Pulse of the Goddess: American Blackout Book One Page 2

  The Cub buzzed them.

  “We need to get moving,” Sister Marie said. “Tom Hastings reads the Declaration of Independence every Fourth of July at the Ledges State Park.”

  “He could have read it in his armchair,” Dick finally spoke up, looking again at the ground.

  “I’m forgetting my manners. I’m Sister Marie, with the Sisters of Saint Augustine.” She opened the car door. “Many of us look forward to Tom’s reading of that wonderful document.” She extended her hand and both newcomers pumped it lightly. Cricket didn’t offer hers.

  “Maybe Uncle Tommy could find some new reading material,” Jane chirped.

  The old veteran removed his cap like he was taking a solemn oath. “I’ve thought about that … but the Declaration is a beaut. Now, young lady, I have considered referencing a few lines from other great men—Lincoln, Madison, Washington. And, of course, more from Jefferson.”

  Jane frowned.

  2

  Mess in a Dress

  Cricket watched Jane: a storm in the making? And Dick: a lame storm chaser? She quickly concluded: They’re both probably high.

  Diesel pushed his snout against the back of Jane’s dress, and she squealed at the attention and took to rubbing behind his ear, which happened to be Diesel’s favorite spot for a rubdown.

  “Well, you’ve got Uncle Tommy and Diesel on your side,” Cricket said. “You’re welcome to ride along and meet a bunch of great people that are looking out for each other. About a half-hour ride.”

  Sister Marie and Cricket climbed in front and brought along the rifle and shotgun. In back, Dick and Jane squeezed in with the dog and Uncle Tommy.

  Cricket turned to their guests before starting the car.

  “Did you hear all the gunfire just a bit ago?”

  “We heard a little popping but that’s common these days,” Dick said, examining his nails.

  Cricket glanced at the field across the road where two men lay dead.

  “How far away were you?”

  “Right here, in the farmhouse.”

  “Your place?” Cricket said.

  “No. But we found it nice and left it nice.”

  “We were just waking up,” Jane said. “It was all a dream, like fireworks, like the Fourth of July!” She smiled like she would start bouncing off the walls, but instead channeled her energy into those big brown eyes.

  Again Cricket’s dad flew overhead rocking his wings. When she was only five he had taken her up for her first lesson. Years later, neither of them was sure whether she had fired her .22 rifle or flown the Cub first, but both moments had been imprinted with her dad’s divine common sense and love of life. She looked up at the retreating plane with a full heart.

  With the sun on her face, she started down the two-lane road and switched on the radio, turned up the volume, and got only static. Jane poked her head up front, saying:

  “Sorry, dear, no more radio.”

  “I have faith that I’ll again hear Rush Limbaugh.” Cricket whipped the tuning knob across the dial, producing more noise, before clicking it off.

  Jane made a gagging sound and fell back into her seat like she had been shot.

  Cricket’s dad was off to her left, close to the treetops, when the unmistakable roar of jet fighters ruptured the summer air. The fighters shot overhead, less than a mile to the east, maybe a thousand feet above her father, paralleling his route.

  Uncle Tommy was clapping; Diesel was barking. Sister Marie shouted, “Weren’t all the electronics fried?”

  “Older planes,” Uncle Tommy yelled from the back seat. “I bet from Wright-Patterson. Boy, that’s something. They got those old jets flying again.”

  “Looked like a Phantom … not sure about the other one,” Cricket said.

  In the rearview mirror she noticed Dick and Jane’s lack of enthusiasm.

  “Don’t worry, they’re not going to drop anything on our heads,” Cricket said, turning to be heard. She slowed down. She was already catching her dad, who had a top speed of sixty-five miles per hour.

  “Our defenses are coming back,” Uncle Tommy belted out, kissing the top of Diesel’s head. The dog was sprawled across three laps.

  “Dad said we’re not dealing with just average criminals,” Cricket added loudly.

