
“Death threats?”
“It started with the clowns in the men’s room, then their friends, relatives, and
so on. Hundreds of threatening emails arrived in my inbox every day. I got them
at school and at home. I received regular mail threats, too, and anonymous phone
calls at all hours. When I found a dead pigeon in the front seat of my car, I knew
it was time to move on.”
“Can’t blame you.”
“I was stupid and naïve to think I could actually do something about it. I
blame society for letting it happen. We’re all guilty when we let an atrocity
happen without doing anything about it.”
“None of the other teachers backed you up?”
“Many were threatened for talking to me. It was a horrible, impossible
situation.”
“Maybe.”
“Just maybe?”
“Look what we’re facing now.”
We crossed into North Carolina and reached Fayetteville just before noon.
A glance at the gas gauge prompted me to take the exit ramp. The needle had
settled just above a third of a tank. I didn’t want it to get lower. I also needed to
stretch my legs. Reed still appeared somewhat despondent after telling me his
story and had said little since. He obviously needed a break as well.
Just beyond the exit ramp, the road went straight. About a hundred yards from
a stop sign, an abandoned service station sat quietly on its concrete slab, its
yellow flags flopping intermittently in the breeze like the wings of a dying bird.
I pulled up to the pumps closest to the gray-block building that said BUD’S
ONE-STOP in large letters with something printed in Chinese characters directly
beneath it. The Chinese restaurant and souvenir shop next door displayed dark,
dirty windows. Six abandoned vehicles sat beside the building, but none in front.
The car wash at the other end of the lot showed no activity, and the six pump
islands were abandoned as well.
“Anyone in the office?” I asked Reed.
“He said he doesn’t think so.”
I saw no movement behind the large, dusty window. To be safe, I decided to
check it out. If someone was inside, I didn’t want to pump gas without paying.
For all I knew, this area could still be using an active power grid. If the office was
empty, I’d probably have to turn on the pumps myself.
“I’ll be right back.”
Reed made a move to climb out as well.
“Since that last can of pop, I…”
“Wait until I get back. Someone could pull in while we’re both inside and
steal the van.”
The small office showed no signs of recent activity. A couple of half-empty
coffee cups sat on the counter and desk. The smell of burnt coffee languishing in
the pot clung to the stale air. The coffeemaker was switched off, and the pot was
cold to the touch. There was no sign of food in the room.
I opened the door marked RESTROOM. It was empty, but the strong smell of
urine and feces tainted the small area. I cracked open the window.
When I had emptied my bladder, I flushed the toilet and did the same to the
one in the next stall. Both flushed slowly, barely emptying their contents. The tile
below the stained urinal had darkened with the contents from the bottoms of
hundreds of shoes.
I found the controls for the gas pumps and switched ours on. Luckily, they
still had power. I went back outside just as Reed was getting out of the van.
“I left the window open. It might help.”
“I appreciate the heads-up.”
I circled the van and went over to the pump. Just as I unscrewed the cap and
slipped the nozzle into the opening of the tank, I heard the soft whining hum of
an engine easing up to our pump island on the other side.
My scalp tingled. I reluctantly forced the anger away. After all, I wouldn’t be
the only one needing gas. But I couldn’t shake the darkness of suspicion building
inside me. With five other sets of pumps available, they’d chosen mine.
To be safe, I locked the catch on the gas nozzle then pulled open the driver’s
door. I reached under the seat, grabbed a revolver, slipped it in my pocket, closed
the door, and returned to the pump.
A tall, skinny guy with his head shaved to the bone peered between the pumps
just as I pulled the nozzle out. Tattoos of stars ran down his left cheek. A row of
studs covered his left ear. A nose ring dangled above his upper lip.
“Hey,” he grunted.
I nodded but said nothing.
“Quiet around here, huh?”
He looked early twenties, wearing a black tee shirt embellished with white
stars, faded jeans, and scuffed white tennis shoes. A gold necklace with a peace
sign hung around his neck. A large gold bracelet encircled his skinny left wrist.
I remained cautious. He was obviously capable of operating a vehicle and
safely pulling up to the pumps—a small feat for a normal person but an
impossible task for someone doped. My deadly encounter with Luke had
convinced me to treat everyone as a potential enemy.
