The Pit (The Bugging Out Series Book 4) (33 page)

She paused there. Not nervous, but almost on edge. Maybe even angry to the slightest degree.

“Eric, what you described, the troops and the bird you saw, that was not authorized by the president,” Schiavo said. “Or anyone in his government.”

She didn’t say outright what she was conveying. But it was plain enough.

“There’s still another faction operating,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “One that’s well equipped, according to what you saw. Gear and transport like that isn’t just left around for the taking.”

“That means entire units have gone over to this faction,” Elaine said.

Schiavo nodded.

“We were wondering why the White Signal was still broadcasting,” Schiavo said.

“This other faction,” Elaine said. “They have the satellite, don’t they?”

Schiavo nodded, just a hint of grim concern in the admission.

“I already passed on what you told me through a burst transmission. If there are any orders because of that situation, I’ll let you know. Right away. Fair enough?”

I nodded. So did Elaine. Martin, though, gave no indication of reply. He’d said not a word since we’d sat down with our coffee to hear the captain out.

“Martin...”

I spoke his name to draw his attention. But he did not look to me when he finally spoke. It was to Schiavo that he set his gaze.

“Captain, you should know,” he began, “that I don’t intend...”

He hesitated there. Elaine glanced my way, concerned.

“Martin, what is it?” I asked.

Now he turned, facing me from where he sat, Elaine between us.

“No one ever elected me to anything,” he said. “I just fell into this role because of Micah. There’s no reason I should be sitting at this table any more than anyone else in this town. Certainly not more than you.”

I wasn’t sure where he was going with this stream of spoken consciousness. That he’d been Bandon’s leader, elected or otherwise, was something all had accepted. Because of Micah, or not, he’d nonetheless exhibited a way with the reins of power. Sometimes he had wielded it with force through subordinates, as when we’d first landed in Bandon in search of an enigmatic locale we knew only through equally cryptic radio broadcasts. But he’d also shown a depth of understanding on that very same night. In the hours that followed our arrival when he introduced us to his son. To the savant who was, for all intents and purposes, the Eagle One we’d been searching for.

Bandon was Martin’s home. But Micah was his life. His reason for being. For surviving. When the boy, his boy, died peacefully in his sleep, I’d sensed that a large part of who Martin Jay was evaporated into the ether. His position as the de facto leader of the four hundred plus people who called Bandon home had been predicated mostly on what the child had provided for the community, and in the short span between Micah’s passing and our departure for Wyoming, Martin’s sense of purpose had seemed to dim. Now, as he spoke to us in the meeting hall where hundreds had once gathered to hear him discuss town business, only a few hung on his words. To him, I thought, it was the few who mattered most.

“I’m done,” Martin said. “I’m not in charge anymore.”

“Martin...”

Elaine was quietly surprised. Maybe shocked to a degree. I suspected any of Bandon’s residents who heard what we just had would react similarly.

“I never wanted this,” he said. “I’ve been proud to do what I have, and I’ve tried to do what I thought was best, but now...”

He didn’t finish. His gaze simply shifted toward the one who’d called us all to this meeting.

Schiavo met his look. Her eyes glistened slightly. Martin smiled and slid his chair back, standing for a moment. Not moving. He cleared his throat, some emotion threatening to overwhelm.

Then, he left us. Walked out of the meeting house, just Martin Jay, citizen of Bandon, Oregon.

Elaine stared at the table for a moment before looking up.

“Now what?” she asked.

From the end of the table an answer came. A suggestion that was the most logical way forward.

“Sounds like an election is in order,” Specialist Sheryl Quincy said.

Schiavo let the flourish of emotion she’d allowed fade, then looked to the newest member of her unit. Quincy immediately feared she’d stepped out of line by expressing a course of action before her commander could weigh in.

“My thoughts exactly, Specialist,” Schiavo said.

A
n odd normalcy began to settle over the town of Bandon following the
Rushmore
’s arrival and departure.

