Rise Once More (6 page)

“Chairman Dale Hayden please. Yes, I can hold, thank you.” Olaf rocks back in his deluxe office chair, lifting his feet up on his designer desk. He finds the phone agitates the pain in his lower jaw and opts to place the call on speaker phone. He returns to his relaxed position, confident that has the evidence he needs to gain the upper hand on Reese.

“
This is Hayden.”

“
Excuse the interruption sir. I called to report an incident that requires your attention. I was assaulted by the director, and I was uncomfortable reporting it to the HR open door hotline, due to his position of authority.” Olaf says.

“
Unfortunate. What do you want me to do about it?” Dale says.

“
Reese is a liability, and doesn't see the big picture. He sent a unit into a known hot zone, and I discovered something else. This makes our current project look like a waste of time. I am talking creating a more devastating weapon than even our nano-chemical technology.” Olaf says.

“
You've got my attention...” Dale says.

“
There is even a chance that we could merge the two projects. We can take the modified organisms from the Chimera project, turn them into a double threat and really spice things up on the battlefield. Just imagine a small harmless puppy, placed at the edge of a field, found by an enemy combatant; its coat of fur secreting Ricin toxin and its saliva packing a pathogen, more devastating than the bubonic plague.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Bad Hangover

The light of the midday sun damn near blinds me as I step outside the vent shaft, free at last from my earthen prison. My vision is blurry, my head is pounding, and I struggle to stand up straight.  I literally feel like I stepped out into the desert after a three day bender with the fine girls of the bunny ranch.

I look down at my tattered clothes, and realize that I make a Chicago bum look well-dressed. We do share something in common, both of us are drenched in urine, and of course, rat shit. My surroundings don't fare much better. Several bodies lay strewn about the ground, and spent brass casings litter the ground.

What the hell happened here? The once familiar surroundings of the base, completely leveled, an alien landscape of multicolored craters. Fallen trees, scorched earth, and misplaced boulders have replaced the tranquil mountain side. “Trixie...” I mutter, as I begin my trek towards known civilization.

I need to find food, water, and some form of shelter. There's nothing like a sweltering summer day to remind you, just how much you love central air. There is only one person who can help me right now, the good father Randy Mcfeely. Luckily, his house is only a few miles from here.

It feels like an eternity has passed when I finally reach his door step, I prop myself up against the siding, and press the buzzer. The sound of dogs barking only makes my head pound even worse. It amazes me the man can hear anything at all. How can one person have so many damn dogs?

The door slowly opens, and I fall to the ground, my strength has sold me out to the cheapest bidder. The last thing I can remember seeing, were the father's bare feet rushing towards me. Thankfully, death submitted a high bid, and unconsciousness threw out a low ball offer.

Tonight's top story is again focusing on the man hunt for terrorist Trixie Evans, who is believed to have been the person responsible for the bombing at the former Homestake mine. The aftershocks of the event have left many local residents to question how this could have happened in their hometown. The governor has issued a statement, urging residents to remain on alert for any suspicious activity, and to report anything unusual to local authorities. Sheriff Dan Myles, has stated that he does not believe Trixie is still in the area, but advises residents to be on the look out.

“That is a crock of crap.” I say, lifting my head up, blinking my aching eyes.

“
You're awake! How are you feeling my son?” Mcfeely says.

“
Like death warmed over, but that news story is steamy pile of bullshit.”

“
The terrorist attack?” Mcfeely asks.

“
There was no terrorist. It was the military, trying to cover their own asses, and I can prove it.” I say.

“
I think you are suffering from a concussion son.” Mcfeely says.

“
I need water father...”

“
Absolutely, try not to move, and for the love of our heavenly father, please lay back down.” Mcfeely says. I can hear his footsteps walking away from me, each step growing more distant. I force myself back onto the pillow, and take a half-hearted look around the room. I am laying on a couch, in what I assume is the fathers living room. The walls are adorned with framed pictures, one picture is much larger than the rest, and features a much younger father smiling with the Pope.

“
We need to get you to a hospital.” Mcfeely says.

