Chapter 1
Friday, January 6
The year 2034:
Franklin Park, PA
One year and ten months after the fall of the United States government
John Hemingway stood rigid, over an open grave. The war veteran felt lost; apoplectic; confused. His two natures war against one another. His military training called for him to remain stoic, unmoving, a man without emotion. It was drilled in him since day one to be strong; to be a leader to which all others can depend. But the other side wanted to cry out; to tear at his hair and rip his clothes.
There were no words to describe the grief he felt. He had not been the best husband and father. He made mistakes and said things he could never take back. But he loved his family to the core. The glow in his wife's radiant eyes, her enchanting smile, and the trademark wink she gave him when he was ready to give up made him feel like superman.
But in the flicker of a flame, Sasha Hemingway was gone. While John was away fighting a war, he knew he couldn't win, the death angel came in and took her like a thief in the night. They were not the perfect family. They had it all; money; beauty; fame. John was a war hero, and Sasha, a socialite with many skills. But the job came first. The military called for John to be away from his family for months at a time.
Their marriage suffered tremendously. Would be interlopers, attempting to charm Sasha into their beds brought out the worst in John. Their fights were intense and at times close to being violent. And it didn't help that Sasha's close-knit community of friends barged their way into the couple's quarreling and verbally assaulted him; even less when he once attacked a man for stepping in between them.
But John and Sasha had a bond that made them inseparable. No amount of fighting could replace the passion that they expressed when making love. Something about John in uniform and the realization that he could fall in battle turned Sasha on. The way she jumped in his arms and kissed all over his face when returning from tour melted his heart. He would have given anything to see the look of admiration their daughter used to give him again.
The chill of the wind hit his face and he wished he had spent what little he had on an overcoat instead of being pestered into purchasing a blazer and slacks. Fighting desperately to hold back tears, the forty-two-year-old Navy Seal gingerly knelt on the ground and picked up a fistful of dirt. A lump formed in his throat as he examined the fine grains of sand and let them cascade through his fingers.
A shadow loomed over him and John turned to see a tall brown-skinned curvy woman with long wavy hair standing over him; a hint of a scowl etched on her face. Her puffy watery eyes indicated the grief and anger she bore. Even in mourning, she was radiant as the sun. Reluctantly, she knelt beside him and gathered some sand in a pile. John followed suit and together they threw a handful of dirt over the grave.
The soldier turned and studied his daughter. Claire, a spitting image of her mother refused to return his gaze. Sasha had often found herself playing peacemaker between them. Ironically, with her now gone, John and Claire had little to say to each other, leading up to the funeral. Both of them had been shaken not just by her death, but how she died. The mystery surrounding her disappearance circulated throughout her community like wildfire.
A year and nine months after she vanished, John had discovered her body behind his new home, a wooded area in Sewickley Hills. Forensics and toxicology reports had shown that she had recently expired. She had been beaten, drugged, and raped over and over again, more than likely as a means of interrogation. The forensics scientists had marveled at how well her body held up under the abuse and suggested that she had been trained.
"Claire," John. "I, know I haven't been the best father. But I want you to know that I love you. Forgive me for all the promises I made and broke them. I'm sorry for abandoning you and your mother time and time again.
Claire didn't respond. She appeared despondent. All those months of wishing, hoping, hearing of sightings of her mom at a rest stop in Kentucky, or appearing on camera at a store in Florida, only to find her dead in their backyard had taken its toll on her.
John breathed deeply and rose to his feet. To his surprise, Claire, the young woman beside him didn't move. She remained on bent knee, staring at her mother’s grave, tears streaming down her cheeks. John desperately wanted to console her. He gently placed a hand on her shoulder and opened his mouth to speak but no words came.
Claire stiffened and slowly turned and gazed at her father. Her eyes filled with anguish mingled with contempt and pierced through his heart like daggers. John removed his hand and stepped away. He turned and glanced around at the sixty or so neighbors who had come to know and love the deceased woman. Her disappearance and death had sent shockwaves through their small community.
