A Year Underfoot Page 4

  Well, that was two days ago and I’ve been lying in this ditch with a sheet of weather–beaten plywood pulled up over me ever since. The area is still lousy with troopers and I’m not moving a muscle until I’m certain they’ve cleared the area. I have enough food and water to last a couple of more days, and as long as the afternoons aren’t too hot, I should be all right. I’ll just have to ride it out.

  August 22nd, 2033

  This morning I met up with a surly old coot who goes by the name of Bagman Crowe. Yeah, his name is Bagman, least that’s what he calls himself. He’s seventy years old if he’s a day and he’s been living up here in the Pyramid Lake area for most of his adult life. And, when I say the Pyramid Lake area, I’m talking about the great outdoors. Bagman’s been living in the hills, rain or shine, hot or cold, day and night, for over forty–five years. He’s abrasive, crude and unapologetic, but he’s also a straight shooter who knows the area like the back of his hand and isn’t afraid of mixing it up with the Threak.

  I think we’ll get along just fine.

  August 23rd, 2033

  We hiked deep into the Los Padres National Forest and arrived at Bagman’s main camp before nightfall. The weather has begun to turn and a late summer rainstorm is moving through the area. Not only does the rain provide welcomed break from the heat, it also brings about a temporary suspension of the aerial patrols as well. I mentioned the connection between the two and Bagman knew exactly what I was talking about.

  The Threak are afraid of the rain. It’s not that they just don’t like it, or find it inconvenient, – they fear it, – they actually fear it.

  Go figure.

  August 24th, 2033

  I had another vision last night.

  I was piloting a ship, an enemy shuttle headed for the cargo bay of the battleship stationed over Los Angeles. I was alone, but I knew I wouldn’t be for long. A trio of troopers were pounding on the cockpit door and would be bursting through the hatch at any moment.

  I was almost to the battleship.

  All I needed was ten more seconds.

  All I got was two.

  The cockpit door burst open and I “awoke”. That was that. That was the vision. No beginning, a sliver of a middle, and no end.

  Nothing.

  How am I to process that?

  I don’t understand.

  August 25th, 2033

  We walked in silence most of the night, stopping occasionally to draw on some water or to listen to the telltale whine of a warbird passing overhead. Bagman broke the silence when we crested the southern hills overlooking the alien air base and he got his first real look through my infrared binoculars.

  “Damn”. He said.

  Damn was right.

  Equally split on both sides of the eight–lane freeway, the air base is set up in a grid pattern. I’m guessing the total area to be two miles by two miles square, and it’s surrounded by a one hundred foot tall electrically charged fence. It crackles with energy, – occasionally sparking and “snapping”, almost as if it were verbalizing its invincibility.

  Shuttle–craft and transports occupy the east side of the base, while the warbirds are neatly lined in a row and staged to the west.

  Prefabricated buildings, some standing hundreds of feet tall, line the base’s perimeter, while the troopers barracks lay safely in the interior of the facility.

  The base itself buzzes with activity. In the few hours we spent canvassing the installation we saw ships of all sizes and classes come and go. Of particular note were the shuttles running a route between the base and the battleship still hovering over Los Angeles.

  In all, we spent three hours surveying the base before pulling up stakes and heading back to camp.

  On the way back I debated about telling Bagman of my visions. I know at some point, – if we remain partners in crime, I’ll have to tell him, but I don’t know if this is the time.

  August 26th, 2033

  We ran into a family of survivors moving south. They were hungry, tired and beaten, – both physically and spiritually and to tell you the truth, they didn’t look long for this world.

  The patriarch of the bunch, a gray haired man by the name of James Crane told us they’d left Santa Barbara on the morning of the invasion and had been walking ever since. It was clear he was suffering from shock, as were the other four adults in the party, – his wife, Sue Ellen, his two daughters Stephanie and Elizabeth and a badly injured son–in–law, Elizabeth’s husband, Tom. The only one who seemed to have her wits about her was the youngest in the group, a pre–teen named Kendra, who, unfortunately, held no sway in the decisions being made for her.

  Crane kept asking of Los Angeles, and no matter how many times I told him it had been destroyed, he would ask again. He simply could not fathom the answer. And, after asked the same question a dozen more times, Bagman lowered his head, slowly shaking it from side to side, until there was no mistaking his grave meaning.

  “All, I mean...”. Crane spoke, his arms stretching out, his voice trailing off.

  “It’s all gone”. I said. Crane, tilted his head a bit, as if to help him understand, but he knew what I was saying. There was no Los Angeles, not anymore. I repeated, “It’s all gone”.

  “But, what of Los Angeles?” He asked once more.

  I kicked at the ground in frustration and wandered off in a huff. Bagman caught up with me a few minutes later and told me he’d invited the “starving six”, as he called them, back to camp.

  We got to bandaging up Crane’s son–in–law, Tom, as best we could and shared what little food and water we had with the rest of the family. The prospect of a hot meal and a little company seemed to bring them back to their senses and I was hoping it would be enough to pull them out of their despair.

  Bagman took the point, with Kendra in tow, while I walked tail gunner, with the rest of the Crane family in the middle. They moved slowly, much to slow for my tastes.

