FICTION - The Facility

1945 hours, October 11  

The Facility, Warm Springs, VA.

A flawless red sky stretches out past the hills — means the end is coming. Ain’t seen nothing like it in my forty-three years on this planet, and I’ve seen a lot of horrors. 

Back inside, Pastor Michael reads scripture with the family. He makes home calls on Sundays because there ain’t a church for miles. Guess he’ll be staying with us a while longer now.

“Y’all seen it?” I ask, pointing. “Can’t ask for a clearer omen.”

Emily draws breath. She’s always ready to see the best in people. She says we can’t be sure.

“Well, we sure as hell can’t rely on the media. Sorry for cussin’, Pastor.” He shrugs, so I continue. “We have to get out in front of this.”

Gian doodles on a napkin at the kitchen table and I ask if he remembers the protocols. He looks up, bored. “Yes, Dad—”

My raised finger cuts him off. A noise outside. The crack of a twig. Open the door, check the courtyard. Nothing. Damn phantom noises. “This ain’t no game this time. We’ll be shutting the Great Wall for a while.” That's what folks in Warm Springs call our property. You’re American as apple pie when you sign up for the Marines, but soon as you’re out, you’re just another disaster prepper buying up all the ammo and canned food in the local store.

“What about last time?” says Mia. Out of line. And she’s drinking coffee now. When did that start? They’ll take this serious when the bombs start dropping. This war is overdue.

The Facility is the best-equipped survival shelter in all Virginia. Four-foot concrete walls, shock and blast resistant, a thirty-mile communications scrambler, four independent power sources, two fresh-water wells, over ten thousand rounds of ammunition, and eighteen months of rations. My life’s work called into action.

The TV ain’t reporting nothing. The news will come through soon enough. Let’s see what the survival network says. I turn on the radio and call the others. “Crenshaw, Crenshaw, this is the Great Wall. Do you copy?” Silence. 

Pastor Michael starts some kind of sermon. “Steven, the Gospel tells us in—” 

- Crenshaw, Crenshaw. We copy, Great Wall. Over -

I get back on the receiver. “We got a freaky red sky over here in Warm Springs. Over.”

- We’re getting reports of bombs in the capital and a government data hack. Ain’t saying if it’s terrorists, Russians or God knows what. Over.

First DC, then the whole Eastern Seaboard will go up. I sign off and spend the next few minutes spreading the news to the Red Dogs and the others. Pastor Michael sure is paying close attention now, pacing around like an oversized turkey. 

“Let’s not be hasty now. Let’s see what develops,” he says, but more like a question than an order.

Mia looks to me for reassurance but Emily ain’t convinced. She never is. We’ll do alright. Gian is old enough to point a firearm and Mia is a better shot than her mother. They’re in good shape, too. Six a.m. PT will do that to a family, although the same cannot be said for Pastor Michael.

“This is what we train for, troops.” And that damned veterans group called me twitchy.

Next, the power goes. All communication down except the radio. They’ve got to be convinced now, at least until they can get back online and read the federal lies about everything being under control. We sit at the table, the red sky bleeding through the window. Nobody speaks. Then finally, click. When the backup generator fires up, I give the order. “Nobody in, and nobody out.”

2300 hours, March 11 

The power lines are still out but we got word to the Pastor’s wife over the radio. I take the first four-hour watch, so Gian can see in the morning. It’s hard to keep your eyes keen against the dark. A lot of guys in Helmand lost their minds to shadows. Those nights were endless, and you couldn’t sleep none after. It takes a long time to trust somebody has your back. Can’t remember that last time I slept six hours straight.

Motion-sensor lights secure the perimeter. We’ve got enough fuel for the season, and through the winter if we’re careful. Even if this blows over, it’s a darned good test. No updates from the survivalists yet. News takes time to come down the radio chain and The Great Wall is farthest from the capital.

Bolt the windows, seal the entry points. Airborne attack is how I’d go to take out this place. If you gas the sentries while they’re sleeping, you’ve got yourself an easy target. We’ll ventilate during daylight hours.

Mia and Gian are quieter than usual, applying themselves to the tasks I set, but Pastor Michael whines about missing his steak dinner. He ain’t used to dehydrated potatoes and chili. He was talking hushed with Emily after dinner, probably worried he might miss his pancake breakfast. We can’t trust him to walk out of The Facility with knowledge of what we’ve got. Half the state will want shelter here once they know what we’ve got.

