Serpent and the Sun, Chptr 11 – Xperience Fiction – by Liam Sweeny.
Jameson tapped the front panel.
“What the fuck,” He spun the honing knob, “Blake, is this broken?” Blake was driving with the side window down, surfing the air-stream with the flat of his hand.
“Not the last time I checked.”
“New Rochester’s out,” replied Jameson, “the beacon’s dead.”
Blake looked away, drawing his hand back in the skiff to cover his mouth as he coughed.
“Blake…”
“They’re gone,” he replied, “BlackLake must’ve got there already.”
“What? How? Blake, there’s thirty people in that library alone-,”
“They died five seconds after he walked in that place.” Blake tapped the dashboard. “BlackLake’s no joke.”
“What about the beacon?”
“He doesn’t differentiate between biological activity or electronic activity,” said Blake, “He stops it all.”
Jameson sat back, stunned. Adam, who up to that point had been calling out the names of the natural objects they’d pass by, fell silent.
“They’re all dead?”
“Yeah, Adam; I’m sorry-,”
“Is Marie…” he paused, “dead too?”
Blake reluctantly answered yes, unsure of how Adam would react. They soon found out.
Adam’s face grew dark and the back-lighting dimmed on his housing.
“Adam, it’s-,” Blake started, but then the skiff’s implementation dimmed. Adam’s unit was perched in the center of the dash, and it looked like the power drain was emanating around him. The power-drive of the skiff started blinking out; Jameson and Blake both screamed out Adam’s name as the skiff plunged from the sky.
They were a hundred meters up when they started their nose-dive; by the time Adam came to his senses, restoring power and relinquishing control, they were nearly even with the I-90 overpass. The protective shield came back on just in time to shear a rusted light pole out of their path. Jameson was ashen-white; Blake was black—as usual. But he was nonetheless rattled.
“Adam, you must control yourself!” Jameson shouted.
“I’m sorry, Jameson,” he replied, “I-I don’t know what that was!”
“It was grief, Adam,” Jameson softened his tone, “and you have every right to feel it…” He paused. “…I’m feeling it too. But you’re far more powerful than you realize, especially around electronics.” Adam’s face was painted with anxiety.
“It’s OK, bud,” Blake said, “just be careful, that’s all…”
The three of them were quiet for a while. Jameson kept fiddling for a beacon signal, in the hopes that Blake was wrong. Meanwhile Blake set about chain-smoking the hand-rolled cigarettes he’d packed in New Rochester before they left. Adam just stared at the horizon.
“How do you deal with this…” he asked, “grief.”
Jameson cleared his throat. “Everybody deals with it in their own way, Adam.”
“But how do you deal with it?” Adam asked, “or you, Blake?”
Blake blew smoke through his nostrils, Jameson ran his index finger along the ridge of his brow.
“We don’t,” said Blake, “We just throw it far enough down the well to drown it in moonshine.”
“Don’t tell him that, for Chris’-sakes; he already knows coffee.”
Blake glanced at Jameson, smiled. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“Adam, what your, *ahem*, ‘uncle’ is trying to say is that we avoid dealing with grief.” Jameson said. “Alcohol works for some people…” He glared at Blake.
Adam looked confused. “That works?”
“Of course not,”
“So how do you do it right?”
Jameson and Blake both laughed. “Wrong two to ask, kiddo,”
Jameson gave it a shot. “Try to do something to honor Marie.” He said.
Adam eyes rolled up. Pondering. Then he lit up.
“I know! Marie showed me a crucifix when that scary vampire tried to get me!” He said. In his hand, a sharpened steel crucifix appeared.
“I’ll honor her by stabbing this crucifix right in that asshole murderer’s heart!” He smiled deviously.
“Adam, no!”
“Relax, J’-,”
“No, you relax, Blake!” Jameson snapped. “Adam doesn’t need to take joy in killing.” He massaged his temple with his fingers. “Those days need to be behind us.”
Blake took a deep breath, obviously pissed.