Sasha was more than just a neighbor. She was a shepherd and a leader. She took care of her friends and taught them how to survive. She taught them how to defend themselves against thieves and how to avoid being caught and arrested by the Justice Keeper Forces, the brutal and corrupt new law enforcement agency.
As they mourned the loss of their friend, John noticed that they appeared to avoid eye contact with him. He certainly didn't endear himself to them when Sasha was alive. Maybe they blamed him for Sasha's death like Claire did. Maybe they felt sorry for him. He nodded to a portly Caucasian fellow, dressed in black pants and shirt and a clerical collar. The priest whispered to three gravediggers standing behind him and began reading from a tattered Bible.
"The righteous perisheth,” he said. “And no man layeth it to heart and merciful men are taken away, none considering that the righteous is taken away from the evil to come. He shall enter into peace: they shall rest in their beds, each one walking in his uprightness."
The gravediggers came forth and began shoveling dirt over the wrapped corpse. Claire finally stood and made her way over to where a black woman in her fifties stood with open arms. Claire leaned into her embrace and began sobbing.
“We commit Sasha Hemingway’s spirit to the father and her body to the grave,” the priest continued. “From dust was she made and to dust shall she return to the earth. May her soul enter into the gates of paradise where she will ever be with God and his Son, Jesus Christ.”
After the funeral, John paid the priest and the gravediggers. He had noticed that only a few in attendance came up to him and expressed their condolences, but most seemed to reserve their support for Claire. He made his way through the crowd and stood next to her.
“I know we haven't gotten along,” John said to the neighbors. "But I want to thank you for coming. Sasha loved you all in a way I never understood. She gave so much to you and..." His bottom lip quivered and tears began to stream from his eyes. He suddenly became overwhelmed with rage.
"Why didn't you protect her?" he screamed to them. "After all she's done for you, how could you let this happen to her?"
"Is this guy for real?" a man replied to his fellow neighbors. It was the young man John attacked when he and Sasha nearly came to blows one night outside of their house. "Where do you get off accusing us? Why the hell weren't you there? I'm only twenty and I would've made a better husband than you."
The crowd murmured their disapproval to his response.
"What did you just say?" John muttered, charging at him. The others grabbed John and attempted to reason with him. "What did you say, punk? Say it again! Say it again. I dare you."
"What are you going to do?" the boy said. "Try and choke me out again?" A woman whom John knew as the boy's mother tried to silence him. He pushed through the crowd and grabbed at him, but the boy dipped out of the way. His mother accosted him and escorted him away from the crowd.
"Get him out of here before I snap his neck," John said, as two large men held him firm.
"You're ok, John," one of them said, giving him a reassuring pat on the back. "It's going to be ok."
The scuffle brought some of them to tears anew and they began hurling insults at John. The two giant peacemakers let go of him. They reasoned with the irate mourners and gently began dispersing them. John turned and saw Claire staring at him. Her eyes bore into his soul, yet seemed empty, as if she expected no less of him.
"CW, I-I." He shook his head, tears gushing from his eyes. "Your mother would've... I shouldn't have..." His voice trailed off as Claire turned and walked away from him. “CW!” he called after her. “Claire!”
He felt a firm hand on his shoulder and turned to see Margaret, the woman who had embraced her behind him.
“Let her be now,” she said with a sympathetic smile. “She’ll be all right.”
“What?” John said. “Marge, you just expect me to let her wander off in this city?”
“She's been looking after herself since she was sixteen,” Margaret said soothingly. "She needs to grieve in her own way. She’ll be back. Meanwhile, when was the last time you two had something to eat?”
“It’s been a few days,” John muttered. “I had to make sure Sasha received a proper burial."
“Come on, dear. I’ll fix you a plate.”
***
Later that evening, John sat in a corner booth of a crowded diner on the outskirts of Franklin Park. The former soldier sat staring at a large helping of pancakes, fried eggs, pork sausage, bacon, grits, and corn beef hash. Margaret Brown sat across from him, donning an apron, hair net, and name tag. The older woman rested her arms on the table and studied him as he ate.
