by Martha
 marthalgm@yahoo.com
 

Date: Tue, 8 Feb 2000
Keywords:  none
 Rating:    PG
 Classific: S
 Spoilers:  Millennium (US7) did not happen.
 Summary:   "I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy,"
            These words he did say as I boldly stepped by.
            "Come sit down beside me and hear my sad story -
            I'm shot in the breast and I know I must die."
             - The Cowboy's Lament (aka Streets of Laredo)
               Francis Henry Maynard  1876
 
 
 In the Streets of Fire - A Gunman's Lament
 by Martha
 marthalgm@yahoo.com
 
 
 I honestly thought that it was just the fireworks.
 
 One big-ass party had been planned for down at the Washington
 Mall to ring in the New Year.  Concerts, dancing, food - just
 like every other First Night celebration that was going on all
 across the country - to be followed up by fireworks at
 midnight.
 
 We - Langly, Byers, and I - had slightly more important
 activities planned for the evening.  Like making sure that
 tomorrow did come.  That there were no power interruptions,
 phone service was still at our fingertips, ATMs didn't clam up,
 and any nuclear missiles that hadn't been decommissioned and
 dismantled didn't accidentally launch themselves.  And I would
 be most grateful if the student loan that I finally finished
 paying off in 1975 didn't come back to haunt my credit report.
 
 I thought that they were just running behind schedule.
 
 Until I heard the sirens.
 
 Until the ground started rumbling and I heard the explosions.
 
 In the days leading up to Friday, December 31, 1999, reservists
 from the Army and Marine Corps had been called up to active
 status to shore up the National Guardsmen who had already been
 put on alert due to Y2K concerns.  Each state allowed FEMA
 offices to open in cooperation with its own emergency
 headquarters.  The warning of letter and package bombs,
 increased security at airports and border crossings, the
 confiscation of bombing materials and the arrest of a smuggler
 with connections to terrorist groups all led to make people in
 a lot of cities very nervous.
 
 We played right into their hands.
 
 Langly's greatest fear was that, should the computers and power
 sources shut down leading everyone around us to panic, we would
 be trapped in our headquarters.  Never mind that it would offer
 protection, shelter, and a base with a certain amount of
 security.  He had been tagging equipment for those last few
 weeks, trying to determine what he could or could not fit into
 the van.  Under the cover of darkness that last evening, he
 began loading those essentials - network hardware,
 communications equipment, food, water.  To humor him, Byers
 packed clothing and protective wear; I gathered the weapons and
 ammunition.
 
 When the phone lines went dead right after midnight, we just
 thought that all that blustering by AT&T about how compliant it
 was would be reflected by a sharp drop in its trading price
 when the markets opened the following week.  We barely noticed
 when the electricity was cut as we had most of the place hooked
 up to our own generators.  When the TV screens went blank, we
 blamed the cable companies and tapped into a satellite resource
 to splice in the CNN feed.
 
 When we finally got an image to appear, the Atlanta newsdesk -
 which should have been showing its coverage of midnight
 festivities - was in a panic with two news anchors handling two
 frightened callers on the air.  We couldn't figure out why CNN
 was airing what we thought were two obviously hysterical drunks
 until we heard the same rumbling explosions coming from their
 locations and the alarm in the voices of the staff who were
 usually off-screen and silent.  The feed went dead right after
 Wolf Blitzer stated that something very wrong was going on.
 
 We were out the door and in the van within five minutes.
 
 Langly may have taken great pains to determine what we would
 have with us but as soon as he crawled into the driver's seat,
 he froze with the keys in his hand.  We had never discussed
 just how we were going to get out of the city.  Byers ruled out
 heading west - we would never get through the crowd that had
 gathered at the Mall and the bridges leading to Arlington and
 Georgetown.  If we headed north, we'd run into the panic in the
 Maryland suburbs.  South and east, we decided, and then cut
 back to Interstate 95 in southern Virginia.  After that, who
 knows?  Maybe by then we would have some ideas as to what
 exactly had happened and who we were dealing with.
 
 Langly drove while I navigated.  Byers was in the back picking
 up what he could on one of the radio scanners.  About two hours
 into our journey, we learned that we had just missed a military
 roadblock on the Beltway and that the North Carolina National
 Guard had shut down I-95 at its Virginia border.  We had
 already made the westerly turn towards Fredericksburg and
 decided to keep going towards Charlottesville and make our way
 to the mountains.
 
 The night turned into New Year's Day.  Tomorrow did come but at
 a price.  We all cursed a hundred regrets that we should have
 stayed put, but we couldn't return to the unknown.  And so the
 search began to find a new home.
 
 Most of the offshoots of the local militia in North Carolina,
 Tennessee, and Georgia were gathering in the Nantahala National
 Forest according to a mishmash of broadcasts that we were able
 to pick up that first day.  We debated amongst ourselves as to
 whether we should join up with them - Byers wanted the safety
 and security of the numbers while Langly thought that we would
 be shot on site as possible infiltrators.  I had hoped that
 some among that crowd might have heard of us and that we would
 be allowed to contribute to their effort - whatever that ended
 up being.
 
