The Big Bang (33 page)

Of
course
it was a vendetta.

“You'll compromise the Team if you're caught,” Hank had said, gathering his tools and a few pieces of clothing. He paused at the door, looking into their implacable faces. “You two are drunk on revenge. For a drunk, one drink is too many, and a thousand is never enough. How many 'ban will you have to kill to feel satisfied?”

The answer was simple. “All of them,” Molly told him.

The sun was just coming up when Yusef walked past them carrying his longboard. He was wearing a patched O'Neill wetsuit, and strode carelessly toward the beach. He had reason to be confident. Caliban areas were kept ruthlessly clear of vagrants, and brigandage was punished with a finality that allowed no repeat offenders.

The surf was up and Yusef only had eyes for the waves crashing on the rocky shore. Seabirds wheeled over the spray, and the sound of the water and their squabbling cries rang loudly in the foggy morning.

Molly and Jake stepped silently from the shadows, moving with care. Jake, younger than her, reached the Translator first. Some atavistic sense must have warned Yusef that he was not alone. He half turned to look back toward the road, the surfboard across his abdomen.

Jake had been swinging the length of iron rebar at the collaborator's stomach. Instead, he caved in the underside of Yusef's surfboard.

Oh, God, this was going all wrong, Molly thought as she came around Jake. Yusef was already drawing a breath to yell, for who or what she didn't know. She whipped Ginnie's old expanding baton through the air. The steel cylinders leapt out, clicked into place, and slammed into the side of the man's face.

The shock ran down her arm. She'd never hit anyone like that, and she wasn't ready for impact. Her stomach lurched at the way it felt, the yielding of the flesh and muscles, the resistance of the bone.

The blow knocked Yusef off his feet and he fell, tangled in his board. There was a muffled crack when he hit the sand and rock beach.

Jake whirled around. No one was on the shore on this wet, overcast morning, and this being a favored Caliban beach, no clam diggers had chosen to risk death and torture by creeping along with sticks.

Molly moved toward Yusef, the man who'd announced her sister's death as if he were doing play-by-play at a basketball game. He thrashed in pain, wrenching himself free of the bent surfboard. He pushed himself up onto all fours, trying to stand. He was making some kind of noise through his ruined mouth and nose. It reminded her of the sound a hurt calf made. It was pathetic and awful. Jake swung the rebar again, and the impact flipped Yusef over onto his back.

His eyes were wide, stark with fear, staring at the two Americans. Teeth were broken in his mouth, lips lacerated, nose a bloody ruin. He held shaking hands in front of him, pleading speechlessly.

Molly had lived this moment in her imagination for over a year. She had thought when the moment arose she'd say something to him, something cutting and eternal, the last words he'd hear ones that damned him forever. The words perished, stillborn in her throat. She had no words for what she saw—a young man, not much older than Jake, begging for his life.

Jake saw nothing but a tool of the men and the forces that had killed his mother, and he smashed the bar down over and over.

Riding in the back of the garbage truck, surrounded by the refuse and offal from the stolen homes of the invaders, Molly sat huddled in a ball, clutching her hands together. Even the stench of the trash and the crash of the truck as it lumbered over the uneven streets wouldn't make the morning go away.

The noise the wounded man had made. How hot his blood had felt when it splashed across her arm. He hadn't been 'ban or collaborator then, simply a hurt, vulnerable human being. And the final stillness of him, looking like nothing more than a bloody neoprene sack as she and Jake dragged his body out into the water and weighed it down with rocks.

It was as if her last innocence has been stripped away. She had crossed a line, one she could never undo, and she could never go back. The Caliban had now taken everything from her. Her freedom, her profession, her sister, her humanity.

Even, it seemed, her hate.

Baldwin (2)

Hanner drove back through town rather than turning out onto the highway toward the distant interstate. “We have to stock up,” he said, turning into the parking lot of the grocery store. “One shopping basket. Beef jerky, dried beans, rice, flour. Nothing perishable. Whatever you think you can eat. You have any cash?”

Baldwin dug out his wallet. “Couple hundred.”

“That should be enough for the food. Hit the ATM, get all the cash you can. I'll be right back.”