  Two-way radio communication with other police departments in the past month and plenty of hearsay had confirmed that an organized force had attacked the National Guard, who had been protecting food distribution centers in and around Cleveland. The word went out to identify and take down rogue gangs shouldering high-powered weaponry—M16s, .50 caliber machine guns—stolen from a Youngstown armory. Although a motley caravan of vintage trucks and armored personnel carriers now identified the National Guard, early-model pickup trucks mounted with machine guns and escorted by a dozen bikers were fair game for law enforcement and the military.

  The jets turned to the west. Soon, several large explosions reached the passengers in the Barracuda.

  “What the hell is happening?” Dick cried out from the back seat. “Aren’t we ever gonna be safe from these warmongers?”

  “I think they’re called the good guys,” Cricket announced. A moment later the rapid pop-pop-pop of small-arms fire was heard just beyond the trees off to their left.

  “I trust those planes are answering a serious threat,” Sister Marie said with authority.

  Cricket reached for Sister’s hand, scanning the farmland and pockets of woods for more trouble. She prayed that the world of Fourth of July and families enjoying picnic food and listening to great old fellas like Uncle Tommy would endure. As a kid she would sit atop her dad’s shoulders for the morning parade and end the day with her parents on a blanket watching the fireworks. Unbelievable. Today’s Independence Day—real fireworks!—and I’m fighting to stay alive and keep everyone I love alive.

  Paul Hastings stayed on course. He expected his daughter to do the same. He had contacted other police departments in nearby counties for representatives to meet at the Ledges on the Fourth. Fortified by nature, the Ledges with its sandstone rock formations and abundant streams and waterfalls was centrally located twenty miles east of Cleveland and nearly an hour north of Woodburn. Paul needed other opinions on the best town for their survival, especially with winter only four months away and food becoming scarce. The electrical grid was down indefinitely, but many small communities had running water thanks to local officials’ salvaging and protecting generators before the Iranian surprise attack.

  Smoke rose in the western sky. The jet’s thunder made Cricket believe that they surely would endure until her stomach flipped violently seeing her dad dive the Cub, disappearing behind the trees. An emergency landing? The rise of heavy-caliber gunfire made her turn off the road and aim for a high point in the adjoining meadow. The Cub returned at full throttle above the treetops tracking west, away from Cricket and company. Paul Hastings was being chased by two old pickup trucks with machine guns mounted on their cabs, racing through a field of soybeans.

  Cricket jumped from the car and went to grab the Remington when she found Uncle Tommy’s revolver pointed at her.

  Jane said, “Keys please. We’ll keep the guns, too, sweetie.”

  She got out of the car and walked right up to Cricket until her dress brushed Cricket’s jeans. “Love the car.” She grabbed the keys and tossed them to Dick and then jerked the automatic from its holster. “The Glock is very anti-feng shui—ruins that cute body of yours.”

  Those damn big brown eyes had been screaming crazy all along.

  The next explosion made Cricket wince, and she looked to see her father’s J-3 Cub on fire and falling, less than a mile off. She fell to her knees, her breath torn away. The burning Cub slammed the ground and exploded, and the savages converged on the site and shot into the flames.

  With a gun in each hand, Jane let out a war whoop of victory and danced in a circle around Cricket before handing the revolver to Dick.

  “Wow, you see that
baby drop from the sky?” Dick was smiling but his voice shook. He gripped the gun tightly, waving it back and forth. Would he shut his eyes when he pulled the trigger? “Inspiring aerobatics I’d call it … the grand finale. Makes me want to pop this war hero right here … uh, like right now. But he’s got one foot in the grave anyway.”

  “You’ll have my foot up your ass soon enough,” Uncle Tommy declared.

  Dick and Jane laughed and Diesel growled as they both stepped further away from the vehicle. Cricket sat on the backs of her legs, head down.

  “Your world is finished, old man,” Dick taunted. “It’s a new day. The people are taking back the streets, taking back their lives from The Man!”

  Sister Marie said, “We’re all God’s people, my dear.” She bent down to comfort Cricket, who looked up stone-faced at the smoke and fire in the distance.

  “Religion has disappeared from the big cities.” Jane sang off-key: “Pittsburgh and Cleveland—all gone. Poof! Amazing how quickly the biggest cathedrals fell into our hands.”

