Frank Klus - Azaleas Don't Bloom Here

“Doc says he doesn’t know. It just seemed to go on, and on, and on.”

“Was Doc still conscious?”

“Doc says he doesn’t know when he lost consciousness. When he came around he was sitting on the floor right over there. That’s where we found him.”

“Then what happened?”

“Well, this part is speculation. There weren’t any witnesses, but the evidence points to what happened next. Menendez got back on the chair. He evidently took the thing off its holder and was holding the probe in his hand. He sat down in the chair. Ah, Jeez.”

“Go on, Paoli. What did he do?”

“He taped the damn thing to his head. Then he pushed the ON button. The upstairs guard heard continuous screaming that lasted about ten minutes. He’d never heard anything like that before and it scared him. So he came downstairs.”

Casimir just looked at him.

“Well, he started to come down the stairs and the screaming stopped. He said he stopped as well, and thought about going back up, but there was a strange silence. He said he slowly walked down the stairs. He said he should have heard some talking or moving around, but there was total silence. ‘This wasn’t right,’ he said. So he came all the way down, and he saw the first guard dead; then he saw Doc Grifton barely moving, but pointing to the chair. Christ, sir, I’m sorry, but I’ll never get that look out of my mind. He was still in that chair when I came in.”

“What did you see, Marco?”

“It was Menendez, sir, sitting in that chair with the probe taped to him. His head was cocked to one side, and his mouth was wide open in a frozen look of horror. His face was bright red with tear streaks on his cheek. His pants and the floor below the chair were all wet with urine.”

Paoli stopped to get another sip of water. “It wasn’t like anything I ever saw before. We took plenty of photos. They’ll be in the final report.”

“The thing I can’t figure out,” Casimir said, “was why did he do it? Why didn’t he try to escape? He could have taken the gun from the dead guard. Once he got rid of the upstairs guard he could have made it to freedom.”

“I know,” Paoli said. “I asked the same question of Doc Grifton. He just said that Menendez told him of his desire to escape. Doc said, ‘Where would you go? We’d just recapture you again.’ He said Menendez just kept muttering about how he missed his wife—I mean….”

Casimir looked cross, and Paoli continued. “I guess that he didn’t want to live without her. I guess, sir, that he just wanted to die.”

The exiles were now at the southwestern border of South Dakota. This was neutral territory, but the kind that sided with the RAC. Ray and Cassandra led the way across because they feared they would have to furnish I.D. Fortunately, they went through, and Eugene and Pamela followed them. The plan was to take the back roads going north and west until they reached North Dakota.

Sticking to the east end was considered the safest, but they would have to use the back roads, making the trip all the longer. They would have to go through North Dakota and into Manitoba before swinging down to northern Montana. The Canadian border was controlled by people friendly toward the Old American government, but at the two crossing points, few questions were asked. This was the primary benefit of Pamela’s contact in Congress.

The journey, thus far, was pleasant, but Pamela figured by this time the Lightning Squad would be organized, and a cooperation network with the RAC would be set up. Furthermore, there might be mercenaries looking for them, assuming they’d figured out the vehicle they were driving, but Pamela had anticipated this.

She would trade vehicles with a contact provided by her Congressional contact. It was a private dealer that also helped people who weren’t allowed a visa to New America, but were being persecuted by local authorities sympathetic to the RAC. They would make contact about 75 miles up, about a two hour drive from the back roads.

They traded their ten year old Impala for a fourteen year old Toyota Camry—an even trade. The Camry had about four hundred thousand miles on it, but the car ran well and had new brakes. They turned in for the night at a small family-owned motel. The motel was owned and operated by a friend of the Piper family that also assisted people trying to leave the country. He was a general manager in one of the cooperatives set up during the time just prior to the Rust Belt bombings, and might have been killed if he were working the night shift. He never forgot that, and dedicated his life in helping escapees.

“Pamela, it’s great to see you so soon.”

“Jeff, this is Eugene Sulke. He went through Hell House and is being looked for as we speak. Gene, this is Jeff Blakely, he was a friend of my brother. You can trust him.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, sir.”

“He is a polite one,” Jeff said, who just laughed. Then he got serious. “You went through Hell House?”

“Yes, sir… I mean, Jeff.”

“I’ve heard stories, but I never met anyone who ever went through it. How come they weren’t able to change you over? I mean, I thought no one ever comes out without being… well, fucked up.”

“I know what you mean, Jeff. Fortunately, I only spent about three days in that place before I was rescued.”

“Jesus Christ. What was it like? I mean, I’ll understand if you don’t want to talk about it.”

Eugene looked downcast. He started to tell the motel manager about it, but his speech became raspy and halted.

Pamela saw that this was a subject that her charge was not yet ready to talk about. “I think we should talk about something else,” she said.

They talked for a couple hours until Eugene and Pamela got too tired and turned in for the night. Eugene turned on the television, which only had a few stations, and no cable. He normally didn’t watch much TV anyway, but there was nothing to do. He found an old Jimmy Stewart movie on a UHF channel. It was a Western in black and white; not what he was hoping for, but he did like Jimmy Stewart.

Moms, dads, are you sick and tired of being talked back to by your child?

“Ah, Jeez,” Eugene mumbled aloud.

Tired of the arguments? The failing grades? Then I have good news for you. You just bring that little devil of yours to Tough Love Camp and I’ll return you a little angel. You heard me right, folks. For just nine ninety-nine we’ll turn your devil into a little angel. And if you call in the next fifteen minutes, I’ll take ten percent off, and give you free infusions of our famous tough love approach while your child is in school.

Just bring your child in right after school lets out and I’ll return your child when school starts again; all ready to tackle school just like the little angel you always wanted.

Call the number on the screen in the next fifteen minutes and totally revamp your child’s behavior. Call now!

Eugene could hardly contain himself. He let out a scream that scared Pamela, who had the adjacent room.

“Gene, are you okay?”

Eugene let her in, but he was still fuming as he relayed the commercial to her. “Jesus Christ, from Hell House to tough love camp. Government brainwashing camps weren’t enough. Now this guy figured out how to make a buck off it. What’s next? They turn it into a movie? The Stepford Kids Enter School. ‘Watch little Johnny turn from brat to angel right before your eyes; just like you always wanted.’ They can all walk around with weird smiles on their face with ‘yes, teacher,’ and ‘no, sir;’ and ‘may I wash the dishes, mom?’ Sure, just fry the brain up really good, and just shove all that goodness in their little sponge brains, and they’ll be as good as new. Holy Jesus, Mary, and mackerel. Can you believe this?”