Sherwood Nation (45 page)

“I guess.”

“This one would really like to be with you. I’m not sure the other one can.”

“How do I work out which one I’m with?”

“I don’t know,” Renee said.

With her toes she grabbed the cuffs of Zach’s pajama pants and pulled, lowering them a few inches.

“Will you come back with us?”

“I have a patient here.”

She lowered the pants another notch. “Maybe we could take him with us.”

“He has a leg wound.”

“Are you talking sexy to me?”

”He’s from Oklahoma, his great grandparents lived through the dust bowl. Static electricity was so intense that nobody shook hands or touched. It could knock you flat.”

“You
are
talking sexy.”

Early the next morning Martin donned Celestina’s dead husband’s clothes. They were tight on him and fashioned after a different era bu
t a suit and hat and a rolling suitcase allowed a sort of disguise. He set off into the streets to find water carriers to rob. He felt driven to provide, by some deeply buried instinct to protect those in your tribe.

It was odd, he thought, watching a woman sleeping like that. Unsure where her unconscious meandered, toward death or away, while you stood next to her bed. Her lack of participation in the relationship so far had allowed him a level of intimacy that would not have been possible otherwise. He had touched her skin and studied her face. And he enjoyed caring for her with Celestina too. She could be his daughter, if he’d had one, and Celestina his mother, and the trio of generations he found comforting. His eye-hole ached severely, and he jammed the palm of his hand hard over his patch. He hadn’t figured any of it out yet.

He found a couple of water carriers to follow. Each served a side of the street, and they fell into a synchronous pattern now, meeting at the cart for water, and then knocking at houses on opposite sides, occasionally taking the time to jot down a note at their front doors. They were quick, fleet of foot, and he was a middle-aged, one-eyed hobbling bull in an overly tight suit from the 1950s, the pant legs of which exposed his ankles.

When they were both at houses, he barreled forward to their cart, grabbed two unit gallons, struggled with the suitcase, got the bottles in and hobbled on.

“Hey, man.” A water carrier had his hand on his shoulder. “Come on, now. Wait your turn. Where do you live?”

Martin turned and mimed remorse and the boy smiled.

“You don’t want to be caught doing that. Give ’em back now.”

Martin saw the other carrier approaching now too. Martin leaned down to open the suitcase and then rose hard with his fist, catching the pup in the throat. The water carrier fell and writhed on the ground, making choking sounds while the other erupted in a heap of cussing.

“You tell her the cyclops is here. The cyclops is hunting her,” Martin growled. “That he’s back from the grave she dug for him. You got that? You tell her that.”

Martin turned and walked away. He counted his steps. At one hundred he turned to look back. He was not being followed. All for
two fucking gallons
of water, he thought.

Back home he rifled around in the old woman’s garage until he found some sturdy twine.
Cyclops.
That had come out of him by surprise, issued from some Greek myth. He touched his eye patch to make sure it was in place, a habit he’d picked up. Inside, he set the newly won gallons on the dresser in the Ranger’s room like a trophy. Celestina hovered in the doorway, watching him.

“Hello?” the woman said. Her voice was weak.

“You’re awake.” He smiled at her.

“Where am I?”

“I found you on the street last night with your head open.”

“Oh,” she said meekly. “Is this a clinic?”

Martin took the twine and cut off four long lengths. “In a manner of speaking,” he said. He took two of the lengths, positioned himself at the end of the bed and proceeded to tie her ankles to the bed posts.

“No,” she said with alarm. She looked at Celestina in panic. “Please, god, no.” She tried to struggle weakly but he was fast and no stranger to rope.

“Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you, Ranger.” He patted her legs after he’d finished.

Celestina had her hand on his arm.

“No te preocupas, Celestina. It’s temporary, for a little protection, so this one doesn’t go getting us in trouble.”

He tied her wrists as she fought him. When he was finished, the Ranger turned her head toward the wall and wept.

“Está OK?” he asked Celestina and she nodded. “Vamos a cuidar. Somos medicos! Agua.” He pointed. “Mas agua por mi doctor.” He patted her on the shoulder. “Doctor Celestina!” They were in this together. He cursed himself for not relieving the carriers of some food rations too. He would do that tomorrow. He had to make a plan.

He sat down on the side of the bed and dug his fingernails into his leg. The fuck was wrong with him. Revenge was not meted out by an oaf with a baseball bat in a street, two gallons at a pop. None of this was fucking planned, he thought. This Ranger was not a substitute for the other. He resolved to get together with a pencil and paper as soon as possible. He was bigger, smarter and luckier than the average bear. It had taken him this far, which, in the end, was pretty much nowhere.

