WAR HAS COME
In the door. In the house. All about like roaches. And those trucks with the network’s logos polluting sight and mind. Impatience. The impatience that eats grace. What’s so great about efficiency. What does it get. This is awful.
Celia checked her thought storm. The violation brought upon her would shatter the serenity of her bath in the great lion footed tub. Then she thought about thought. That it was not talking to yourself quietly. She thought what would be the plan. The resistance. How do you fight back an invader in such a way that they don’t even know they have an enemy. That they, THEY in truth are under attack. That their numbers make them vulnerable. Their strength weakness. Sophistication ignorance. Blindness.
Bath over. Constituency. The most powerful force in the theater—the seamless ensemble cast. Celia was up, dry, dressed and out of the house in what felt like an instant. She cruised around town on her way to the P.O.
They were everywhere. Like roaches. She noted their positions. Though some were taking breakfast back at the motel, some were in Babby’s. There was a tech truck out front indicating the cafe might be targeted as an early victim. Hopefully Babby won’t start shooting.
She got to the P.O. And loaded up quickly with Miles’s help.
No doubt Miles had weathered a thought storm as well. He had produced an enormous amount of data already. Their numbers, how many tech trucks, officers, objectives and resources.
“How did you get all of this, Miles? This is stunning.”
“I’m smarter than them all put together Celia. They’re the dissatisfied wannabes I left in Connecticut. Nobody shows
themselves more quickly than a phony. I detest a phony. You betcha.”
First stop—VFW/Morris. Morris was up, alert, and in his realm taking stock.
“Last spring ahhhh, last spring 2 years ago, I started having some trouble with wiring and some overturned trash cans and whatnot. Turns out it was woodchucks. Caught ’em in traps and relocated them where they were not my problem. Guys could do a lot of damage when they want to.” Morris swept away as if the activity was a region of his brain. Something restorative, centering, about a good sweep.
“You didn’t kill the chucks, Morris?” Celia begged in sincere concern.
“No no, c’mon, just moved ’em. Relocation. Relocation. You know.”
“U huh. Why we talkin about chucks, Morris?”
“How’s it going with Bo Hickles? He’s a good man ya know.”
“I know. It goes well. Who knew decent men like Bo, and maybe you, even existed. Why we talking about Bo, Morris?”
“Does he know? About us? The hideouts?”
“I know I should tell him but....he’s like a warm bed when you don’t want to get up to go to school. You think I should tell him? He’s a lil’ busy with a harvest now.”
“I need his help.”
“What can Bo do?” Celia asked, draining her coffee.
“Special forces, baby, special forces.”