"Had I known you was gonna' eat this good I wouldn't have thrown out all that expired meat yesterday," she said.
John eyed his longtime friend; her brown skin glistening with perspiration in the dim light over their table.
“I’m going to pay you back, Marge.”
“Um-hum. Now, where have I’ve heard this before?”
“I'm serious. I gotta guy coming through from Buffalo looking to acquire some firepower. If my liaison pans out to be accurate, it should be a big payday for us.”
Margaret stretched her eyes and nodded. “Right. I forgot you a fancy gun salesman.”
“Weapons dealer, Marge. For the last time, I’m a weapon’s dealer.”
The diner owner snickered. “Aw shucks now. Look at Mr. Weapons Dealer; he done got him a free dinner and he gives English lessons. You sure know how to make a lady fill special.”
John smirked and pushed the plate away.
“Now hold on, Baby,” Margaret cooed. “I was just tryna lighten the mood. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Lighten the mood, Marge?” John snapped. “I just buried my wife. My daughter won’t speak to me, I’m forty-one and don’t have a penny to my name; and you want to talk to me about lightening the mood? I said I would pay you.”
“Ok,” Margaret said, putting up her hands in surrender. "I promise, no more jokes.” She gently slid the plate back to him. “I was never gon' charge you, Honey. I promised Sasha I’d take care of you and that’s what I’m gonna' do. Go on now. Eat something.”
"How can I eat, Marge? Nearly two years and I'm no closer to figuring out who's for what happened to Sasha."
"Take a breath and exhale. John, you can't keep doing this to yourself. You don't eat, you don't sleep-
"I need to know who raped, tortured, and killed my wife. I need to see the face of the person that dumped her body in my backyard like trash. No one except you know where I live."
Margaret nodded, a sympathetic look on her face. "I know how you feel. I felt the same way when my husband was killed. I didn't care who started the war. I just wanted the head of the bastard shot an RPG into our building."
"I liked Lorenzo. He was a good man."
"He liked you too. It made him stick his chest out that a Navy Seal looked to him for advice."
John knew that Margaret was trying her best to comfort him, but couldn't muster a smile if he tried. "Did you see the way Claire stared at me when I lost it? No wonder she hates me so much. I don't even know what Sasha saw in a man like me. When I joined the Navy, I swore I would never be like my father."
"John, you're nothing like that man. You aren't a raging alcoholic. You didn't beat your wife and kids."
"No, I didn't. I only abandoned mine; over and over again."
"You did it because you loved them and wanted to protect them from the monsters that attacked this country."
"And what happened? I still couldn't protect them. As bad as my father was, he protected his home." John shook his head. "I'm going to find the filthy pigs that came into my home and put their hands on my family. And when I do, I will do far worse to them than what they could ever do to Sasha.
He rubbed his shaved head. “I really hate this haircut.”
Marge squinted at him. “I don’t know. I kind of like it. I’ve never seen you with a buzzcut and I think it makes you look distinguished.”
“I thought the idea was to blend in. I feel like Walter White from Breaking Bad.”
“First of all, ain’t no way in the world I’d let that clown into my restaurant. Secondly, I’m sure the man you paid to give you a new identity knew what he was doin’. I’m gon fix your daughter a couple of plates. She still likes fried apples, right?”
Margaret went behind the counter where a waitress was standing.
“So that’s him, huh boss?” John heard her woman whisper.
“Um-hum," Margaret said. “That’s Claire’s daddy.”
The woman, appearing in her sixties, placed a hand on her hip and gawked at John. “Wow. I knew he was a white man, but dang. Look at him. He looks like he fell off a roof or something.”
John wanted to turn around and call her an old fart, but instead, composed himself and picked at his food.
“Well life will do that to you, honey,” Margaret replied. “Who knew this country would ever fall to the GRA?”
“Ain’t that the truth,” the waitress said and began wiping down the counter. She stopped and studied him once more. “I know I haven’t seen him with Claire before but he looks familiar."