“Your Maid Marian did this to me.” He pointed to his eye patch.

The woman studied him sullenly.

“Listen, hey, I’m not going to hurt you. We saved you, right? But look—she sent her fuckwads for me.” He lifted his eyepatch and showed her, and when she recoiled, he wished he hadn’t. It made him feel sorry for himself all over again. “They shot me in the face and tried to bury me. I was still alive! But I got away!” he said. He put his hands up in the air. “Ta-da!”

“What did you do?” the Ranger said.

“Nothing. She didn’t like my business. I’m just saying, she’s no saint. She’s going to bleed your little country dry. Evil queen bee. What’s your name?”

“Rachel.”

He patted her leg again. Maybe she’d come in handy somehow.

Rachel turned her face away from him and stared at the wall. “This place would be hell if it weren’t for Maid Marian. She’s saving us.”

His temper took control of him for a moment and he crossed the room and brought his fist down on the dresser.

Celestina jumped and fled the room.

“Sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g!” he sung, briefly overwhelmed with hatred, and then he slammed the door behind him.

Celestina kept a pile of scratch paper on the counter and he grabbed half a dozen sheets and a pencil and sat with his head in his hands. In his gut boiled the same shameful feeling he’d felt as a nine-year-old playground bully. He was going to make a plan. He was going to be a hero, for once.

With a limped gait Jamal paced back and forth in the dining room, striding alongside the body of Rick, who had not made a sound for some hours. The wound in his calf was keeping him awake with its dull ache.

He didn’t have it in him to check
Rick for a pulse and didn’t care whether they spotted him from across the street, through the ragged holes in the curtains, pacing back and forth like some wooden doll in a shooting game at the carnival.

He was sick of waiting. Carl remained where he was, as if made of stone, a gargoyle watchman looking out into the darkness, mumbling his demon curses.

If Rick was dead, they could run and for this reason Jamal couldn’t help but hope a little that the man had passed into the aether. Through the night they’d talked on and off in quiet tones, about the war and the drug wars. Rick had been cogent about half the time.

“Carl!” he hollered. Eighteen hours in this tomb and he could feel madness at the periphery, an option that he could take if he were the sort of man that had the inclination. His adrenal glands were spent, he was sure, and the fear nagged on him like some old, foul sweater, an itch and a weight around his neck. Thirst and hunger and the dead, trapped with a gargoyle. Certainly there were those who, faced with the choices of death or an indeterminate stay, might eventually choose the easy detour of insanity. Who might burst from the light bonds of reason and lash out into unknown territory of the psyche. “Carl!”

“What.”

“Let’s shoot at them.”

He couldn’t for the life of him figure out what their assailants were waiting for, other than the inevitable passing of their opponents into madness, or passing from thirst. Jamal’s mouth tasted like he’d chewed and swallowed a medium-sized doormat. The physical craving of water dominated his thoughts.

Jamal repositioned himself at his window, which showed signs of eighteen hours of anxious living. Scraps of paper were spread around and neglected. Wrappers from the rest of his meager supply of food and all of his possessions formed a sort of nest.

He looked out the window again and saw the first traces of dawn coming and that cheered him, for he knew whatever was going to happen was destined to happen now during daylight. The house across from them was quiet and still.

“Ready when you are. I’ll take the first floor and you take the second.” Jamal had appropriated Rick’s gun for Carl and between the three guns they had seventy bullets. They agreed to shoot two bullets each.

Jamal fired one in each window on the first floor, on either side of the door. There was no glass and so he couldn’t honestly be sure if he’d hit his mark. His ears rang from the pistol shots and he looked up and down the street for any sign of activity, trying to keep out of view as much as possible. There was no response and so they set to waiting again.

An hour later Jamal saw what they’d been waiting for. An armored SUV with four police pulled in at the end of the block, around the corner from the micro junkyard. They ducked low as they exited the vehicle, their rifles in hand, dressed in helmets and full gear.

He watched the police advance on their house and felt hope leave him. They were not there to apprehend the occupants, not in Sherwood. “You watching?” he said, but there was no answer from Carl. Woodlawn was under city control, he was sure now. These were captured lands. He was over the border in enemy territory. The city was going to take him hostage.

