Eric Walters - The Rule of Three

“But most of them aren’t accidents, are they?” I guessed.

“Probably not. Arson isn’t about gain. It’s about frustration, anger, power, and control,” Herb said.

“I guess there’s a lot of that going on out there.”

“More than yesterday but not nearly as much as tomorrow,” Herb replied. “Do you see that?” He pointed in front of him.

I saw lots of things but wasn’t sure what he was referring to.

“Below to the right. They’ve blocked off the streets leading in and out of that subdivision, and I think I can see guards at the street leading in.”

I scanned the ground until I came to a fence line around the subdivision, coming out to a street. It was blocked by cars turned onto their sides, and there were sentries standing at a little gap between the cars. Even from this height and distance I could make out rifles in their hands.

“Bank around the perimeter,” Herb said. “I want a closer look.”

I made the turn but also started to climb. I wanted more height.

“I’d imagine there were lots of other neighborhoods doing what we’re doing, coming together for defense and survival,” Herb said.

“That’s good.”

“And bad. Think about the barricade on Burnham. They weren’t the friendliest of people.”

“You handled that.”

“I shouldn’t have had to handle anything if I hadn’t miscalculated to begin with. I was positive I could talk us through there. I put both our lives in jeopardy. I have to apologize.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for. I just couldn’t believe what happened, the way you pulled out the gun. I didn’t even know you had a weapon. You did tell me to leave mine behind.”

“I did. I told you it was wise to have a gun only if you were planning on using it. I would have done what was necessary.” He paused. “Thank goodness it wasn’t, though. Of course, if it had ended well we could have formed some sort of partnership with that neighborhood… But maybe we can with this one.”

“Like a treaty?”

“More like a trade agreement. I think we should try to meet with the people in this neighborhood.”

“You want me to put it down?” I questioned.

“No, that’s the last thing I’m thinking of.”

That was reassuring.

“Let’s just keep in mind that they’re there, no more than a dozen miles from our neighborhood,” Herb suggested. “How much farther is the police station?”

“We’re almost halfway there. If I was higher I’m sure we could almost see it from here.”

We hit some rough air and I had to concentrate on the controls to keep us steady. Herb went quiet for a long stretch.

“You’re very comfortable up here,” he said at last. “You’re a good pilot.”

“You’re not a bad passenger either. You don’t seem afraid of flying.”

“I’m pretty terrified right now, actually. But I’ve learned that showing how you’re feeling is usually not the wisest course of action.”

“I guess you learned lots of things. Are you ever going to tell us exactly what you really did for the government?”

“I might have told you too much already.”

“Todd is positive you were into some black ops sort of thing.”

“Todd watches way too many movies,” Herb said.

“He probably does, but that doesn’t answer the question. Were you?”

“Black ops? In my business there was very little that was black or white. Most everything involved shades of gray and shades of right. Maybe this is a conversation best left for later.”

“And if we talked later would you tell me?” I asked. “Would you actually talk? Or is this just another way of not answering my question?”

He chuckled. “I guess we’ll find that out… later. Can you see smoke rising up in the air ahead of us?”

I saw it. “It looks like something is burning.” It was coming from a spot almost exactly where the station was. I followed the line of the highway beneath us. Had I been driving, I’d have gotten off at the next exit and turned north. From the sky I didn’t need to wait for an off-ramp. I started my bank, curving to cut the distance but also to get a better view.

“It’s a building. It’s burned out and still smoldering,” Herb said. I looked over. He was looking through the binoculars. “It’s a low, level building, and there’s a parking lot with lots of cars. Most of them have been vandalized or burned out. It’s right at the intersection.”

I felt my heart skip a beat. “What corner of the intersection?”

“Southwest.”

“Those cars. Could they be police cruisers?”

“I’m too far to tell yet.”

I pushed down on the stick. I wanted to be lower and faster. As we closed in I recognized the building—it was the police station! Wisps of smoke were rising from the roof—at least the parts of the roof that remained. Windows seemed to be blackened or missing completely, and as I curved around, we saw that where the building’s entrance should have been was nothing.

“I can’t believe it’s been torched,” I said.

“Not just torched,” Herb said. “Those black marks around the front aren’t from a fire. Those are burn marks from an explosion. It wasn’t just abandoned. It was overrun, attacked.”

“But who would do that? Who could do that?”

“I don’t have answers,” Herb said. “I just know we have to get back to tell your mother. To warn your mother.”

“Warn her?”

“Whoever did this here could do the same to her station. Do one slow circuit so I can see everything, and then let’s go home.”

I banked sharply away and pulled back on the stick. I’d do the circle, but what I needed was to get up and away and into fresh sky.

My mother walked into the elementary school gymnasium in full uniform. Herb had convinced her that it was important that she and the other officers look the part. It was about making a statement, putting on a show, and convincing everybody in the audience that she had the authority to make such an important decision for the community. It almost hadn’t happened. It had taken an entire day to convince her and then three days to put the plan into action.

I watched people stare at her as she walked down the center aisle. Every chair from all over the school had been brought in and they were all filled, with more people standing at the back and along the sides. My mother joined Herb and me at the front. There were supposed to be nine hundred people—every teen and adult in the neighborhood who wasn’t on watch or looking after the sick, the elderly, or kids.

The room was loud and hot and sweaty. All of those bodies pressed together were throwing out a lot of heat. Air-conditioning would have been great but impossible. I was just glad there were lights. Outside the side door sat a generator, its humming lost beneath the noise of the crowd.

“Well?” Herb asked.

“I’m all set,” my mom said. “Let’s give folks a couple more minutes to settle in. I could use the breather.”

I knew she was exhausted. When Herb and I had returned from our flight we told Mom what we’d seen, and this then set in motion the chaotic days that followed. The last thing she’d wanted to do was abandon her station, but there was no choice. Herb had described what had happened to the other division—a full frontal attack by forces that had used a rocket-powered grenade launcher. She hadn’t believed him at first, or wanted to believe him, but Herb had seen it before. He could tell from the scorch marks, the level of damage, and what he called the blowback from where the RPG was fired.

My mother had questioned where the attackers would get weapons to do that. Herb convinced her that the real questions were “Did they have more?” and “Was her station next?” Finally, reluctantly, she’d agreed. The police station and everything in it would be relocated inside our neighborhood. That was part of what was going to be announced tonight.