The Last of the Freemen
Read The Last of the Freemen Online
Authors: Carl Trotz
The Last of the Freemen
By Carl Trotz
Copyright ©2016 Carl Trotz
A path. There must be a path.
It seemed almost easier to give up. Ten days short of her thirtieth birthday, Erin Gordon felt broken by life; widowed, abandoned by family and friends, and nearly destitute, she sat exhausted behind the wheel of her car with her crying, seven-month-old son in the back. Her eyes burned with fatigue, as the night had again been haunted by the machete-wielding men who murdered her husband. No food had passed her lips in two days. But none of that mattered now, because with only a few hours to collect her weekly ration of baby formula, she had a car that wouldn’t start.
Wiping tears from brown eyes that were framed by dark circles and gently curved eyebrows, she climbed out of the driver's seat, zipped the oversized green windbreaker closed over her white blouse and blue jeans, and retrieved Hughie, who still wore the yellow, one-piece pajama in which he’d slept - a near match to his wisp of blond hair. She wrapped him in a blue baby blanket for warmth; then, tossing her straight auburn tresses back over her shoulder, and wiping across her high cheekbones to remove any trace of her lapse in resolve, hurried off.
The neighbors were something of a mystery; their house could not be seen from the road, or from her home, and though her husband had spoken a few times to the elderly man who lived there, he’d also talked of a furtive giant who unnerved him one day at the property line. She had never met either one until the week after her husband's murder, when Bern Ditmarsch - tall, but no giant - suddenly appeared on foot, bearing gifts of honey, apples, and potatoes. She had watched the old man depart eastward, into the woods, and could only guess that he lived a reasonably short distance away. In the months since her husband's murder the unpredictable visits had continued roughly every two weeks; she’d never gone hungry until now, three weeks since his last appearance.
It was a bright, cool morning in early May that would have seemed beautiful once; the dewy grass caught the sunshine and the smell of spring was in the air. The moist gravel of the driveway crunched under the footfall of her small, nimble physique as she hastened past the farmhouse – timber-framed and painted white, a house that was unchanged for over a hundred years, apart from a new, gray, metal panel roof. A song sparrow perched on the utility line above and whistled as if the world weren't falling apart.
Crossing the yard she passed the empty chicken coop that was one of her husband’s many projects; he had anticipated the coming of hard times and wanted them to be able to feed themselves as much as possible. With great enthusiasm he’d bought a dozen Guinea Fowl – which had simply wandered off one day, never to return – and as many chickens; they provided eggs for a time, until she forgot to close the coop door one evening, and they fell prey to marauding coyotes. The coop now stood, like the unused garden beds, as a reminder of futility; the sight of which made her wish, once again, that she hadn’t agreed to move out here - to the middle of nowhere - in the first place.
Spotting the path more easily than she had feared, she took a deep breath and went closer to look; it was slightly overgrown but unmistakable by the flagstones that were fitted together seamlessly, except where encroaching tree roots had heaved them upwards. She glanced ahead and saw only forest, glowing in the pale green of newly emerging leaves, but kept her gaze to the ground as she went along so as not to lose her footing on the damp stones.
She hadn’t gone far when taken aback by a large dog - it looked like a cross between a Rottweiler and a German shepherd - that stood in her way. It neither growled nor wagged its tail, but stared at her in menacing silence. With a gasp she froze and clutched Hughie tighter.
“Mangler!” called a rough, deep voice from somewhere unseen, and the dog ran off into the woods; taking that as a cue to continue, she raced over the path faster than before.
At last she came to a clearing filled with neat garden beds and vine trellises; in the center stood a small, timber-framed house nearly identical to her own, except that the roof was of worn wooden shingles. Already standing at the threshold was the old man she knew; he was tall and thin, with a sharp nose and a ruddy complexion that stood out above his scruffy white beard.
“Mrs. Gordon, what's wrong?” he called out in his hoarse but animated voice, tucking a pistol inside his woodland camouflage jacket and hurrying to meet her.
“Please,” she asked, panic briefly overtaking her normally calm, self-assured manner, “can you help me start my car?” She paused to catch her breath. “I’m really sorry to bother you. But I don’t have any baby formula, and this is my pick-up day. I have to get to the redemption center.”
He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
“I'm sure we can sort this out,” he said, and led her across the yard, leaning in close to Hughie – who still cried unrelentingly - as they walked. “You’ll be fine, little fella. Come in out of the chill, Mrs. Gordon. So it won't start? Any sound at all when you turn the key?”
“It doesn’t have a key,” she answered with her usual composure regained. “It’s one of those fobs, just a button. But nothing happens when I push it. Nothing at all.”
