Predator and Pray

I wasn’t supposed to be the one left alive, at least when the arrests happened, yet here I am in the prison yard – sorry, I mean the Detainee Internment Camp, Kentucky. That’s right, I’m in the DICK. Yes, that’s what we call it, and yes, everyone who works here, is one. It’s a supreme irony that this is a women-only camp. Perhaps the “powers that be” have a sense of humor putting women in the DICK. It could be worse though. One of the guards here used to work at the PRIC (I kid you not) – Puerto Rico Internment Camp. Unspeakable stuff happens there. That’s where they send the most incorrigible men and women who need the most “convincing” concerning how the world is now. Word around the yard is that the PRIC makes the former base at Guantanamo Bay look like a Miami beach vacation, at least before the Cubans laid claim to South Florida. Who knew the world could go to hell so fast? All I know is, my entire family is dead. Husband, son, daughter, and my mom and dad – all gone.

I walked the inner perimeter of the yard, watching every guard casually and taking care not to have eye contact. No need to provoke a baton across the back or latrine-cleaning duty. I still think about the faces I never saw -- the faces of the men who came down the road in trucks that night. But I imagined everyday what I would do to them if I ever got the chance. “Bastards,” I sighed to myself.

I headed for the recreation building but glanced back as I heard the gates open. An old school bus rolled in spewing diesel fumes and chugging to the disembarkation area. Newbies? I didn’t really care, but no – it was a fresh set of guards in training. Great. More Kool-Aid® drinking morons. A part of me didn’t blame them though. They got three squares a day and a shower at least, which is more than I can say for the incarcerated. And there’s electricity at the camps which made it better duty.

I cracked open the rec hall door and peered in. No trouble-making wenches this time. Just the usual card game, someone on a guitar, and a handful of ladies working in arts and crafts – if one could call it that. Sure, there were some foam shapes and glue, and even some crayons and paper. But no scissors of course, or knitting needles, or anything that could be used as a weapon. I guess that makes them not totally stupid. I walked over to the window and slumped into a chair.

“Hey Rachel – check out the barn animals I made,” said someone who was way too cheery and whose name I didn’t care to remember.

“Cool,” I said without even looking at her. Maybe she would be satisfied with the brief acknowledgement and leave. No such luck. Why do the most irritating people insist on having conversations with those who just want to sit and be left alone?

"Here look at this -- I've got a cow, a horse, a chicken, a barn owl…”

A barn owl…My eyes turned to fire as I rose to my feet, grabbing that stupid foam owl. My voice was low, and I meant every word: “How would you like to have this barn owl jammed into a bodily orifice?” She turned away wide-eyed without a word. Don’t talk to me about barn owls. Or barns. I settled back into my chair and looked out the window, but all I could see was that night three years ago.

My husband’s hand-held radio crackled as we sat at the dinner table. I shot Mark a disapproving look. “I thought we agreed not to have that on during dinner.”

“I’ll turn it down.”

I understood why he used it. We were the third and last farm on an eight mile stretch of road. We kept tabs on Ron, a widower, who was about a quarter mile north of us; Ron had comms with my parents, Bob and Betsy, who were another mile further still. After being neighbors for years, and helping each other through thick and thin, it was just faster to get help via radio. Christopher and Leah of course preferred their cell phones, which also weren’t permitted at the table. I didn’t know then that it would be our last dinner together. Actually, it was our last anything together.

As I cleared the table, I heard Mark turn up the evening news on the TV before heading out to finish up his project in the woodshop.

“The Government is reporting that more than a dozen domestic terrorists were arrested today at a food distribution center when they attempted to hijack official vehicles and ram them into the building. Authorities have dispatched security teams to several rural areas where the terrorists are believed to be receiving aid and comfort from sympathetic supporters…and [inaudible] … martial law.”

When the house phone on the landline rang, I picked it up without thinking as I worked on the dishes. “Hello?”

“Mark why aren’t you on the damn radio –”

“Ron? This is Rachel –”

“They’re here! Get out n–”

The line cut off and a moment later all the lights went out. A sick feeling began to rise in my throat. I grabbed my bird-watching binoculars I kept near the kitchen window and quickly made my way to the stairs. Normally I’d just bounce up the stairs, but the cat decided that this was a great time to run through my legs, which caused me to miss a step and jam my wrist catching myself. I swear I’m gonna make a pair of slippers out of that furball. I smiled at the thought, but that smile quickly turned to dread as I got to the front bedroom window and looked up the road to Ron’s farm. Lights. Trucks. And men. Lots of men with guns.

Ron’s house was pitch black, but I could see three figures on their knees with hands behind their backs in front of the truck lights. I adjusted the focus as my mind struggled to reconcile what I was seeing: Ron, Bob, and Betsy were the ones on their knees. Mom and Dad? Oh no. Dozens of soldiers – I mean, I guess they’re soldiers…Didn’t I hear something about martial law on the television? But that wouldn’t be here…would it?

I could see that Ron’s house was being ransacked. Everything was hauled out of the house and onto trucks. I wish that was the end of it. I wish I didn’t see anymore. But now they were burning the house. Then one man with a sidearm walked behind Ron and pointed the gun at his head. I didn’t want to watch, but I couldn’t stop watching. It was like seeing a horrible accident on the highway and not being able to look away. Then I heard the shot. I saw the body slump in a heap.

