Air Force One, Part One (1) Mick sits on his stool at the edge of the small stage looking out grimly over the Wolverine's dining room and his waiting customers. The truckers watch him in return, motionless except for the smoke of their cigarettes. The room is no more than a quarter full tonight, but that still means a dozen men are sitting here expecting some form of after-dinner entertainment. They are gradually realizing that none is forthcoming. "The Martians," he says to them. One trucker immediately grimaces. " 'You wanna' see the Martians?' " the man says, imitating his host. "'There they are.'" He gestures dismissively with his cigarette. "You tell that one every week, man. Gimme a damn break." "OK," Mick says, and blows out his breath, looking at the man. Then a new ray of hope breaks through the evening�s gloom. "The beautiful city?� he asks hopefully. �Monorail trains? Naked priestesses? You guys know that one? That really is a great one.� "Yeah," another man replies, stubbing out a hand-rolled cigarette. "And the little kid in the basement with shit all over him. Come on, Mick, you tell that one every other week!" The Innkeeper looks at his second detractor for a long moment. Certainly, business has been thin lately. But the thought occurs to the Wolverine's proprietor that perhaps it has not been thin enough. "You know," he says finally, "there is a limit, right? I mean, there's only so many of these things I can keep in here," he hits the side of his head with two fingers. "Maybe there used to be more, but � you know � the End of the World probably has a way of driving these things out. "What do we need science fiction for anyway," he laughs. "I mean," he gestures around the firelit room, "we're living in the future, right?" "Yeah?" another of his trucker customers speaks up, thumping his beer mug on the heavy tabletop. "How do you figure that? How are we 'in the future', now." "Well," the innkeeper replies slowly, "I guess this can only be the future, since it doesn't seem very damn likely that anyone's ever going to remember it as the past. If you know what I mean." Terrific, he thinks, piss off the customers. Maybe they'll tell their friends! 'Oh yeah! The Wolverine Truck Stop and Motor Lodge? I go there because driving my rig through post-holocaust America isn't depressing enough for me! But Mick fixes me up real good!' "Look," he says, more amicably. "You guys are the ones out there on the roads. You see everything � not me. Let's hear some good Halloween stories! I know that's what you all do in the camps at night. Sit around the campfire and scare each other to death with Weird Things I Have Seen, right? Well, let's hear some of that in here for a change! We'll collect the best ones. Write �em down. Give prizes! "Oh come on," he says, when no one seems to be coming on. "Anything, gentlemen? UFOs? Famous People I Have Seen? Elvis, Jesus, General Walker?" He pauses, smiling mirthlessly, and wonders if this would be the appropriate moment to begin praying for a miracle. Being struck by lightning, for example. But then you'd probably get screwed anyway. Like it wouldn�t actually kill you, or something. That's probably what Moses actually wanted, but he got all that other stuff instead. "Look, Lord, I don't want to lead the Jews and I don't want to kickbox with Pharaoh. I just came up here for a little damn peace and quiet!" Then one trucker, sitting alone at a table near the back speaks up slowly. "I seen him once," the man says. There's some commotion, since most of the truckers have to move their chairs around to be able to see the man who spoke. "Bullshit," one responds automatically, but the speaker either doesn't hear him or doesn't care. To most of the men in this room, having personally seen General Walker is about as likely as having seen the Devil dancing naked in a firestorm. Yet, as more of them manage to locate the man who spoke and take a couple of seconds to size him up, less skepticism is expressed. The man does not look like the type that enjoys empty boasts. Mick recognizes the man vaguely. He's a loner, who shows up once in a great while. Probably a long-haul driver. The type that takes loads to Texas, Utah, Mexico � and doesn't mind the added danger of a run where you might not see another rig in a week of driving. For some men, the solitude of such a life is actually a bonus The man moves his chair a little, bringing him halfway into better light. Seeing him more clearly, the innkeeper immediately understands two things. First, that he really is referring to General Walker: the Monster, the Butcher of China, the murderer of a billion souls. And, second, that he really has seen him � or at least believes that he has. A man like this isn't the type you would normally think of as wanting to entertain people with a tale. And, indeed, as the trucker begins to speak it seems as though he is talking more to himself than to the others in the dining room. He knows well enough that they are listening; he's just doesn�t care. The pressure of a life spent alone on the road has built up in him enough to force his memories into speech. Once that pressure abates, he will stop as suddenly as he has started. "It was in Montreal," the trucker says. And at the mention of that city of the past his audience becomes very quiet indeed. Montreal was the first great battle of the Last War. It was the battle that made clear to everyone that Foreign Command, although formerly a branch of the United States military, was indeed prepared and determined to mount large-scale operations against regular American troops. Not content with its dominion over the remains of Asia, Africa, and Europe, the renegade FC generals would fight Washington for control of the western hemisphere, and North America itself. Yet it was also the Battle of Montreal which made it equally clear that, in spite of the FC's arrest or assassination of most of the United States� civilian leadership, American forces would not be easily defeated on their own land. Finally, Montreal was the battle in which General Walker had first emerged as an important force in the FC. It was there that he began to build the reputation for ruthlessness that would one day be confirmed for all time by the war against China, and his nightmarish policy of Chernobilization. The battle began with subterfuge. Foreign Command had taken