Chapter 48 Home Coming

At the forefront, Trump was a sight to behold. Staggering out of his tank, heavily hacking out the gunk with river sediment caked on his face. He collapsed feebly on the riverbank, utterly spent. Colonel Rickson, Asp, and Dante fared no better, tumbling out their hatches in similar disarray. After the gauntlet had conveyed them down the rapids, they had been deposited here to a not-so-pleasant halt, arriving at a serene lake bordering the outskirts of Bohemian Grove.

The ruined tanks that had miraculously carried them along this far had served as their unlikely life rafts. They lay overturned like crumpled beer cans, resting precariously on boulders, half-submerged as if in a watery car crash. Standing at the water's edge, wide-eyed in disbelief, the quartet found themselves inexplicably alive against all odds.

Colonel Rickson’s eyes scanned the intimidating barrier of chainlink fencing across the riverbank; crowned with menacing coils of barbed wire. Stark metal buildings and imposing guard towers were silhouetted against the harsh glare of powerful lamps. But what caught his attention were the blood-red signs affixed to the fence. They bore a chilling warning: ‘Keep Out’, underscored by a more ominous threat: ‘Trespassers Will Be Shot On Sight’. Without weapons or vehicles, along with the loss of the whole platoon, he concluded that venturing into the woods on foot was outright foolish. He also concluded that he had no plan in place just yet.

Trump broke the silence. "It looks like the river gods were on our side tonight, boys."

"It's no time for high fives just yet, Mr. Trump; four of us aren't even going to make a dent," Colonel Rickson replied.

A ragged groan pierced the ringing in his ears. Bobbing in the current, a figure clung to a mangled piece of driftwood to his chest like a morbid life preserver washing up along the riverbank. It was Grey, contorted in pain, with his clothes shredded.

"I swear that old fucker has nine lives," Asp remarked.

"Asp!" Rickson barked. "Get him out! Five is better than four."

"That's if he can walk, that is," Trump said.

"Otherwise, he will be left here like a dying dog!"

"Just get him out," Rickson insisted.

Asp and Dante scrambled over the slippery rocks, plunging knee-deep into the bitter water, wading over to Grey. Asp maneuvered the driftwood, guiding it towards the bank, hauling Grey onto the uneven ground.

Asp looked down at Grey, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “I hope you can walk because I’m not carrying you.”

Grey, despite his pain, managed to get his bearings- based on adrenaline more than anything.

"The cliffs—back there, I managed to get them—just after they ambushed us," Grey spluttered.

"That also means they will still be looking for us," Rickson said sharply.

If, by black magic, the distant drone of engines cut through the night, the ominous glow of headlights growing by the second. They were coming.

Rickson whipped around.

“Get down! Lights off the road. We’ve got company.”

They dragged Grey under the cover of tall bullrushes when two dark SUVs braked to a near stop. Armed men jumped out, sweeping the area with flashlights. One of them shone his flashlight in the direction of the riverbank. His beam landing on a wastewater pipe hidden beneath some overgrown vegetation, draining from the fenceline into the reedy marshes bordering the lake. It seemed inconspicuous, overlooked even by human eyes. Not for Colonel Rickson, It was their solo opening if they could get to it.

The armed guards pointed their flashlights at the metal montage of Rickson's X-calvary, speaking to each other in harsh tones.

"I see no point in checking," said one guard in Mandarin, shining his flashlight casually around the wreckage.

"Nobody will have survived."

"Check inside them anyway; the bounty will be ours for keeping if the American hotdog is inside," replied the Russian.

Rickson's eyes locked with Trump's, conveying the gravity of the situation. Grey, still weak and wounded, hindered them like an Achilles heel. But Rickson wasn't going to lose another man tonight, not if he could help it.

"Grey," Rickson whispered urgently.

"You have to get up. We're going to enter through that pipe. It's our only chance. Or you're going to have to be left behind."

Grey nodded weakly. With great effort, he managed to stand, leaning on Dante for support. Trump, Rickson, Asp, and Dante circled, trekking toward the pipe, careful to avoid the guard's line of sight, using Bohemium Grove's natural shields for avoidance. The enemy approached the half-submerged tanks cautiously. One guard splashed into the shallow water, shining his light inside the nearest vehicle.