For Christmas we had ham. Thawed and smoked by an eager group of men from the street bordering the park. Those who wanted to were invited to a community dinner in the meeting hall. Those who desired a more traditional feast with those closest to them came and picked up plentiful portions, along with the vegetable and potato side dishes, and returned to their homes to celebrate in a more intimate fashion.

More came together to ring in the New Year. Someone had found an old supply of fireworks and we rang in the stroke of midnight watching rockets burst over the Pacific, drizzling blue and red and green sparkles upon the black water.

One of the town’s children, Lexi Overstreet, a girl of eight, proclaimed loudly over the staccato noise of the celebration that this was the best New Years
ever!

For some reason that appraisal buoyed me. It was simple and joyous and unsullied by what she, and everyone, had been through over the past months and years.

The fields beyond town had been fenced to contain the cows, and cattle, and sheep, and myriad of other livestock the
Rushmore
had delivered. Residents with ranching experience stepped up to the plate and tended to the herds. Chickens, which had numbered in the low hundreds when brought ashore, had more than doubled in number. Eggs were plentiful, and, when the hen population was stabilized, fresh fowl would be available to all on an ongoing basis.

An election had been held, not long after Martin announced, to us first and to the entire town the next day, that he was ceding any authority that had been granted him. He’d simply said that he wanted to attempt having some sort of normal life. There were worries that he could not be replaced. But, in the end, when the town coalesced around a single candidate, unanimity replaced any concern.

Everett Allen had been chosen for the position of Bandon’s new Mayor. Doc Allen. He’d accepted the responsibility, joking that he needed something to do now that there was a Navy doctor to handle the majority of the town’s medical needs. His wife, he’d also explained, couldn’t stand him under foot all the time at home, so keeping busy with the business of Bandon was his only way to keep from scuttling a fifty year marriage.

The person most happy, though, about Doc Allen taking the municipal reins was Martin Jay.

I’d feared that in the absence of some structure to his existence he would be forced to face the loss he’d suffered without distraction. Without the buffer of responsibility to focus his thoughts and actions elsewhere.

That did not happen.

What I’d first noticed hints of in Skagway, some nascent connection between Martin and Captain Schiavo, had developed even further on the voyage back home aboard the
Northwest Majesty
. Once he’d distanced himself from the day to day leadership of the town, I began to see them together more and more. He always maintained a respectful distance from her when she was on duty, but in those times when she switched from urban camo to blue jeans and a blouse, they seemed to enjoy each other’s company more and more. It seemed clear to me, and to Elaine, to everyone who spent any time around them, in fact, that a relationship was blossoming.

That was confirmed to me on a rainy day in January when Martin knocked on my door. On our door.

“Martin,” Elaine said, opening the door to find our friend standing in the shelter of our porch.

Our porch...

Elaine had moved in with me. In the new world, even one that seemed to be creeping toward a normalcy that bore small resemblances to the old world, moving in required little more than shifting several duffels of clothing and personal items, along with a few favored pieces of furniture, from her house to mine. At first it had felt odd, sharing this space, my space, with another. And it still did, though the reasoning behind it had changed.

Neil and Grace had sealed their union. They’d been married, in a ceremony before those that cared for them. Those that knew them. Even with my friend’s absence weighing heavy still, and an anger toward him that I could not yet process away, the path he had chosen had always seemed the right one. The proper one.

Elaine, though, was hesitant. When I’d broached the subject of marriage, a construct that, even in this most tumultuous time, was based upon ideals I held dear, she’d seemed only mildly tolerant of the possibility
someday
.

I loved her. And I knew she loved me. But I also knew I could not force the issue with her. She’d suffered loss in the unknowns surrounding her brother’s fate. And, as odd as it seemed, what my friend had warned me about—not putting myself in a position to witness something terrible happening to Elaine—might be at least part of what was influencing her reluctance to make our relationship permanent in a traditional sense.

So when Martin came to our house dripping from the downpour, I had no idea that the request he was about to make would change my life. And Elaine’s.

