Louis Collins: A Post-American Odyssey

Chapter 131

Cherish began crying before the helicopter cleared the next ridge. She sat beside him with both hands locked in her lap, fingers white, head bowed until loose strands of hair hid most of her face. She was trying to make no sound. Louis thought of her parents, the farm, the Bible burning on the road, the two men shot into the ditch. It had all happened too fast for her to hold together. He turned toward her as far as the safety belt allowed and put one hand on her knee.

“Cherish.”

She shook her head once without looking at him.

“It’s alright,” he said, sounding unconvinced even to himself.

Her breath hitched harder. Louis lifted one hand, stopped, then put it carefully over hers. She did not pull away. Her hands were cold.

“I’m here,” he said. “Stay with me.”

She tried to answer and failed. Her mouth opened and closed. Then she bent forward, and the sob broke through. The sound came small and raw against the engine and rotors. Across from them, the officer watched without expression. He sat near the open side of the aircraft, one boot braced against the floor, rifle across his knees. He looked from Cherish to Louis, then to Savannah.

Savannah sat on Louis’s other side. She had one hand gripping the bench frame, her bandaged wrist held close to her body. She looked pale.

The officer leaned forward slightly so his voice could carry over the engine.

“First time in a helicopter?” he asked.

No one answered.

He looked at Cherish. “It gets easier. Breathe through your nose.”

She did not seem to hear. Louis tightened his hand over hers.

“What do you want?” he asked the officer.

“Rule of the proletariat,” the officer said. “Not much to do with you.”

“Then why are we here?”

The officer smiled slightly. “Orders.”

“From who?” Savannah asked.

“Leadership.” The officer looked her over once, then stopped at her face.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She stared back. “Why?”

“Just curious.” He tilted his head. “You don’t look like the usual kind we find on this road.”

“I am nobody.” She leaned forward slightly. “And you look like a fucking bandit.”

He laughed. “With a cause. There’s a difference.”

“Is that what y’all tell yourselves?” she said.

“You have a temper. I like that.” He studied her for a second, then smiled again. “What’s your name? I’ll give you mine.”

“Savannah.”

He nodded. “Ben. Ben Gaddis.” He glanced at her bandage. “That wound needs cleaning again.”

She looked down at her wrist. “I’ll manage.”

“It is not.” He turned to one of the soldiers near the cockpit. “Water.”

One of the soldiers near the cockpit passed a canteen back. Gaddis took it and held it out across the cabin to Savannah.

“Here.”

She hesitated, then reached out and took it. She unscrewed the cap and drank. Then she passed it to Louis. Before he could take it, Gaddis took it away.

“No water for the bourgeoisie,” he said, smiling faintly.

Louis kept looking at him. “And what about Cherish?”

Gaddis looked at her. She was still crying, her face turned toward the floor, her shoulders shaking. He looked at her for a long moment, then handed the canteen to her without a word.

Cherish blinked at the canteen. Louis nudged her gently.

“Drink,” he said.

She took the canteen with both hands. Her throat worked once as she swallowed. When she handed it back, her face was streaked with tears and her lips were wet.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Gaddis nodded. “You are welcome.”

He took the canteen and leaned back against the bulkhead.

The helicopter climbed over another ridge. Below, Beckley came into view, brick buildings and old smokestacks crowded under red flags flying from makeshift poles.

Ben said, “Welcome to Beckley. Home of the People’s Army of West Virginia.”

Louis looked out the open side. Smoke rose from several places. There were few civilians on the streets. Armed squads held intersections behind truck-bed barricades and sandbags. The helicopter stayed low over the town. People looked up. Some pointed. A few raised fists. A man on a rooftop watched them with a rifle slung across his back.

The Black Hawk hit the ground. Cherish gasped. Savannah grabbed the frame with her good hand and stayed upright. The side door was pulled wider. Soldiers moved in from the landing zone before the blades had fully slowed.

“Out,” one shouted.

Louis unbuckled first. His legs felt unsteady when he stood, numb from the flight and the hard landing. He helped Cherish with her belt, then guided her toward the door. Savannah came behind them, her body between them and the soldiers. Gaddis jumped down and turned to watch them climb out.

The second Black Hawk had landed fifty yards away. Louis saw Angelique being brought down from it, pale and still. Gladice came next, already looking around. Willa had one hand on Donya’s elbow. Donya looked shaken, but she was standing.

Louis started toward them. A soldier stepped in front of him and blocked him with a rifle.

“Don’t move,” a soldier said.

“They’re with me.” Louis kept his voice steady.

The soldier gave him a flat look. “Not anymore.”

Angelique saw him stop. He gave her a small nod before the soldiers turned her toward another line.

Gaddis spoke. “Take them to the HQ. Room for processing. Check them, then we’ll see.”

Louis felt the push of a rifle barrel against his back.

“Move,” said the soldier behind him.

They were marched across the field in two groups, separated but not far. Savannah stayed at his side. Cherish kept close to him, one hand brushing his sleeve. The processing building was a former school with boarded windows, reinforced doors, and portable floodlights set outside. Soldiers stood at every entrance.

They were brought to a corridor of old classrooms with paper signs taped to the doors. A soldier pointed to a door.

“One at a time.” He pointed at Louis. “You first.”

Louis turned to Savannah. “I’ll see you soon.”

