Harmonic: Resonance (13 page)

I turned to follow him out, but Powell took a hold of my arm. “Let him go. He’ll be back when he calms down.”

“Or when he runs out of booze,” Randall said. He stood transfixed and seemingly searching for answers inside the empty bottles against the wall.

“What is it, Randall?” I asked.

“Gary was right about the barbed wire. It
was
facing in.”

26 | Let the chips fall ...

As everyone readied themselves to leave, I kept my otherwise idle hands busy making up the travel bags for each group, trying to keep my mind occupied and trying to ignore the warnings first slurred by Gary back in the barn. Those warnings now replayed with sober clarity in my mind at every given opportunity. I tried to reason away the idea that we were sending these people, some of whom had become our friends, to be rounded up and imprisoned like cattle. The slur of Gary’s words hadn’t dulled the edge to his warning, and the devil’s advocate in my mind worked only to hone its point.

Each bag contained rationed food, water, limited first-aid supplies, siphon kit, and a loaded firearm. The firearm was added as a precaution, one we all hoped would prove unnecessary. Each gun was to be discarded or hidden when in safe range of the camp as a further precaution against retroactive criminal charges for possession of unregistered firearms, if or when the world returned to order and its laws.

After the news broadcast about the camps, I assumed our number would diminish gradually over several weeks. Instead, a day was set when all would travel as a single-file caravan, relying on the safety in numbers principle.

Over the week leading up to the day of exodus, Sean, Owen, and Randall had scoured the town and surrounding area for working vehicles. Each day, the three of them left in a single vehicle and returned with an additional vehicle or two, along with any acquired provisions.

During our last house meeting, I made it clear that all were welcome to stay for as long as they wanted. I made specific eye contact with those of the group I had grown close to as I reaffirmed I didn’t want anyone to feel as though they had to go—there was enough food, water, and fuel to sustain us all for a time. Perhaps this was a selfish and futile attempt at quieting my conscience, or perhaps it was a desperate last effort to delay or avoid testing the validity of Gary’s warning.

***

I stood in the doorway, watching as the children played their make-believe games, while Sean and Owen worked on the vehicles, refueling and refilling fluids, checking and inflating the tires using my father’s compressor, and getting each vehicle ready for the long journey ahead.

I wondered how Haley would take the news she would be staying with us in the house while her parents and Kyle and his family made the journey without her. With all the predicted detours around unforeseen obstructions and road closures, travel time was inestimable, but would undoubtedly exceed anyone’s best guess based solely on distance.

Beyond what could be several treacherous days on the road, they would all have to wait to be processed and registered, and from the images shown on the television of the sheer volume of people waiting to get into the various camps, the last mile before the gates would be the longest part of the journey.

It was decided it would be better for Haley to remain with us, not only for her safety, but for ours too. During the registration process, the unpredictability of a child’s answers to seemingly harmless or leading questions would pose an unnecessary risk to us all. Another concern was the journey back to the house, which would be made without the safety of the caravan and would be easier without the added stress of such precious cargo.

Kate had thanked us for sharing our food and thanked me for letting her family stay in my house, but regretfully she declined my pleas for them to stay. She had talked it over with Owen and with her parents, and they had agreed they would leave with the others. The sooner they signed up for resettlement, the sooner their lives could return to normal.

Sean was crouched by the front wheel of the blue van, holding up a lug nut to Haley. He threaded it onto the pin, secured the tire iron, and spun it, while she retrieved another nut from a can on the ground. With all the nuts in place, he took her hand and led her up to balance with both of her feet on one arm of the tire iron, motioning for her to bounce. When the job was done, he swung her back to the ground and sat her down on the old, flat tire. While Sean spoke, Haley shook her head, pulled out her notepad, and frantically scribbled in response. The exchange grew more animated as it progressed, and in reply to the slow shake of her father’s head, Haley stood and ran toward the barn in tears.

***

A disheveled version of Gary sat at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, turning a coin between his fingers, mumbling to himself, and drinking from a large bottle of Scotch during the brief pauses between his poisonous commentary. He had been left to drink and wallow alone, as he pleased, but this was the first time he had brought one of his
old friends
inside to meet the family.

“My oldest friend, Johnnie Walker. My best friend and my worst enemy,” Gary slurred.

Randall nodded to the coin in Gary’s hands. “It’s a sobriety chip.”

Gary’s bloodshot eyes found and locked on to Randall. “You’re just going to talk about me like I’m not even here? Yeah, it’s a sobriety chip, so what? Eight years clean, and for what?”

“You’re just going to throw it all away?” Randall asked.

A coarse laugh escaped from between Gary’s lips and the mouth of the bottle, and in a low, hollow tone, the bottle seemed to question
who?
“Listen to you, all high and fucking mighty. You were a preacher for what—twenty years? And you turned in your badge.”

The way the chip strobed the reflected candlelight during each turn between his fingers brought back memories of the events before I was brought into the church—the police officer’s coin flashing through the air and landing at my feet, a request for me to prove my mortal status. Another memory of the church filtered into my thoughts, and it was of Gary returning from his first supply run with
creature comforts
to appease the mob. I now realized the booze had been acquired to appease and silence the internal riot between his faltering willpower and a merely suspended addiction.

“They’re all just sheep, giving themselves willingly to the fucking wolves,” Gary barked and took another drink.