  Dick said, “Your religion died with barely a whimper. The people have finally triumphed.”

  Uncle Tommy just crinkled his nose and shook his head no.

  Jane shrugged. “We were offering heaven on earth, but the sale’s over. Nothing can touch us now. We’ll never be hurt by a few cowboys dropping bombs.”

  “Every oppressed person on earth has known for years what a bully this country is,” Dick complained.

  “Hey, maybe we should have some fun with these clowns,” Jane said, like she was boarding the Demon Drop for the tenth time and planned to raise her arms and stand up right before the epic plunge into a dark abyss. Her grip on the gun relaxed; her eyes flamed, seeking new thrills.

  A line of sweat popped straight down Cricket’s back and she sprang from the ground and tackled the blonde. Dick was screaming for everyone to stay put when the two women wrestled into the tall grass. Both Sister and Uncle Tommy called out, maybe some instructions, but Cricket went for the gun and missed all the advice. She kneed her opponent in the side and was punched and scratched in return.

  Both had their hand on the Glock and Jane was trying to bite Cricket, who bear-hugged her from behind. Dick was looking for a clean shot when Cricket forced her finger over Jane’s and found the trigger. A few more rolls and Cricket maneuvered into position and fired.

  Wide on her first shot, the second grazed Dick’s shoulder and he dropped the gun. The third caught him square in the chest. She kept firing. Dick sucked in his final rebel yell, wanting to breathe more than shout some last cliché about “the people.” He collapsed quickly as though life had always been a nervous visitor who was finally relieved to move on. Cricket ripped the gun away from Jane and climbed atop her, shoving the muzzle in the blonde’s face.

  “You’re dead, bitch.”

  “No, actually, your daddy’s dead.”

  Diesel growled and Uncle Tommy said nothing.

  “Cricket!” Sister Marie cried out. “She’s sick. You can’t just kill her!”

  Jane wiped the blood off her mouth and glanced at her accomplice on the ground. “Never cared for little Dicky here, but you did take out my man in the woods. For that you’ll die.”

  Shaking, her throat closing off, Cricket slapped her with her free hand and stood up. She kept the gun pointed at Jane as she got to her feet and started brushing off her grass-stained dress.

  Sensing his tribe’s victory, Diesel ran toward the downed aircraft and Cricket called to him but he never slowed.

  “I’m not going to kill her,” Cricket said, glancing at Sister Marie long enough to see that her friend had taken the automatic from the glove compartment and now wore it at her side. Sister spotted the keys and picked them up.

  They all heard the trucks racing madly just beyond the meadow and plenty of shooting. Jane spun around and ran off waving her arms, laughing, cheering for her team. Her dress and skin glowed in the sun. Cricket kept the gun on her for a few moments longer and then lowered it.

  “Let’s go deeper into the woods and make our stand,” she said through hot tears, again seeing her dad falling through space on fire. “We’ll head to the Ledges on foot, once it’s clear.”

  With the women on either side of Uncle Tommy, they were nearly inside the forest when two trucks burst onto the meadow and picked up Jane. Just as they gunned their engines, aiming for the trio, a P-51 Mustang shot over the trees and raked the pair of trucks with its own .50 caliber machine guns. The fastest American fighter from World War II pulled up and roared toward the horizon, followed by another P-51 that sent several attackers airborne and blasted their trucks into flames. Jane became a somersaulting mess in a bloody dress as the second plane took her apart.

  Sister Marie had been clutching Cricket’s arm and now both women embraced, sharing waves of sadness and relief.

  Uncle Tommy said, “Let’s head back to the car, Cricket. I think we’ll make it just fine to the Ledges. It’s what your dad would have wanted. I’ll make sure a few good men go out and bring back your father before nightfall. I promise.”

  Cricket nodded her thanks and struggled to walk, thinking of the years she would face alone. “All you have to do is wave both arms over your head and I’ll land,” her dad had told her. Pain clouded everything—Uncle Tommy, Sister Marie, sun and sky. Only a dog’s barking pierced her senses with any clarity.

  Giving wide berth to the carnage of bodies and smoking vehicles came Diesel. He looked strong. Cricket wouldn’t say that he looked happy, but he ran with great purpose.