Montreal, but seemed to hold it weakly. Washington fell for the bait, and the largest contingent of the National Guard yet assembled was lured into an attempt to liberate the city. Only when they were fully committed across the St. Lawrence river was the trap was sprung. Then the American generals realized the magnitude of their mistake. The bridges were destroyed, cutting off retreat. Reinforcements, gathering rapidly in New York State and Vermont, were engaged and immobilized by the Foreign Command�s superior air power. What the American generals had planned as a quick rescue mission to help an ally against the common enemy rapidly evolved into an all-out battle with maximum commitment on both sides. It ended in the what proved to be the most devastating single defeat of the United States during the War. It was at the end of the catastrophic battle that Americans first learned that General Walker had no interest whatsoever in taking or maintaining prisoners of war. He would not be bound by the gentlemanly treaties and solemn international accords that belonged to the world that he had come to sweep away. Forty-five thousand United States troops had gone into battle. Two thousand returned. "They rounded us all up, what was left, at Anjou," the trucker continues. "They had these big places fenced off where they put us. It was just eight foot chain-link fence, but nobody tried to climb it after the first couple of days. There just wasn�t noplace to go. The rivers on two sides, and FC on the third." He stops to drink from his mug, and the sound of it returning to the table, unnoticeable at any normal time in the Wolverine, now seems disturbingly loud. "It was the third day that they decided to start having fun with some of the kids. You know, a lot of the recruits were just teenagers. Underage, some of �em." He frowns. "You know, even at the start the Guard wasn't being real picky." "So some of them were talking to this one kid by the fence, and saying like 'You want to go home to your Ma' and shit like that. And then one of the FC guys starts telling him like, 'Come on, man, if you can climb the fence you can go home!'" The trucker reaches toward his beer again, but his hand stops short of it, resting on the table. His gray eyes are no longer registering any sights but those of one long-ago autumn day in Canada. Perhaps the span of time since then is not terribly long as measured in years, but that day nevertheless belongs to a previous age of the world. "So the kid goes up there, real slow. Some of our guys are yelling at him to get back, but the FC guys just keep telling him 'Come on, boy, don't you want to go home?' So he finally gets there, and he touches the fence like 'What's the catch?' Like it was gonna be electric or something. But no, it�s OK. So he finally gets up his nerve and starts to climb, but he�s watching those FC guys every second. "So, you know, by now everybody around there is in on the act �watching and yelling one way or the other. Everybody crowding around to watch. "So they let him get halfway up there � and then this one guy just hauls off and nails him real good with his rifle butt right in the hand. He hit him hard enough so that the kid kind of smacked himself in the face with the back of his hand. It must have broke some of his fingers probably, and his nose. "So he hits the ground yelling and he's got blood on his face and everything. And I thought 'Well that's the end of that,' but damned if they don't keep right after the kid just like before. Like, you know, this time we really will let you go. "And damned �", he pauses for a slow breath, "damned if that stupid kid don't get right up and start toward that fence again, broken hand and all! And they're like, 'Damn, this boy really wants to go. Boy are you gonna climb that fence with one hand?' "And then one of them says, 'Well hell, if he can climb that fence with one hand then I guess he can walk home with one leg.' So the son of a bitch just pulls his sidearm and nails the kid in the knee." The trucker sits silent for long enough that some listeners shift uncomfortably, wondering if he has stopped. Yet it doesn't seem appropriate just now to drink, or even to light up a smoke. So they just wait. This isn't exactly the entertainment that they had bargained for. At last the man speaks again. "And I'll be goddamned," he waits to be sure that his voice is under control, "I will be goddamned if that dumb shit kid don't get up again! I mean � he couldn�t even figure out where the fucking fence was, you know?" "Then people really lost it. They start yelling. We're Americans you bastards! We're Americans! We thought � they can't be doing this shit to us. You know? They're Americans, too! I mean, how can we all be Americans on both sides of that damned fence?" Now the man does find his beer and drinks from it deeply. "So then," he continues, "these three humvees come up � they must've heard the shot fired � and a bunch of guys get out of them. And � there he is." "You know," the trucker frowns thoughtfully, "to save my life, I can't remember what he really looked like. I think he was pretty average size, height and everything. I mean, nothing you would notice twice on the street, you know? Except � I looked him right in the eyes. And I guess � you know, I guess if I forget everything else in my life, I never will forget that." "He wasn't mad or anything. You could see that as soon as they got out of the jeeps. I never did see him get mad at all. The guys at the fence were nervous, you know, but not too much. The other ones who came with him just fanned out a little and like, stood around. So he just walks over to these FC guys like you would go to ask �what time it was or something. "So he gets to them and he says 'I didn't ask for torture.' And then he just puts his hand out, and the guy hands over his sidearm nice and relaxed, you know? I mean they were so easy about it I figured this is a regular thing with them. Like, if you do something wrong you lose your weapon, right? "And the whole time, the kid they messed up is just standing there on his good leg, like whimpering. And then Walker � he lifts the piece � and puts a round right through the kid's head. Just like you'd point your finger at somebody. Boom. I'll be damned if it wasn't right between the kid's eyes. "And then � you know, he never missed a beat. He