I looked around to see the wary glances from those close enough to hear.

“What? Am I offending you, princess?”

“Are you trying to?” I asked.

Gary placed the chip down on its edge and with the click of his finger and thumb, set it spinning on the spot. “What's the fucking point? Who’d want to be sober for this?”

“Gary, you’re making people anxious. Go and sleep it off. You can use my room,” I said.

“
I’m
making people anxious? They
should
be anxious.” Gary stood and started toward me. “Let me tell
you
something, princess ...”

Before he could reach me or finish his sentence, Powell rushed into the kitchen and wrapped an arm around Gary’s neck. Gary kicked, cursed, and sputtered threats, as Powell dragged him out of the kitchen and into my bedroom. Randall and I followed.

As he slurred and squirmed, Powell squeezed and told him to calm down. Gary raised his hands as a gesture of surrender, but as soon as he was released, he turned and swung a punch. The swing was clumsy, and Powell stepped out of its arcing path in time to feel only the rush of air. Gary wound up to try again but was stopped abruptly.

It was more a flash than a swing, and it ended with a dull
thud
and a wet
clack
as Gary’s jaw went slack, and he dropped like a puppet with all of its strings cut at once.

Powell and I looked down at the unconscious man splayed awkwardly on my bedroom floor still clutching the bottle and then over at the man now clutching and rubbing the knuckles of his right hand.

Without a word, Randall pried the bottle from Gary’s hand and left the room.

After a few seconds of shocked silence, Powell muttered, “Hell of a right hook for a man of the cloth.”

“What are we going to do with him?” I asked.

“I don’t know. It would be different if he was a happy drunk.”

“I
should
tell him to get out of my house, but I can’t kick him out like this. He needs help, but I don’t think he’ll accept it,” I said.

“Whatever you decide, we’ll back you up. It’s your house, your call,” he said.

Even with his mouth agape, Gary’s expression had settled into that of someone sleeping peacefully. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. “It’s no excuse for his actions, but what if he’s right to be suspicious? What if they
are
rounding people up and planning to lock them up, or worse?”

Powell shrugged. “They’re all set on going. Nothing that you
or
Gary have to say will convince them otherwise. Despite what Gary thinks, this isn’t the 1940s or
Nazi Germany
...” A deep frown formed on Powell’s face, and the color drained from his cheeks.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Think about all those people who died in those concentration camps, and how many of them have returned to life to be rounded up again. Whether or not there’s any truth to Gary’s paranoia, those people aren’t going to go willingly. There’s going to be trouble. It’s going to turn ugly, and people are going to die. They’ve come back to life just to die again.”

“Where will they go?” I asked solemnly.

Powell frowned at my question.

“Where will the N.L.D. go, if they die a second time? If their world and ours have somehow merged, then where will
we
go?”

27 | Mandatory compliance

There were only five of us now. Our total was almost double that of my family who had occupied the house for so many years before, but despite that number and the sounds from the running generator, the house was eerily quiet and felt empty. While Haley and I sipped hot chocolate and traded written notes back and forth across the breakfast bar, Randall stood at the kitchen sink, pouring away the liquid courage contents of his latest find. The metal sink basin worked to amplify the
glug
and
patter
sounds as the whiskey drained from the bottle and splashed into the waiting sink. “He’s going to run out of booze soon enough even if we can’t find every one he’s got stashed,” Randall said.

“Maybe we should just let him drink himself dry,” Powell said, more to himself than to anyone in particular, as he entered the kitchen.

My response came out too quick for any conscious effort to soften my tone. “He can drink himself to death if he wants to, but
not
here and
not
around Haley.”

Powell preempted my apology and let me off the hook with a familiar sympathetic smile. “How is she?”

“She wanted to know when her mom and dad are coming back.”

“What did you tell her?” Powell asked.

“The truth—that I don’t know,” I replied. “How’s Gary?”

“He’ll be asleep for a while. The painkillers I gave him are the extra-drowsy kind.” He gestured to the paper on the breakfast bar. “Ask Haley if she’s hungry.”

I wrote down the message and slid it to her. She nodded in response.

“Okay, I’ll make us all some breakfast,” Powell said.

“Do you need a hand?” I asked.

“I thought that maybe Haley could help me, if she wants to.” He leaned into her periphery and repeated his question.

Haley replied with an enthusiastic smile and a nod.

“Well, if you two have got it all under control, I’ll get out of your way and see what’s happening on the news,” I said, offering Powell a smile in exchange for the kind offer of inclusion, and temporary distraction, for Haley.

Randall followed me into the living room. I flicked through the channels to see if any others had reestablished their broadcast signal. I settled on the news network that had been our main source, thus far, of information about the resettlement and registration programs.

For a while, they repeated information intended for any first-time, post blackout viewers, outlining the importance of registration and the locations of the camps.

My attention wandered back to the kitchen. “He’s good with her. He’ll make a good father one day.”

Randall turned and stared as Powell worked to entertain his sous chef as much as to prepare the meal.

“I hope we live to see that day,” he said, with no indication in his tone as to the implication of his words.

Was his statement regarding the chance of Powell ever becoming a father or the chance of our surviving long enough to see it? I turned back to the television and turned up the volume, hoping to drown out any mental urge or attempt to answer.