I let the binoculars fall to the floor. For a moment I couldn’t decide if I needed to run or throw up. A second shot rang out. I screamed, “NO! JESUS, NO!” For the love of God, this cannot be happening! My legs came to life as my brain finally engaged after an eternity of several seconds. I hauled ass downstairs, not caring if I killed the cat this time, and out the backdoor. Mark was barking at the kids to hide in the barn as the third shot sliced through the darkness. Our eyes met and we knew: our farm was next.

Mark hugged me for just a moment and then handed me his 9mm handgun. “I’m gonna try to draw them away. Protect the kids and get to your parent’s lake house as soon as you can.” And with that he mouthed “I love you,” fired up the Ford F-250, and bolted for the road -- stopping only long enough at the roadside to fire off two rifle rounds. The trucks down at Ron’s place started to roll in pursuit.

Running into the barn, I saw both kids crouched near the door. I pulled them to their feet. I could hear the trucks outside over Leah’s whimpers. I cracked the door just enough to see. One truck hobbled into our driveway with a flat tire while the remaining three were trailing Mark’s truck.

I motioned to the kids to keep quiet and to climb up to the secret loft that Mark had built for them. It was a great place for them to hang out, at least in normal times when not running for our lives. There was no ladder, so it wasn’t an obvious place to look when entering the barn. Mark had built special handholds and toe holds along the framework. I was always afraid that they would fall but the kids loved it. It was big enough for each of them to have a friend visit for a sleepover. There was even a zipline out the rear end for flying into the back pond in the summer. But the really cool thing at the time was the pair of barn owls that nested in a hollow area of the loft at the intersection of two beams. We used to watch them fly out in the evening to hunt their prey. But now, we were the prey.

As the kids slid into their hiding place, I hopped into the goat pen and covered myself with as much hay as I could. Maintaining my prone position, I could use the animals for extra concealment while peeking around them or under their legs. I had good line-of-sight to both the kids in the secret loft and the side barn door we just came through. I quietly checked my 9mm: seven bullets in the magazine and one in the chamber. Probably not enough.

The voices were just outside the door now. “Sargent, take your men to check the barn. Corporal, keep your gun on the detainees in the truck. I’ll take my men to clear the house. Bring them out alive.”

“Yes sir!”

Four rifle barrels with lights attached entered the barn and swept the darkness. Each man was like a shadow. I wasn’t sure why they were looking for us, but after watching them murder my parents and Ron, I found it hard to believe they intended to take us alive. I was sweating profusely despite the cool air and I’m pretty sure my forearms were resting in goat poop – the price I pay for a cat-induced jammed wrist. But I kept my gun level without it poking through the hay. As they passed to my left, I glanced toward the loft – and then all hell broke loose.

I saw Chris’s head briefly as the lights moved through the barn. God, please don’t let him do anything stupid… As my eyes readjusted to the dark, I could see something sticking out from the loft. Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. Chris had his .22 rifle up there. These soldiers were wearing body armor and helmets. Couldn’t Chris see that? Now my heart was beating through my chest. One wrong move and bullets would be flying. It looked like Chris was pulling back for an instant – but in that instant the barn owls flew in from the back end and screeched, perhaps in surprise, but it didn’t matter because the effect was the same. All four lights whipped around and focused on the source of the screech – Chris was illuminated, rifle in hand. All four men were yelling. The barn owls were screeching. My children were screaming. And then the air erupted in gunfire.

I’ve killed animals because that’s part of living on a farm. I never thought I could kill a human being. And I thought that because I’m a mother. But in that fraction of time when my son was being fired upon, I was able to shoot two of those bastards in the back of the neck. In the three seconds that followed, the remaining two men swung around and began shooting into the goat pen. I stared up through the hay as two goats died on top of me, pinning the gun underneath. One of the soldiers found the handholds and crawled up to the loft, and then I saw my son’s body slide out of the loft to the ground. Then he tossed the two dead barn owls over the side. That was the last thing I saw before being butt-stroked by the soldier trying to figure out how he was going to explain the deaths to his lieutenant.

I held my head in my hands back in the rec hall. Behind me, I heard the door open and all activity in the room stopped. The sound of boots echoed and then the voice of Captain Henshaw, formerly of the PRIC, filled our ears.

“Alright you maggots! You know the drill.” I glanced up ever so slightly. I really hate it when Henshaw tries to show how important he is in front of the trainees. The rest of the guards don’t care unless you disrespect them. But not Henshaw. He’s gotta drag this dozen or so wet-behind-the-ears young girls-turned-guards into the rec room to show how big he is in the DICK.

All the women detainees got to their feet, and instinctively looked at the floor. Except for me. Call it PTSD or call it a death wish – I didn’t care. I didn’t care when he bellowed and stomped over to my chair. I didn’t care when he yanked me out of the chair by my hair. I didn’t care when he smashed my head to the floor until it bled. I. Did. Not. Care.

Until a petite little trainee came forward from behind all the other girls.

“Mom?”