We set the pastor up on the sofa with service blankets. Gian takes first watch, and I go to bed calm, happy almost, in familiar territory. The day finally came.

0715 hours, October 12 

My head pounds. It’s light outside. How did I miss my alarms? I check the time and see I almost slept a full eight. Surely Gian didn’t take the whole watch. Crazy kid. The quarters are quiet. No sound of the family. My senses stand to attention. “Emily? Mia? You there?”

With each room I check, my muscles tighten. We got a lot more prep to do, so I don’t need no games of hide and seek. Good troops report for inspection at the appointed time. Pastor Michael’s folded blankets present themselves on the couch. Check the kitchen. Deserted. Then I see the note.

Steven. By the time you read this, we will be gone. We know things aren’t easy for you, but a man can’t keep his family under lock and key. These attacks are just part of life. It’s not normal to live in fear. Pastor Michael agrees. Call your sponsor at the Veterans’ Service, check the news and keep the phone available. We’ll be at my sister’s in Richmond. We hope to see you soon.
Love Emily, Mia, and Gian.

Richmond? That son of a bitch Michael is taking my family to a city full of lowlives and Arab imposters. Does he think he can wait me out, like I’m some storm that’ll blow over? Maybe the note was written under duress. A commando unit could have abducted them. Is the place bugged? I should sever communications right now. First, they infiltrate, then they turn you.

Gotta think about this. I slump into a chair. Did Emily crush some Ambien into my rations? My head pounds and my chest is tight. What if they really are in Richmond and decide to come back? Something smells wrong to me. The power is still out and the last blackout wasn’t more than a few hours. I’m a sitting duck without backup.

At 0800 hours I check in with the Red Dogs. They’ve got access to a national crime database. Yesterday there was sixty-nine homicides logged nationwide, including two in Virginia. Two ‘national security’ incidents. Not good. They tell me the government is trying to sell the bomb attacks as the work of a lone wolf, radicalized. Might even be a vet if they got any explosives knowledge. This President plays down security breaches. Well, the Red Dogs ain’t stupid, they locked down too. Others in the radio chain reported their systems access went out with the power cut. I told them, when it comes it won’t be no full-scale military invasion, but forces getting control of services remotely, then activating the Muslim agents.

The power comes back later in the morning and I struggle to prioritize. Without a chain of command, no one to manage supplies, ventilation, view the control room footage and man the tower, I don’t have a second to spare. There ain’t going to be time for hygiene, vehicle maintenance, intelligence gathering, and sleep. Sleep? I can say goodbye to that. My Ambien induced slumber might be my last ever. My bones are sick with worry about Emily and the kids, but what use am I to them, if a sleeper cell or government agents storm this place?

I make camp in the control room and collect enough rations and water for the next forty-eight hours. I load up my vest with clips and strap on the M16. Smoke grenades and two handguns in the belt. The control room is a darned sight more comfortable than that foxhole in Afghanistan — no radio or rations, just a single tarp to ward off the freezing temperatures. Jenkins wasn’t much company, sat next to me, his jaw shot off by a .50 cal. I watched the shadows hard that night.

The cameras on the entrance road offer nothing. No movement. The tower has a better view over the woods to the south east of the compound.

1600 hours, October 12

I connect the telephone for one last call.

“Hello? Emily?”

“Steven? Thank goodness.”

“Tell me you’re coming back to The Facility. It’s madness out there.”

Silence.

“Emily? Two police dead in DC this afternoon. We gotta make a stand.”

“No, Steven. It’s fine, honey. You should see the people here in Richmond. Going about their business just like they always do.”

“What about the blood sky, the power cut? The bombs tossed at the White House?”

“The media’s saying it was one guy. Literally crazy. No Al Qaeda, no conspiracy.”

“It makes sense to be prepared is all. All I want is to protect what I’ve got.”

“ . . . Steven I—”

“Kids with you? They OK?”

“Sure, they’re fine. They want to come h— .”

“Wait!” I see something on the cameras. A movement.

“What? . . . Steven?” 

I replace the receiver and pull the cord from the phone, then train my eyes on the camera showing the entrance to the wood. There! There it is again. A flicker between the trees. There could be two, three of them. Could be a terrorist unit, or other survivalists be looking to take me out.

Up to the tower with the equipment — weapons, canteen, binoculars and a smock. Make yourself small, climb hand over hand. I grip the metal rungs tight. All this gear ain’t light and I’ve lost a step since I was demobbed a few years back.