“Yeah,” I said. “Pretty quiet.”
He nodded, over and over. His eyes were a little bloodshot but not the least bit
filmy. My scalp continued to tingle.
He grabbed the nozzle and shoved it into the tank with a resounding
clunk
.
“Guess the fuckin’ pumps are on if you’re fillin’ up too,” he said, snickering.
My distrust grew. He gave me the impression he was hiding his left side
behind the pump.
“Things are really fucked up ... know what I mean?”
I made no comment.
He shook his head. “Everybody’s so fucked up now. Me, too. Even when I
don’t take any shit. Forget my own name, sometimes. You forget your name,
too?”
“No.”
“You’re lucky, ya know? One lucky motherfucker.”
I kept my eyes on him and hoped Reed would come back out so we could
leave.
“Forgot where I live, even went to the bathroom the other day … ya know, to
take a leak? Forgot to pull down the fuckin’ zipper. Ol’ lady thought that was
funny, so I belted her. Know what I mean?”
“No.”
He squinted. “Y’ain’t very friendly, mister.”
“I get that a lot.”
“I got an aunt. She ain’t friendly, neither.”
“Small world.”
“She’s got these horses on her place. Know horses?”
“Not personally.”
He took another step closer but kept his left side out of sight. “One of ’em’s
got this funny thing. She bucks when ya try gettin’ on ’er.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want anyone on her.”
He leaned against the pump. He appeared to be thinking it over. “Ya just
might just have somethin’ there, ya know?” He turned back to his ride. “Yep, ya
just might have somethin’ there.”
While his back was turned, I stepped to my left and peered around the corner
of the pump. His car was one of those cheap rice-burners they’d brought over a
few years ago, when China began its mass export program to help the thirty
percent of the population who couldn’t afford new vehicles.
The passenger’s door was open.
My military training kicked in once again. Before I realized it, I’d taken out
the gun and pointed it at the figure circling the pumps at the far end.
This boy was about the same age but shorter and slightly broader, with a nose
ring, earrings, and lip ring. Like his buddy, his head was shaved. When he saw
my gun, he froze. “Hey, man! What’s with the fucking gun?”
The first guy nearly stumbled off the concrete island. “You got a fuckin’
gun?”
I immediately sensed my dilemma. Since they were at least ten feet apart, I
couldn’t hold the gun on both of them. I stood too close to the pumps and fumes.
Any spark from a ricochet would vaporize the three of us. But this was no time to
show fear.
“Yeah, I guess you could say this is a fucking gun.”
“What’s he’s got a fuckin’ gun for, Eugene?”
“You gonna ... shoot us, mister?”
“Not unless you want me to.”
“Hey, man,” said the second punk. “You shoot us, you’re gonna blow us all
up--ya know?”
That statement alone told me they still had all their faculties.
“Thanks for the advice.”
“He’s gonna shoot us, Eugene.”
“He ain’t gonna shoot us. You ... ain’t, are you, mister?”
“I already said…”
“I’m gonna puke! I’m gonna fucking puke!”
I glared at the second punk. “You turn right around and maybe I won’t use
this gun.”
“I’m gonna be fuckin’ sick!”
A slight metallic sound to my left made me turn sharply. The first punk was
gripping a crowbar and had pulled it overhead to strike.
Just then the loudspeaker came on, crackling all around us.
“Number Nine, you need to come to the office so I can turn on your pump
and complete your transaction! Thank you, and please have a nice day!”
The first punk twisted around toward the building.
I grabbed the hooked end of the crowbar and yanked it toward me. It pulled
him off-balance and he fell back against the pump, hitting the back of his head.
Then I slammed him on top of the head with my revolver.
The second punk rushed toward me, a ball peen hammer held high above his
head. I kneecapped him with the crowbar then pounded him on the back of his
skull as he went down.
I gripped the crowbar with both hands, ready to use it again as Reed emerged
from the building. Neither moved, not even when I dropped the crowbar loudly
onto the slab, inches from where the second punk lay, looking up at me with
glazed eyes.