Resistance (31 page)

Susan took note of the way the question had been turned back on her and knew she was correct about her brother's job. “Making my way south from the ranch was difficult—as you know, having done it yourself. But after two weeks of playing hide-and-seek with the stinks, I finally made it. So with nothing more than empty pockets, and a couple of guns, I sought shelter at one of the Protection Camps.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” she continued, “but it wasn't. The moment I entered the camp I lost all of my rights and liberties, because that's how the Grace administration wants it. As long as there's something they can point at as an external threat, they can justify the suspension of civil liberties and stay in power.

“Except now, with the Chimera on American soil, they've let things slip too far. Because there's a very good chance that the stinks will win. Walker's decision to leave the administration and join us is a good indication of how bad things are.”

Hale thought about the man named Dentweiler, and wondered if he was typical of the people who surrounded
the President. Listening to Susan made it seem all too possible.

They arrived at the pile of snow-capped boulders, and chose to rest on the east side of the formation, where they could sit in the sun. Hale scraped the snow off of a flat-topped rock and both of them sat down. “I don't know, Susan, maybe you're right. Maybe it
is
late in the game. But we can't give up. We've got to fight back.”

“And we are,” Susan responded, as she placed a gloved hand over his. “Each in our own way. I know you're part of the effort, even if you can't say how, and I am as well. There's a place for Freedom First in all of this, Nathan. Someone has to push back against Grace and his cronies—and someone has to fight the stinks in places like Chicago.”

Nathan took Susan's hand and looked into her eyes. “So, you won't go back with me?”

Susan shook her head. “No, Nathan … I can't.”

Hale was silent for a moment. He nodded as he released her hand. “I understand. We were both taught to stand up for what we believe in.”

“Yes,” Susan agreed. “We were.”

At that point an eagle drifted into sight, its shadow caressing the land below as it glided over its traditional domain, searching for jackrabbits, ground squirrels, and carrion. Both Susan and Hale shaded their eyes in order to watch the big bird circle above.
There are so many predators on the loose
, Hale thought to himself,
that one of these days there will be nothing left to kill
.

Escape Tunnel I was four feet high and two men wide. What little light there was came from improvised oil lamps positioned at regular intervals along the upward-sloping shaft. Each jar contained a wooden block that was floating on a layer of cooking oil supported by four or five inches of water. A hole had been drilled through each block so that an improvised wick could be pushed down into the fuel below. As Henry Walker turned to deposit a scoopful of dirt and rock onto a sheet of scrap metal called “the wagon,” one of the lamps threw a monstrous shadow onto the opposite wall. Walker was in his sixties, and he had all sorts of aches and pains, but was determined to ignore them in order to do his share of the work.

Fortunately his one-hour shift was almost over and Walker felt a sense of relief as he added one last scoop of dirt to the heaping pile and jerked on the string that ran the length of the tunnel. Tin cans partially filled with pebbles rattled noisily, signaling for the “donkeys” to pull the wagon downslope to the carefully concealed entrance. There “spreaders” would take the material out and scatter it around the pit a few pounds at a time. It
was an exhausting not to mention time-consuming process, but in the words of Walker's friend Harley Burl, “What the hell else have we got to do?”

And for Walker, who still hoped to get his recordings out to the public, the escape tunnels gave him reason to hope.

The wagon made a grating sound as the donkeys towed it away, and Walker followed, looking forward to the moment when he would be able to stand straight. The trip served to remind him of the need for more supports, which, given the amount of wood already burned for heat, were in short supply. And that shortage had been responsible for the recent collapse some forty feet upslope in Tunnel 3. A disastrous event that not only claimed three lives, but had to be concealed from both the Chimera
and
the ever-watchful Collins, who insisted on a head count every morning. The prisoners had been able to fool the ex-schoolteacher by having people yell “Here!” for those who weren't actually present, but there was no telling how long the ruse would work.