“Fine,” he mumbled, “…ya’ ain’t gotta trip about it, tho’…”
I-90 flew by; Blake floored the accelerator as soon as they reached a stable altitude.
“Blake, I’m sorry, man…”
“It’s alright,” he said, “You’re right, bro’… we shouldn’t be teaching Adam how to be like us.”
Jameson laughed. Then he pointed to the geo-locator: a faint blip in the north-east corner.
“Hey look… Seattle.” Blake nodded.
“Mike should be there by now.” He lit another cigarette off the butt he was still smoking. Jameson turned to him; hesitated to ask a question he wanted the answer to.
“Who was the spy?” Blake said, “That’s what you want to ask me, right?”
“How’d you guess?”
“I’m surprised it took you this long.”
“Well?”
“Ask yourself this; how does it benefit your life to know?”
“C’mon, Blake…”
“Go ahead. Tell me one way it’ll help.”
Jameson tapped the dash. Pondering.
“I can’t think of one right now.” Jameson said. Blake waved his finger through the air triumphantly.
“When you do think of one, let me know. I’ll tell you.”
***
In a white, faceless 8×10 cell, Elle was furious. The cell was empty, save for the steel toilet and matching bench, upon which she sat. There was a tiny safety-glass portal to the hallway. There was no window to the outside, no clock, and it clear of sight and sound except the muffled voices and shadows of Guards as they walked past.
She’d been interrogated for hours by a Second-Tier detective, spewing question after question in such rapid succession she could scarcely answer any. Full theatrics: his hairy fist slammed the table as he shouted at her, a mist of spittle landing on her face. In the center of the table lay the recorder. In all the hours he spent interrogating her, not once did he press play. He didn’t have to; it was a prop, a torture device shown to the victim for the sole purpose of generating fear.
Interrogations were rare in the Sanctuary, all but unheard of for a Third Tier citizen. With Electronic Brain Scanning, all they had to do was mention keywords; the EBS did the rest. In addition, so much of the structure was monitored that few were stupid enough to break the law. Elle surprisingly found herself among the few. The interrogation was a pure show: a chance for Detective Jack-Off to give someone he could never strive to be a good old-fashioned ‘grilling’.
Elle slumped on the bench, her knees knocked together as she clasped her hands against her forehead. She thought of Gerhardt, the last night they’d spent together down at the Pier Level, amidst the colored lights and the eye-wall. The feel his hand holding her head to his chest, the soft, deep sound of his voice that never failed to comfort her. He knew then what he was going to do, and he never told her. She thought of his sacrifice, and how the very things she loved about him also drove her to hate him.
She also thought of Frederick Fitch, how he got up to greet her at Le Mer. His apology was insincere, pure social custom drawn from the etiquette archives. What to do when you screw someone you’re supposed to care about? Elle wondered what they promised him to take part in the set-up. Maybe nothing at all; Elle heard the President’s daughter was single. Now Frederick was free to date up.
Scumbag. Gerhardt liked that word. It used to vex Elle to no end, a word improper to use at her level. In jail, she saw its appeal. Albrecht also crossed her mind. How little the recording surprised him. How thoroughly his living unit was emptied, evacuated. She knew that any ill that befell him was her fault. She wondered if he was in one of the cells nearby. She wondered if he was still alive.
Suddenly the door opened with the hiss of pneumatics. Two Guardsmen appeared, a short, stocky one blocking the doorway and a taller one behind him, peering over his shoulder.
“The magistrate will see you now,” said the first Guard. “Come with us.”
“What am I being charged with?”
“That’s of no concern to us,” the second Guard said. “Come.” They ducked out of the doorway, allowing Elle to pass. They escorted her, one on each side, to a large room filled with steel benches. There was a solitary metal seat in the front-center of the room. At the very front of the room was a safety-glass wall. Behind it sat a judge’s bench, perched high enough to allow the judge to look down on the room’s occupants. The room was empty; Elle thought that strange, though she’d never been in a courtroom. She’d only seen them on the old crime-shows that the Sanctuary periodically broadcasted. Those shows covered pre-Sanctuary crimes and court-rooms.
