William Weber - Turning the Tide

“Water run?”

“No, I need you to do me a favor.”

Sammy didn’t look so sure.

“Remember how you told me about those people who sneak up to the fence line, leaving food and tradeables?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think they’d be able to deliver a note to Oneida for me?”

“That’s kinda far, don’t you think? On the off chance their radio’s still working, maybe they could send the message that way.”

“Give me a pen.”

“Geez, kid, you’re killing me here.” Sammy plucked a pen from behind his ear and handed it over.

Brandon scribbled a few words on the leaflet and then handed the paper to Sammy. “Keep this well hidden till you can get it into the courier’s hands.”

When he turned to leave, Sammy called after him. “Hey, my pen.”

Brandon stopped and handed it over.

“Now where are you off to in such a hurry?” Sammy asked, folding the message and tucking it under the band of his pants.

Brandon drew in a deep, nervous breath. “To speak with the camp commandant.”

What John had seen from outside the fence line of the North Korean concentration camp near Jonesboro had weighed heavily on him during the entire trek home. They had made the journey in record time. Seeing Brandon and his son in mortal danger had created a sense of urgency within him. But more than that, seeing the conditions at the camp—Americans dressed in rags, used as slave labor, beaten and probably killed at the slightest provocation—had made the need to free the camps so much more pressing.

They returned to Oneida to puzzled looks. No one knew about their mission and he’d told his men to keep it to themselves, at least until he gave the all-clear. Sure, some details were certain to slip out in the days to come. But Phoenix was still on the loose, and word of their plan leaking out might cost the lives of many Americans, including their own.

Once the horses were cleaned and back in their stables, John, Moss and Reese climbed into a four-seater golf cart and headed onto Alberta Street. Their next destination was the mayor’s office, where they hoped to find General Brooks. They didn’t get more than a few hundred feet, however, before John slammed on the brakes. Visible over the tops of the buildings were the spinning blades of both windmills. John turned the wheel hard and headed for the football field and the greenhouse, both of which sat in the windmill’s shadow.

They arrived to find a small crowd gathered around what appeared to be a glowing light bulb. Many watched it with utter amazement. A pine shack nearby was also new.

When Diane and Emma saw them approach, they peeled away from the others. Emma threw herself into John’s arms. Diane waited her turn with a warm smile, her head tilted slightly in the late-afternoon sun.

“Do I need to check you for wounds?” Diane asked.

“You won’t find any,” John told her. “At least none that are visible.”

“So what do you think, Dad?” Emma asked him. She was giddy for the first time in a long while.

John shook his head. “I didn’t think it would ever happen.”

Ray Gruber came over, brimming with grins and no doubt a ton of bad jokes.

“I gotta say, I’m proud of you Ray,” John told him. “They’re both beautiful.”

Ray laughed. “Until the Chinese come and knock them down, right? I’ve also set up a series of lawnmower generators in the new shed I built. Each is connected to an alternator, which charges a battery bank. They’re real noisy, but will serve in a pinch if anything should happen to my creation.”

In Ray’s mind, he’d conceived and built the whole thing himself. It didn’t seem to matter that dozens of others had also helped make it a reality. Every man had his foibles, John supposed, a failure of the flesh even he wasn’t immune to. “I didn’t know mower generators were even possible.”

“Adapting them wasn’t all that hard, but we did have trouble finding a pulley that would work. Finally settled on a two-and-a-half-inch pulley. Just took some trial and error, was all.”

John and the others excused themselves and headed back to the golf cart. Diane followed after them.

“Did you at least succeed in whatever mission you went on this time?”

John slid into the driver’s seat. “We did. But every success only reminds me how much we have left to do.”

“One step at a time, John. You start getting ahead of yourself and mistakes will happen.”

“You’re right, honey, but unfortunately this next step can’t wait.”

Knoxville, three hundred and fifty days before EMP

The days following the news of Christopher Lewis’ death had been particularly hard on John. The warm summer temperatures, the lush foliage along the streets in Sequoia Hills, even the sound of children playing outside, none of it seemed to make things any better for him. Not the way it used to when he was in a rut.

Over the last week, John had also taken to sleeping in his truck. He’d begun to feel as though the rooms in their house were too large and unsafe for him. And before long, he no longer felt safe or secure unless he was in a small, cramped space. Even so, sleeping was something of a misnomer, since John hadn’t gotten a proper night of it since he returned from Iraq. This was his most dreaded time of day. If he was lucky, a dozen beers or a bottle of Jack Daniels would slide him into a dreamless stupor.

Diane hadn’t understood much of what he’d been going through, but she’d respected his wishes. The VA (Veterans Affairs) had told her John would require time to reintegrate back into civilian life and she was trying to be as understanding as possible. Soon enough, however, John’s need for his own space had meant that he’d sometimes pull into the driveway and not enter the house at all. Getting a serious buzz on had been the only way to keep those thorny memories at bay.

Sometimes, when he did manage to get some shuteye, he would wake up shouting orders to ghostly mortar teams to check their fire. The weight of being responsible for another man’s life was a heavy one indeed. He’d read an article years ago about a scientist trying to find the weight of the human soul. The scientist had conducted a series of experiments and eventually arrived at a measurement: twenty-one grams. Thinking back to how many men he’d lost in combat and post-deployment suicides―and the crippling strain of those lost souls pressing down on his shoulders every day―John knew that number couldn’t possibly be right. It had to be more. Much more.

Pulling into his driveway after a night of hard drinking, John spotted his neighbor Al Thomson, sitting on his front porch, enjoying the warm weather. John killed the engine and reclined his seat, ready to sleep off another evening of too many beers.

He hadn’t been more than a few minutes into his oblivion when a rap came at the window. At once, his hand went for the S&W M&P .40 Pro he kept under the seat before he realized who it was. John gave the key a quarter turn and lowered the window.

“Fine night, isn’t it?” Al asked, peeking inside the truck.

John looked around, the cab spinning around him. “If you say so.”

“Everything all right, John?”

“Sure,” he replied, vaguely aware of his slur.

“You didn’t have a fight with the missus, did you? We have a guest bedroom in the basement if you need somewhere to sleep.”

John tried to smile. “Thanks, Al, but I prefer it in here. I tend to keep Diane up at night, so I’ve gotten in the habit of making alternate arrangements.” He tapped the steering wheel, as if to say, She might not look like much, but to me she’s home.