"Miss Sandy, would you stop staring at my customers please?"
"Oh, I know!" Miss Sandy whispered enthusiastically. "He looks a lot like that fine blonde hair blue-eyed herculean hunk of a man on those bounty posters. Child if he wasn't wanted by the GRA, good gracious."
Margaret gasped. “Miss Sandy! Girl, you wild as a jackrabbit and old as dirt. What a dried-up prune, like you gon’ do with a man like that?"
Sandy glared at her boss and cocked her head. “Old? Watch it now. This old dog can teach a young buck like that a few new tricks. Girl, I’ll have him skipping around here, singing my name.”
John nearly sucked down the ice from the water he was drinking when he heard that last comment. Who in the world is this woman he thought to himself?
Margaret burst into laughter and shooed at Miss Sandy with her towel. “You better stop all that nonsense before your blood pressure shoots up again. I can’t afford to pay for emergency care to carry you out of here if you have a heart attack."
In his peripheral vision, John could see Miss Sandy giving him one more look over.
"It’s too bad that the GRA doesn’t know who that man is. They sure make em' fine, but I could buy ten good looking men with $500,000. Are you sure that ain’t him?"
“Miss Sandy," Margaret said harshly. "That counter ain’t gon’ clean itself. Hush up now and get back to work. And quit minding other people’s business.”
John was so busy eavesdropping, that he didn’t notice that a group of men had entered the diner. By the time he finally saw them, they had already made their way to his table.
***
Twenty-four-year-old Claire Wren Hemingway couldn’t help but feel remorse for how she left things with her father. Despite the anger she harbored toward him, she still loved him. In some ways, she felt sorry for him. There was a time when John could do no wrong in her eyes. He was once held a hero to the United States of America and a valiant soldier.
The then nine-year-old had bragged about his accomplishments in school and proudly showed off her souvenirs from various places where he was stationed. John wasn’t her biological father. When Sasha met him, Claire was 18 months old. But he loved her as his own, and before the first strikes hit California, they were inseparable.
Now, John was penniless, bitter, and grief-stricken; a shell of the man he once was. This empathy pierced Claire like a double-edged sword. She deeply loved him and wanted him to fight for her love and be told that things would be ok. She wanted to take care of him. He was never really good at taking care of himself.
But Claire loathed her urge to reach out and comfort the man that had done her so wrong. Was she so easily willing to let go of years of unrequited love, broken promises, and hurtful words that can never be taken back, just to feel something? The very idea made her feel weak and naive. Harboring unforgiveness felt like justice to her. If John wanted a relationship, he would have to pine for her affection just as she had done for so long.
Claire also blamed him for her mother’s death. At the time she was employed at Barnes Kasson Hospital in Susquehanna Depot, PA. She had begged him not to go on a volunteer mission in New York. But he never showed up. When news hit the next morning that New York was fallen and that Pennsylvania was next, it through the state into chaos.
Claire remembered her mother being taken and knocked unconscious trying to protect her. She recalled being awakened by her neighbors and their attempt to flee the city. It was ingrained in her mind the fear on people's faces as they ran to and fro, ducking bombs, motors, and falling debris. Most of all, she would never forget the terror she felt when the streets shook with fury as enemy personal began slaughtering everyone in sight. Claire had to hide under a pile of bleeding bodies.
If John had not gone to New York, then perhaps her mother would have stood a fighting chance. Maybe they would've both died. But Claire wouldn't allow herself to think that way. John had chosen his job over them too many times, and this time it cost Claire her mother. Every conviction within her cried out to forgive him, but perhaps this gave her peace.
Nearly an hour had passed when Claire finally came to herself and realized that she had walked from Blueberry Hill Park where they had buried her mother to Sewickley. The war had ravaged Pennsylvania and Blueberry Hill had become a makeshift gravesite. Sewickley hadn’t fared much better. Rubble from homes and businesses which had been demolished and giant craters from explosions indicated the devastation of the war. Luckily for Claire, highway seventy-nine, no longer fit for car travel made for the perfect passageway from Franklin Park to Sewickley.