The judge was in his seventies, his thinned white hair and wrinkled forehead reflected a hard life, a curiosity to Elle. After all, they were in the Sanctuary; even Second-Tier citizens had it more-or-less easy.
“Miss Renier,” he said, “let’s get right down to business.” He held up a stack of papers, bringing a pair of reading-glasses to his face to scan the print.
“You are being charged with Treason in the First Degree. Though the specific details are beyond the security clearance of this court, treason is the most egregious and serious crime in the Sanctuary system.”
Elle shifted uneasily in her seat. “However, given your father’s former status within the executive board, it has been recommended to this court that you be placed in unit arrest until a formal inquest can be launched.” He continued. “You will, under no circumstances, be allowed audio and/or visual contact with anyone, with the exception of immediate family or your designated legal council. Are the terms of your conditional release clear, Miss Renier?”
“Yes, your honor. What exactly did you mean by former status-,”
“Adjourned.” The judge snapped the gavel, turning the safety-glass opaque, with the UEC logo projected onto it. Blind justice.
Two Guardsmen appeared as Elle got up, different guys. They lined up on either side of her.
“I’m perfectly capable of finding my apartment all by myself.”
“We’ve been instructed to escort you, Miss Renier.”
“Do you always do what you’ve been instructed to do.”
“Yes, Miss Renier.” Without another word they left the courtroom.
“Can we at least take the outer-ring instead of the mezzanine?” she asked.
“The mezzanine is the fastest route.”
“The outer-ring has a view.”
“Miss Renier, we were instructed to take the most expedient route.”
Elle thought for a moment.
“What if I were to tell you that if we take the mezzanine, I promise to make it very inexpedient?” She flashed a deviant grin.
They took the outer ring. Elle spent the short trip with her eyes cast upon the western horizon. She could see no land, only the orange-red turned indigo of the sunset, and the beginnings of the last typhoon before the true end of the charging cycle. She felt a bond with it, as if she were staring into her very own metaphor.
***
Dalton held up a jacket the likes of which Gerhardt had never seen before.
“This,” he said, “is Shimmerite. This jacket’s a bit of a hand-me-down; Denali’s got better shit now.” He pressed a patch on the back, Gerhardt’s eyes widened as the jacket disappeared. Disappeared was a misnomer; as Dalton moved it about, it caused the air to distort like a sheet of water. Shimmerite.
“They don’t call the new stuff Shimmerite because it’s so good, there’s no shimmer.”
Gerhardt touched the fabric, felt warmth and a subtle vibration. “I’ve never heard of this stuff.”
“The Guard is trained to use it,” Dalton replied, “Ya’ ain’t heard of it, and ya’ ain’t seen it. But sure as shit you’ve walked by one of your Sanctuary Guard wearing it.” Gerhardt felt a twinge of nausea. Or re-arranged nostalgia.
Dalton pressed the back-patch again, tossed the jacket to Gerhardt. “Yours.”
“Thanks.” Gerhardt donned the jacket. Nice fit. They walked down a long metal table piled high with Shimmerite gear. Dalton picket out pants, socks, boots, undergarments, a helmet and ammo clip, tossing them to Gerhardt without warning. Gerhardt, to his credit, didn’t drop a piece.
They made their way to a weapons rack, a young crew-cut stood square behind it like a bartender hosting a spread of shots.
“They’re all surplus,” said Dalton, “again, hand-me-downs, but they’re coated in Shimmerite. He picked up a rifle, activated the Shimmerite and aimed it at a support beam in the ceiling. A tiny red dot bounced jagged along its length.
“All they see is a dot.”
The next table had a series of small pods. Dalton picked one up, swiped his thumb across the face-plate. The pod came to life with an incandescent orange glow.
