Michael Bunker: WICK

The men all looked at the usual pile of bodies waiting near the burn pit. No one indicated in any discernible way that they had a problem with the name change.

“Dismissed!”

Back in the command tent, an officer named Rankin approached General Duplantis and saluted. Duplantis returned the salute, and the officer began his report.

“Okay, General, the team you wanted dispatched south from Mount Joy is on their way. I’m tasked with keeping you informed as information arrives about the mission. Their orders were to travel to the farm of one Clive Darling, a man who we are informed is giving aid and comfort, as well as material assistance, to the FMA. He was the one whose militia troops saved the day for the FMA at the Battle of Mount Joy. The team was ordered to dispatch Mr. Darling, gather intelligence, and then return to their unit which is currently just north of Mount Joy, regrouping after the… setback there.”

“How well can we keep informed of the progress of the mission?” Duplantis asked. He opened a cigar box on his desk, and pulled a cigar from it. He rolled the cigar between his thumb and forefinger, and then held it up under his nose. He inhaled deeply, taking the scent of tobacco and cedar into his nostrils.

“Our communications are fine between here and Mount Joy, but once the team is on the mission, they’ll be behind FMA lines, and it’ll be sketchy at best. We may not hear word until the team returns to their unit,” Rankin said.

Duplantis struck a wooden match on the desk and then held the flame up to the end of the cigar. He puffed several times, holding the match still, twisting the cigar in his hand so that the entire circumference was burning properly. He held the match until it burned out upon touching his fingers.

“ If they return to their unit.”

“Yes, sir. If they return to their unit.”

“It will greatly aid in our extrication from Pennsylvania, if we can push the FMA out of Mount Joy, and eliminate the de-facto head of the independent militias in one fell swoop. If this Clive Darling is dead, we’ll sweep through Mount Joy next time like a knife through butter.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Keep me apprised.”

“Yes, General!”

“Wow!” Natasha said, as she and the others piled into Clive’s RV. “What in the world is this thing?”

“Yes,” Cole said. “Quite impressive. I see that someone has been able to avoid the world’s current… difficulties … in style.”

Clive climbed over the console and into the driver’s seat. He turned to Cole and nodded his head. “We’ve managed to do alright, difficulties aside.”

“I applaud you for your foresight, sir.”

Clive laughed. “Napoleon said, ‘Forethought, we might have, undoubtedly, but not foresight.’”

A gleam twinkled in Cole’s eye. “Oh, so we’re quoting Napoleon are we? Well, sir, that’s just my game.”

It was shaping up to be that kind of ride. Natasha punched her brother in the arm. “Would you please shut up? Could the grownups talk for just a minute without you and your word gymnastics?” Cole turned away, trying to look offended. “Why, I am hurt, sister! Hurt, I say!” and they continued like this in their usual way, poking at one another. It was how they knew they were still alright.

The others, too, settled in. Elsie and Peter slid into the plush, leather seats and buckled the safety belts around themselves. Elsie pulled little Charlie down onto her lap, and pretended to tickle him. Due to all of the equipment in the RV, Ace, Nick, and Calvin had to stand up and hold on to cabinets as the RV rocked and rolled along the rural roads of southern Pennsylvania. Bernice was moving at a high speed so no one was doing much talking now.

Red Beard was in his customary co-pilot’s seat, and he stared blankly through the windshield as if his mind were calculating the ends of the universe. He’d greeted all of the newcomers warmly enough, but he didn’t say much as they traveled back to the farm. Clive could see that there was something still on Pat’s mind.

Two well-armed, black APCs escorted the RV from the front, and there were two more coming up behind. A large portion of Clive’s local force was still cleaning up at Mount Joy—handing things back to the FMA—and would join the folks in the RV back at the farm. They hoped (they told Clive) to only be an hour behind, but with the snow and the mess at Mount Joy, Clive was hoping that they wouldn’t be too delayed. He hated moving Bernice without overwhelming force protecting her. He’d made a pact with himself that he would never let the RV, or any of his proprietary equipment, fall into the hands of any enemy force. He had a fallback, if such a thing were ever to happen, but now was not the time to think of that. Clive felt sure that there was no active aggressor—at least no force that he knew about—capable of taking the RV in transit. However, once they returned to the farm, and the vehicle was stationary… well… he worried.

An hour later, when they pulled into the drive at Clive’s farm, the light was just beginning to fade to end the day. Driving up near the barn, Clive and Red Beard could see Veronica standing on the porch, looking out across the snowy fields of the farm. Her arms crossed over her chest, and she clutched herself in a way that communicated everything, and nothing.

Red Beard looked at Clive, and the cowboy pursed his lips and lowered his head.

“Stephen,” Red Beard said. He clenched his jaw. “Dang it! We should have been here, Clive.”

“We can’t be everywhere, Pat.”

“Well now, isn’t that convenient?” was all that Red Beard had to say to that.

It was just a moment, just an exchange at the end of a long day. Everyone else had already cleared out from the RV and they were gathering in the yard in front of the farmhouse to talk, and Clive and Red Beard lingered back for a moment, as if something must be said to clear the air.

“Now you listen to me.” Clive Darling shook his finger in the air. He had made his fist into a kind of ball and he was pointing out into the growing night. Pat Maloney was listening to him.

“I didn’t make the world,” Clive said, “but I am damned determined not to lose control of my own. I know you have your limits, Pat, and I have mine. I do .” He looked at Pat to see if he believed him, and with the look, there was an overlong pause.

The other man smiled, but shook his head a moment. He let Clive know by the way that he shook his head and smiled that that he did believe him, but that the limits they were speaking of were way beyond any he could contemplate for himself.

“You know, Clive,” Red Beard said, “I think maybe you had to live down there, down in that prison,” he paused, “like I did.” He paused again, as if to say perhaps you needed all those years of research, to know what that really means.

Red Beard took in a breath, and looked as if he were about to speak out of anger, but then he caught himself and exhaled. A face came to mind—the face of one particular young man he’d met in the city. No one knows why such memories occur in such moments, but they do, and this one did. Red Beard thought of the young man he’d met on the bridge. Clay was his name. He thought of the nice talk they’d had together. It had been such a pleasant time of conversation, but the look in that young man’s eyes… Red Beard shook his head. He recalled that Clay looked odd. So hurt, so defeated. He thought of the pain in the young man’s eyes, and he thought of the authorities and the expression of brute power that had put that hurt there, and he felt a tear rise up in his own eye.