 And so we drove.
 
 We would not know until the second day that several Metro
 stations - Union Station, Rosslyn, and Metro Center - had been
 bombed, effectively cutting that service into and out of the
 District of Columbia.  These were the explosions that I had
 initially mistaken for the fireworks.  The roadblocks on the
 Beltway were to keep key military and government officials out
 of the city;  the ones who were not in on the coup were at home
 celebrating while the victors were manning the offices.  There
 went the holiday weekend.
 
 Trying to find the usually visible public authorities who could
 always be counted on to go to the airwaves to feed the media
 frenzy was futile as scores of people were suddenly rumored to
 be as nonexistent as the traditional media sources.  Satellite
 communications were severed, making short-wave radio the new
 hot thing to have this season.
 
 On the third day, we buried Langly.
 
 My one solace in all this is that he never saw it coming.  In
 Nam, it went unspoken that you would always hear the bullet
 that was meant for you - the `thttt' as it leaves your enemy's
 weapon, the `swoosh' as it glides through the air, the `thump'
 as it hits your chest.  You have this confused look on your
 face as the bullet proceeds to play pinball with your ribcage
 and yet somehow you never hear your own screams until just
 before everything goes dark.
 
 Where that bullet came from we may never know.  Probably
 snipers on the lookout for people just like us.  We had pulled
 off at a picnic overlook and backed the van down one of the
 worn tracks so that it couldn't be seen from the road.  We were
 just watching him walk towards the bathrooms to fill up one of
 the water jugs when, all of a sudden, he collapsed between two
 picnic tables.
 
 Byers made the first move towards him, and it took several
 seconds for the events to register before I up and tackled him
 and held him down while we listened for any advance of the
 attackers.  Probably the longest two minutes of our lives
 passed before we felt secure enough to make a dash toward where
 Langly had fallen.
 
 His heart had stopped beating.  Thankfully his eyes were
 already closed.  Deliberate or not, the bullet caught him just
 above the right ear.  If he had been walking just a bit faster
 or slower, it would have missed him and continued on.  We
 didn't know if we had any time before being surrounded so we
 had to move quickly.  We bundled him up and laid him out in the
 back of the van and sped off.
 
 Towards sunset, we pulled over near a mile marker with no other
 distinguishing factors.  While Byers prepared the body, I
 searched for a suitable burial spot.  I found a small culvert
 about twenty yards away from the road, just deep enough so that
 we would not have to do any digging.  Byers carried Langly over
 his shoulders, wrapped up in the blanket that we had to place
 under his head to catch the blood.  I picked up a number of
 pine branches to lay over him in a feeble attempt to protect
 him from the elements.  We decided to spend the night in this
 place - we just couldn't make ourselves leave.  Not yet anyway.
 Once during the night, I awoke to hear Byers crying.  But I did
 not mention this to him, as I know that sometime during that
 same night, he had heard my anguish.
 
 Funny, all along I thought that Byers would be the first to go.
 He had the intelligence and a sharp analytical mind but for
 sheer think-quick-and-keep-your-head-down instincts, Byers was
 the one who lagged behind the pack.  And yet there he still
 was, removing all identifying markers from the clothing and
 emptying all the pockets, even taking Langly's glasses.
 
 On the fourth day, we met up with one of the smaller militia
 camps.
 
 Langly was partially right - they didn't trust us at first
 sight and kept us separated from our van and under guard for
 several hours.  But desperation and resignation to what they
 saw as the New World Order will make strange bedfellows between
 paranoid small town folk and those who broadcast the existence
 of what fuels that paranoia.  Byers lent a hand with making
 sense out of all of the `news' reports while I began to
 compliment the current Information Center with Langly's
 equipment inventory.
 
 We learned of a gathering to be held the following afternoon
 where several of the other smaller militia camps were to meet
 and share information and strategies.  We all loaded up into a
 number of pickup trucks to keep the traffic on the roads down
 to a minimum.
 
 I saw Byers pass by, sitting in the back of one of the first
 pickups to head down the road.  I was toying with the idea of
 taking the van but, in the unfamiliar territory and narrow
 roads, I nixed the idea and climbed into the car of one of the
 stragglers.
 
 We didn't notice that anything was out of place until we
 rounded that last curve.  A number of the pickup trucks were
 either turned over or had run off the asphalt - their former
 passengers scattered on the road, in the field, leaning against
 the mountain rock, many of whom were motionless.  The low-lying
 mist made it difficult to pick out Byers in the crowd but I had
 little chance to focus before my companion sharply U-turned and
 headed back up the mountain road.  I screamed that we had to go
 back and get our friends, but the guy grabbed my arm and held
 me close to his side.  Gas, he whispered, and then let go so he
 could keep the car on the road.  And then I realized that that
 was no mist that I had seen.
 