  I felt vulnerable and I began to get angry.

  Angry at the Crane’s.

  And, as I watched them walking ahead of me, dragging themselves along, their faith shattered, on the verge of death, or worse, a life of slavery at the hands of the enemy, I began to feel a great shame for being angry with these obviously broken people.

  Who was I to be mad at them?

  August 27th, 2033

  Big day today.

  I left the Crane family with Bagman and went out scouting the rolling foothills east of the camp. Four miles east of where we’d been hiding I ran across a well–worn gravel road and spotted signs pointing to a nearby rock quarry. It lay two miles down the way and I wasted no time in getting there.

  I was not disappointed when I arrived.

  Excavators and trucks littered the open pit and I ran down out of the hills and crossed the crushed gravel parking lot to where a pair of temporary office trailers sat side by side.

  I kicked open the door of the first trailer and was elated to find that I was the first one to visit this hidden gem.

  Inside the single–wide office, I scooped up a bottle of Johnny Walker Black from inside of a file cabinet and stuffed it in my backpack. I rifled through the desk draws and came across a set of keys. I dangled them out in front of me.

  What if?

  I went to the second trailer and tried the set of keys. The second one did the trick and I swung open the door to find that I’d struck pay dirt. The trailer was being used as a supply shed and, lying prominently in the corner, a very large blast box.

  Please, let it be.

  I flicked on my flashlight and got a better look at the thick gray safe. And, staring back at me, – a large triangle shaped sticker labeled hazardous and explosive. I was halfway to pay dirt.

  If only...

  I fumbled with the keys and found the odd shaped one that fit the box. I turned the key in the tumbler and the door sprung open.

  Slowly, I opened her up.

  Dynamite! Twenty sticks of high–grade explosives stari
ng me in the face! Unbelievable!

  My eyes dropped to the bottom shelf and I really got excited. C–4 plastic explosives! Well, hello, what are you doing here?

  I tore the place apart looking for the blasting caps and after a second pass through the trailer I found a box of two dozen.

  Wait until Bagman gets a load of this!

  August 29th, 2033

  The Crane’s moved on a few hours ago. They left at sunset, their bellies full and with enough food and water to hold them over for a few more days. We tried to get them to stay, but despite the first hand news of the loss of Los Angeles, they are determined to see it for themselves, – no matter how hard Bagman and I tried to talk them out of it.

  I hope to see them again.

  But, I know I won’t.

  After they’d left I told Bagman of my find at the quarry and his face light up like a Christmas tree.

  As I recall the conversation went something like this...

  “All right, Dante, spill it.” He tells me, “I know you’ve got something you’ve been dying to get off of your chest. So, go on, spit it out.”

  I have to admit I had been beaming since I’d gotten back.

  “What if I told you I ran across twenty sticks of dynamite, and enough C–4 to take out an entire convoy?”

  He stared back at me, blankly at first, like he was trying to decide if I were pulling his leg.

  “Come again?”

  “I came across a rock quarry. Hadn’t been touched...”

  Bagman cut me off, – he’d decided I was serious.

  “And, blasting caps?”

  My smile said it all.

  Seventy years old and, and let me tell you, no one dances a finer Irish jig.

  We have some work to do.

  August 30th, 2033

  We’re slipping back to the air base tomorrow night.

  Game on.

  September 2nd, 2033

  We watched the base most of the night and came to the conclusion that we’d have to get inside to inflict any real damage. Hitting transports was a waste of firepower when there were so many sweeter targets inside the base.

  Like, warbirds and ordinance.

  Inside.

  The word hangs in the air.

  Inside.

  Inside a Threak air base. Surrounded by all things Threak.

  Troopers – weapons – the works.

  Inside.

  Inside, – sounds awfully like a suicide mission, doesn’t it?

  I dialed in my infrareds on the southern gate of the installation while Bagman kept an eye on the skies. The sun would be coming up soon and the window for getting anything done today was closing fast. I was jumping out of my skin, but Bagman, preaching patience, said if nothing presented itself by sun–up, well, tomorrow was another day. The odds against us were great enough already, why go and force a losing hand?

  I knew he was right and was about to tell him so when, from seemingly out of nowhere, the first of the alien shells, – glowing balls of heated matter, slammed into the earth fifty feet short of our position.

  They came one after another, – six in all. Pulsating orbs of red matter struck the earth with such force, such impact, that it literally bounced us off the ground and lit up the area for miles in all directions.

  I rolled over and checked on Bagman. He was all right, and as the dirt and dust hung in the air, we pulled each other to our feet and ran like hell. We kept our heads low and our feet moving, both of us knowing that as soon as the shelling stopped the warbirds would be up in the air.

  Funny thing is, the warbirds never appeared. Not one, not one lousy craft.

  Either we’d tripped a security wire, or stumbled onto an ordinance range, I have no idea. Six shells, – that was it.

  September 3rd, 2033

  It’s another scorcher out here in the scrub–too hot to move, too hot to sleep.

  September 4th, 2033

  Bagman has a theory, he believes the Threak are scared.