“
NO! No hospitals father. I am better off in the desert than at any hospital. I would be dead within a few hours of being admitted.” I say.

“
Are you running from someone?” Mcfeely asks.

“
Not exactly running... Let's just say I don't want the wrong people to know I'm alive.” I say.

“
I don't like this at all. I knew it! Drugs! You're tangled up in those damn drugs, and you want me to help you. I will not stand by and allow any god less thugs desecrate my home!” Mcfeely says.

“
RELAX! I am not on drugs. I am not involved in any drug activity, but let's just say I don't exist...OK?” I say.

“
Then you had better tell me what is going on, otherwise, I'm calling the sheriff.” Mcfeely says.

“
Ok, you want me to tell you the truth?” I can't tell him the truth. He would never believe it, but what choice do I have? I don't have anywhere else to go, no means to support myself, or any way to make contact with someone who could help me. I continue to stare into the father's eyes, hoping for him to give up the interrogation.

“
I at least deserve that, considering I hardly know you, and brought you into my home, cared for you, dressed your wounds, and offered you sanctuary just as Jesus would.” Mcfeely says.

“
I belong to an elite group, you won't find them listed in any phone book, and I specialize in data extraction. I was stationed here to retrieve some information, along the way, things got complicated, and in the end the mission was terminated, at a level above me, and I was supposed to be among the dead you see on your television. I have no forms of identification, because the person I once was is now dead on paper.” I say.

“
Your story is hard to believe, but I have to trust the lord. The lord has sent you to me for a reason. I do not know that reason now, but I have faith that god is watching over you. As a man of the cloth, I must abide by my oath. What can I do for you son?” Mcfeely says.

“
I have a friend I need to see. He is in the hospital, recovering, because I got careless. He is in Spearfish regional, and I really need to check on him. Can you give me a ride there?” I say.

“
I can't do that son. I have an AA meeting in my garage in 45 minutes. I am the moderator, and I can't miss it. Cliff is going through a really hard time, and I worry that he will relapse. So driving you there is out of the question.” Mcfeely says.

“
Please father... If you can't drive me, can I borrow your car? I wouldn't ask, but I have no choice. I have to see my friend right away.” I say.

“
It's obvious, the drugs rule your life, and yet you continue to try to lie to me. When your friend the dealer doesn't have your fix, what are you going to do then? If it is so important to see your friend, then I want something in return. You want my car, and I need something done for me. I hope your knees are in good shape.” Mcfeely says.

“
WHAT? Why does everyone think I am gay? I am not on drugs, and I am not sucking you off. I need to see my friend, but I will walk a million miles before I slob down on any knob. You know... you called me a freak for sleeping with my sister, but guess who the freak is now? YEAH! You! You perverted old man, masquerading around as a man of god, preying on innocent boys, and all other forms of nasty stuff.” I say.

“
I don't understand...” Mcfeely says. He stands up, adjusts his collar, and pulls back the curtains of his large bay window. The light rushes in, smashing into my retinas like small wrecking balls, only aggravating my massive head ache. I look out the window, directly before me is a relatively large garden, that shows clear signs of neglect. “I wanted to ask you to weed my garden, when you get back from your friend, but as you can see, it is no small task. Weeding a garden is hard on the knees, and I spend all my time helping people.”

I avoid eye contact with the priest, while a touch of red paints my cheeks with embarrassment. I continue to stare at the ground, shuffling my feet, trying to get up enough nerve to apologize. “Look father, I am really sorry. I shouldn't have said those things about you.” I say.

“Don't worry, I have heard much worse. You can take the car, but when you get back I expect you to honor our agreement.” Mcfeely says.

“
You have my word.” I say.

“
One more thing you should know. The roads in and out of town are barricaded by the National Guard. The only way out of town is if you have a really good excuse.” Mcfeely says.

“
Great! So I am trapped here.” I exclaim in frustration.

