The Myriad Resistance (10 page)

Burt spat the stick out of his mouth. “What about disinfectants?” he pleaded.

“Don't have any,” the doctor said. “Even if I did, the only thing preferable would be hydrogen peroxide or iodine … alcohol would burn worse and longer than cauterization.”

Burt laid his head back and closed his eyes. His face was ashen from the blood loss and pain. He took a deep breath and uttered a single word. “Stick.”

The good news was Burt would survive. He would be out of action for a while, but the doctor said the bullet passed through cleanly. As long as infection did not set in, he should make a full recovery.

When we carried him back to his cabin, I thought Sally was going to have a heart attack. After we assured her that Burt would be okay, she calmed down. Sally started fussing over him, rubbing his feet and legs then dabbing his forehead with a cool damp cloth. Satisfaction bloomed on Burt's face. Seeing he was in good hands, we left and returned to the mess hall.

The motivation of our two shooters was more disturbing than Burt's injury. We sat and listened to the radio with heavy hearts and growing fear. I think my heart was heavier than everyone else's because my father was on the radio.

“Yes, we think so,” General Garrison told the unnamed host. “As hard as it is to believe, my worst fears are confirmed.”

“What fears are those?” the host asked.

“I always said these Impals are abominations and now we have definitive proof.”

“What sort of proof?” the host asked.

“There has been a unanimous declaration from the religious community. Not just Christian leaders, but Jewish and Islamic are in agreement on this. The Impals are in fact demons.”

“Demons?” the host asked with respectful incredulity.

“Yes sir,” the general said with arrogant conviction. “Several verses of scripture backup this conclusion.”

“Can you cite one?” the host asked.

“Several,” he said. “We can start with Matthew 12, verses 43 to 45.”

He cleared his throat and spoke.

“When the unclean spirit is gone out of a man, he walketh through dry places, seeking rest, and findeth none.

Then he saith, I will return into my house from whence I came out; and when he is come, he findeth it empty, swept, and garnished.

Then goeth he, and taketh with himself seven other spirits more wicked than himself, and they enter in and dwell there: and the last state of that man is worse than the first. Even so shall it be also unto this wicked generation.”

“Very interesting,” the host said, sounding impressed. “Any quotes from the Torah?”

“I'll be an honest. I am not an educated man in Judaism, so no; I cannot give you a specific quote. However, I can tell you what a rabbi shared with me yesterday. He assures me that everyone else in the faith is of the same mind.” General Garrison said then cleared his throat again.

“He said in Jewish belief, demonic powers constitute an unholy parody of the sacred realms against which they are in constant battle. They compare the “Other Side,” the domain of the evil powers, to a vicious dog held by its owner on a long leash. The dog, though it appears to enjoy independent power, is pulled back whenever it is in danger of getting out of control.”

“So he is saying the Impals are these vicious dogs or demons who have strayed into our realm or existence? And will be pulled back when they get out of control?” the host asked.

“Yes, I think that sums it up,” Garrison said.

“When will God pull them back?” the host asked.

“He is doing it now,” General Garrison said. “He has used me and this great country as an instrument to do his will. We are sending them back now, jerking their chain so to speak.” He said with a humorless laugh.

“How?” the host asked.

“It's classified, I'm afraid,” he replied. “Rest assured, your government and military will protect you to the last man from these Pythonians. These are the things everyone has been referring to as Impals.”

“Pythonians?” the host asked. “What is that?”

“It's the name our religious leaders agreed on. Pytho is the demon of lies and deceit. There is not a better description for the worldwide deceit perpetuated by these abominations.”

“So what is the final word you would like to leave everyone with this morning, general?” the host asked.

“We are calling on every red-blooded American to turn in these evil beings. Remember, anything made of iron can restrain them. We are also offering a bounty of five hundred dollars a head for each Pythonian turned in. Godspeed, and good luck!”