It was only mid-morning and just a few shoppers wandered the aisles of the store. Word of the attacks was starting to spread and Baldwin could hear the clerks whispering urgently to one another while he stood at the ATM. Once he had the money, he forced himself to be deliberate. A half hour wouldn't make a difference, he told himself. He loaded his basket with dried fruit, dried legumes of all kinds, jerky, flour, a few cans of tuna and chicken. Looking at the selection of prepared foods, he felt a twinge at the thought of no fresh food and the loss of vital nutrients in the preparation. On impulse, he threw in some bananas and the vegetarian's friend, peanut butter, two large jars. He grabbed four bottles of multi-vitamins off the shelf and then several cases of bottled water on his way to the register. The sight of a woman with two large bags of dog food made him think of Hanner's German Shepherd, and he jammed a fifty-pound bag of generic dry crunchies under his cart.

The checker, a young woman with fierce acne, scanned his items distractedly. “Did you hear? Is it true?”

“I don't know,” Alec told her tightly. “I was going to L.A. to see my daughter. But all the flights are grounded.”

“You're driving?” the checker replied, seeming to see his selections for the first time. “Mr. Baldwin, you need something to keep this stuff in. Wait a sec…”

Baldwin watched in surprise as she left the check stand and hurried down an adjacent aisle. She returned with boxes of food storage bags in a variety of sizes. Impatience was burning in his chest. “I'll take 'em all.”

The clerk looked embarrassed. “There's a problem with your credit card.” At the look on his face as he dug for his cash, she hurriedly added, “I think it's the computer system. I'm sure your card is good.” She punched a few keys, and then a slip came out of the register. She scrawled on it and shoved it in her cash drawer. “There you go.”

He nodded at her tightly, and shoved his shopping basket toward the street. For some reason, he would remember her later, usually when he was lying on the hard ground staring into the night unable to sleep. He'd remember that in his mad rush to get to L.A. and Addie, he'd never said thank you to that young woman clerk who helped him that day. It bothered him, for some reason. Even though he knew he was afraid and distracted, it seemed like he should have been nicer to her.

He guided the full cart out into the parking lot. More cars were showing up. People would park and then climb out of their cars almost furtively, ashamed, like they'd been caught going to an adult bookstore, not the market. More than one of them saw Baldwin and his over-loaded basket, and hurried into the store.

Hanner pulled up in front of him, snapping off the radio as he did, leaving the Jeep idling.

“Jesus,” Baldwin said. There was a new hardtop over the formerly open expanse of the Jeep. In the back, behind the seat, a coil of rope and a length of chain. New gas cans were bolted around the rear. The old foreman climbed out, walked to the rear of the Jeep, and opened the hatch.

“Might hit some weather,” Hanner said by way of explanation. “It was faster to just buy a new hardtop than run back to the ranch. The shop put it on the ranch's tab.”

Inside the rear hatch Queenie was curled up uncomfortably among several large rectangular coolers. Hanner flipped the lids of the coolers, began piling the groceries in as Baldwin passed them over to him. In less than five minutes they'd transferred all of the food to the coolers, with the cases of water lashed with bungee cords atop them. “That'll do,” the older man grunted. “We can get these re-stowed once we're on the road.” Baldwin shoved the grocery cart up onto a curb.

When he opened the passenger door, he found his side of the Jeep filled with bags and packages. Hanner scooped up most of them, shoved them in the back. There were already two long packages lying on top of the coolers. One squarish box was on the floor. Baldwin climbed in, put the strangely heavy box between his feet, and buckled up.

His eyes on the road, Hanner told him, “Open that up, Mr. Baldwin.” He turned onto the main road, passing the small residential area. People were outside holding cell phones, looking to the skies, talking to their neighbors. “You ever use one of these?”

Baldwin was looking down at the contents of the smaller box. Inside was a semi-automatic pistol, a brand new Glock from the markings on the package, and under it was a heavy box of bullets. “You think we'll need these?”

Hanner didn't reply. He didn't need to answer that question.

Alec eased the pistol from the package. “How'd you get this? Isn't there a waiting period of some kind?”