“I’m going to ask Angela to marry me,” Martin said as he sat in the living room with Elaine and me.

“Martin,” Elaine said, standing to lean across the coffee table and give him a quick hug. “That is so, so wonderful.”

“It is, Martin,” I echoed.

Elaine sat next to me again and put her hand atop mine, gripping it firmly.

“I think she’ll say yes,” Martin said.

“She will,” Elaine said, calmly giddy. “I know she will.”

Girl talk. That was what came to mind. The thoughts that the fairer sex share only with each other. Elaine had spent enough time with Angela to have some sense of where her feelings toward Martin stood. The certainty she expressed about his proposal being accepted convinced me of that.

Martin and I, on the other hand, usually talked about fishing when we spent any time together.

“The reason I’m telling you this is...”

He hesitated there, trying to choose his words, it seemed.

“Would Micah have liked her?”

His question was posed with true, heartbreaking emotion.

“I know he’s not here, but I can’t imagine myself with anyone that he wouldn’t have...loved.”

It was more than touching what he was feeling. Not doubt, but a desire for confirmation that his son, by proxy, would approve of the woman who was very clearly making him happy. That he considered Elaine and me to be those who might serve as the conscience of his departed son made me, and her, I was certain, feel honored.

“Martin,” I said, and he looked to me. “If you and Angela hadn’t found each other, I think Micah would have found her for you.”

Elaine squeezed my hand and looked to me, the barest skim of emotion in her gaze.

“Thank you, Eric,” Martin said. “Thank you, Elaine. Both of you. I really don’t know what I...”

He stopped there. That road led to melancholy. To bitter memory. And he wanted none of that now. Not here. Not with this decision made.

“I’m glad you’re my friends,” Martin said.

*  *  *

W
e lay in bed with the window open and rain pattering on the greening earth outside.

“Do you think they’ll have kids?”

Elaine asked the question with her head resting on my chest, the both of us gazing past the fluttering curtains at the trickles of water spilling off the eaves.

“That’s a tough one,” I said.

Martin was in his early forties. Angela her mid-thirties. Age was no barrier. But other factors would obviously influence any decision in that arena.

“I want a child,” Elaine said.

For an instant what she’d said didn’t register. Then, as if there’d been a thunderclap from the storm, it did, and my head angled slowly toward her. She looked up at me and rose up on her elbows, face hovering over mine.

“Is that a crazy thing to want in this world?” she asked me.

“No,” I said. “It’s not. It’s absolutely sane. On every level.”

She looked at me, surprised at the quiet fervor of my acceptance of her desire.

“Without new life, we go away,” I told her. “Humankind.”

“So it’s just a question of biology,” she said, half grinning.

“No,” I assured her. “It’s more than that. It’s...”

I couldn’t say it. Elaine sensed what I wanted to say, and why it was difficult to do so.

“It’s a statement of hope,” she said for me.

Hope...

I could have let thoughts of my friend rise right then, possibly to overwhelm what was happening between Elaine and me. But I didn’t. Neil Moore was not the exclusive purveyor of hope. Of a belief in tomorrow. And his absence didn’t diminish the importance of it.

“Yes it is,” I said.

There was something else that was a statement of hope. Or that would be.

“Excuse me,” I said.

I slipped out of bed. Elaine sat halfway up and pulled the comforter up to cover herself against the night’s soothing chill. She watched me go to the closet and reach to a shelf within, retrieving a small pouch. With the tiny fabric bag in hand I returned to the bed and sat on the edge next to her.

“Hold out your hand,” I said.

She puzzled at my cryptic manner, then eased a hand from beneath the covers and extended it, palm up. I held the bag over it and tipped it upside down, letting the contents spill out.

A ring.

Her gaze fixed on the simple band and the even simpler stone set into it.

“I went looking through the shops in Skagway before we left,” I said.

Her face was blank with surprise. As if some wholly unexpected event had occurred, either disaster or miracle.

“Now, that can be just a ring,” I said. “A gift. Something you wear. Or...”