“Jesus,” Paul said. “What happens when you fire them? What will the Chinese do?”
“Nothing.” Welch nodded. “They have most of their forces out at sea and here. Who’s watching the farm, right? They don’t have the fire power to intercept or retaliate. Nor would they send anything over here with their payload digging in. It’s all about the grain, we got the grain here, they won’t destroy what’s left. However, they may not have the payload, but we do. That’s why they need to take this base so badly.”
“So, you’re going to hit them hard here then hit them hard there?” Paul asked.
“That’s the plan. But our hands are tied. We need to get out there and off this base. I’m just waiting right now for word that we all gonna clear the field.”
“Sir,” the specialist called out, holding a phone. “I got him. It’s a secure line.”
Hurriedly, Welch snatched the phone. “Mr. President,” he said. “This is General Welch. Com Headquarters. Yes, sir. Tell me you’re going to bring a little vodka to the party.” Welch clenched his fist and smiled. “Yes, sir, thank you. We will be in touch.” He handed the phone to the specialist. “Tell our men outside to pull in. Those who remain out there, mask up.” His eyes went to the map. “In one hour, this shit outside is about to end.”
Swall, CA – San Joaquin Valley
The zoning committee, as Joe called them, were all working at a steady and freakishly unison pace. He needed a general foreman, someone he could say to, “Hey, I’ll be right back.” But he didn’t think any of them would even notice if he did leave.
Joe wanted to check on Saul, see how he was doing with his workers and he wanted to tell him about Greg. A part of Joe wondered what the death by skirmish meant. Maybe he’d get a chance to talk to Mary Lou without the presence of soldiers. He blamed that on her odd behavior, but what of his workers. If Joe didn’t know better, he would have sworn they were all brainwashed.
He didn’t know if it was his workers or all farm workers, and that was another reason he made his way to Saul’s.
He tried at first reaching him by phone but there was no answer. When he arrived at Saul’s he could see the workers in the field, only specks of them as they moved, bent over picking the berries.
After parking directly in front of Saul’s Joe honked the horn, stepped from the truck, and honked again.
“Hey, Saul?”
Saul appeared at the screen porch door. He didn’t step out, staying inside and was shadowed. “Come on in.”
Saul left the door and Joe walked up to the porch and in.
“I saw your workers out there,” Joe said as he walked in. “How they doing you?”
“Good,” Saul’s voice came from the kitchen. He then coughed.
“Don’t know about yours, but mine are like robots.”
“Mine, too.” Saul coughed again.
“So, I went to town to drop off my quota.” Joe walked to the kitchen. “Everyone is all dazzled up in their Sunday best. Seems it’s a new rule…”
Saul stood at the stove, back toward Joe. He coughed about three or four times in a row.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, got some sort of bug. Go on.”
“Anyhow, I saw Mary Lou Martin. Perky as a peacock and Greg died four days ago.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
“She said there was a skirmish.”
“Skirmish hell,” Saul said. “He wanted them off his farm and they shot him.”
“Goddamn it, was it worth it?”
“To him it was.” Saul fixed a cup and turned around.
“Jesus!” Joe said in shock. “You are sick.”
Saul’s face was pale, his eyes dark, and he had raw looking sores around his mouth and nose.
“I feel like crap.”
“You look it. Is that the herpes on your mouth?”
“No!” Saul barked and walked toward the table. “It’s cold sores. They started last night. Hurt like a bitch.” He paused to cough. “Got them on my hands, too. Did you want tea?”
“No. If I did I’d fix it myself. You ought to get to bed and rest.”
“I will as soon as my workers load on the bus. Might need you to take my quota if I don’t feel better tomorrow.”
Joe nodded. “I can do that. But maybe you should see a doctor.”
“I will in a couple days. Just want to avoid town.” Saul took a sip of his tea. “I didn’t want to miss the pierogi club tonight.”
“Say what?” Joe asked, shocked. “You too? What in the world? Is it just wartime social thing or are you really in the mood for pierogi. ’Cause I have a box of…”
“No, Joe.” Saul shook his head with a smile, paused, cringed, and touched his sores.
“Is there something more to this? If there is, it’s an open invitation to the firing squad.”
“I honestly don’t know. But… Go, okay? At the very least there’ll be homemade pierogi.”
Joe, gripping the back of a chair, merely grumbled an indecisive ‘hmm.’
Against his better judgement, Joe put on a nice button-down shirt, following the dress code in town since he was giving in and hitting the pierogi club. For Saul’s sake. Saul said he had to contribute an ingredient and Joe didn’t know what he would contribute. He figured shortening was a sure bet. He opened the pantry for his contribution and saw it hanging there. He hadn’t moved it at all, even all those years later since his wife’s passing. Her apron. Figuring ‘what the heck’ he brought that too, just in case there was a cooking dress code as well.
It was in the basement of St. Mathew’s Church, the same place they held the monthly bizarre and bake sale. The place of the fish fry’s and occasional spaghetti dinner.
There were at least a dozen cars in the church lot. Joe parked his truck and walked around to the side of the building to use the exterior stairwell to get below.
He had some ideas or possibly fantasies about what the pierogi club was all about, until he saw the Chinese soldier posted outside the door.
“Evening,” Joe said with a nod.
The soldier didn’t reply he just checked the items in Joe’s hand and lifted his eyes judgmentally over the apron.
“Don’t judge,” Joe said, “the color works for me.” He pushed the door open and walked inside.
The basement was a decent size and set up with a small entrance way and coat check in just before the hall. The kitchen was in the back.
He pushed through the entry swinging doors and stepped into the hall. There was a hum of soft voices, and then he saw the group of people, about twenty, standing around two tables joined width wise, and they were making dough.
By them, standing close was another armed Chinese soldier.
“Joe!” Mary Lou called out. “You made it!”
“I did.” Joe walked over to the table. “I’m filling in for Saul. He’s in the mood for pierogi.” Joe placed the can of shortening on the table. “I brought my contribution.”
Mary Lou smiled and lifted the lid. Her eyes reflected disappointment as she lifted the lid. “It’s… it’s shortening.”
“Yep, that’s what it says on the can.”
“Oh.” She placed it down. “Wash your hands, grab some gloves, we’ll make dough.”
“You know, I have to tell you,” Joe said, “I was wondering how you guys were able to have a pierogi club. I mean, I was worried they’d see this as an unlawful gathering, especially with the uh…” He looked at the soldier. “Take over and all.”
The soldier lifted his hand and waved it a little as he smirked. “Oh, no, dude, I’m good. You’re cool.”