  He says something isn’t quite right with them, but he can’t put his finger on it. He says they’re hunkering down and taking a defensive posture when they should be busy exploiting their newfound riches. He says it just doesn’t add up.

  I wish I could tell him how right he is.

  They are scared. And, they should be.

  At some point, I’ll have to tell him of the visions.

  September 5th, 2033

  Bagman has been out all morning checking on game traps and having a look about while I’ve spent most of the time sacked out, catching up on the sleep I’ve been missing over the past two months.

  I never realized how beat up I was until I took a second to slow down.

  I’d never noticed the constant throbbing of my feet, or the persistent soreness in my left leg, – and here I thought the rumbling in my stomach was from nerves, not hunger.

  If I had a mirror I know I’d have a hard time recognizing myself these days. My hair has grown out every which way, and a crazy beard has sprouted and run amok. My clothes hang off me like those of an anorexic scarecrow in long forgotten corn field, and I don’t even want to think about what I must smell like since I can’t remember the last time I bathed.

  September 6th, 2033

  I’ve decided to take another crack at the air base. Bagman thinks it’s too dangerous and plans to sit this one out. He’s probably right, but I can’t sit around any longer. The C–4 is burning a hole in my pocket and I’m tired of seeing these clowns running around at will.

  I’ve got to hit them.

  I have C–4, blasting caps and a wind–up watch.

  If I attach the C–4 to a transport heading to the base, I can have them deliver the charge for me. Set watch for a couple of hours later and let the fireworks begin. It seems simple enough.

  The trick is how to do it.

  Bagman’s helping me work on an adhesive, – a super glue, I can apply to the C–4 so I can stick it anywhere. I also need to find a way to color the gray of the C–4 to match the flat black exteriors of the transports if I hope to get the charges through the checkpoints.

  September 7th, 2033

  Bagman came back into camp this morning toting a little yellow AM/FM transistor radio he’d dug up along with one of his many “stash bags” he’d buried throughout the years.

  Along with the radio, his bag contained another weeks worth of food and, more importantly, another few weeks worth of coffee.

  A very resourceful man, he never ceases to amaze me.

  The radio still works. The EMP blasts that killed all communications during the invasion hadn’t reached the transistors in Bagman’s buried relic and upon inserting a fresh nine–volt battery a familiar static filled the air.

  Bagman worked the needle up and down the dial, but all we heard was static, but I have to tell you, static never sounded so good.

  The possibility of communication still exists.

  September 8th, 2033

  When I decided to hit the base I set in motion a chain of events I hadn’t expected. Namely, Bagman’s setting off for the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains and the end of our brief partnership.

  I suppose it was inevitable. My focus has always been on revenge, while Bagman’s has been on survival.

  “I’ve seen it coming ever since you came back from the rock quarry.” He said.

  “You did?” I replied.

  “Oh yeah,” he chuckled, “once you struck gold with them explosives, there wasn’t anything left to do but use ‘em. And, sabotage is a young man’s game. I’m seventy years old. I may be able to get around some, but I ain’t running. Nor, do I care to, thank you very much.”

  “But, what about you?” I asked.

  He stretched out his arms wide as he answered, “I’ve been doing this a long time, remember? I’ll be just fine.”

  I stood there, gazing out at the darkness. A chill had come to the air and I knew it wouldn’t be long until the weather began to change in earnest
. Life was about to become much harder.

  “Sit down and eat.” He called out and once I got a whiff of the stew he’d whipped up I remembered just how hungry I was.

  “Vegetable and squirrel stew, the breakfast of champions!” He laughed, handing me a bowl and standing in front of me until I had swallowed a healthy spoonful.

  “Good squirrel”, I managed, which set him off on another jag of laughter.

  Only after he had settled into his stew and did he speak again. Raising his bowl as he did so.

  “Only the best for a saboteur on the eve of a mission.”

  “Thanks, Bagman.” I said, returning the gesture.

  “I’ll take the rest of the C–4 and the dynamite and bury it at the base of the large oak bordering camp,” he said, “it’ll be there when you need it.”

  I didn’t answer. I nodded my acknowledgment and he continued.

  “I’ll need a day, or two to clear the area.”

  “I don’t have to do this right away,” I said, “I don’t mean to run you off.”

  “You ain’t running me off,” he replied, “you’ve got work to do. I can see it.”

  He nodded his head and mumbled something into his stew and started laughing all over again.

  I’m going to miss that old coot, I hope to see him again some day.

  September 12th, 2033

  Four days ago I stuck three pounds of C–4 onto a transport heading for the air base and watched as it rolled inside. One hour and forty–seven minutes later, I saw the biggest fireball these eyes have ever seen.

  It was awesome! Completely freaking awesome!

  I got the ball rolling with a chance encounter along the interstate north of Santa Clarita. A northbound transport had evidently broken down and had pulled over to the far right hand side of the road. The vehicle was lightly guarded by a trio of troopers and from my vantage point in the weeds to the southwest, it looked like easy pickings, just a few overconfident troopers mucking about and not another soul in sight.

  I had to jump at the chance. It was the first time I’d seen so few troopers, so far from others of their ilk. I had to seize this opportunity. I owed it to those who had been killed, or captured.