The entrance to Tunnel I was located immediately behind one of the four-hole outhouses the prisoners had constructed for themselves. The shed was about fifteen feet wide and made out of scrap lumber. In addition to blocking the cold winter wind and providing users with a modicum of privacy, the shitter had another purpose as well. And that was to conceal the escape shaft that Walker and the other tunnel rats had worked so hard to create. Which was why it had been constructed against the pit's west wall.

A twelve-foot-by-twelve-foot chamber was located directly behind the four-holer. That was where the donkeys could unload the wagon, the spreaders could fill sacks with dirt, and Walker could finally stand up straight.

Which he did with an audible groan. One of the donkeys smiled sympathetically. His hair was ragged where chunks of it had been hacked off with a knife—and a grimy face framed his bright blue eyes.

“It don't get any easier, does it?” the man inquired.

“No, it doesn't,” Walker replied, as he brushed dirt off his already filthy trousers. “I keep hoping the stinks will find this thing and put us out of our misery!”

Dark humor was the order of the day, so those around Walker chuckled appreciatively. He knocked on the panel that separated the tunnel from Cubicle 2 inside the aptly named “shit shack.” Then, having heard no response from within, he lifted the section of paneling out of the way and put it to one side. Once he passed through the hole one of the donkeys lifted the barrier back into place. That gave Walker an opportunity to pee before zipping his trousers and stepping out into the cold morning air.

Prior to the invasion, the pit had been an operating sulfide mine from which the owners had been able to extract 8.4 percent zinc and 0.7 percent lead. And that, according to the mining engineer who had been killed in the Tunnel 3 cave-in days before, was a very rich find.

Like most open-pit mines the “stink hole,” as the prisoners called it, consisted of a groundwater-supplied lake at its center, and a circular roadway that rose corkscrew fashion up through the terracelike levels that had been excavated in the past.

Once removed from the mine, the raw ore had been fed into an assemblage of buildings up top, where it was systematically roasted, smelted, and converted. Except that rather than ore, the Chimera were feeding
people
into the former smelter, none of whom were ever seen again. The choice of which prisoners to take was left largely to Collins. That was why most people sought to
avoid the collaborator in hopes of escaping what could be a fatal glance.

It also explained why most of the people who sat bundled in blankets, ambled about, or gathered around “the boil” were so dispirited. Because the odds of their being taken off to the processing plant were good, and even if they lived long enough to crawl through one of the tunnels to freedom, the prisoners knew that most—if not all—of the escapees would be caught and executed.

But depressing though the situation was, people were people, and with death only a whisper away, there were those who sought to advantage themselves by forming and being part of so-called committees. Groups that were very similar to gangs, all vying to control resources like food, medicine, and clothing. And they were very much in evidence as a shadow drifted over the pit and a loud thrumming noise was heard.

The cry of “Dump! Dump! Dump!” went up as the Chimeran ship slowed its sideways motion and a black rectangle appeared in the shuttle's belly. Walker knew what was going to happen next, and ran to the rally point where Harley Burl stood waiting. Others were assembling there as well, all members of the Fair and Square Squad, which was dedicated to dividing all resources fairly, rather than allowing the competing committees to take possession of them and therefore the entire pit.

Speed was of utmost importance as boxes of supplies began to tumble out of the shuttle. Some splashed into the slushy lake where they sank or floated, depending on what was in them. Others exploded on contact, spewing their contents far and wide. And a few made it to the ground intact. Those were considered to be the most significant prizes—even though the prisoners knew some would turn out to be nothing more than a cruel joke. Because
there was often little rhyme or reason as to what sorts of things the Chimera chose to drop.

In the recent past the prisoners had been on the receiving end of crates that contained basketballs, auto parts, and luggage. But there had been big boxes full of cereal, canned fruit, and canned dog food as well. The latter being highly valued because of all the protein contained in the cans.