“This is a modular PEALE link.” He said. “It’ll give you a three-dimensional field view, with six different visual sets.” He placed it back on the table.
“We’ll be using the Shimmerite models.” He said. “Come on, let’s get you outfitted.”
Dalton led Gerhardt to a dressing-room, a dingy bathroom really. Gerhardt quickly suited up. Every piece of gear had plug-like snaps that connected it to the other pieces. It took Gerhardt nearly ten minutes to get everything on and snapped together. When he was finished, he reached back and pressed the back-patch. The gear faded, taking Gerhardt with it into invisibility.
Gerhardt held out his hand, watching the air shimmer in the ‘empty’ room.
Gerhard laughed. “Amazing.”
Dalton pounded on the door. “Hurry the fuck up; we ain’t got all day…” Gerhardt hopped out to see Dalton suited up, but not activated.
“Turn it off when you’re not needin’ it,” he said.
“Does it drain the power or something?”
“No,” Dalton replied, “It just gets aggravating when people walk into ya’,” Gerhardt reached back and turned it off.
“So where are we going today?”
“Remember the receiving station you had to pass through to get in here?”
“Yeah,” Gerhardt replied, “what a mess that place was.”
“The rebels have been setting bombs off in the place,” Dalton said, “so we’re gonna’ hunt us some rebel.”
“Yeah, the driver that took me out of there mentioned it.”
“We’re going to the briefing right now,” Dalton said, “Let’s be mum about it until we hit the road, OK?”
“Yeah,” said Gerhardt, “fine; whatever.”
Dalton smiled. “We’ll make a soldier out of you yet.”
Commander Dague was a barrel-chested man with a coarse, brown handle-bar mustache and a pate of wispy, rust-colored hair. He was dressed in the formal Security Force uniform; dark brown, beige trim and a silver bar running down the left side, changing in color periodically. Dalton told him it was to show rank and commendations over time. He stood behind the podium in the briefing room. Gerhardt counted twelve others, none of whom he knew. Commander Dague called out the roster before beginning the briefing.
“As you all know,” he said, “over the past month, the Receiving Station has been bombed on twelve separate occasions. It has befuddled our investigative arm; of all possible targets, the Receiving Station is not of the highest strategic value.”
Dague walked from the podium to a whiteboard on the back-wall. He pulled an electro-mark from his breast pocket and swiped his hand across the board, generating a floor-plan of the Receiving Station.
He drew a simple symbol of a bomb to one side: a series of red glowing points appeared along the floor-plan.
“None of these explosions were structural in nature,” he said, “They’re not trying to destroy the place; the size of the charges indicates that.”
“So why are they doing it?” asked Dalton, arms folded. The others looked to him and nodded. Gerhardt could tell he was the alpha male of the group.
“I don’t have a good, solid answer for you, Dalt’,” Dague replied, “but we have a guess. We’ve been mostly reactive to these; this next assignment will be proactive—hopefully we’ll be able to trade in our guess.”
“So what’s the guess?”
Dague walked back to the board.
“We think the explosions are diversionary.” He said. “Mind you, this theory is just that; a theory. We think the explosions are covering the entrance of people that would otherwise be detained, or rejected outright.”
“I know that sounds, counterintuitive,” he continued, “but there’s logic to it.” He pointed to the explosions. “None of the explosions have damaged the entrance apparatus,” he continued, “When the bombings occurred, security was raised in the complex. But the security is limited to physical, threat-level security; on the whole, scrutiny is lowered.”
“In the chaos, people slip through the cracks.”
“Exactly, Dalt’; that’s the theory.”
Dalton pulled a toothpick out of his pocket, twirled it between his teeth.
“So how do we turn the theory into a game plan?” He asked.
“We’ll be setting up a task-force,” Dague replied, “Most of you will be in here running records.” He pointed to Dalton and Gerhardt.
“You boys’ll be pulling a stake-out.” He said.