“That was an interview recorded with General Ott Garrison earlier this morning. We will be welcoming Father Harold Dawson in the next hour who will back up the general's claims. Good day and enjoy some patriotic music while we prepare for the next broadcast.”

There was a static buzz then a moving rendition of ‘The Star Spangled Banner' began to play. We all sat and stared at one another for several moments, nobody spoke. As the song faded out and morphed into
‘America the Beautiful',
Danny stood up and patted my shoulder. After all, we just listened to my crazy father. Our jobs were now much harder.

“Burt's down, so it's you and me on the run tomorrow night, Garrison … you up to it?” Danny asked.

“I'll be ready,” I said.

“Nineteen hundred hours tomorrow, meet me here,” he said, then left the room.

I put my head in my hands trying to process everything. If we had two redneck bounty hunters this soon, it was probable more would follow. Five hundred dollars a head, why not? We harbored about sixty-thousand dollars sitting in the mineshaft. Who cares if they took down a couple of us fleshers in the process? That's more souls to turn in. Dread filled my guts like molten metal as I pictured murders now occurring for nothing more than to collect on the bounty. I bolted from the room to find my girls.

CHAPTER 9

THE RUNAWAY

“Ooh, she's a little runaway.”

~Jon Bon Jovi

I knew my father was crazy and a zealot. In some ways I guess that is what made him such a good soldier and elevated him through the ranks. However, you don't get to the position of the president's chief military adviser on pure piss and vinegar. Charisma is a must. You had to make people believe in you even in the times where there is nothing to believe in. True charisma makes the public believe you to be a hero for doing your job, even when you should be court-martialed. My father had been able to do this to both the president and Congress. He convinced them that his brutality in Panama was necessary for the national security of the United States. He was now doing it on a grander scale.

His charismatic deceit began with his ghastly ability to make a child believe each sickness was a punishment for some evil. I don't know how many times I lay in my bed with my mother tending to me as I racked my brain trying to figure out why I was being punished. He treated my mother the same way.

I knew his unfounded condemnations broke my mother's heart. I still believe that is what she died of two days before my twelfth birthday. Abigail Garrison was a strong, loving woman. She was the only reason I made it through childhood with a modicum of sanity intact. I was proud to name our first daughter after her. I wish she was there when I got in the nest of snakes at church camp because all I could do was lie in bed and wonder what I did wrong. It must have been pretty bad to invoke the wrath of Satan's slithering envoys.

To my knowledge, my mother did not remain after she died, and now I was thankful. There was no doubt my father would not hesitate to throw her into the Shredder. He would say she was nothing more than an abomination.

As I stumbled through the woods calling for Abbs and Steff, I wondered how my father had been able to convince so many people in such a short time. All the major religion's leaders were now behind his twisted cause. I guess in a time of fear and uncertainties, even the most faithful among us seek answers and leadership. Fear can be a powerful motivating force as well as a blinding one. I couldn't blame people for being afraid, not even my father. However, I could blame
him
for exploiting their fear.

After a few minutes of shouting, I heard Abbs calling back to me from somewhere ahead. A second later, she emerged through the trees in front of me.

“Dad, what's wrong? Is everyone okay?” she asked with wide eyes. She could see the fear and panic etched all over my face.

“Where's your sister?” I blurted.

She blinked; tears of panic beginning to well in her eyes.

“I-I don't know,” she stammered. “She said she was going to take a walk by the lake after breakfast this morning.”

“You haven't seen her since?” I asked as Barbara caught up to us on the trail. Her face was beet red and she panted in loud gasps. I wondered if it was from the cigarettes.

“Lake … come,” Barbara panted, motioning for us to follow her.

I took Abbs by the hand and we ran towards the glistening water in the distance. A few moments later, we stood a few feet from the bank at a large inlet from the lake. I believed my fear for the safety of my daughter would take the place of everything else I felt. I was wrong. The cove bore a striking resemblance to the one where I encountered the water moccasins so many years ago.

