Will to Survive (28 page)

I pulled it out of my pocket and handed it to Herb.

“My reading glasses are at home. What does it say?”

“Brett wants to meet me, person to person, out there on the other side of the bridge. He said if I was a real man I'd meet him and that either he'd kill me and leave the neighborhood alone or I'd kill him and it would be over.”

“You know that's just a lie,” Herb said.

“I know that killing him is the only way this will end.”

“You aren't really thinking of doing what he's asking, are you?” Herb questioned.

I shook my head. “It's just a trap. He'd just kill me.”

“No he wouldn't,” Herb said.

“He wouldn't?”

“No, he wouldn't
just
kill you. He'd torment you, torture you, hurt you in a way that was so cruel and painful that you'd beg for death.”

“I'd never do that!” I snapped. I felt offended that he'd even suggest that.

“Adam, there is no limit to the pain that can be induced through torture. I know … I've been on both sides of the equation,” Herb said. “And giving in to such pain is not a sign of weakness; it's just human.”

I didn't know what shocked me more, that he'd been tortured or that he was admitting to having tortured somebody.

“There are so many things that a government can sanction and a conscience can allow before finally saying no. I found that out the hard way,” Herb said. “I just know that if it came down to a choice of dying or being captured by Brett, I'd save one bullet. I'd kill myself before allowing him to have me.”

“You can't be serious.”

“Completely. It would be the way of denying him what he wants most.”

What Herb was saying seemed to make some sense, but still I shook my head. “I don't think I could do that.”

“Did you ever think you could do any of this?” he asked, encompassing the neighborhood with his hands. “Did you think any of us could do any of this?”

“It is hard to believe.”

“Then you have to believe me. Fight to the end if you have to. But if there's no way out, then escape the only way you have left: put a bullet into your head before you let Brett get his hands on you.”

Slowly I nodded.

“Come on and let me walk you home.”

“I'm not going to go out there to meet him,” I said.

“I know. I think we both need to go home and get some sleep. We have to have our minds clear for what's still to come.”

 

28

There was a countdown clock in my head. In less than twenty-four hours I'd be leading the team out of the neighborhood to where we were going to meet Brett. I stood at the Erin Mills Parkway wall. The road had been closed down completely awaiting a special landing. What was a long, wide landing strip for an ultralight or even a Cessna was tight and tricky for a bigger passenger plane—even if that plane was a relatively small antique four-propeller passenger plane.

I wasn't sure whether I should be relieved or uneasy that it was my father at the controls. He was a great pilot, but it was a really old plane. How could we be sure that they'd been able to check it out completely? It wasn't like there would be any mechanic alive who'd made a living servicing planes that old.

While the road itself—the runway—was clear, there was no shortage of spectators. Hundreds and hundreds were waiting to see the plane land and to greet the visitors when they arrived. Our lives had become so insular. Most of the residents of the neighborhood hadn't left it in the past six months, never ventured beyond the walls.

People lined both sides of the road, peeking out at the runway over the top of the fences. It reminded me of a crowd waiting for a parade to pass by. There was a feeling of excited expectation. It was also something like that day in the beginning—in the strip mall's parking lot—when people were waiting for food to be distributed and eating ice cream from Baskin-Robbins before it could melt.

“It feels like a big birthday party or something,” Howie said.

“They're just happy to greet our guests,” my mother added. “It's not like we've had many visitors lately.”

“I thought the whole idea behind the wall was to avoid having any guests,” Howie joked.

“Unwanted guests,” my mother said. “These are very wanted, at least judging by the bouquets of flowers some of your neighbors have brought.”

I'd been confused about that. “Where did they even get all those flowers from?”

“Mr. Gomez has been bringing them in. The scavenging teams have been under orders to bring in certain flowers for transplanting into the neighborhood.”

“You'd think they'd be more worried about finding food and other things we really need,” I said, although it might be time for me to get Lori another bouquet.

“We really do need flowers,” Herb said.

That surprised me. He must have noticed from my expression.

“Lots of things are important that aren't about just surviving, Adam,” he explained. “Flowers are to some people what fairness, justice, laughter, and love are to others. You might grab some for Lori.”

There he was, inside my head again.

“I think it's such a good sign that people are able to have something on their minds other than making it from one day to the next,” my mother said.

Maybe this little street party did make sense, although I thought it should have started by now, they should have arrived. I looked at my watch.

“They left a bit later than planned,” Herb said, reading my unspoken question.

“And they are taking a circuitous route,” Howie added. “It's better that they not be seen by anybody we don't want to see them. We'd like our alliance to remain a secret.”

“Do you think he's watching?” I asked.

“He or some of his men are probably not far outside the walls. Hopefully anything they see won't make sense to them.”

“How many people will be coming today?” I asked.

“An even hundred guests will join us.”

“I didn't think their plane could hold nearly that many people,” I said.

“Your father will be making two trips to bring them here,” my mother explained. “Fifty per trip.”

As part of our self-defense agreement, she explained, the islanders were providing us with a force of a hundred armed guards. They'd stay to defend our walls when our forces went out on the attack against Brett and his force.

“I just wish we knew more about what was waiting for us,” I said.

“We're not totally blind. You and your father have been making regular flights over the meeting spot,” Herb said.

“And you know how much we can miss from the air,” I said.

“We've also had two small away teams in the field, one led by Quinn, both of them practically living out there,” my mother said.

“With your father in the air, Quinn's the best man we could have in that position,” Herb said.

I couldn't argue with that, and quite frankly I was so much happier to have my father up in the air instead of on the ground outside the walls.