***
Sarah and Daniel spent hours in a frightening hospital room, needled and monitored by doctors in contamination suits. Daniel was scared, Sarah puzzled: Laura said the virus wasn’t communicable. In any case, weren’t they immune?
When the testing was finished, Laura came in, apologetic to the Nth degree.
“I sincerely apologize,” she said, “Our doctor’s refused to take even the slightest chance of infection.”
“I thought you said it wasn’t-,”
“Communicable.” Laura was an attractive woman, dark passionate brown eyes, full, straight brown hair barely past the shoulder with the beginnings of grey streaks. She got up, moving about the room with grace, confidence and a weary strength.
“The further you are from the intelligence stream, the less you believe what it produces.” Laura looked at the door, putting her index finger to her lips. She smiled as she looked back.
“They wanted me to take a disinfecting bath.” She chuckled. “You can only imagine what I told them.”
Sarah rubbed her arm, the one that an hour before was a pin cushion. Laura walked up to the bed and sat on the side. She rubbed the side of Sarah’s arm.
“Honey, I’m sorry we had to treat you like this.” She said. “I promise you, from here on in, you will be treated as one of us.” Sarah looked at her with uncertainty. “Sarah, I know you’ve been kept in the dark about many things. I don’t imagine that Michael had even told you about our city-state.”
“Michael didn’t tell me much.” Sarah sat up, tightening her grip on Daniel, who’d been usually quiet since they got there. “Where’s he now?”
“He’s getting poked and prodded, just like you two. Michael will be meeting us before the end of the week.”
Laura stood up, walking over to the window. She folded her arms as she leaned against the radiator.
“Michael had to keep you in the dark,” she said, “He… we, didn’t feel you would actually show up here if you knew too much.”
“Kinda’ hard to go back home when it’s blown up.”
Laura sighed. “Sarah, I’m sorry-,”
“Why? It wasn’t your fault. You’re not the one they were trying to kill.” Sarah stared blankly at the wall. “The blood’s not on your hands.”
“Have you ever heard of the city of Portland?” Sarah shook her head.
“That’s where I was from. It had a population of two-hundred and fifty thousand.” Laura started pacing the room. “It was a miracle that a population like that could be supported in an urban environment. But it was.”
“Fifteen years ago, we started an organized resistance movement to the UEC. We based it in Portland; Seattle was a move based on necessity.” Laura was once again back at the window, her voice softening as she dredged the murky bottom of her memories.
“We got a few hours notice.” She said softly. “The UEC had just finished aligning the PEALE to HAARP. They saw us as threat number one, even more of a threat than the convection current.”
“I’m lost.” Sarah said.
“To put it simply, the UEC can control the weather.”
“Oh, yeah,” Sarah said, thinking of Michael on the roof of the float. “We’ve figured that one out already.”
Laura continued. “Anyway, to make a long story short, we had just enough time to get our key personnel and equipment out. We couldn’t warn the public; the panic would’ve left us trapped.”
“So what happened?” Laura didn’t say anything at first.
“Portland no longer exists.” She said. “And there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t feel the blood of a quarter million people on my own hands.”
The room was quiet. Sarah felt guilty for what she’d said. Laura stood at the window, wiped the bangs from the front of her head. She was too strong for tears, but even from her profile Sarah could see pain. Daniel could see it too, for he hopped off the bed, made his way to Laura’s side and held the back of her hand to his face. Sarah knew that was his attempt to lift people’s spirits. Laura smiled.
A short while later, Laura retrieved some clothes for Sarah and Daniel to replace the gowns they’d had to wear.
“The medical staff burned your clothes,” she said, “I’m sorry. I hope these fit.” Sarah mourned the loss of her clothes, the only remaining items of her former life. But she had to admit to herself that the new clothes fit better, and were more comfortable. Daniel simply marveled over his new sneakers. Sarah was given the option of a flying tour or a walking tour. She chose the latter.