“Abbs, you go that way,” Barbara said, motioning to the right. “We'll go this way and keep going until we meet or we find her.”

“Yes, mom,” Abbs said and started to walk away.

“No!” I shouted in a harsh tone. Both women jumped.

I grabbed Abbs hand and pulled her back.

“We stay together!” I insisted.

We did stay together and covered the entire perimeter of the lake. There was no sign of Steff. Taylor and Andrews joined the search after securing the Impal prisoners. They put them in a side chamber of the mine where Sergeant Beeson now resided. With their help, we were able to make another perimeter search in twenty minutes. Still, there was no sign of Steff.

Barbara, Abbs and I were beginning to boil over with panic when we started our third search. The worst-case scenarios ran through my mind from drowning or snake bite to being taken prisoner by bounty hunters. We passed under a group of large sycamore trees when I noticed a few leaves falling, accompanied by some bark and twigs. I squinted up into the foliage. It was difficult to see now because the sun was almost directly overhead. I could just make out two red tennis shoes through the leaves. I remembered buying those for Steff on our last family outing a couple of months ago. It seemed like an eternity now.

“Steff!” I called, gazing up into the tree.

One of the shoes moved a little. Barbara and Abbs stopped and followed my gaze into the treetop. Both of their jaws tightened with anger when they saw the same thing I did. This was our third time to pass this location.

“Steff!” Abbs snapped. “We've been worried sick about you!”

Still no response; one of the shoes moved a little.

“We see you up there, you little brat!” Abbs prodded. “Come down or I'll pelt you down!” She said picking up a rock and throwing it into the water to make her point.

“Steff, honey, please come down,” Barbara said with remarkable calm in her voice. I was glad one of us was cool; if Abbs and I jumped in the lake, we most certainly would bring the water to the boiling point.

Still, there was no response from the tree.

Abbs picked up a piece of granite about the size of a silver dollar and began to aim her shot when I held up my hand to stop her. There would be time for harsh words and punishment later, the important thing was to get Steff back with us; to keep her safe. I decided we needed to be honest.

“Steff, Mr. Golden was shot outside the mess hall a short time ago. There are some crazy people lurking about and we need to get you back and keep you safe. Please come down.”

There were several long moments of silence before I heard a faint reply.

“Did he die?”

“No, but you're going to!” Abbs promised.

I held up my hand to silence her and mouthed the words,
“Let me do the talking.
^”

“Come on Steff, let's all go back home,” I pleaded.

“That's not home!” she snapped. “I don't want to go back in that nasty place … I want to go to our REAL home!”

I whispered to Abbs to head back and let Taylor and Andrews know we found her. I could see them a short distance away; otherwise, I would not have let her out of my sight. She reluctantly agreed and began to walk away. Abbs continued to glance over her shoulder to catch a better view of her sister sitting in the treetops.

It took another twenty minutes of coaxing before we finally got her out of the tree. Barbara and I each grabbed a hand. We led her around the lake and back to the camp. I decided that any discussions of irresponsibility or punishment would wait until we got back to the cabin. Steff decided she was now in a talking mood.

“Why can't we go home?” she prodded. “Did you do something wrong?”

I tried to ignore her question, but Barbara intervened. She gave an answer I hoped to avoid.

“No, your father did nothing wrong! It's your grandfather!” she spat. I could tell by her face she instantly wished she could take it back.

No matter how Barbara and I, or the rest of the world felt about my father, we would try not to show it in front of the girls. Abbs was old enough to form a somewhat informed opinion. However, Steff was only twelve and immature for a preteen. Her response did not surprise me.

“Grandpa is the nicest man I know,” she said, glaring at me. Her expression suggested that I was included in her not so nice list. “It's not his fault!”

I tried to wrap my arm around her shoulders, but she pulled away and put a couple more feet of distance between us. She folded her arms across her chest and scowled straight ahead.