 It was almost dark before we returned to the meeting place with
 additional ammunition and flashlights and the several gas masks
 that had already been unpacked.  It went unspoken that taking
 the entire box would have been a wasted effort.
 
 I found Byers just after sunset.  Alive but just barely.  Alive
 but not for long.  He had managed to crawl away from the road
 and was lying face up in a bed of dead leaves.  The rash on his
 cheeks and hands and the shallow breathing led to one
 conclusion: some variation of smallpox, it seemed, and fast
 acting by the looks of the bodies I had come across while
 searching for him.  The Consortium scientists appear to have
 succeeded in their refinement.  Sarin gas would have been my
 guess as to their first choice, but it was too cold in the
 mountains - it would have dissipated too quickly.  The use of a
 smallpox strain would allow any survivors to infect others and
 thereby dwindle the resistance forces.  It really was the smart
 choice, if you didn't think about it too long.
 
 How he recognized me in that mask in those last moments, I'll
 never know - by then he must have been blinded.  He spoke a few
 sentences of those anxious minutes a few years ago when he was
 in that clinic with Mulder and he was fighting his way through
 the dark hallways to escape.  I think that he was imagining
 that he was still in there - plastered against a cold wall,
 barely able to breathe, and dodging the authorities in an
 effort to make it outside.  And then he whispered Susanne's
 name, and the only sounds I heard after that were the leaves
 crunching underneath my knees and hands as I fell to the ground
 beside him in my grief.
 
 It was difficult to simultaneously breathe and cry in that gas
 mask, and I deliberated for a number of minutes as to whether I
 should just tear it off and risk ending it all right then and
 there.  But in the end, I was too afraid to do this to myself.
 I had to keep trying - they would have told me to on ahead.
 There might still be comrades out there who could use my
 services.
 
 I took a old quilt that had been stored in the car and covered
 Byers with it.  I found a number of rocks to anchor the edges
 and piled the leaves over him.
 
 After determining that most of the group had perished in the
 gas attack, my companion and I went back to the campsite.
 Those who had stayed behind began to pack up and make plans to
 move on to a new home come sunrise.  I loaded up our equipment
 and moved the van further up the mountain road, just in case
 any ground troops would make a sweep through the area, and I
 slept on the empty bench seat that I had no one to fight over
 with.
 
 When I woke the next day, the sun was just peaking over the
 mountain ridge bathing my face in warm light.  It hurt to move
 too quickly, to make it outside to relieve myself.  I noticed
 that my hands appeared cut and scraped, and then I remembered
 my activities of the previous evening.  It was not until I
 caught myself in the reflection of the van windows that I
 noticed that my face was covered with a rash, the same one that
 I had seen last night on so many of the dead and dying.
 Apparently, my companion and I did not escape the effects of
 the gas but had caught just enough to make us sick and
 contagious and quite possibly enough to kill us.
 
 I should have stopped by the campsite, to warn the others, but
 I had no idea as to how much time that I had left.  I drove
 down the road I so carefully climbed last night and made my way
 to just short of the carnage of bodies and metal.  I paused for
 a moment, my hands gripping the steering wheel, and searched
 for the strength to make the final move from that seat.  And
 when I finally did, I packed a few personal items to take with
 me.  Down the slope a bit.  Back to where I buried Byers.
 
 The sun is just about to set beyond the next mountain range.
 My fingers are so very sore from writing most of the day, my
 eyes burn, and the water in my canteen is almost gone.  The
 temperature will drop drastically once twilight comes, but I
 know what lies ahead for me.  If death does not come in the
 night, my pistol will hasten the inevitable, and I do not think
 that I will be in any condition to back out this time.
 
 And so here I sit, passerby, to warn you not to dwell too long
 in this place.  I do not know if what they dropped on us has
 dissipated or gone dormant.  Take these notes, such as they
 are.  I have made a diagram of where we left Langly, along with
 the last-known addresses of his family.  I've included Byers'
 addresses as well, but I do not know how to get in touch with
 Susanne other than through email - if the internet is still up
 and running, please try.  I would not want her to worry
 needlessly.
 
 As for me, the only child of an only child, I know for a fact
 that there are no relations who would still wonder about me.
 But if you should find yourself in the area and wish to
 undertake this task, notify either Fox Mulder or Dana Scully,
 both agents with the FBI (should it still exist), of my fate.
 Tell them that I love them both very much.  Tell them that I
 couldn't continue, not without my companions.  Tell them that I
 hope that they will understand.
 
 Melvin Frohike
 January 6, 2000
 
===========================================================
 ===========================================================
 But, Mom, all the big kids are doing it.
 
 A lot of good dark and doom, TEOTWAWKI-type stories have come
 out recently, and I wanted to try one, with just the boys of
 course.
 
 
 
 end