They began the walk north to a monument called the Space Needle. As they walked out of the front entrance of Two Union Square, Laura slid on a pair of sunglasses and handed Sarah and Daniel two pair to replace the ones they had to give up when they were quarantined. The street was bustling with people. Some of them wore shades, some didn’t. Some were dressed rough and ragged in leather and oiled canvas, others in flawless wool coats, pin-striped shirts and ties.
“Seattle, as you see it now, is a mix of two different types of people.” Laura noted, “The first type; of which I’m a part, is referred to around here as the TRO. That stands for Terrestrial Resistance Organization.” Periodically the people they passed by would wave to Laura, who’d graciously wave back.
“So you’re rebels, then?”
“Oh no,” Laura replied, “Rebels, as far as you’d know them, are simply people outside of the UEC system, trying to survive. They’d just as soon kill us as help us, with limited exception…”
“Oh.” Sarah looked up, taking her glasses off for a second to gaze at the sky before putting them back on. “So you said there are two types here. Who are the, er, rough-looking people?”
Laura laughed. “Actually, that’s our group.” She said. “The other group is composed of scientists, engineers, academics, computer scientists and the like.”
“So how did they get here?”
“Long story,” Laura rubbed the bridge of her nose with her finger. “Yet as I said, you are now privy to it.” They continued to walk down the street, Sarah and Daniel immersed in an urban landscape; they’d never seen anything like it.
“The scientific community is directly responsible for our being able to live here without threat from the UEC. Every functional counter-measure we have was developed through their intimate knowledge of the UEC and the Sanctuary system.” She said, “In fact they were responsible for the Sanctuary system itself.”
“Wait, I don’t get it,” Sarah said, “Why would they help you then? Aren’t they a part of the UEC?”
“They were,” Laura replied, “until they were arrested for knowing too much. Supposed to be executed; the whole lot of them. It’s an old story in history—kill the architects upon completion of the work.”
“So why are they here?”
Laura laughed. “They were broken out of jail fifteen years ago,” she said, “by two of our more, well, maverick individuals.”
“Who’s the other one?” Sarah asked.
Laura laughed in surprise.
“Smart girl…” Laura waved at a passer-by. The Space Needle was coming into view.
“His name’s Blake,” she said, “Blake Chaplin. You’ll meet him soon.”
***
Kenny knelt on the crest of a large hill behind Sam’s barn and prayed by the setting sun. He had the Bible memorized, knew all the psalms, proverbs; every prayer in the book rested on the tip of his tongue. Yet he used none of them, preferring instead to whisper his beggars’ wishes directly.
God, how do I tell him? Kenny bowed his head, resting his chin atop his steepled fingers. Sam must ask You every day for the chance to confront Alex’s killer…How can I take in their hospitality and not speak up?
Kenny always prayed at sunrise and sunset, saving his dilemmas for the latter. He never did it openly in Anchorage: to do so would’ve amounted to suicide. The flash-fried images of his mangled congregation were burned like a negative in his every blink. Ironic how such a persecuted lot died not for their beliefs, but his.
Kenny knew he’d have to tell Sam soon. He finished his prayers, crossed himself and turned to see Sam leaning against the wall of the barn, smoking a cigarette, Kenny used the philosopher’s stone to make Sam five pounds of tobacco and enough rice paper to roll it all.
He walked to the barn, his long shadow over-taking Sam. Kenny could see the cherry glow of his cigarette.
“Startin’ to make sense now,” said Sam. Uh-Oh, a chill touched Kenny, He knows.
“What’s that, Sam?” Sam pointed to the crest of the hill.
“You’re faithful,” he replied, “”That’s why you skipped Anchorage.”
Kenny let out a guarded breath, relieved.
“They blew up my church.” He said.
“Must’ve been tough, bein’ in the Security Force and all…” Kenny nodded. Sam handed him a smoke and a matchbook. Kenny fumbled the matches; it was blustering cold behind the barn. Eventually Sam gave Kenny his cigarette to use.
“Yeah,” Kenny said, “I had to keep a low profile.”
“Do you think your church was targeted because of you?”