She nodded once. Her face was hard and focused. Cherish looked close to panic. He touched her shoulder quickly.

“I’ll come for you.”

He walked into the room. The door shut behind him. Two men waited inside. One sat at a desk with a clipboard. The other stood beside a camera on a tripod. Red slogans had been painted over the old classroom walls.

“Name,” said the man at the desk.

“Louis Collins.”

The camera clicked. The man wrote something down.

“Origin?”

“Dominion of the Pacific.”

The man added another line to the form.

“Political Status?”

“None.”

The man looked up. “You are the son of Constantine Collins. You have political status.”

Louis said nothing. He saw the man write “Dynastic bourgeois” on the form.

“Religion?”

“None.”

“Military training?”

“No.”

“Occupation?”

“Unemployed.”

The man paused. Then he wrote. “Parasite.”

Louis did not react. The camera clicked again.

“Medical conditions?”

“None.”

The interview continued: height, weight, scars, tattoos, languages, education, last known residence. Louis answered each question simply. The photographer took pictures of his face, profile, hands, and neck. The man at the desk worked through the form without hurry.

At last he set the pen down. “Strip.”

Louis said nothing for a moment before he began to remove his clothes. He folded his shirt and trousers and set them on the desk. The camera kept clicking as he stood in his underwear. The man noted bruises, old scars, and no open wounds. When it was done, he was given a gray jumpsuit, too small at the shoulders and too long in the legs. He put it on.

When the interview ended, Louis was brought back into the hall. Down the corridor, he saw Savannah through a half-open door. She sat across from a woman, back straight, her bandaged wrist on the table. There was a cup of water in front of her. Savannah saw him. He gave a small nod. The door closed before she could respond.

He was led through a rear exit into the open yard behind the old school. A guard handed him a pair of gloves and a stamped card clipped to a cord.

“Wear it.”

Louis looked at the card. It said “TEMPORARY LABOR CLASSIFICATION: D.” He put the cord around his neck.

The guard led him across the yard toward a fenced service area where vehicles sat in rows under corrugated roofs. Several people worked there, shouting over engines with grease on their arms and tools in their hands.

The guard called toward a truck.

“Comrade Fyres.”

A voice came from under the hood of a truck. “What?”

“New labor.”

A woman slid out from beneath the raised hood with a wrench in one hand. She looked about his age, with copper-red hair tied back badly, fair skin, a narrow face, and freckles across her nose. She looked at Louis, then at the card around his neck.

She snorted.

“You’re kidding.”

The guard said, “High supervision. No leaving the yard without an escort. Understood?”

“Sure.” She tossed the wrench onto a workbench and wiped her hands on a rag. “Come on, get to work.”

The guard turned and left. Louis watched him go, then looked at the young woman.

“You’re the boss?”

“I’m the crew lead. And we don’t use that word here.” She glanced at his gray jumpsuit. “You don’t look like you know what a wrench is.”

“I’m a fast learner.” He paused. “Where are my friends?”

She nodded toward a low building at the edge of the yard. “Assigned to other work. You’ll see them at the mess hall.”

“Are they safe?”

She gave him a hard look. “As long as they work, they’re safe. Don’t work, and you become a problem.”

Louis nodded. “Alright. What do you need me to do?”

She looked him over once, then pointed toward a truck with its hood up and a toolbox open beside it. “That one needs an oil change. I’ll show you once. Then you do the next.”

Louis followed her. She moved around the truck without looking for anything. She pointed to the drain plug under the engine block.

“You ever done this?”

“No.”

“Figures.” She handed him a socket wrench. “Typical bourgeoisie.”

He accepted the wrench. “Is that how you see me?”

She gave him a level look. “Until you prove me wrong.”

He crouched under the truck. She leaned against the bumper.

“Find the bolt, unscrew it, let it drain. Then replace the filter, tighten the bolt, add oil. Simple.” She paused. “Don’t fuck it up. Or I’ll make you clean it up by hand.”

He found the bolt and fit the wrench to it. It was tight, but he turned it slowly until it loosened. Dark oil began to drip into the pan below.

“Good,” she said. “At least you can follow instructions.”

He looked up at her from under the truck. She was watching the oil run, not him.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She glanced down. “Maeve Fyres. Now stop chatting and work.”

“My name is Louis. Louis Collins.”

“I know who you are. They talked about you.” She gestured to the next truck. “Get the next one when you’re done. We have three more to get through before the end of the shift.”

“Alright.” He tightened the bolt and slid out from under the truck. Maeve pointed him to the filter. He worked it loose, replaced it, then added the new oil under her supervision.

“Not bad,” she said. “For a rich boy.”

“I’ve worked on some cars before,” he said. “Just not trucks like this.”

“Yeah? I thought you had people to do that for you.”

“I do. But I’d like to know my own cars.” He looked at her. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Long enough.” She pointed to the next truck. “Get to it.”

He walked over to the next truck and opened the hood. Maeve leaned against the fender, watching him. He found the drain plug and loosened it. He got oil on his hands.

“Fuck.” He tried to wipe it on the jumpsuit.

Maeve laughed. A few workers nearby laughed too. “Look at the little prince. He’s never been dirty before.”

Louis stared at her. “I’ve been dirty enough.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Have you? In the mud? In the blood?”

“Yes.” He held her gaze. “I have.”

She looked away first. “Finish the truck.”

Louis worked without another word.