David Means - Hystopia

“Don’t explain why you’re here,” he said, glancing at Wendy. “Wendy, you go upstairs and check through your room to see if there’s anything you want to save. I’ve got a good plan and I’m sure we can hold out here for a while, and maybe save the place.”

“I don’t think there’s anything I want,” Wendy said.

“Just do it for me. It’ll make me feel better knowing that you went and took one last look. Look in my room, too, and see if there might be something of your mother’s you want.” He waved her away and reached for his drink. “This is just a precautionary measure. I don’t mean to scare her, but you can’t go fooling yourself in these situations.” He lifted the rifle and sighted through the scope and held aim on the television.

“I can see that you’re thinking this old man’s crazy to think he might have a chance. You’re standing there — and this isn’t a friendly visit, we aren’t going to sit at the table again and trade stories — thinking I want one last hurrah. But let me tell you, you’re wrong. I’m just helping out that kid next door, with his wheelchair and his gun and his delusions. He thinks I’m going to go up into the attic and snipe while he lures them in. They’ll hesitate to kill a vet in a wheelchair, he thinks.”

“Well, sir, we’re going to take you with us.” Singleton sat down. From outside came a pop of gunfire and the sound of the Zomboid laughing. On the television, Cronkite’s voice was reporting calmly that riots had broken out in Detroit, New York, and Los Angeles. The Year of Hate was back in swing. It was unclear if Kennedy was officially dead. Had it been confirmed? The voice was steady, avuncular, calm, and dissociated from the reality at hand.

“Wendy wants to help you, and she needs your help. It has nothing to do with me.”

“I’d like to go with you but I’ve got my honor and like I said I’ve got to take care of that kid out there, even if it’s the last thing I do. You know, I worked the line at Ford and made a living and put her through nursing school.” The old man pointed to the ceiling, there was a thump of footsteps and drawers opening and closing. For a second, Singleton again felt an urge to go up and to throw her down on her childhood bed and have a wartime fuck, Graham Greene — style, the way they’d done it during the Blitz, with bombs blasting and walls crumbling and the fear of death. The urge swung through him and dissipated into the buzz in his eardrums, disappearing, one more shameful thought arriving from his primal past.

The old man said, “I did what a man’s supposed to do, I tried not burden Wendy with too much of my past. Your generation doesn’t understand. Which is to say I’m going to go in the style of a man my age and time.”

“But we’re still going to take you with us,” Singleton said flatly, so that he could tell Wendy he’d said it.

The old man shook his head knowingly. “Let’s do it like this. I’ll tell her you tried. Better yet, when she comes down here we make a show of it. You can even try to take me out to your car by force, but I’m not going with you, no matter what. But, see, if we do it that way we both win her forgiveness. I’m her father, and she knows it’s not in my nature to run from this house that I built with my own hands — and the help of Sears — and you did your best to help her out. That’ll be your gift to me. It’ll be the last thing you do for me until we see each other again, hopefully, and then I’ll talk to you not only as a fellow soldier but like a son-in-law.”

Singleton stood up and shook his hand. When Wendy came downstairs, carrying her mother’s wedding dress (resting on top: a small maroon jewelry box, and a copy of Little Women ), the two men began the act. Singleton, as a member of the Psych Corps, a direct link to the commander in chief, ordered her father to head out. The old man, standing up, arms on his hips, a fireplug of a torso, countered by arguing that the commander in chief was dead now, so his orders were worthless.

“I’m ordering you, as an outranking officer, a former captain, to come with us,” Singleton said.

Wendy’s father touched his shoulder and said, “Kid, I outrank you. You must’ve forgotten. I’m not budging. Wendy, believe me, honey, I’d like to go but I can’t cut and run as the last thing I do.”

* * *

In the neighborhoods on the outskirts, most people had fled ahead of the riots. As soon as Kennedy was shot, or presumed shot, the few remaining millworkers had probably headed to Chicago, which for some reason had a low response to historical upheaval, or to their fishing cabins in Canada.

A new sense of mission seemed inherent in the road as it crossed the Flint line and entered a no-nonsense desolation. They stopped at a gas station with two old pumps and a big orange round Gulf sign. The attendant had a cigarette dangling from his mouth and a holster on his belt. As he came around to the front of the car, he patted the gun and nodded as if to say: no funny business. Singleton said, “Fill her up,” and then, “Pay phone?” The attendant pointed at the side of the building. “She’s all yours.”

“Good luck,” Wendy said.

On the phone, Klein’s voice was weirdly soft and muted as he explained that they were in lockdown mode. The connection was weak and filled with clicks — they were being monitored — and his voice seemed to struggle through the wire. “You get it, you’re getting it,” he said. “I sense you have a clear sight line now.”

“Yes, sir, I think so, sir,” Singleton said.

Done pumping, the attendant was eying him suspiciously, his hand on his gun.

“You don’t really get it, do you?” Klein said. “You can’t put two and two together. I’m under orders not to say to you what I really want to say right now. You’re a good kid. Can you put two and two together now? Can you do that for me, son? Can you think a little bit about whatever you’ve unfolded? Because I know you’ve unfolded, and I can’t say it, so you’ll have to say you’ve been fraternizing with a young lady, a fellow agent, against orders, against the Credo. From me it’s just speculation — you get it, son, speculation — but from you it would be a confession that I could confirm and send up to Command.”

Singleton held the receiver out and looked at it — earholes cracked, the handle smeared grimy with grease. Wendy was in the car, waiting. Nothing wanted to make sense except the sky, milky white, holding the world together.

“Say it, Singleton. Say it and I’ll respond. I can’t say anything until you say it. Say it. Say it.”

“Say what, sir?”

“Say what I said you might say, about your fraternization state.”

“What about it?”

“You know. Admit it to me is all I ask.” Someone else was definitely listening on the line, there was a click and then another click.

“OK, why not?” Singleton said. “I’m with Wendy right now and we’ve been together all summer, fucking each other senseless, and now we’re striking out on our own.”

“There,” Klein said, “I’ll send that statement to Command,” his voice lowered. “I’m going to confirm that you’re officially wayward, that you’ve gone AWOL, but I’ll use the Corps lingo. Now, if you were to say, I mean if you were to draw a conclusion looking back, accessing all of your actions and everything you learned in your training — if you were to look back, the way I taught you to look back, would you remember our talk about the proper way to write an operations report?”

“Yes, sir,” Singleton said. The pop of gunfire came from the distance. A single pop followed by another. Brittle small-arms fire. Another pop — deeper, woody, a different tenor, a rifle — that seemed timed in response. Snap and woof. Another exchange of some kind. Behind that the dry, lonely sizzle of cicadas going about their afternoon business.