“Waiting period is only for Hollywood actors who are part-time residents.” Hanner grinned briefly. “The boys at the shop know me. They know I'm not gonna go ventilate my ex-wife or anything like that. Now, do you know how to use a pistol?”

It had been a long time since he'd handled a weapon for a role. He didn't really know people who kept firearms. It seemed like the kind of thing the yee-haw and ya-hoo set did.

Sensing his reluctance, Hanner said, “It's no different than a hammer. It can be used right and it can be used wrong.”

“You'll have to show me how to use it safely.” Putting the pistol in the box, Alec twisted in his seat and dropped it in the back. He ruffled the fur on Queenie's head before turning around. He dug into his pocket, pulled out his cell phone. Methodically he went through the numbers. Kim. Addie. His agent. His brothers. His parents. Each time there was no answer, if there was service at all. Hanner waited until he folded up the phone, and then turned on the radio.

It was chaos on the airways, as well. Smaller AM stations were scrambling to gather more information, and they were reduced to simply repeating the same few facts over and over about unconfirmed reports of strange attacks and random bombings, mostly snatched from law enforcement scanners and sources. One or two of the larger stations were able to get some call-ins from the area, but they only added to the confusion with reports of scattered explosions, huge clouds towering above downtown Los Angeles.

The news, such as it was, only unsettled Baldwin more, fed his sense of impotence and helplessness until he thought he was going to vomit. Hanner reached out to turn off the radio. Alec stayed his hand. “No, we need to know what's ahead.”

Hanner shrugged and concentrated on driving. They were speeding down Highway 159. At Interstate 85, a right turn would take them south to California. The road was almost empty of other vehicles. This was normal, for the most part, the vast spaces between towns tending to thin out the traffic. Today it was unnerving. It began to feel like they were the only ones alive.

They drove in silence for a time, scanning the radio channels until one of the larger stations out of Portland played a tape recording from NBC. It was a phone call the national news desk had received about fifteen minutes earlier. In accented English with a strange cadence, a man's voice exulted, “The Martyrs of California have struck a blow for jihad and the Prophet! Allah has judged America, and we have delivered the judgment of Allah, praise be unto His Holy Name.”

At that, Hanner angrily stabbed the radio power button.

Baldwin twisted in his seat. He noticed he was clutching his cell phone. Great, he had a security blankie now. “Why do they talk like that?” he asked, not expecting an answer. “Like they're in some ancient romance novel or something.”

Hanner replied, “Because they want to be in a world from five hundred years ago.” He sighed, checked his watch. “We should get that food better organized. We slapped it together pretty fast.”

“I'll do it,” Baldwin said, grateful for something to occupy his hands, and, he hoped, his mind.

“Let me pull over. Queenie needs some private time.”

Hanner swung the Jeep into a pullout on the side of the highway. Both men climbed out of the Jeep, stretching muscles that were tight with tension. Baldwin noticed that the older man had buckled on a holster and pistol.

Feeling his gaze, Hanner said, “It's war, Mr. Baldwin. War right here at home. Best get used to it.” He opened the rear hatch, lowered the gate, and the dog gratefully scrambled out.

The two men stood side by side, their backs to the empty highway, watching the German Shepherd dart from bush to bush, her nose to the ground. “We don't know if it's war,” Alec offered. “We don't know what's happened.”

“That's exactly the reason I know it
is
war. Today, a man can't run a red light without every loudmouth in the world talking about it.”

As a man with some profile in the media, Baldwin knew the uncomfortable truth of that statement. On another day he would have argued the point, but today, in the growing August heat next to this huge expanse of rolling scrubby plain, the cell phone as useful as a lump of chalk in his pocket…today, there was nothing to say. He removed the phone from his pocket and tried the calls again with the same fruitless results.

He turned to the back of the Jeep and began to organize the food. He ended up putting the bottled water and canned goods in their own separate coolers and the dried foods in a third, reasoning that the risk of spoilage would be less that way. He was shoving the coolers back into the rear of the Jeep when Hanner opened the passenger door, reached back and took the box containing the Glock.