just turns to the guy that he took the gun off of and does him the same way, and his two buddies next to him. Boom, boom, boom. Just like turnin' off the damn lights. "That damn sure shut everybody up. I never saw anything like that. I mean, when the FC guys were having their fun, you know, they were just being bastards. But when he did them all like that � I don't know. I felt like � you know, like he was something �" The trucker looks at the table in front of him for a few moments, then back up at his audience. "I don't know. But he wasn't no man. I know that sure as I know anything. He wasn�t no man." "So � then one of our guys starts yelling that he�s a traitor. Everybody knew his face, you know. He was all over the TV before things started. So pretty soon everybody's yelling again, 'They're gonna hang you, you damned traitor.' And going on like that. "And, he just looks at us for a while, like from a distance you know? And that's when I saw him. He looked straight at me. And � I swear to God. He had the bluest eyes. "I swear to God, it was like you could see the sky through that man's eyes." The old trucker stops then, swallows the last of his beer, and pauses to light a cigarette. He looks around at his audience, judging them. Deciding what to say, and what to hold back. "So then,� he continues, �he just sort of waves his hand towards us, like he�s telling his guys 'Cut this grass here.' And they open up. Then I knew why they kept us in those stupid cyclone fences," he laughs, and blows smoke into the air. "They�re shit for fences, but you sure can shoot through them." "They just hosed us down, I guess they did fifty or sixty guys right there. Never touched me, though. Not a scratch. It was the weirdest damned thing. "And then pretty soon they were doing everybody all over the camp. People were trying to �" he shakes his head with an expression of mild disgust. "You know, get under the bodies or whatever. Or charge the fence. After a while the FC guys had to come inside the fence and they started doing sweeps, making sure nobody on the ground was playing dead. "If the Seventh hadn't've nuked Montreal and then come across the river � shit. They would've done all of us. There wasn't any way to get out of there." "But you know," he takes a last drag on his cigarette, "Walker got away just fine. I think he knew exactly what was coming before it ever happened. That's why he didn't send in a thousand troops and do us all in five minutes. He knew what was coming, and he was already getting everything out of there that he could move in time. He always knew what was coming. That's why they could never stop him." He smiles at his fellow drivers in the room, and, looking at him, they understand something for the first time. Many of them have seen this man, on and off, for years. He has driven on the same roads, sometimes slept under the same roof and drunk the same beer as they have. In all that time they�ve just seen him as a loner � a guy you might almost expect to see talking to himself, like bums in cities before the Wars. And in all this time, they've kind of half believed that he acted this way because he was simple, or worse. Shellshocked, or whatever. Now they understand differently. If he didn't bother speaking to them before, it was only because he knew that they could never understand what he had seen, where he had been, and what he had felt. "You heard all this bullshit in the news," he smiles at them, "but you don't know." he shakes his head. "You don't know." Still smiling, the trucker reaches for his smokes and retreats again into his own thoughts The Flying Dutchman Jack has always liked to watch people. Even as a child on his Uncle's farm in Wisconsin, years before the First War, he would beg to go along on trips to town just so he could see all the people going about their business. Every face tells a story: often of the fears and strains of that person's life, sometimes of their joys or amusements. And once in a great while, if you�re impeccably observant and real damn lucky you might just catch a glimpse of one face that somehow speaks of a more mysterious side of experience � of a kind of life that others, passing by on the street, going obliviously about the business of their daily lives, might never imagine. But it's been a long time since he was a boy on a farm. Jack takes a sip of his warm beer, and sets the heavy mug back on the table. There's almost no place left now, he reflects, where he can indulge his old hobby. And certainly no place better than the dining room of the Wolverine Truck Stop and Motor Lodge. That's why he has found himself more and more over the last few years juggling his runs so that he can get here as often as possible. That, and possibly other reasons. Maybe there aren't as many customers here as there ought to be, but there's still plenty to see. One big table with close to a dozen men sitting around it is pretty entertaining � they all seem to be interested in nothing but topping each other's tall tales while shouting derision at each outrageous story in its turn. Then there are the various loners, and even the occasional family man sitting down with his wife and treating her to a night out that's more rare than the finest dining was once upon a time � before the Wars. That's what his people-watching is really all about now. That's pretty much what everything is all about, now. What's on everybody's mind, in every waking moment, however deeply buried it might be, and however desperately they might try to conceal it behind their drinking, their laughter, whatever. Everybody's really asking "Why are we still here?" "Why did we live when so many died?" and "How can we keep going?" He smiles. In Madison when he was a boy, people were asking that last question then too. Back then what they meant by it was "How are we going to pay the mortgage with milk prices so darned low ?" But now it means, "How are we going to eat for another month?" and, for more than one of the truckers in this very room, it has occasionally meant: "How am I going to get across the next thirty miles alive?" It�s actually easier when the question is about immediate survival. But now, relaxing in a safe place, they all have to deal with that more troubling form of the question: the one that concerns the simple fact of their continued existence.
Copyright © 1999 Michael Goulish |