Episode III

But first, a word from your author:

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The Endlessness of Now

The private contractor, Harlan Rook, came walking up from the barracks along a worn dirt path and past a small arms range and weapons cleaning station and he turned down a wide concrete path at the end of which sat a plain-looking concrete blockhouse. Inside, beyond the metal security gate and the narrow vestibule, was another, smaller, station modeled after the one outside with long metal worktables, stools and ceiling-mounted air compressor hoses. Ballistic-proof steel and a long laminated glass window separated the secured area, behind which a dozen rows of low profile, metal halide lighting fixtures hung from the ceiling. The lights ran the length of the armory, casting a burnish on the polished olive-colored floor and the like-colored modular vaults, where were housed a vast cache of weapons and optical sighting equipment. At the other end of the depot was a built-in set of doors with locking bars, behind which were shelves and bins of ammunition, explosives, any gear with a costly replacement value. It was there he just glimpsed the armorer standing with his back to him over a table distracted by some work. 

Newell? Rook called

In a minute, came the reply. 

Rook pushed his Oaklies to the top of his head and started toward the sliding glass window but then saw the access gate ajar and so he walked over and slipped through it. He set his backpack on the floor and sat down at the armorer’s counter. The rifle propped on the cleaning stand was a 7.62x39mm Romanian AK-47 on a Type 2 milled receiver with a wooden buttstock. A six power Russian side-mounted scope was attached, and an empty thirty round magazine clip lay to the side. Rook lifted the rifle off the stand and checked the selector switch then he pulled back the bolt and raised the weapon to his eye.

The armorer walked up behind him. You’re not supposed to be in here, he said in a thick Australian accent.

And you’re not supposed to leave the gate unsecured.

Rook raised the barrel higher and swiveled the chair and he looked through the scope and aimed it at a point on the ceiling. Can I shoot it? he asked.

Sure.

Really?

Fuck no. Give me that.

Newell took the rifle and set it down on the stand and looked down at Rook where he still sat. He was a large man, with thick biceps and a big barrel chest. Now get up. 

It’s not really my thing anyway, Rook said as he stood and the armorer took his place at the counter. Too gentle.

Gentle? Newell replied as he began disassembling the Russian-made rifle. This thing’s a fucking shovel.

Shoots like one too, I’ve heard. Rook leaned over and picked up the empty magazine clip from the table and started to turn it over in his hands until Newel reached over and pried the magazine from his hand. You heard wrong, he said and laid the magazine down on the counter and went back to his work.

There sat a closed circuit monitor on the counter next to where the armorer had his workstation. The sound was turned down but on the screen a short, stocky man stood speaking to an audience before a photograph of an American female soldier. She was dressed in fatigue pants and a tee shirt, a cigarette dangling from her mouth, and she was pointing and smiling at the exposed private parts of a man hanging from the ceiling suspended by his arms. Rook reached out to adjust the volume. 

Don’t, Newell warned.

What? Are you no disciple of this?

In fascist crusades? No, not really my thing. It’s on just in case someone important walks in. Unlike now.

Rook shrugged. Some battles are won slinging rhetoric, others a sword.

Wrapping war in righteous struggle doesn’t make it anything less than what it is.

Which is?

An earthquake.

How’s that?

The armorer raised one eyebrow. You ever know anyone to win at an earthquake?

No.

Then there’s your answer. 

If you don’t believe in it why are you here?

Newell looked at Rook as if he were crazy and looked around at the superbly and expensively stocked arms room. Did you want something, he asked, or are you just here sharing convictions?

I need some ammo.

You got a req?

No.

You know the rules. No requisition no bullets.

You worry too much about rules.

Only them that pays the rent, asshole.

Rook went over to his backpack and squatted and unzipped the top. He took out a small pistol and removed the magazine and slid back the bolt and he gripped the barrel and walked over and extended the grip toward the armorer.

What’s that? Newell asked.

It’s a gun.

I can see that it’s a bloody fucking gun. I’m asking what kind.

I was hoping you’d tell me.

Newell set down the rifle pieces and he took the pistol and turned it over in his hands, speaking quietly to himself: Russian. No hammer. Well-balanced. Sturdy. Probably decent firepower. A little too angular in the hand though.

What size round does it shoot is my question.

Newell popped out the magazine and inspected it and slid it back in until it locked. My guess is nine millimeter. Where’d you get it?