She had been warned more than once that it was too dangerous to travel the seventy-nine alone or without a weapon. Gangs and thieves were known to congregate here, and stories of robberies and murder circulated throughout the area. But Claire had decided she wasn't going to be told where she could and couldn't go. As far as she could tell, the bridge was no more dangerous than anywhere else in Pennsylvania, as people struggled to survive in the recent aftermath of a war.
Besides, she knew that the real danger wasn't some thug. It was the Justice Keeper Forces. Claire's mother had well educated her on the nefarious deeds of the new police force hired by the GRA to combat crime. She had seen them in action firsthand targeting blacks in the city. Sasha had taught her to avoid them by studying their patterns. At this time of the day, most of JKF was marshaled north protests and whispers of an uprising were happening.
Claire was almost home when she decided to visit a friend. She took the short walk to Magee Rd. and banged on the door of an old run-down home.
“Where the heck is, he?” Claire mumbled to herself after knocking several times. “I swear I need some new friends."
Finally, a young Filipino man, about twenty-five opened the door. An overwhelming aroma of Marijuana hit Claire in the face so that her eyes began to water. She coughed and fanned to no avail.
The young man shielded his eyes from the sun and grinned when he saw her. “Hey, babe."
“Hey, babe?” Claire repeated. “Seriously, Otto? Where were you?”
The Asian man cocked his head at her, his eyes glazed over. “What are you talking about? I was here waiting for you?" He looked at his black digital watch and furrowed his brow. “It’s only one ‘o clock. How’d you get here so quickly?”
“How else?” Claire said. “I took the highway?”
“CW, I thought we talked about this. You promised you’d stop taking the seventy-nine. It’s too dangerous.”
“Oh, so now you care?”
Confused and dazed, Otto rubbed his eyes and blinked, trying to adjust to the bright sun. “Babe, what’s wrong?"
“Oh my gosh, Otto!” Claire shouted. “Did you just seriously ask that question? You know I just buried my mother. Why weren’t you at the funeral?”
Otto tried to speak but began coughing profusely. Claire backed off the steps, disgusted.
“What is wrong you?” she hollered. "You said you were going to quit smoking that garbage, and instead you get high on the worst day of my life?”
“Babe, calm down,” Otto said. “Look I’m sorry, ok? You know your old man would beat the crap out of me if he saw me anywhere near you."
“That’s your excuse? My dad? You know what? Screw you, Otto. I gotta go." She turned to leave.
“And where are you gonna go?” Otto called after her. "Back home and raise hell with your dad too?”
Claire stopped and slowly turned and gaped at her friend, wild-eyed. Sensing he had stepped over the line, he put up his hands.
“I’m sorry. That’s not how I meant it. I’m just saying right now, you are vulnerable, angry, and scared. You always come here when you feel that way. You want that to end?”
Claire studied her on-again/off-again boy toy. She knew he was right. The last thing she wanted to do was go home and face her father; especially right now. Otto was no prize but he was convenient. Claire hated that she was dishonoring her mother's legacy. She had promised Sasha that she'd clean up her act.
And she did. Claire had stopped drinking and stayed off the streets. She stopped partying and kept her head in her books. She graduated from Peen State and became a successful doctor. But witnessing her mother's abduction and the destruction of her city sent her into a downward spiral. And on her way down, she met Otto. He was no hardcore drug pusher, but he was looking for a good time.
"Come on," the young man told her. “I just bought some beer."
Claire sighed, conflicted about what to do. Her heart told her to go, but her body screamed for release. It wanted to dull the pain and agony.
Otto came off the steps and placed his arms around her toned curvy waist. “Or perhaps you’d like something stronger. He kissed her on the back of her neck.
“You have vodka,” she asked.
Otto chortled. “I wish. No one has vodka around anymore. But I have something better.
“Ok, let’s go,” Claire said and headed to the steps.
Otto nodded and smiled. “That’s my girl. I’ve been dreaming about those sexy brown thighs all morning.”
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