Chapter Fifteen: The Visionary Man — Part 1

Two hours Earlier on the Day of the Meeting . . .
The nap doesn’t last long. The truck is stuffy, the air is charged with the edge of a storm that is either being kept in check by the force of the sun, or else is being built up by it. The sun is dead overhead, and the truck they’re in has an opaque white fiberglass top meant to help its original drivers to do their jobs. Joe’s scent is strong in Blake’s nose, and though it isn’t unpleasant, Blake can’t enjoy it as properly as he’d like to. Blake is anxious, and is looking at the map when Joe finds himself brought back to consciousness by the inordinately dry licks of a small dog with a smaller tongue. Rising from his rather poor napping point in the corner of the truck, Joe settles in next to Blake, looking over the map, curious as to what he’s seeing.

“What’s up? Joe signs at the corner of the map, primarily because when Blake gets focused on things, he doesn’t pay attention to his ears.

“My gut hurts.” Blake responds.

Joe knows what Blake really means. Something hasn’t felt right since the beginning of the trip. “Think we should move in closer, try to find a useful vantage point?” Joe says gently.

“Did we bring the telescope?” Blake asks.

By telescope, Blake actually means Joe’s monocular, an item, like his chrome bosun whistle, that is always aboard whatever Joe calls his vessel. Right now, for better or worse, the UPS truck is his vessel, and the whistle, along with the monocular, are in its jockey box. Pulling open the box, taking out the whistle, he gives it to Blake, who puts it around his neck. Blake is driving now, guiding the truck along a service road to a side road that moves along the side of the Glenn, giving them a clear view of the public staging area. Joe can only hope that the truck’s dull brown color, its gloss beaten back with unpolished auto wax, combined with the forest, will keep them hidden from view.

Joe’s monocular in 140x-zoom mode is more powerful than some telescopes, and comes with a one-foot tall tripod that he can set up on the hood of the truck to keep things steady. The sky is clear at the moment, but Blake has an umbrella out, just to be safe. There is a break in the woods across the fields, and straight through the tree line, down to what must have been the Town Square. It’s actually more of a hole between trunks, scrub, and branches, but with the monocular focused through it, the Town Square comes into focus. People are starting to gather already, about an hour and a half earlier than projected. A massive, well-tailored man in a uniform is at the front, near a podium, surveying the scene with flint gray eyes, talking with fervency reminiscent of a desperate, angry politician.

Joe shifts the front of the monocular across the crowd of perhaps a hundred people, the 140x image dim even in sunlight. Most of the members are in some form of uniform or suit, whether they are wearing service fatigues related to the Navy, or the dress uniform of the Air Force. He doesn’t like the crowd. For one thing, they are all wearing black armbands with a square set out on it: The square starts with a band of darker blood red at the bottom, followed by a slivery white band that supports a blue rectangle with a white star centered in it. It’s eerie how organized their behaviors are, as if every one of them has been part of a military organization since early on in their lives.

Joe can think of thousands of places he would rather not be, looking at the crowd, but only a few of them seem much worse than actually being in the crowd itself. Joe passes the scope off to Blake, who scans the setting. The crowd is standing now, listening to the speaker. Joe can see his insignia, and he carries the rank of a US Air Force Major. He has almost no emotion on his face, and has a bigger armband than anybody in the crowd. He is speaking with a seriousness and discipline that is absolutely controlled, giving him the persona of a caricature, as if his entire existence is a fervent sham. His dress uniform is so tightly cut that he looks like a toy soldier at a model podium, like an android programmed and controlled by a script of motion and words. Blake is mute, not specifically deaf, so his lip reading isn’t as focused as somebody who has lived his entire life hearing impaired. But there are words he can see that make him nervous.

“Outsiders. Laws. Hatred, Love, Integrity. Vote, I, me, you, us, them, we bust — must — stand together.” Blake signs these words, and more, as he observes the speech, while Joe does his best to write down the more specific information being gathered.

The Major finishes, ten minutes later, and calls for a vote, apparently, by raising his own hand. All hands rise. Then he says something more, and no hands rise. There is at first a sudden silence in the crowd, this moment suddenly shifting to a zealous rapture of clapping and happiness. There is this sort of quiet surreal moment between Joe and Blake, as Joe remembers something, and Blake realizes the memory, and tries to kiss it away. Joe takes Blake’s hand, squeezes it.

“We gotta stop this.” Joe sounds utterly terrified.

“The topic of the votes is completely polarized.” Blake says. “It’s too late to stop this. The best we can hope for is to get the others and get out.”

Joe looks through the monocular, sees the Major’s face. There is a hint of a smile on that face, and the crowd isn’t dispersing. In fact, they have broken out the foodstuffs and are already eating, chatting in small groups, probably about their dreams of the future, of change, of whatever it is good little citizens dream about when they’re part of the Big Boy Club, and there’s finally the others to look down on. Twenty minutes pass, then thirty, people are talking, and celebrating something, and Joe can’t look away because something about the crowd, other than their striking unity, is bothering him. The Major, whoever he is, is doing his rounds, talking to men mostly. Then Joe sees something that must have happened outside of the field of his scope initially, or he saw it but didn’t want to see it. It is the detail, he is certain, that has him captivated.

Arpie and his Deputy, Opus, are sitting in some chairs, with their arms behind their backs. Opus has a black eye, and Arpie simply looks pissed off. He’s glowering at the Major, as if hoping the look might actually kill. There’s something vicious exchanged between them, and Arpie does something totally out of character for a man of his cat-like grace. He spits at the Major, following off with a vicious bout of yelling and struggling with his restraints. The Major wipes the spit off of his dress coat, and tosses the stark white handkerchief in Arpie’s lap, walking away. He’s still smiling smugly, and Joe lets out a guttural groan, rubs his neck with both hands, tilts his head right, then left, pops his knuckles, and looks straight at Blake, so Blake knows he’s dead serious.

“They’ve got the Sheriff and his Deputy tied up and under guard. We’re forty-five minutes out. We need to get there now, and we need to kick some serious ass.”

Blake’s response is a custom sign, one that is only known between Blake and Joe: Blake extends his left middle finger horizontally, pointing to the right, and grips it in his right fist, twisting clockwise; The basic translation is simple and short, the actual translation is much longer to verbally interpret, and anybody watching the sign would think he was saying the same thing, very rapidly, twice.

“This is fucked.” Blake takes up the monocular and heading for the truck, once he’s freed his hands of this particularly complex sign.

“Yes, my friend, this is absolutely fucked.” Joe agrees.

“Do we pull the pins?” Blake asks.

“Hell yes we pull the pins.” Joe says, the expression on his face breaking into a dark, utterly savage smile.

Advertise Here