The sky casts grey and the wind comes in off the hills. It’s too late to think about gloves now. The wood stretches miles, all the way to the grass line of the high pasture on the mountains. There ain’t no vehicles on the 220, not that there usually is. North side is quiet, the only movement comes from a farm about four miles over. 

First order of business is to calibrate the M24 scope. The sniper system is already trained on the trees where I saw the intruders. Check the wind, adjust the sights. Ready. I fit the stock to my shoulder and fire a single shot to flush them out. 

Crack.

They probably heard that one across the Appalachians. That ought to provoke some movement. Something scrabbles through the dense wood and I train my sight on it. A young deer scrambles away. I could get it, but I save the round. It won’t be easy to storm this castle. Maybe it’s best if Emily and the kids stay in Richmond until this situation is dealt with. I sit. I wait.

0600 hours, October 14 

Dog tired. I stayed in that nest some twenty hours before I drifted off. To be honest, I thought I was made of stronger material, but seeing how it’s just me now, strategic rests are necessary. My knees and elbows hollered at me when I woke. That warning shot replayed in my head, over and over. The intruders surely left when I was out. Nobody wants to mess with an M24 and a guy who knows how to point it. On my second tour, we saw what a 0.300 bullet can do to a human head — opens it up like a hammer to a coconut. After fixing some rations: chili and rice, peanut butter sandwiches, caffeine pills, I’m back on watch. Sun comes up over the woods and burns off the dew. Steam rises like it’s going straight up to heaven.

The Red Dogs got news across it was the Muslims — Twin Towers mark two. Airport closures. They say it’s the weather but I know it ain’t. Officially, the bomber was acting alone, but ex-military types know what signals to look for. The White House has the press under lock and key. With the number of jihadists in Virginia alone, it won’t be long before the war is official. My family means everything, but in combat, you can’t have a foot in both camps. The ground where you stand is the only thing that’s sacred.

In the control room, I cut cables. Taking my hunting blade, I sever the arteries that connect me to our once great country. I have to, in case I get the urge to contact my loved ones who could be lying face down with their lungs burned out in Richmond.

1400 hours, October 18  

Life is simple. I take 10-hour shifts, punctuated by two-hour breaks. Those ten hours are spent praying no tactical teams come back. This could have been something beautiful with my family, but Pastor Michael sequestered them by preaching weakness and patience. Emily, Gian, and my girl, gone. I try to pray for them but my heart ain’t in it.

My life is simple now, lived it ten hours at a time. My field glasses train on the highway trucks, trying to figure out which ones are full of ragheads.

2300 hours, October 20  

My reflection in the metal sheet shows hollow eyes looking back, a service weapon cocked but out of ammo. Got to allow for longer rest periods. Without time for my stretching routines, the knee that was wounded all those years back is giving me pain something fierce.

So much time to think about what’s going on in the world, but no way to know. I wonder if the 220 will deliver my family back to me. The radio’s been quiet for the last twenty-four hours. Maybe the enemy got to the Red Dogs up in Highland County.

1100 hours, October 21  

Movement on the road, twelve o’clock. A lone traveler approaches, kicking up dust with each step. It’s like he wants to be seen. He’s heavy, probably holding, about sixty with greasy hair. Could be a drifter looking for shelter.

As he gets closer, I recognize the figure. It’s Pastor Michael. He keeps his steady pace, putting one foot in front of the other, calm, like the world ain’t on fire. The difference between winning and losing is these security gate exchanges. Dealt with plenty of ‘em before and I’m still here.

Always thought this would be the other way around — the military sending some company Joe to The Facility to tell my family I had passed, asking to use The Facility as a billet — not the other side sending a man of God to try and lure me out. I lie in the tower, afraid to take the lenses from my eyes.

Pastor Michael holds both hands in plain sight and maintains a casual pace, about two hundred yards out, but I see them shaking. That smug mother-fucker has the audacity to come back and ‘save’ me. Maybe he brought a device with him to disable the front gate security. When he reaches one-hundred yards I fire a warning shot over his head. He flinches but keeps on walking.

Ten yards from the gate, he starts hollering, waving his arms and beckoning me to come down and talk. We trained for these false negotiating tactics, pleading and gesturing. I wait. Things look better through the scope — ordered, natural, the crosshairs trained on the checks of his plaid shirt. My finger rests on the trigger. One flick and he’s gone. He motions a telephone call, but I ain’t climbing down to speak to this false prophet. Pastor Michael reaches inside his jacket and withdraws a walkie talkie. Who’s on the other end? Law enforcement? The enemy?