  3

  Alone

  Diesel ran straight to Cricket and leapt on her with such affection that she wept uncontrollably. Sister Marie and Uncle Tommy watched quietly. She had always been close to the magnificent Lab, but not like her father.

  Diesel followed her to the ground, where she collapsed and found fresh tears. Sister Marie came over and sat with her, holding her tight.

  “Cricket, we need to get to the Ledges so that a team can go out and recover your father.”

  “I’m not leaving him alone.” She stood up quickly and stumbled backwards, nearly taking both of them back to the ground. “Let’s go.” Sister Marie held onto her arm and Uncle Tommy walked up and hugged her.

  “I encouraged those young people to come with us,” he said to his great-niece.

  “I need you, Uncle Tommy. Don’t beat yourself up.”

  “You know, I become less useful as the day wears on … and I get mean.”

  “I’m mean at eight in the morning.” A tear shot from her eye.

  Uncle Tommy shook his head. “I love your dad. Always will.” He adjusted the handsome World War II cap. “Okay, I’ll stick around for a few more days.”

  “Cricket, we need to say a prayer over the young man before we go.” Sister Marie stared at the crumpled figure on the ground.

  “Sure, say a quick prayer for Dickie. I’ll listen, but I have nothing to add.”

  A few minutes later they headed across the road where her father’s plane had crashed and burned. They passed the dead attackers and saw a piece of Jane’s white dress lifted by the wind, billowing in the tall grass like those freeway remnants of plastic that get trapped in a tree or bush, her soul now a tattered kite. Cricket only glimpsed Jane’s destroyed body.

  Her father might still have been alive after impact. They could have at least pulled him from the wreckage or simply left him alone. Instead they sprayed him with gunfire. Cricket squeezed the steering wheel of the Barracuda with all her might. No tears.

  Paul Hastings and his beloved Cub impacted at a low point in the pasture near the woods. The Cub’s tail had separated after hitting the ground and wasn’t marked by fire, unlike the burned-away skin exposing the wing’s metal ribs and the blackened steel-tube fuselage. Cricket stopped well short of the downed Cub when she spotted two men beyond the crash site rummaging through the heavy grass.

  She was out of the car before Sister and fired the 12-
gauge into the air. The men froze and thrust their hands over their heads. They looked at each other, running the math on fight or flight, or so she thought.

  “Keep your hands up,” Cricket warned. She took a few steps closer. They both wore jeans and long-sleeve shirts. The bigger one, with thinning gray hair and faded red jersey, ripped collar, spoke first. “We came to see if we could help the pilot. But he’s gone.”

  Sister Marie came up alongside Cricket, who kept glancing at the wreck and spotted her father’s burned legs in the rubble.

  “The bastards shot him after the crash,” the shorter man said. His thick gray mustache, bushy eyebrows, short legs, and heavy torso made him look like a Hobbit with wire-rimmed glasses. Both men looked to be in their late sixties. The Middle-earth character accelerated his line of expletives.

  “Don’t you swear in front of my father!” Cricket raised the shotgun and again the man shot his hands up in surrender.

  The bear-size man scolded his companion: “Watch your mouth.” He turned to Cricket. “Please, neither of us means to make things worse. Maybe we could help you … in your loss. My friend here isn’t very diplomatic.”

  Sister Marie messaged Cricket with her eyes: Put the gun down and join the human race. Uncle Tommy was out of the Barracuda, gun drawn, and Sister turned her sharp gaze on him.

  “Uncle Tommy, please, these men mean us no harm.”

  “I’m not sure.” Cricket moved within a few feet of where they stood. “Empty your pockets. Turn them inside out.”

  They did quickly. The larger man, having only a broken watch, turned his attention to his companion, who pulled out a compass, rubber bands, screws, and a small pocketknife. He sighed loudly, often, expecting an offhand remark to make their situation worse.

  The funny-looking Hobbit guy said, “Sooooo, do I have to keep my hands up or are you going to grant some limited freedoms? And when do I get to drive that fabulous Barracuda? Muscle car of the sixties.”