From a guy.

Quite the storyteller, aren’t you?

They brought it back. 

From where?

Does it matter? 

Newell looked annoyed as he handed the gun to Rook and went back to his work.

Rook watched him a moment and then walked over and squatted and returned the pistol to the backpack. He zipped the pack shut and stood and faced the armorer. You see something wrong with that? 

There are specific rules about bringing weapons back in country, so yeah, you could say I got a problem with it.

It was taken off some dead haji probably.

Fucking hell. Newell turned on his stool and rested one hand on his thigh and looked ready to speak but then turned his attention back to the task of removing the rifle’s action. 

What? Rook asked.

Nothing, mate. I’ve got more important things to do, so. He waved a hand toward the door, which suddenly, in the same moment, flew open and two men in suits entered the vestibule. One was Ballard, the man they’d seen earlier on the closed circuit TV. Behind him trailed three others, each wearing ATF jackets. 

Fuck me what now, Newell said under his breath.

Pack up the AKs, Ballard announced.

And the Bushmasters, one of the ATF agents added.

You heard him. Pack em up. Every last one.

He walked up to the window and looked in at Rook. What are you doing back there? he demanded. 

Just lending a hand. 

Out. Now, Ballard told him and Rook did as he was told. But as he closed the door shut behind him, the man had a change of heart. On second thought, you’re so eager, get back there and help him.

Rook watched then the men storm out and after they were gone and the door had closed he turned back to where Newell had been sitting, about to make some wisecrack about the boss having his balls in a sling, but the armorer had already disappeared into one of the back storage rooms and could be heard cursing and slinging empty gun cases around.

Rook exited the compound through the gate and onto the blacktop where a crowd of twenty or thirty protesters we lined up on this bright sunny day along the open field on the opposite side of the street holding their signs aloft and hooting and caterwauling as soon as they saw the motorbike exiting the compound. He steered across the centerline and puttered up to a small cluster of them and their cries grew louder and their faces contorted in a rictus of disgust and he sat there and watched them a moment as they shouted their slogans: Warmonger. Mercenary. Civilian killer. He revved the big twin engine and sneered as a few of the ones standing closest to him blenched at the choppy pop and growl and then he gave the Sportster full throttle and turned their message obscure in a hailstorm of clamor and smoking rubber.

It was still daylight when he pulled into the State Line Bar and Grille outside of Danville. Gray sky overhead. Darker clouds to the west. Steady breeze. The parking lot was empty but for an old blue pickup truck parked along the side. Black plastic bags of trash piled in the back. Rook parked to the right of the door and turned the engine off and climbed off and went inside.

Don’t open till six, called the bartender without looking up from across the bar where he stood in a cowboy shirt wiping down mugs with a dishtowel.

Rook checked his watch. That’s in ten minutes.

So?

When Rook didn’t answer, the bartender looked up. Do I know you?

Rook closed the door and walked over to the bar.

Oh, the bartender said. Long time no see. 

Not long enough. 

Back to see the kid are ye?

That’d be none of your business, Wilbur. Rook sat down on a stool. All your talking felt like it took an hour, much less ten minutes, so how about a beer?  

They aint here.

You think I can’t fuckin see that?

Wilbur didn’t answer but tossed down his rag and drew a beer from the tap and walked it over. Just don’t go making trouble like last time. 

Don’t worry about what I do and don’t do. 

Rook sat there drinking. A couple of younger men and a middle aged woman came in shortly after and sat down at one of the tables. The woman giggled and snorted like she was already half-drunk and when the bartender came back from taking their order Rook set his empty glass on the counter and stood up and went and looked out the door at the parking lot. He stared up into the gloomy sky and let the door swing shut and went back and sat down at the bar.

The woman came walking up and she put her hand on top of the bar and turned to face him. You got a smoke I can borrow? 

Borrow?

That’s right. 

You want a borrow a cigarette?

She smiled and said nothing and he looked over her shoulder at the two men she’d come in with, who looked like boys on some college JV football squad—or more likely lacrosse, he corrected himself—sitting there looking and smelling like assholes amused at the hag they’d picked up at some trailer park. What’s wrong? he said to the woman. Neither of them two pricks got smokes.

The woman turned her head slowly and her eyes followed and she looked back over her shoulder at them. Don’t know, didn’t ask.