He opened the door and they entered a small sitting room. A bench and some rustic wooden chairs lined the walls, where faded, stenciled images of leaves and flowers adorned the yellowed plaster. Crates and boxes cluttered the floor and were piled high on some of the chairs. He gestured for her to sit down, but seeing her anxiousness, stroked his beard, turned, and called down the hallway.
“Harm!”
A towering man came into the room; he was in his late thirties, lean but broad-shouldered, and six-and-a-half feet tall - his head nearly grazed the low ceiling - with a strong jaw line that was unshaven for days, a prominent brow over a straight nose, and a tired, scowling face. His sable hair was just long enough to be disheveled, while his jeans and camel-colored work shirt were soiled from outdoor work. He seemed wincingly uncomfortable as he stood before them, wringing his massive hands and averting his gaze. When he briefly glanced her way she was struck by his fiercely searching gray eyes; for some reason she hadn’t expected a gleam of such intelligence from a man so large.
“Harm,” Bern continued, “Mrs. Gordon...”
“I heard.” His was the voice that had called the dog away.
“Can you fix her car?”
With a pained expression he looked at Erin. “You drive one of those government eco-cars, don’t you?”
“Yes, a Hiawatha.”
“They can be switched off remotely, you know,” he said more to Bern than to Erin. “At any rate, you need an access code to even get the hood open.”
“There must be a way to bypass it,” Bern said.
“There always is, but I don’t know it.”
“Otto! I’m sure he’d know.”
“He left three weeks ago.” Harm shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. “Maybe you could bring her over to the Fromm’s place for milk...”
“I need baby formula,” Erin interrupted, bouncing Hughie to comfort him. “The downtown redemption center is the only place where they have any baby formula left. All the other locations have run out. I have to go downtown.”
There was a strained pause; Bern rubbed the back of his neck while Harm sighed quietly, stared at the floor, and wrung his hands.
“I don’t know the downtown too well,” Bern finally said to Harm, “and with all the things that’ve been happening lately, all the violence, they'll be safer with you. I need to keep packing, anyway.”
Harm nodded in resignation. “Yeah, I suppose. Let’s go, then. The truck is out back here...”
“Hugh can’t go anywhere without his safety seat,” Erin said. “I can’t just hold him on my lap. I have to go back and get it. And does the truck have a back seat? Otherwise it's not safe.”
“Oh,” Harm said, grimacing. “Then we’ll take the car. I’ll meet you back at your house, and we’ll get your car seat.”
“Okay. Thank you so much.”
He left the room, and Bern led Erin to the kitchen.
“Mrs. Gordon, we have a little bit of milk here. You have to give him something. It could be hours before you get any formula, from what I’ve heard about those ration lines. And a forty-minute drive just to get there, besides?” He shook his head. “You can't let the baby go hungry.”
“Thank you. But he's never had regular milk before. I don’t know if he’ll be able to digest it all right.”
“He’ll be fine. He's what, about six months now?”
“Seven.”
“Shouldn't be a problem. I raised a whole pack of them, you know. Worst thing, he might spit up a little or have a belly ache till he gets used to it. Better than being hungry.” He handed her a half-empty milk bottle from the refrigerator. “Now you’d better get going. And listen, don’t worry about Harm. He puts people off, you know, with his size, and because he doesn’t like to talk much. But he's a good man.”
“And he has - an unusual name. A little ominous.”
“Oh,” Bern chuckled, “that's just short for ‘Herman’. Nothing more than that.”
Going back outside she saw an old, beige Buick sedan drive past with Harm at the wheel. The driveway took a circuitous route out to the road, and the car quickly disappeared into the trees. She paused to shift Hughie from one arm to the other - more difficult now that she held the bottle in her hand - and dreaded what was to come.
Harm, now sporting a green baseball cap, paced the perimeter of her house as she approached from the woods. He returned to his car as she came closer and opened a door for them, while she went to her own car and reached for the diaper bag on the front seat.
“I have to put this milk into one of his bottles, and feed him, before we go,” she said, rummaging through the bag.
“You can’t feed him on the way?”
“Of course not. He has to be in his car seat to be safe. And I can’t feed him when he's buckled in, in case he starts to choke.”
Harm nodded and looked around, elbows resting on the roof of his car while his fingers tapped out some internal calculation. “Have you had much contact with the authorities since - eh - since -”
“Since my husband was killed? No. Practically none. Why?”
“I just wondered. And, sorry about what happened to him.”
She poured milk into the baby bottle on the hood of her car. “Thanks.” After screwing on the lid and shifting Hughie on her arm, she began to feed him and quiet filled the air, broken only by her deep sigh of relief. After a few moments she lifted her eyes and spoke.
