Hide And Seek

There was no sun streaming through the window, and the cold that accompanied the overcast skies made itself evident on the tip of Claire’s nose. She exhaled in exasperation; this apartment is gonna kill me one of these days, she thought. She could smell the eggs that Eric was cooking and smiled to herself. Eric was unlike any that she had been with in the past. He was always doing things for her and never needed a thank you. Estimating that Eric was already working on his second cup of coffee, she chose to wake herself up by throwing the covers to end of the bed. The cold rushed over her body in an instant, and she shivered in chill. A meow told her that she had thrown Max under the covers with her wakeup call, and he crawled out and shook his head rapidly, giving Claire the best look of cat annoyance possible.

“Good morning, Maxy! How is my baby cat today?” she said in what Eric referred to as her “kitty voice”. She stretched her arms over her head with a yawn and put her feet in her slippers. Heavy legs made the walk to the closet a bit of a trudge, but slipping on her robe brought another smile to her face. Claire tried to pay no heed to the flower of dried blood on the robe’s breast, she wanted no part in the feelings she had yesterday. With unfortunate realization, though, she couldn’t tell if the aroma of burning wood from outside came from fireplaces or arson.

“Good morning, my love!” Eric boomed, making his way down the hallway. As he appeared in the doorway, Claire’s giggled at the sight of the cup of hot tea in his hands.

“Hey, baby!”

He quickly set down the teacup and came to her, encircling her in his warm embrace. Eric kissed her neck and buried his nose there right after. There was no place she felt safer than in his arms, and she held him to calm her nerves, thoughts of yesterday flooding her mind and tripping off her anxiety.

“You smell so good… I’m glad you’re here with me today.” Claire nuzzled in closer to Eric’s shoulder.

As a devil in response, the sound of sirens and revved engines sped past their apartment. She was jolted further by the concussion of a far away blast. A single tear fell down her cheek, and her voice became timid.

“Why is this happening, Eric?”

He pulled her away gently, his big, blue eyes had taken on a seriousness she had never seen before. “People are crazy, Claire. They’re easily corrupted and quickly give away their sanity to satisfy their inner demons. We’ve seen this coming, and I hate that it’s here.”

He kissed her head gently and escorted her to the kitchen where her breakfast awaited. She looked at him…

Eric was a big guy, well-proportioned, with an eight o’clock shadow for a beard. No hair stood on head, but it helped to alleviate the size of his rather generous nose. There was a deep intelligence in his face, and Claire was always in awe of Eric’s quick wits and ability to see his surroundings. There was also a hidden and dangerous strength beneath his bed clothes, and she felt sorry for anybody that wound up on the receiving end of his anger. But, when it came to her, he was as tender and gentle as a puppy.

The tea was blissfully hot in her mouth, and the egg white sandwich he had cooked up for her made her belly rumble loudly. Claire watched as Eric left the room, his footfalls clearly telling her that he was headed to the upstairs bedroom. It was only a few moments and she heard him come back down, the sound of a rifle being cocked made her heart skip a beat.

“Babe is that necessary?” the fear palpable in her voice.

“That explosion couldn’t have been more than a few miles away. That means Hereford. Whoever is responsible is closing in.” Eric’s words and timbre were matter-of-fact. She knew not interrupt his thoughts when he spoke this way. He was planning something.

He grabbed the laptop and rapidly opened Google Maps, grabbing his coffee as he studied the screen. Claire ate slowly, her hunger hanging on by a thread with the realization of what was happening outside. The sound of a streaming radio station blaring from the laptop made her jump. She could tell immediately that it was KYW, the newsradio station. As they both listened, Claire’s hunger completely vanished. There were verified militias heading south from Altoona to Bethlehem. The governor had called for mobilization of the National Guard, but there were mass defections, and Willow Grove Naval Air Station was no longer under federal control. All was becoming a surrealistic nightmare.