Maybe you should. Rook turned his back to her and she stood there another few seconds longer and then he heard her shuffle away. He asked Wilbur could he use the phone. 

You aint got a phone?

You know good and well they don’t work out here in this shithole from civilization.

The bartender pointed his stubbled chin at the phone hanging on the wall near the door to the kitchen. 

Rook walked over and dialed the number. After a few seconds he hung up and reached back and took out his wallet and pulled out a folded slip of paper and read off the number and dialed again. When there still was no answer he went back and sat down at the bar.

Must be in a hurry to see you, the bartender said. 

How about you fuckin shut up, Wilbur. And fetch me another beer?

The bartender watched him sit down and then he walked over and drew him another draft and set it down in front of him and said, You know where this usually leads?

Yeah. More of my money in your crooked pocket.

I aint talking about the beer. 

Listen here, Rook told him, I didn’t choose this place on account of needing your advice. Fact is, I didn’t choose this place at all. Gerrie Dean did and if I’d had my druthers we’d be meeting some place a little more private than this rodent-infested fuck sore.

Better luck next time.

And what’s with letting faggots and whores in here? I thought this was a family establishment.

Fuck you, one of the boys came back with. 

Rook started to stand but the bartender had already walked to the end of the bar and was reaching for the phone as he shot him a warning look and Rook settled back down on the stool. He finished his beer and left ten dollars on the counter and then got up and went outside where it had started to rain. He loped over to the motorcycle and was retrieving his rain jacket from one of the saddlebags when the Mustang pulled into the lot. He stuffed the jacket under his arm and went over to where she parked and he walked around to the passenger side and opened the door and got in. About damn time, he said.

Tell me you didn’t bring that freaking bike.

I didn’t bring that freaking bike.

Then what’s that?

The freaking bike.

Goddammit Harlan. You know I don’t like him to ride that thing. And besides it’s gonna rain. What he’s gonna do then?

Get wet, I guess. Rook turned around and looked at the boy sitting in the cars eat. How you doing, boy?

Good.

Harlan watched him. He was holding some sort of toy figure in his hand. Just good?

Yessir.

Well, I reckon that’ll have to do.

He can’t ride that thing in the rain.

I got a rain jacket.

You got one for him?

He can use this one.

That’s dumb, Harlan. Just plumb stupid. I told you before I don’t like him riding that Harley.

You already said that.        

Well, since you don’t seem to listen I’m saying it twice.

Rook looked and smiled at the boy again. He said: You like riding the motorcycle, don’t you?

The boy didn’t answer.

See, said Gerrie. He don’t. You keep trying to turn him into something he’s not.

I do? 

Yes. You do.

And what about you, Gerrie Dean. What are you turning him into? Some soft little homo you can play dress up with and teach how to cook and play dolls? The boy needs to know manly things. Aint that right?

The boy was still looking at him. Outside it started to rain harder.

That’s enough, Harlan.

I aint gonna break him, Gerrie Dean.

I heard that before. 

Don’t start.

Well, I have.

Then wasn’t none of my doing and you know it.

It doesn’t matter. The judge says it’s my own decision. If I don’t think it’s safe he doesn’t have to go and I right now I don’t and so you can just take your rainjacket and that stupid bike and we can talk about it some other time.

It took me three hours to get up here.

Sounds like your problem.

You keep at it, I’ll make it yours, too. 

You think I’m happy about it? I got plans too. 

What plans you got?

I aint telling you nothing.

You still seeing that Boner fella, aint you?

His name’s Bonner, not Boner. And no, to answer your question, I’m not.

Then who?

I already told you, I aint saying. What I will say is this, those plans didn’t include me takin off work and hauling him down here only to find you about as ready to tend to him like a father would as you are fit to run for governor.

You’re turning in to a real smartass aint you?

You can think what you want, Harlan.

I will. 

They sat there looking at one another and a few seconds passed. Then she said, Listen, I’m fixing to leave. So you might want to think about getting out.

I’ll get out when I’m good and goddamn ready.

Harlan.

Shut up.

Rook turned around in the seat and looked over at the boy. We was going to go up to Smith Lake, maybe do some fishing. Build us a big old bonfire. That sounds fun, don’t it?

The boy nodded.

You been going to church?

Of course I take him to church, Harlan. 

Rook reached out and grabbed her arm and squeezed. I’m talking with him, Gerrie Dean, if that’s all right with you.

