He let the statement trail away. He was thinking about Annie of course, but he was also thinking about the others that had made the trip as well. It bothered him a little that they all seemed to look to him for advice. At first he had not known how to respond. He had been, and still was, sure that they were looking to him to lead them somehow. The responsibility weighed heavily upon him, but he would not try to throw it off.
"I get you," Gary said, and Frank had the feeling, that he always had with Gary, that he really did understand. Gary seemed to be able to look straight into a situation, and was not afraid to speak his mind, Frank knew. Just as everyone looked at him to lead, they looked to Gary for advice. His manner of speaking may have made him seem to be uneducated, and consequently stupid, but Frank knew better. There was a vast amount of knowledge and intelligence lurking behind the small town speech patterns he communicated with. He was far from stupid.
"Still," Gary continued, "the time's gonna come when we have to shoot. I can feel that. It ain't a long ways off either. They're gonna come, and I think we really have to be prepared for it."
"How so?" Frank asked.
"Well... I guess for one thing, we got to keep up this road block. I'm not sure it'll do us a lot of good if they really want to get through it, but maybe it'll give us a warning when they do come. Another thing is, we have to get everyone organized, and that goes back to what we were talkin' about a few minutes ago. If we all don't see eye to eye, so to speak, we're not all gonna stand shoulder to shoulder. If we're divided over who to believe, or who's right about the way things are..." he paused and gestured helplessly with his hands before he continued, "Either way Frank, it's a division, and I don't think we can afford to have it. I ain't saying we should just say to Hell with it, and he's right, Ira Pratt, I mean. But if we're gonna disagree on things, I think we might better keep it to ourselves. Together we stand, divided we fall, as the saying goes. I guess I just butchered that quote, but there's a good piece of advice there for us, I think. You agree?"
"Yeah," Frank said. "I guess I didn't look at it that way before, but I've got to admit you're right."
A young man, Frank's replacement, walked up as Frank finished talking, and Frank handed him the machine gun as Gary said, "Couldn't hurt to hear him out entirely, could it?"
"No," Frank said, as they walked away, "It’s probably a good idea."
Together they walked away from the road block, and back toward the downtown section. Frank did not relish the idea of talking to Ira Pratt, but Gary was right, and, as he himself had agreed, it couldn't hurt. Could it? He wondered.
~ 3 ~
To the north, less than 200 miles away, Luther sat at the computer terminal in the small room, deep underground, and water as well now, and stared at the monitor.
The screen still flashed its simple message, over and over again.
Armed!...Armed!...Armed!
He enjoyed watching it flash on and off. It was soothing, mesmerizing even, he felt. He giggled out-loud as he thought of what he had told Willie. Ain't gonna do it, in an imitation of George Bush. It was too funny, he thought. Although Bush wasn't President any longer, and had not been for several years, Luther found him amusing.
He wondered, and not for the first time, how he could have known about George Bush. He hadn't been here had he? Certainly not when Bush was President. Who gives a fuck, he decided. The point his mind was making to him, was how funny it had been to watch Willie squirm, and knowing all the time that he had lied about the missiles. He had every intention of using them, and much sooner than he had led Willie to believe. Who cares, he thought, certainly not me, they can't hurt me so fuck it.
It pissed him off, in a way. He would prefer to be able to do it on a personal level. He couldn't though, and wasn't that a real bitch? That old bastard that called himself God had somehow fucked him again, he realized, and that wasn't fair, was it? Why was it that he could only have someone else do, what he himself wanted to do? It really sucked, he thought.
"What a fuckin' cheatin' bastard," he said aloud. He stared at the terminal and frowned. "Well, makes no difference, cheatin' or not, I'm winning, so there!" He turned to the body of the young girl, which hung suspended from several eye hooks protruding from the wall behind him, and stuck his tongue out as he finished speaking.
At least that had been enjoyable, he thought. Although he had not been able to inflict any of the wounds that covered her body himself, he had been able to force someone else to do it for him. He had derived a great deal of pleasure from that, as well as from the actual torture she had endured, before she had finally given up and died.
"Oh me oh my!!" he said as he looked her body over, with his black eyes, "Oh me oh my, indeed, wasn't that soooo nice? Yes indeed," he responded, answering himself.
He turned his attention back to the computer terminal and it’s flashing message. He had every intention