“Eric, we can’t stay here…”

* * *

John Friedman was the quintessential redneck. He never looked clean, even when he was. Being well-spoken was not his strong suit, point of fact, it was barely a weak suit. he felt important because of the forty hours of blue collar wok that he did every week, and that was his excuse for his requirement to spend the weekends drunk and lazy. The last few years he, too, had been drawn into the political unrest, and he favored heavily the conservative ideology. John cheered “their president” from a few years ago; it was the embracing of the American narcissism and anger that led many millions of them to rise up against the government. John had never participated in any of the riots and uprisings over the last two years, but it wasn’t for lack of wanting. The rebellions were never close enough, and traveling was nigh impossible on the combined income of John and his wife.

Now, though, shit was getting real. And John decided it was time to join the fray. His wife, Becky, was having none of it. She, too, melded well with the redneck label, loyal to a fault, but don’t try to boss her around. Her and John often screamed at each other over meaningless things, John driven by alcohol, Becky driven by indignation. But they never separated, for that’s simply how things were. Their two children, step-siblings, were so used to it that an argument was just another part of living in the crowded, but spacious, apartment above Alan Cross’s Karate. The current conversation, though, was one that they were both interested in.

“Don’t go doin’ anything stupid, John! You should be at work, you know we need the money!”

“Get off my back, Beck… there are things more important happenin’ now. I’m not gonna have you stand in my way!” John’s plump cheeks were at odds with the command and control he was trying to flaunt over his wife. And though his voice was fairly deep, there certainly was no tenor to it.

Her eyes wide through her red-rimmed glasses, Becky slammed her hand down on the table and let out bellowing “Hah!” A challenging smile spread across her face, “you think you’re some sort of freedom fighter now?! You’d probably piss your pants as soon as fire your rifle at another person.”

“Why are you being like this? Think of what things could be like when we win!”

“‘We’? What do you mean ‘we’? I gotta stay here and take care of the kids. What gives you the right to just take off? What happens when they kill you?!” The mix of indignation and sadness only angered John, and he stromed past her on the way to the bedroom.

“John, get back here! We’re not done with this yet!”

He returned to the living room with a huff, “we’re done talking about this, Beck. I’m doing this, and you can’t stop me! You won’t stop me…”

Setting one rifle against the wall, John bent and picked up the overstuffed backpack. Becky bounded over to him and grabbed the other rifle’s barrel just above the trigger. She was short and stocky, but she did have some strength to her, and her current mood only added to it through the adrenaline.

“You are not leaving us, John Friedman! You have a duty-”

The hand that was holding the top of the barrel struck out quickly and caught Becky on the jaw, the shock sending her glasses to the opposite end of the living room. The stunned expression of hurt and hatred spurned him to pull his arm back for another blow.

“I have a duty to my country and my brothers, bitch! You stay here and take care of them, I’ll return after we’ve taken the town.”

She released the rifle to him and made her way slowly to where her glasses had landed, cradling her jaw. The tears rolled down her cheeks.

“I’m doin’ this for you, honey. For all of us…”, the sideways glance to his injured wife meant to invoke fear. All it did was piss her off more.

“If you come back here, it better be in a body bag,” the venom in Becky’s words was more of a threat than he had ever received. He doubted her sincerity in the statement and offered a muted grin.

John lifted the other rifle and made his way to the stairs, and as he descended the pain in his crotch from his incident the day before only inflamed his anger. Revenge time…

* * *

“They’re forming a line across the state,” Eric ran his finger across the laptop’s screen. “These guys have been gathering for months, and planning. They’ve obviously had some professional help, too. Babe, come look at this.”

“No… I can’t. It’s just too much.” Claire’s anxiety was through the roof, her heart palpitations were worse than they’d ever been, and she was now thinking of their families. She picked up Max and held him close. “Just tell me what we’re gonna do, Eric. I’m scared.”

“There’s no easy way out of this. They’re too close for us to run, and if we do run, then we’ll just be running towards their future targets anyway. And we have our families to think about.”

He lifted his face from the screen, a look of worry furrowing his brow. But Claire needed him to be strong. What little strength she had remaining was waning quickly as the news continued to flood into the radio station.

“My sister should be safe, assuming the militias haven’t gotten to them yet. Your parents, your brother, your sister, they’re all to the north, too. Whatever we have coming to us is something they’ve already faced. Have you heard anything from them yet?”