She nodded and when he didn’t let go her eyes started to well up.

I mean it, he said, don’t start that shit with me. He let go of her and looked back at the boy. You been going to church?

Yessir.

Reading the bible?

Yessir.

That’s good, real good. You listen to what it says, you hear?

Yessir.

Otherwise you’ll grow up stupid like all them idiots your mama’s been bringing round the house. And you ought to quit playing with dolls. People will get the wrong impression. Rook looked at Gerrie Dean. Will you get him some real toys? Like a pocket knife or something. Would you like a good pocket knife, boy?

Harlan, please?

He ignored her. I’ve got one I’d give you, he said, but it’s a little big.

The boy swallowed and nodded. He slid the toy figure out of sight behind his back.

Rook nodded and he turned around and looked out over the dashboard and back at the bar. He thought of the two men and the old woman inside and raked the fingers of his hand through his goatee. 

I swear. This fuckin woke world. That’s the real problem.

Can you just not.

He looked at her. What?

He don’t need to hear how you hate everything about everything.

Well, it’s true. I mean you got boys wanting to use girl’s restrooms. Girls wanting to play football. And don’t even get me started on men marrying other men. Don’t nobody remember what it’s like anymore to just be whatever God made them.

All right, Harlan, I’m going now. You getting out of the car or what? 

We aint through with this, he said, eyeing her again more closely.  

I never said we was.

He turned and opened the door and got out and before he shut it he leaned back in and sneered at her across the seat. And find a different place to meet. I hate this fuckin bar. Always have.

Were he able to lose the sum of the hours and minutes of all the yesterdays he gladly would. How else to face tomorrow? There were no more aggregates of time to consider. No new days. No coming years. Only the endlessness of now. 

Of the little dog he’d thought long and hard and the days following its disappearance he’d focused all effort on finding him, visiting the local shelter, posting other handwritten notices around the ball field, on the doors leading into the barracks, at the dining facility, on the walls of the supply room. He’d attached them to trees and left them beneath the wiper blades of the cars parked in the lot and along the street. He later thought to add a reward and went around and put up new signs offering $100 for the dog’s return. Then $500. And finally, in an act more of drunken rage than of any expectation, he raised it to a $1000. 

All of his efforts went for naught and unnoticed, as far as he knew, until the captain arrived one morning in a fit and ordered the signs all removed. Every last fucking one, according to the admin whom John David had paid fifty bucks to have a third number listed on the flyer. After that there was nothing more he could do but sit and wait and wonder and fume throughout the long day for his feckless and raw carelessness, until even that produced nothing of substance.

The start of one such day found him stopped at an intersection as he waited in the left turning lane for the light to change, his wipers turned on against the road mist kicked up by the steady commute of morning travelers. He’d left the hotel to get a gallon of milk, nothing more. In the lane, directly to the front of him idled a donut delivery truck and to the rear a minivan. 

From inside the van an olive-skinned woman appeared to be arguing with her teenage daughter, both of whom were waving their hands in the air, churning and slicing and slicing and churning, and their mouths were moving at the same time. In the lanes to the right of him the cars zoomed past. How one was heard over the other he had no idea. 

He strained his neck to see the traffic light up ahead but the delivery truck blocked his view. He tapped on the steering wheel and watched the truck’s sliding back door, half-expecting it to open, men armed with guns inside, wearing hoods to hide their faces. Nothing in America would surprise him.

He cracked his window and turned his head and took in a breath of damp air. 

The traffic to the right began to slow, the brake lights and the reflection of the brake lights off the wet pavement brilliant and gleaming as the cars began to stack up alongside him, until in the next lane over there appeared a man on a motorcycle. The rider was covered head to toe in black raingear and as he turned his head and looked in through the passenger window at him, John David saw that behind the helmet’s face shield the eyes were blurred and distorted. The rider raised two fingers in greeting. 

John David looked away. He checked the mirror for the minivan and saw that the woman and the girl had stopped arguing and were instead staring simply and gravely ahead, as if having come fully in line to accept their roles in this world.

He shifted the Jeep into reverse and backed up until he determined he’d enough clearance to turn the steering wheel hard and he shifted the Jeep into drive and it lurched across the grassy median and over the asphalt lip and onto the opposite lanes as he headed back in the direction from which he’d just come, resigned to eating his cereal dry.