The question dug deep: Kenny hacked a cloud into the air, burning his throat.
“Sorry,” he said, “didn’t mean to-,”
“It’s OK; I’d say you hit the nail on the head.” Kenny felt Sam’s paw on his shoulders.
“Kenny-Bo’,” He had taken to calling Kenny that on occasion of needed emphasis, “they target churches; you of all people should know that.” Kenny shook his head in agreement, his eyes to the ground.
“It was a matter of time,” said Sam, “You weren’t the reason, just the excuse.”
Alice’s voice carried from the house, as loud as being a wife and mother in the Alaskan backwoods required.
“We bes’ be headin’ in, Kenny-Bo’…” Sam rocked himself off the wall, taking one last drag before flicking his cigarette off to the side. Kenny followed suit as they walked back to the house.
“Mom! Mitchell took my steak!”
“Oh you, now: what made you think that was your steak?” Alice asked as she dished out sweet potatoes. Mitchell stuck his tongue out, triumphantly taking a bite.
“Because I licked it,” Jimmy’s matter-of-fact tone caused Mitchell to spit out the bite and gag.
“Mom!”
“Now go on; both of you!” She said, “I brought them out not four minutes ago. Jimmy just sat down. Go on with your foolishness!”
With a thumb to his nose, Jimmy gave Mitchell a raspberry. With a flick of his spoon, Mitchell gave Jimmy a face full of steaming sweet potato. Apparently, neither of them noticed Kenny and Sam standing in the dining room archway.
“Now boys, your mother went through all this trouble to make a dinner for us,” said Sam as he and Kenny sat down, “so I’m gonna’ let her decide whether or not I’m whoopin’ two asses this evening.”
Alice smiled. Jimmy and Mitchell cut it.
“Kenny-Bo’, we’ve not had a…church-going person in the house in quite some time. Would you do us the honor of saying grace?”
“S-sure, Sam.” Kenny bowed his head. He hadn’t said grace in years, as most of his meals consisted of fried road-kill specials at Apep with Dalton. Nevertheless, he led grace as best he could.
He extended his hands to Jimmy and Mitchell, who giggled as they grabbed on, joking about a séance. Sam and Alice grabbed hands to complete the circle.
“Lord God, Creator and Architect of the Universe: of all that was, is, and is yet to be, “ Kenny said softly, head down, “We praise You always , for Your continued Providence. Lord, bless this food, prepared by human hands, to nourish human bodies. We ask You to extend Your Eternal Grace and give You thanks for our sustenance, that we may ever walk in the path of Your Wisdom.”
“So Mote it Be.” Kenny finished, all followed the refrain.
Sam and Kenny did dishes, Alice preferring that to whooping unruly children. Kenny dried as Sam washed.
“I’m glad we got stuck washing dishes, truth be told,” Sam leaned over as he spoke, a fine mist of hot water peppering Kenny’s forearms.
“I’m needin’ words with ya’ anyhow.”
Kenny once again felt the pinch in his stomach. Here it comes. Sam lowered his voice, darting his eyes to the living room where Alice was preparing the hearth for a warm evening.
“They called me,” he said, “The Palmer group. Borland.”
Kenny turned his head as if distracted, hiding his Adam’s apple from Sam as he gulped.
“They wanna’ hit the Receiving Station in Anchorage.” He said. “I won’t go into detail; Borland would have my head if he knew I told you anything.” He handed Kenny a steaming plate.
“Normally I don’t leave here.” Sam continued amidst the hiss of the faucet. “This is a regular post for me. But Borland says they need my expertise, don’t ask me what that means. I’m in the dark on a whole lot myself; don’t ever feel bad.”
Kenny took the last dish from Sam, drying it with quarter-turns of the towel.
“Sam, why are you telling me this?”
Sam grabbed one of the clean glasses, opened a cabinet drawer to reveal a stock of moonshine. He poured it straight and slammed it quick.
“I need to show you why you’re here.” He said.
More from Liam Sweeny…