“No…” The lump grew instantly in her throat. How could this be happening?!

“Uhhh…” and she heard Eric’s voice begin to waver, as well. “All we can do is hope for the best, honey.” He let out long breathless sigh.

“And what are we supposed to do, Eric?!” the angst and anguish clear in her plea.

“We have to ride it out. Our best course of action is to take off north after the militias roll through. They’re goal, I believe, is to surround the cities, to try and corral the blues into the urban centers. Those will be the most dangerous places. We need to be far behind their lines so we can hide among them. It’s the only way.”

Claire’s eyes grew to large saucers and her expression turned irritated. “That’s it! Just hide among them?! What kind of a plan is that?! You can’t be one of them, babe! You’ll stand out like a sore thumb!”

His pause was plainly intentional, and his slow grin forced Claire’s expression from irritation to anger. “Honey, you hate people. Now, we have a reason to avoid them all.”

Eric stood and walked to her across the kitchen. He hugged her tight and rested his chin on the top of her head. Trying not to feel lost, Eric focused his mind on their escape route. Quakertown was the best direction to go, as they’d be able to stay south of the oncoming militia until they’d be in ground open enough to thread their lines. They had to go first to Claire’s parents and sister, and he expected a week’s travel to make to his own sister’s place. Too many would run towards the metro areas and the coast, which is exactly what the rebels wanted. Until those metro areas were fortified, those running to them would be slaughtered.

A low rumble of thunder welcomed the rain, and it was a welcome distraction for Claire. The nausea in her belly couldn’t be overlooked, unfortunately, and as the sound of the rain on the roof became a constant white noise, she let go of Eric and headed for the bathroom.

Claire’s nausea wasn’t urgent, but she knew that weeping would only add to Eric’s burden, and so she left him to try and figure herself out. Of all of the things she’d been through in her life, this was the worst. Why the hell was this happening?! It was a question she asked herself constantly in this fucked up world. For weeks this has been escalating, but they had hoped it would all just fizzle. It had fizzled before when the lunatic conspiracy theorists failed in their attempt to “change the nation”. This was different, though. Now, these people were truly pissed off, and Claire wasn’t sure if they even knew why. She stepped up into the bathroom and stumbled, that electric sensation pulsing up her spine.

As she fell to her knees, she cursed, “Damn it!” And she looked back to that same spot. The air seemed to shimmer, but she couldn’t be sure if it was real or not. Eric appeared out of nowhere.

“Babe, are you alright?”

* * *

John looked around quickly, making sure nobody was following him. The latest message from the major said the rebels were in Hereford, and police dispatch made it clear that the blue had stayed to the main road. So, John had chosen to take Kutztown Road down to Hereford, but his truck was squealing, and the heavy rain made it slow going. He cursed into the storm… he cursed about his wife… he cursed about the pain still infecting his balls. He just cursed, and the rage inside him wanted to kill. He reached for the whiskey bottle stored beneath the Carhart coat he never wore and pulled long and hard. The burn in his throat energized him and grunted loud and long at the storm outside the truck.

Though the ride was only ten minutes long, by the time John arrived at the intersection with Route 100, the liquid courage was pleasantly bound to the smoldering rage. The rifles pointed at him by the rebels guarding the road didn’t even faze him. One approached the front of the truck, a slovenly and fat man with a ratty beard and oil-stained ball cap; the other was young and strapping, with a bulletproof vest covering his torso and a cowboy hat covering his head. The man kept his rifle trained on John as he lowered the window.

“Identify yourself!”

“Relax, kid. I’m here to see Major Buxton.”

“You Friedman? The inside man?”

“I am…” and John presented the soldier with the hand signal, middle and ring ring fingers curled back to the ground-facing palm, the other two fingers and the thumb pointed toward the man.

“Let’im through Bert,” he said with a wave of his hand. “You know how to get to the church, right? That’s where the Major is.”