“Quinn knows their tactics and strategies better than anybody who wasn't ever part of them could,” my mother added.

“I know there are still some who don't trust him or even like him,” Howie said, “but I know better.”

I agreed. It was strange to believe that our safety was at least partly in the hands of a former member of the Division. But he was maybe the only person who hated them more than I did. Unless it was an act and if that was the case he was the best actor in the world. I didn't believe that. I liked Quinn and I'd trust him with my life. I guess I
was
trusting him with my life. Mine and hundreds of other people's.

I caught sight of a flash in the sky. “I see a plane,” I said, pointing toward the south. “But it isn't a passenger plane … too small and moving too fast.” I suspected it had to be one of the Mustangs.

We watched as it closed on our position. It quickly became more visible—it
was
one of the Mustangs. It was probably acting as a fighter escort for the passenger plane, keeping it safe. That meant my father couldn't be too far behind.

It swooped over top of us and wiggled its wings in greeting. Its presence made me feel happy and proud and hopeful all at once. I couldn't help wondering if one day our country could be what it was before—this time maybe even better.

As quickly as it came, it passed, then banked off to the east. I scanned the sky to the south and at last spotted the other plane.

There wasn't much wind, so my dad could come in and land in either direction. The direction he was heading made sense. It was farther away from anyplace where Brett might have been.

“He's really low isn't he?” my mother said.

“Low so he won't be seen from so far,” I responded.

The plane got closer and closer until we could hear it. The waiting crowd responded by getting quiet, as if they didn't want to disturb my father's concentration or scare him away.

His wheels were down and he was coming in slow. He couldn't be that much above stall speed. I noticed the nose of the plane come slightly up—he'd pulled back on the yoke to change the attitude—as it just nudged over the far wall.

What I hadn't mentioned to my mother was my concern about the width of the road. He had clearance between the fence and center light poles, but a sudden cross breeze could have pushed him sideways. Clipping a wing would destroy the plane and everyone on board.

“He's coming in perfectly,” I said. Those words more for my mother than anything else.

It was a shiny silver bullet with four engines, two on each wing, with their propellers just a blur. There was a shriek of rubber on asphalt as the wheels hit. He stuck it, no bounce back into the air. I could picture him going through the procedures for landing—imagined him pushing the throttle in, pushing down on the brakes, making sure it didn't slide to the right or left but stayed center.

My images were broken by the roar of the crowd as everybody burst into applause when the plane raced past us. Anxiously I followed along as it slowed down—I could smell the burning rubber—and it came to a stop at the end of the runway, well short and clear of the end wall. It had been a picture-perfect landing.

In seconds the plane was surrounded by a throng of people. We ran forward to join them, and the crowd allowed us to pass until we were right beside the plane. The door opened and a little folding stairway was lowered to the ground. A head popped out and the crowd just went wild, the screaming and cheering almost deafening. I found myself cheering along in spite of myself.

The first person—a woman who was wearing camouflage clothing with a rifle slung over her shoulder—stepped onto the stairs. As the crowd pressed forward she looked almost frightened, then confused, and then a gigantic smile burst onto her face as she realized the cheering was for her and the crowd was wildly friendly. She was greeted with handshakes and hugs, and a couple of bouquets were pressed into her hands. With each new person exiting, a new round of greetings was exchanged. My mother, Herb, and the judge, who'd come out of the crowd, were the formal welcoming party.

I slipped through the crowd and around the line leaving the plane and waited beside the door until the last passenger came down the steps. Then I went up the stairs, ducked down, and climbed into the plane. The door to the cockpit was open and I caught sight of my father. He saw me, waved, and motioned for me to come. I had to duck down again to enter the cockpit.

“Not as fancy as my usual plane,” my father said.

“But a lot fancier than the Cessna or the ultralight.”

“Definitely—and, believe me, I'm not complaining. This old craft flies pretty well. Are you interested in finding out how well?”

That's what I had been hoping for. “It would be great to fly back with you.”

“You could come back as my copilot.”

“I'd love to! When do we leave?”

“We need the runway to be cleared, and we need to get fueled up. While that's happening why don't you tell your mother you're going with me?”

“I'm on it.”

*   *   *

There were almost as many people waiting to watch us take off as there had been to witness the landing.

“Push forward on all four levers simultaneously,” my father said.

With both hands I fed more fuel into the engines and the roar got louder. My father released the brakes and we started to rumble along the roadway.

“Full throttle,” my father ordered.

I pushed the levers the rest of the way and the engines screamed out in response. We rapidly gained speed, rolling along the road, and my father pulled back on the yoke—the one in front of me moving in tandem—and the plane lifted off. I couldn't see them or hear them but I was sure a cheer went up from the crowd. I felt like cheering myself.

“This retracts the landing gear,” my father said as he moved another lever.

We gained elevation and headed straight south, toward the lake.

“It's a Boeing,” my father said.

“You've flown Boeings before.”

“This is a Boeing Stratoliner, which is sort of the great-great-great-grandparent of the 777 I usually fly,” my father said. “It has four Wright GR-1820 engines, a length of seventy-four feet, a wingspan of over a hundred feet, normal capacity of forty-four, and a cruising speed of two hundred and twenty miles per hour and a top speed of two-fifty.”

“So it's pretty much like the Cessna in terms of speed.”

“There are similarities and differences but enough similarities that you can take the controls. Right now, it's yours.”

“Really?”

He took his hands off the wheel, and I put my hands on the yoke on my side.

“Continue on this heading until we get to the lake, and then take us to the east,” my father said.