“
Not exactly. The Lakota people are able to leave town freely. You don't have to look very far to see the devastation the federal government inflicted on the native tribes of this area. The anger is very well alive to this day, demonstrations, protests, and all out acts of defiance that including turning down federal funds to reimburse them for the atrocities of the past. These people have never forgotten, and chances are never will until the black hills are returned to them. The only way out of town is with one of them, and you are going to have to travel through their land to get to Spearfish. The roads are not paved, no road signs either, once you cross that line you are in a different country. I'm telling you now, white man is not welcome on their soil.” Mcfeely says.

“
I guess you're also going to tell me that you know just the guy?”

“
I think I know why the lord has sent you into my life, and yes I know the right guy. His name is Tatanka. His friends call him “Tat” or “Little Bull”, and he is a considered to be an extremist activist. I have tried many times to reach out to him, but he won't talk to me.

His parents were involved in the Wounded Knee Incident in 1973. They were later killed in 1975 during a protest. Tatanka was only 6 months old. Left orphaned, he was cared after by his grandmother Makawee. Years of torment, and the stress of raising a child alone lead her to seek help. That is when I met her; she found comfort in the teachings of Jesus. Makawee became very involved in the church, later becoming a nun. Young Tatanka resented this, blaming the church for taking away his only known parent.

In blaming the church, he held me personally responsible for it, and never hid it from public view. I suppose he saw it, as the deepest betrayal possible. His own flesh and blood had abandoned their way of life, and the very identity he clung too.” Mcfeely says.

“
So how am I supposed to convince him to help me?” I say.

“
You can give him this...” Mcfeely walks over to his curio cabinet, gently opening the glass doors, and picking up a carved bison horn spoon. Looking at the piece held before me, I could tell due to its size, it was intended for a very small child. The detail of the engraving left me with the impression that this creation was a labor of love.

“
A spoon?” I say incredulously.

“
The very spoon that fed him as a baby. Makawee gave it to me, shortly before she passed away, and asked me to return it to Tatanka. Every time I try, well, I fail, so it is up to you. You can find Tatanka easily enough. He hangs out at the park on the south side of town, usually selling his “White Buffalo” to the youth of this town. He refuses to sell his meth to natives, calling it the curse of Geronimo, the White Buffalo will finally bring its peace to the badlands, and justice for the Lakota people.” Mcfeely says.

I place the spoon inside the pockets of the pants the father dressed me in while I was unconscious. They aren't the right size, but hey, who am I to argue at this point? The man has a plan, a car, and a way out of this town. All I gotta do is drop off a spoon, tell the guy to get in the car, how hard can that be? “Thank you father, I won't let you down.” Just before exiting his house, I notice one more picture, in a small brass frame, the glass covering it is cracked. My mind starts to analyze the image, but before a solid picture is recreated in my mind; I am interrupted by the voice of the priest.

“God speed my son.” Mcfeely says.

***

I arrive at the park, shut off the ignition, and can't help be drawn back to that broken picture frame.  A slightly younger Mcfeely, dressed in a tuxedo, standing next to an older native woman. Her age masked by layers of makeup, hair styled, and his hand resting on a young native boys shoulder. I understand what this mission is all about.

The priest wasn't joking about finding Tatanka. Could he be any more obvious for a drug dealer? Throw in an El Camino, swap out the pine trees for palms, you would be hard pressed to know the difference between here and Los Angeles.

“
What do you want Havard?” Tatanka says in a spiteful voice. I didn't realize how intimidating he is, until he stood up from the corner of the picnic table. Standing tall, he was easily six foot three, and well over 190 lbs. Not a single pound of body fat to be seen. At a closer look he isn't at all what I had imagined. A single tattoo printed across his right upper arm, reading in simple English:
There are much worse things than death,
with a detailed dream catcher etched within the circle of words.

That kind of detail is not found in prison tattoos. The work done was by a true artist, and likely one paid heavily for their labor. Again, I am confronted with my own bias towards the types of people I am expecting to meet. “You must be the White Buffalo.” I say.

“Are you retarded? Do I got horns white boy? Do I look like a prairie grazin' cow to you?” Tatanka says.

“
That's what they call you isn't it?” I say.

“
THEY don't call me shit. What do you want Harvard?” Tatanka replies.