When he leans down and picks up a rock and my whole body stiffens. He ties something to it and draws his arm back to hurl it over the gate. Pastor Michael looks down at his walkie, ready to relay information to his captors after my first move. I take a breath. He tosses the rock high into the air.

All my sacrifice means nothing if I put down this gun. If I talk to the pastor, I lose my position. Just when life became so simple. In a few minutes, there’ll be army trucks hurtling down the dirt track. I’m sure of it. 

I shift my right leg to get the blood flowing.

Suddenly, he presses call and starts yabbering. No communication. Narrow your eyes, relax, squeeze the trigger twice. Pop, pop. As the metal flies through the air I feel the dry air of Helmand province on my skin. I see the white robes and headdresses of dirt-poor farmers and  Taliban scouts. God knows which was which. At war I am whole. The first bullet punches into the Pastor’s chest and he flies back ten feet. I hear jets flying overhead, a formation of five, dropping hundreds of bombs, always missing. Pastor Michael hits the dirt as the second shot pounds into his shoulder. I see the sniper on the hill, the goat herders blown to smithereens, and Jenkins split face, laughing next to me in my foxhole. 

Pastor Michael ain’t getting up. He’s gone up to heaven. The rock he threw lands with a thump inside the gate.

I release the weapon and slide down the ladder fast, jarring my leg at the bottom. The gate takes an eternity to open and I squeeze through, hoping to hear Pastor Michael’s last words. But, he ain’t got no more words, he’s gone. The walkie crackles into life.

- Pastor Michael. Do you copy? Is he there? Is he safe? -

Emily? She and the kids must be waiting down on the highway. Why didn’t they come with him? What have I done? I want to tear my uniform, scratch my eyes out, cover my ears. Murder. And, I still have no idea what’s going on out there. My mind races through the permutations and combinations, but none of them end in my family coming home. None of them end up with us safe and free. I grab the walkie and the rock on the way back to my vantage point. The safety of my tower. There’s a note attached:

But concerning that day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but the Father only. Matthew 24:36

This is no apocalypse, Steven. Let faith be your fortress.

Been awake for so long I can’t make no sense of it. Everything outside those walls is false. I ain’t leaving The Facility, and no one’s coming back.

1200 hours, October 22  

Almost a whole day before they come to collect him. Maybe they were busy with the apocalypse, or maybe they weren’t. I see the world isn’t all on fire when the State Police send down their tactical unit. Here we are — them with kevlar vests and a bullhorn, and me looking through my scope. 

They should put their resources to better use, like bringing down real terrorists. There’s no reason to climb down from this nest, except for death row, or maybe some bullshit PTSD verdict and an institution. They should never have sent me back. I’d be more use to my country in combat.

Three police vehicles sit together. They’re signaling for me to take the cellphone from the Police drone. I take the thing down with my sidearm as soon as it enters my property. 

My canteen is out. I haven’t been to the toilet for hours. There’s an irony that in the one true test of The Facility, a drink of water can bring me down. Can’t hear what they’re saying on the loudspeaker and I don’t want to. Putting an end to the flashbacks and the nervousness is easier than decoding the bullshit. Pastor Michael’s bloated corpse lies outside the gate, his chest opened up. A bullet never has to look at the wreck it leaves behind.

Withdraw the sidearm. Safety off. They need to see me go, so they know it’s safe. Pastor Michael can be buried, and my family can get on with things in Richmond. This ain’t gonna be no hero’s burial, with an American Flag and a twenty-one gun salute. Surviving is never winning. Sitting on what we have, slowly losing our rights and our freedom — that ain’t winning.

As I stand, the two marksmen lying behind sandbags, stiffen to attention. They’ll have to wait for me to shoot first, but when I do, it’ll be done. People think the Great Wall is ugly, but it’s beautiful to me. One last time, I take it in, remembering the work that went into drilling wells and fixing turbines. “Goodbye, friend.” Best not to say goodbye to my family.

The Appalachian hills cower under the oppressive sky and a chilling air blows in. I chamber a round and press the pistol to my temple. My right hand draws up to a familiar salute and I check out of this world. Before I pull the trigger, I imagine the sound of the shot ringing out over the landscape.

Crack.