The Flashback Trilogy

Chapter 5

Lazaro and I glanced at each other.

“Both of us,” said Lazaro, and straightened a little. “Born and bred.”

Jesus, I thought, and rubbed my brow.

The man stiffened. “Hands in the air.”

I raised my hands—after which he seemed to lighten, and just chuckled. “No, I mean: Which America?”

I looked at Lazaro, who hesitated. “The—the only one,” he said. “The only America. Tucker’s America.” He feigned confusion. “What other is there? I mean; since the Flashback, that is?”

The man didn’t say anything, only glanced at the skinny kid, whose face was a wreck of pimples.

That’s when we heard it: the sound of diesel engines—lots of them—coming down the hill, coming down Mount Lee Drive.

He snatched the radio from his belt. “We’re over here—in front of the trucks. We’ve got two of them,” he said.

And then the trucks began to appear, rumbling down the service road like a cavalry, like an armored support column, black smoke billowing from their exhaust stacks and Tucker flags flying; their huge, aggressive-looking front grills gleaming, the radio and C.B. antennas whipping—until they’d made a parking lot of the base of the hill and their drivers had begun getting out—many of them wearing red hats and loud shirts, campaign buttons, red, white and blue leis—and all of whom headed our way and partially surrounded us; at least, until a singular personage—a towering man in blue jeans and a black T-shirt, who wore a strikingly-sculpted beard and a gleaming white Stetson—parted them like the Red Sea: the MAGA Nephilim, the “No More Bullshit” Moses, and joined our little drum circle.

“They say they want to talk,” said the first man, “but I wanted to wait until you got here. We, ah, we don’t know anything yet.”

The man in the Stetson just looked at us, his hands on his hips. Then he took a few steps toward Gargantua and paused, his great, broad back facing us.

His silence seemed to make the first man uncomfortable. “What do you think? You, ah, ever seen anything like it?”

The towering figure didn’t move, didn’t budge, only continued staring at the stainless steel vehicle, which gleamed beneath the sun.

At length he said: “Devin tells me you want to talk.” He paused to clear his throat. “That you—that you got something to say.” He reached up slowly and stroked his beard—thoughtfully, meditatively—before turning to face us. “So say it. Talk. You can start with your names. I’m Denton.”

We both just looked at him, unsure how to begin.

“I’m Jamie,” I said, and held out my hand. “Jamie Klein. This here is Lazaro.”

He looked at my hand as though he was uncertain what to make of it. Then he gripped it; gently at first, but then squeezing suddenly and briefly, crushingly—if only for an eyeblink. Message received, I thought.

He shook hands with Lazaro.

I chose not to waste any time: “We’re here for one of the parabolic antennas,” I lied. “From the Communications Facility. Our engineer thinks he can use it to replace our existing one, which is malfunctioning.”

Denton raised an eyebrow—as though that wasn’t what he’d expected. He glanced at Gargantua and then back to me. “For that?”

I nodded, saying nothing.

“I see,” he said. He raised his chin abruptly. “So you’re not—affiliated with anyone? FEMA? Red Cross? The United Nations?”

I shook my head.

“NATO? EUFOR?” He looked us up and down, first me, then Lazaro. “No. I don’t suppose you are.” He indicated Gargantua again. “And the rig?”

I told him the truth: that someone in our group had known about it before the Flashback, in Seattle, and that after the time-storm we’d stolen it. And that that was all—

“Seattle?” exclaimed the first man, ‘Devin,’ incredulously. He harrumphed. “I thought you said you were Americans.”

Denton suppressed a smirk. His eyes had lit up at mention of Seattle too. “That where you’re from, Jamie Klein?”

I could see where this was going. “Originally—yes. But we left the shithole to seek a warmer climate, a southern climate.” I looked him directly in the eye. “And better people. Loyal people. Like you.” I looked around at the others. “Like all of you.”

He followed my gaze, seeming to appreciate the sentiment (although it was hard to tell, really, because he was squirrely, this Denton: a sidewinder dressed as a straight-shooter). “Well, I’m glad you feel that way, Jamie. I really am. But we’ve got a problem—several of them, actually. The first is, we can’t let you do that: take the antenna. As part of the Array, it’s got to go—it’s got to be destroyed. Second, we’re not currently accepting—which is to say, if you’re looking to join our train, we can’t take you. And the third is—we’ve already claimed this land. Hollywood, that is. Everything from Beverly Hills in the south to the Santa Monica foothills in the north—it’s, ah, it’s ours now. I’m thinking you probably noticed our banners. Oh, yeah. And the fourth.” His blue eyes met my own, piercingly, unflinchingly. “You’re trespassing. And you need to leave. Like, now. Also—if we see you again,” He shrugged, real cute-like: “We’ll execute you.”

I looked from him to Devin and onto the pimply kid. “So that’s it. No discussion, no compromise; not even a reason why.”