“It wasn't true, you know. He was no domestic terrorist, or enemy of the state, like they said.”
“I wouldn’t care if he was.”
“I mean, it was just a few days after he died that his name appeared on that list. He couldn't fight it or challenge it. And all the people I thought were my friends, they suddenly wanted nothing to do with me.”
He nodded his head to show he was listening, but stared impassively at the roof of the car.
“They called me from my work,” she continued, “and told me I wouldn't be needed back after my maternity leave. I lost my whole support network in a day. One day I was flooded with calls from people asking what they can do to help, and the next day, nothing. I haven’t had a kind word from anybody for the last four months, except for your father. He’s been a real godsend.”
“Bern’s not my father,” he said with a squint.
“No? Then...?”
“But I’m glad if he’s been a help. Most people are so scared these days, afraid to step out of line. It’s disgusting.” He frowned and shook his head. “What about family? Don’t you have any relatives?”
“Not close by. I’m not from around here, originally. Neither was my husband. I grew up outside of Boston, he was from near Philadelphia.”
“How did you end up here?”
“His job. We were living in New York City, that’s where we met, but things were getting really ugly there. Then he got a job as a contractor for the state government, a computer systems analyst. He wasn't thrilled with it, but he said the private sector was just drying up, so he jumped at the chance, and we moved up here. He thought it would be a foot in the door to a government job, you know, some long-term security. Plus, we were thinking it was a better place to raise a family. But our friends were all like, ‘Really? Upstate New York? It’s all trailer trash and rednecks up there!’” She stopped herself short, realizing he might be offended. “I mean, I don’t necessarily see it that way, entirely...”
“Boston and Philadelphia,” he said, uninterested in anything else, “they’re both an easy drive. Or at least were, up until a couple of months ago. What keeps you out here, alone?”
“Because I don’t have anywhere to go.” She sat the bottle down and lifted Hugh to her shoulder, then patted his back to burp him. “There’s nothing to go back to. Hugh’s - my husband, Hugh senior - his parents both passed away. And my family, well, they’re the height of dysfunctional. My dad is gone. He died when I was twelve. My stepfather is a beast. And also a drunk. And he's such a gung-ho supporter of everything the president is doing these days, he hated my husband for questioning anything. We were effectively disowned, banished, and excommunicated last year, when my husband got a little politically active, speaking out against the currency changeover. He said it was really a devaluation, a theft.”
“Not even the baby would make him rethink?”
“I tried, believe me,” she said with a sigh, nervously tucked her hair behind her ears, and cradled Hughie to feed him again before continuing uneasily.
“I don’t know if you know how it works, but after Hugh was put on that list, the government contacted everyone I knew, asking them about their political views, and if they would object to a visit from a Loyalty Counselor. It really scared everyone off.” She paused, her voice breaking up. “My mom has a good heart, but she’s just a shell of a person at this point. My stepfather, he said we should just be shot.”
“Sounds like a real loyalista,” Harm lamented. “I suppose he chants all the slogans, too, like a parrot with rabies.”
“Oh my God!” she laughed. “He was in the background, when I was on the phone with my mom the last time, shouting ‘ALL AS ONE CAN’T BE UNDONE!’ just like they do at the president’s rallies. It was so stupid. But so scary.”
“Yeah. That’s how they are.” He cast a quick, sympathetic glance in her direction. “And there’s no one else? Aunts? Uncles?”
“I have a brother with substance abuse issues. I don’t even know where he is. I haven’t had contact with him in years. He could be dead for all I know. And Hugh’s brother, Keith, he lived only an hour away, but he died in the same Cull slaughter as Hugh. In fact, it was his idea to go to that stupid protest, against the new garden tax. He was more of a political rebel than Hugh was.”
The bottle finally emptied, she sat it down and hugged Hughie.
“Could you...” she hesitated, “help me with the car seat? I don't even know how to unfasten it, or put it in the other car. Hugh always took care of that sort of thing. I think there are instructions on the side.”
“Sure.” He hurried over and leaned into the car.
“It was strange, though, that Keith’s name never appeared as one of the victims.”
“Maybe he got away,” Harm said as he removed the infant carrier.
“But then why wouldn't I have heard from him? And why wouldn't it be in the news? No one ever survives those Cull massacres. It would certainly be in the news if somebody escaped.”
“Don’t be so sure.” He leaned in at the back of his car and placed the seat inside.
“What do you mean?”
After fiddling to secure the chair, he stood and shook his head. “Nothing. I think we’re ready to go now.”