As Bert stepped out of the way, John gave the boy a nod as he rolled up his window. He smiled as he made the two-mile drive to the church. The alcohol and rage induced fire inside of him burned bright as he realized that he was finally among his people. For forty-six years he had always been one of the outcasts. Friendships meant very little to him, and he cheered at the misfortune of others. Here, with these people, he could be the creator of that misfortune, and those that wronged him in the past were about due for their comeuppance. Another long pull on the whiskey bottle and he had arrived.

He parked his truck in the lot of the grand, red brick church. John grabbed his rifle from the passenger seat and stepped into the pouring rain. Making his way to the door of the church, another man had called out to him and tossed him a kevlar vest of his own. Raising the rifle above his head in thanks, the man that tossed him the vest let out an “oorah!” John responded in kind and barreled through the door feeling badass. Trouble, meet John…

Picking out the major was effortless, for he stood tall and imposing in his Marine battle fatigues. He truly was a major, not militia-made. Seeing him, John’s fire cooled a bit, for he himself was not as imposing, and it’s hard to feel like a badass when a real badass was before you. But he steeled his nerves and put himself at attention before the major.

“John Friedman reporting, sir,” his voice wavering.

“Friedman? Excellent. I hereby field promote you to corporal,” his gruff voice proof of his prior experience in battle. He put his hand out to be shaken, “Major Tom Buxton, Marine Corps and commanding officer of the Pennsylvania 14th, the Fleetwood Firehawks.”

“A pleasure, sir!” A childhood giddiness overcame him. He had spent a good portion of his life giving lip service to show his “respect” for the military, but GI Joe was always at the forefront of his mind. Until now, of course, and the idea of a brotherhood, especially one bent on death and destruction, was intoxicating.

Major Buxton turned and yelled across the room, “First Sergeant, recon has arrived! Hop to it!”

“Sir!” came the voice from the far side of the room. Another figure came bounding towards John, and it made him feel, again, less than stellar physically. The sergeant wore an American flag shirt beneath his kevlar vest, and a black skull cap topped a face of high cheek bones, thick jowls, and piercing blue eyes. There was wicked intelligence behind those eyes.

Major Buxton motioned towards John, “Corporal Friedman, borough recon. Take him to the maps and plan the assault. Borough buildings are the goal, not pillaging and killing. We’re not pirates. Corporal, this is First Sergeant Kevin Jones. Tell him everything he needs to know.”

“Yes, sir.”

For the next couple of hours, John and Kevin pored over the map, laying out the progress of the assault. They marked the location of the borough buildings, where law enforcement would have the best defensive positions, and where the civilians would put up any resistance. When mapping out the latter, John was eager and adamant to point out that significant resistant would be found at 4th and Main in East Greenville. As Kevin acknowledged him and flagged the area, the smile returned to John’s face. Revenge…

* * *

The pounding rain had not let up at all, and Eric and Claire cuddled on the couch. The apartment felt raw despite the heat being on full blast. she lifted her head from his shoulder and looked to the end of the couch at the rifle and pistol, locked and loaded. The spot at the doorway to the bathroom never left Claire’s thoughts, and she could feel a constant vibration within her that seemed to pulse. Claire knew it was related to that spot, but the reality of it eluded her.

Then she heard the gunshots. They were here. Eric, quickly and gently, rose from the couch and grabbed the guns, handing the pistol to Claire. She stood and approached the window that looked down on the square at 4th and Main. It was still empty, the traffic lights flashing. She had hoped that there not many people left in town, but that was yet another thing she didn’t know.

She stared down at the square, eyes darting from one corner to the next and the next as she tried to calm her mind. Through the waterfall of rain drops, her gaze stopped at the light pole at the farthest corner of the square. Was there somebody standing there with a fedora and trenchcoat? A blink of her eyes and it was gone. Claire played it off at a trick of her eyes, but that same feeling invaded her as when she looked at the doorway to the bathroom. Something wasn’t right…

“Babe,” and she turned to see the look of tender concern on Eric’s face. “You need to get away from the window.”

She walked slowly towards him, watching has his expression changed right before he shut off the living room light. That expression scared her, for she had never seen that look of enraged resolve. The gunshots drew ever closer, and over the deluge, Claire thought she could hear voices shouting.

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