The police took positions. They had scopes on their rifles. One drew near, taking cover behind a burnt-out car. He sighted through his scope and then moved forward. Jamal heard a double-blast from Carl’s room and saw the advancing Guardsmen’s shoulder jerk and then he fell to the ground. A few seconds later he heard a barrage of bullets rip through Carl’s room.

He yelled for Carl but there was no answer.

Jamal leaned back from the window and used the reflection on the blade of his knife to try to see where they were, but the blurry distortion seemed what horror movies were made of.

“Where’s my gun, blood brother?” Rick whispered.

“Rick—oh god,” Jamal said, surprised the man was alive and grateful not to be alone, even if it was his last minute. “We’re really fried here,” he whispered.

“Where’s my gun?”

Jamal quickly crawled to Carl’s room and avoided looking at the man’s body, which had fallen much farther from the window than he’d imagined possible. The wall around the window was riddled with holes. He gathered both guns and scrambled back to the dining room.

“It’s the like SWAT or something,” Jamal said. “They have scopes. They’ll have to come up on the front porch to get a shot.”

“Drag me into position,” Rick said.

Jamal dragged Rick through his own blood to the small section of wall that jutted out between the dining room and the living room, in view of the window and the door, and he took up position on the opposite side, and they waited.

Jamal tried his best not to shake as they waited for the first trooper to mount the stairs and come into view. Even then, Rick and he would only get off a shot or two. The soldiers may just wing in tear gas or burn the place down.

Across from him Rick looked horrid. Blood had managed to spread to just about everything—his face, the gun, and the great swath of it that trailed from the big stain in the middle of the floor.

“I thought you were dead,” Jamal said. He faced toward the window with his gun aimed but needed to talk to calm himself. He could sense them out there, creeping nearer like swamp alligators.

“Takes a lot to kill old man Ricky,” Rick whispered, “Won’t be long now.” And Jamal wasn’t sure he preferred this new cogency. He could have appreciated some optimistic delirium.

The first helmet bobbed into view. Just above the window sill they could see it. They trained their guns on it, Jamal mouthing wait, wait, wait, wait, to himself to keep from squeezing the trigger.

He watched the helmet bob there for a moment, its cargo indecisive, and then turn around and descend from view. “Fuck,” he whispered, “did he see us?” His body was overtaken with fear and he placed his hands on his knees to keep them from shaking. He waited a split second more for some projectile to fly through the window. Then he eased forward, walking in a squat. The helmet was retreating down the steps. He heard shouting now.

As the street came into view he stood in disbelief—there was a sea of Green Rangers. Green Rangers were running into the yellow house; others stripped the National Guard of their weapons. “The rangers are here!” Jamal opened the front door and saw his father standing behind the four troopers who were on their knees. Rangers were pulling men from the yellow house and lining them up. There were Rangers retrieving weapons and confiscating the SUV. He called out as his father fired the first shot, shooting one of the troopers in the back of the head, execution style. Jamal jumped, sickened by the raw violence of it, by the way the man jerked and slumped forward. Immediately two of the men in line on their knees came to their feet and ran and Gregor shot them down in mid-stride with blazing precision. A silence emanated out from the act and the world slowed down to a snail’s pace as he watched his father raise his gun to the last trooper.

He yelled
no
but it was absorbed in another gunshot. Jamal saw how the Rangers fanned wider with each shot. One bent over and threw up into the street; others stood grim where they were.

Jamal sprinted down the stairs and ran into the street and chaos. His father shot another and the men farther down the line were wailing and begging. He put his hand on his father’s shoulder and spun him around. Gregor turned with his gun, an animal violence in his eyes, a blood lust, and for a moment Jamal thought his father might shoot him too. There was no recognition there.

“Dad,” Jamal said, and he watched his father’s face come back to itself from a great distance.

One of the men in the execution line fainted and keeled over.

“I thought you were dead,” Gregor said, his voice a flatline. “We’ve been finding bodies.”

Jamal pointed back up to the house and then couldn’t find any more words to say. He was acutely conscious of interfering with his commanding officer in front of others. He wanted to embrace the old man, a boxer’s hug, and the rest of him wanted to run from this horror. “Do not do this. Please, Dad. Bind them and take them back,” Jamal whispered. “We’ll figure it out from there.”

Gregor shook his head no. He turned and held his gun to the head of a young man who wept openly. There were five men left on their knees and four dead on the ground. Gregor held the gun there and Jamal whispered please and held his breath, forcing himself to keep his eyes open. Finally Gregor pulled his gun up and holstered it.