So every crate was worth battling for, even if the contents were uncertain, and as Burl led his squad out to do battle with the committees, makeshift clubs were swung, fists flew, and even teeth were employed as the melee got underway. Walker, ex-Marine that he was, sought the very center of the battle.

A man wearing a homemade eye patch took a swing at the Secretary of War, only to have his arm blocked as Walker hit him in the mouth. The committeeman's lower lip split open, blood dribbled down his chin, and he was forced to fall back, along with his cronies. The battle was over two minutes later as Burl's men drove the gang away from the booty they were trying to claim.

Then, true to their motto of “fair and square,” the squad hauled the boxes to a central location where the entire community could witness their activities, and began the process of evaluating their haul. Once that effort was complete everything that could be logically distributed was, including three hundred pairs of socks, fifty tubes of toothpaste, and a hundred straw hats. Food, and anything that could even remotely be considered to be medical in nature, was kept together to be rationed out to the entire population, including the committeemen. Chimeran drones, which never took sides in such battles, hummed ominously as they crisscrossed the air above.

Once the work of processing the dump was complete, Walker was about to look for his wife, when Burl intercepted him.

“There you are,” the big man said. “I'm glad I caught you.”

“Yeah?” Walker replied. “What's up?”

“Porter tells me the guy you hit in the mouth—Tolly is his name—was seen talking to Collins.”

“So?” Walker demanded. “The committeemen suck up to Collins all the time. It never does them any good. The bitch would sell her own mother for a stick of gum. She couldn't care less about them.”

“That's true,” Burl agreed soberly. “But Porter says that as Tolly was speaking to Collins, he was pointing at
you
. So keep your head down and stay out of sight for a while. We're all going to heaven—but why hurry?”

Walker laughed, promised Burl that he would be careful, and went looking for Myra. She wasn't hard to find. Almost from the moment they had arrived she had involved herself with the stink hole's meager medical facility. It was a rudimentary operation housed in what had once been the supervisor's pit shack—a wooden structure that sat on skids and could be towed from place to place as the mine deepened.

Sadly, the “med center,” as it was called, had been set up and maintained by a succession of doctors, dentists, nurses, and in one case a pharmacist, all of whom had been marched up the spiral road to the Chimeran processing center on the flat land above. It was presently being run by a midwife, a retired Navy hospital corps-man, and Myra. She hurried over to give her husband a peck on the cheek as he entered.

The couple had always been close, but with death hovering all around, expressions of affection had become more frequent. Myra's face was thinner now, and
there were perpetual circles around her eyes, but they still brimmed with life.

“You've been fighting again!” she said accusingly. “I know because the casualties show up here.”

Walker grinned. “Who,
me
?” he protested as he looked around. There were fifteen or twenty patients crammed into the building—at least three of whom were dying of amoebic dysentery. The rest were getting treatment for cuts and bruises received during the recent dustup. A couple of committeemen were present and glowered at Walker as their injuries were tended to. He ignored them and turned back to Myra.

“Let's have dinner together,” Walker said. “I'll take you to the best restaurant in town. To hell with the cost.”

Myra smiled brightly.

“But I don't have anything to wear!”

“They're very understanding over at the boil,” Walker assured her. “Dirty, blood-splattered clothes are in this year.”

“Well, in that case, I would be delighted,” Myra replied gravely. “Give me five minutes to finish what I was doing and I'll be ready to go.”

Walker stepped back outside to wait for her, and watched as the sun descended below the western rim of the pit, and darkness settled into the stink hole. By the time Myra emerged from the med center, another freezing-cold night had begun. The sky was clear, so the couple could see a scattering of stars as they made their way over to the boil, where they fell into line behind a blanket-clad man and his ten-year-old daughter.

Each prisoner received three handcrafted tin tokens per day, which they were free to use as they saw fit. Some hoarded the disks for reasons Walker couldn't understand. Others used the tokens to pay for items of
clothing, or personal services, sometimes including sex. But most people—the Walkers included—were happy to exchange their tokens for three hot meals per day.