Frank Klus - Azaleas Don't Bloom Here

“I preach that myself. Suppose we wait and see if anything changes.”

“Good idea, Ray. All the same though, I want a plan with built-in flexibility in case their schedule does change.”

He called the rest of the team in and summarized what he’d found out, and what worried him. “We need a plan based on what we know, and still allow us to seamlessly change it if circumstances change. Study the plans and let me know your ideas.”

The men spent hours on a plan, but nothing concrete emerged.

“I think we should wait until tomorrow to see if anything changes,” Foote said. “Me and Wrenn would be able to tell.”

“I know, Terry. Ray and I discussed this. I suppose that’s what we’ll have to do.”

The phone rang. It was one of Armstrong’s men. “Yeah, Jimmy.”

“Sir, I heard a shriek from the basement. It was somewhat faint, but it was clearly a scream of terror.”

“Eugene,” Armstrong said out loud. The others just looked at him. “Understood,” Armstrong said as he hung up. “There’s no question now, boys—Eugene’s in a bad way. It’s tonight or never. I need a detailed plan now.”

It was early nightfall when the team came up with a plan. They would assume the schedule would hold, but the moment it changed, the attack would be called off. Spotters would be used to determine if anything changed. Armstrong would give the go or no go. The assault would be coordinated to begin at 2:33 a.m. Four vans would be positioned for the assault and rescue. All six of Armstrong’s sharpshooters would be used for the assault, including Sean, Ray, and Cass.

Armstrong’s men would take various routes to the House so as not to attract suspicion. Coordination of the assault and rescue would be by mobile phone, using an encrypted voice command that each member of the team would have. Low volume silence was to be in effect the moment the team was near the House. There would be no unnecessary talking, and when necessary, talking would be at a whisper. There would be no time to practice. Each man had an assignment, and each knew how to carry it out. There could be no mistakes. They had one chance to do the job right.

1:30—guard change.

1:45—the new guards were in place and the old guards were gone.

2:00—all was quiet.

2:15—Spotters made a final check.

Eugene was being badgered relentlessly now. “If one plus one equals two, and if this is an absolute truth, then how can there be no absolute truths?”

“Well I guess I wouldn’t know.” Hurd kept beating him for each insolent answer Eugene gave, and he was barely conscious now.

“YES YOU DO! YOU KNOW THERE ARE ABSOLUTE TRUTHS. YOU KNOW ZINNEY IS A LIAR!”

Eugene tried to muster whatever energy he had left to spit at Frankenstein.

“ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTION,” Hurd screamed.

“Fuck you!” Eugene said in a low grumbling voice.

“We’ll have to increase the volume of the probe,” Sistrunk said to Peter. Then, turning to Eugene, “You still have doubts. You want to hold on to your belief in this radical. He tells you things that don’t make sense. Right, Mr. Sulke?”

Eugene glared at him. By this time he was bleeding from the nose and upper lip. His face was a gory mixture of black, blue, red and purple. His left eye was closed.

“You don’t believe I’m right. Your colors are still dark. You are still hanging on to an outrageous belief. You keep lying to yourself, to your family, to me. You are a philosophical mongrel. Aren’t you, Mr. Sulke?”

“Fuck you!” Eugene was crying now, and his throat was hoarse.

Suddenly, gunfire was heard.

“We’re under attack,” the upstairs guard shouted.

“Quick,” yelled Sistrunk to Hurd. “Get him in the closet.”

Shots were fired simultaneously at 2:33. Five guards were taken out immediately. The side yard guard responded to the shooting, and he was shot. Six guards down. The initial volley went through the windows, where the window guards were scheduled to be. Their fates were unknown.

The sharpshooters took out two more guards, once their new position became known. There were eight guards down, leaving the four inside. Suddenly, a howitzer shell blasted through the front door. Ray and Cassandra rushed in taking out two guards—one wounded from the initial volley.

While this was going on, Armstrong, Foote, Wrenn, and Sean came over the back fence. Foote and Wrenn carried a tall ladder. The ladder was set up against the house, and Sean climbed to the roof.

As the three rushed inside through the back door, Sean went into action immediately. A fresh squadron came to the rescue. Sean radioed their position to Paulie. Together they took out one of them, forcing the other two to take cover.

Foote and Wrenn entered the back of the house and shot the two guards there, and then shot the upstairs guard at the top of the basement steps. Then they went down into the basement, Wrenn in the lead. Hurd shot at him and winged him; Wrenn letting out a cry. Foote then shot Hurd, and checked on his buddy. Wrenn assured him he was all right, and they descended the stairs.

There was no sign of Eugene. Peter and Alisha had escaped, but Wrenn and Foote caught Sistrunk before he could follow them.

“Where is Eugene Sulke?” Foote demanded.

Sistrunk was silent while Wrenn perused the clinic. He saw the medical shelves, opened them up and grabbed something that looked like a painkiller and some bandages.

“Where is Sulke?” Foote repeated.

Sistrunk didn’t move, and Foote grabbed him. “You tell me where he is or I’ll start cutting off your fingers one by one.”

There was yelling from the closet.

Wrenn ran over there and yelled for Eugene. “In here,” came the muffled reply. Wrenn tried to open the door, but it was locked.

“Where is the key?” Foote said, staring at Sistrunk with flared nostrils.

“Hurry up, you guys,” Armstrong shouted from upstairs.

“Where is the key?” Foote said a little louder. When the doctor hesitated, Foote took out his knife.

“A doctor without fingers is pretty useless.” Foote pointed to the locked door.

Sistrunk just flashed his evil smile. “I look forward to seeing you in that chair over there.” Foote slugged him, and Sistrunk went down. Then Foote, with a murderous look on his face, went for Sistrunk. One look at that knife was all Frankenstein needed for motivation.

“Mr. Hurd has the key.” He went over to his body and fished the key from his pocket, eyeing the holstered gun the whole time.

Sistrunk showed Foote the key and then opened the closet. They saw a semi-conscious, emaciated, and severely beaten man they assumed to be Eugene Sulke. The place reeked of crap and piss.

Foote and Wrenn got him out of there, and they pushed him up the stairs to the main floor.

“Are you Eugene Sulke?” Armstrong said. He nodded he was.

Ray and Cassandra hurried him out the back door as a van pulled up to the back alley. Ray got in, and Cassandra pushed Eugene after.

“Come on, come on. Quickly!” the driver urged. Cassandra jumped in, and the van took off.

Inside the house, Armstrong went down into the basement, and confronted the doctor.

“I demand you let me go,” Sistrunk yelled.

Armstrong answered him with the butt of his rifle, sending Sistrunk to the floor. Sistrunk just looked up at him while Armstrong pointed his gun at him.

“What did you do to Eugene Sulke?”

“Nothing. Oh, a few cuts and bruises. It happens. People resist treatment.”

“Treatment?”

“Yes. They all come in here filled with such strange notions; such strange ideas. They need our help. We change them from misfits to constructive members of society. What’s so wrong with that?”