"Nothing," he called out. "All empty."

"What about that one?" said the Russian guard, pointing to where Rickson's tank lay further out.

The initial guard swore underneath his breath, wading out in the cold water. As his flashlight beam swung around the tank's interior, Rickson caught a view of the man's face—young but hardened by whatever regime he now served. For a moment, their eyes met, but then the light swept past.

"Also clear!" the guard shouted back in Mandarin.

Rickson dared not even breathe as the search continued. When the guard's voices began to recede again, back to shore, he spoke quietly to the others.

"Now!"

Making for the pipe, while they still had a chance. They squeezed in, worming their way without detection in thick, knee-deep sludge sucking at their boots, releasing each step with a feces-induced wet pop. The tunnel smelled of damp earth and rotting vegetation. Grey had the only form of light due to his smoking habit. Rickson waved Grey's Bic lighter in front of him, revealing glistening insect eggs clustered along the tunnel walls. Clusters of midges swarmed everywhere, and cockroaches skittered away from them in the disturbed muck.

The foul-smelling tunnel soon split into multiple different paths. Rickson shined his light down each one, but they all looked the same—narrow earthen passages twisting out of sight.

"We'll never find our way through this maze," said Asp.

"We should double back before we're trapped down here."

"No, we push forward," Rickson ordered.

"Grey can barely walk as it is. Trump, you, and Dante hold still on the main path. Asp, you're with me. We'll try some of these side routes and meet you back."

"And what? Wait for the next lot of shit to be flushed down here, Rickson?" Trump said.

"We only have one light source. Two of us will be more nimble. We can't get lost down here."

"Trump Tower to this dump. Fuck my life! Just be quick about it, Rickson."

Without waiting for more protests, Rickson plunged into the nearest split. With Asp, pressing his hands into the slime-coated walls. After minutes of wandering, through a series of switchback deadends. The sploshing sounds of their passage were dwarfed by an omnipresent dripping and the dull roar of machinery rumbling somewhere up ahead, beckoning them forward to signs of life. Rickson's light fell upon a heavy metal grate set into the tunnel floor. Muffled voices echoed beyond. Both scooted along in a single file, pressed into the cold ground, with Rickson earwigging to two men conversing in calm but familiar American accents.

"Da ya think that last power spike was from that defunct generator six again?"

The other looked at a blueprint doubtfully.

"No, it's probably four, by my reading."

"Those Chinese idiot techs will throw another one of their hissy fits if we don't get it fixed."

"I'm telling you, Hank, we gotta put in for a transfer for a different department."

Rickson nudged Asp excitedly with his feet, motioning him over. When Asp saw the grate, realization dawned on his scarred face.

Rickson spoke softly. "I can work with this."

"Maybe we have found a couple of allies after all in this maze," said Asp.

"That's if they don't rat!"

"They will be dead by then."

"Let's go and cheer up the Big Kahuna!"

Colonel Rickson and Asp returned to the others through the muck-filled tunnel, being careful not to get washed away further down the river again from any miscellaneous outflows.

"We found something," Rickson whispered once they were back.

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He recounted overhearing the American workers, suggesting they may prove sympathetic allies against their current captors.

Grey frowned. "Do they sound like they're under the virus's influence?"

"They seemed normal to me," Asp replied.

"It's possible they're being held against their will under the new world order," Rickson speculated.

"Either way, contact must be made," said Trump.

"I'm not staying in this shitty tunnel any longer."

Rickson raised the lighter with a smile on his face.

"Then follow me quietly, and be ready for anything."

The group crept along the twisting pipe. Soon Rickson's lighter fell upon the metal grate where voices had drifted up before. He signaled for silence with a count of three, then he kicked the grate down with a grinding screech. Trump swung down like a swinging orangutang, battle-ready, in front of the American engineers into a room holding panels of switches and blinking monitors with pipes running along the ceiling.

Shelves held tools and schematics, and a big generator pumping away going about its business.

"All right, fellas, it seems fate has brought us together for a higher purpose."

The two engineers gaped in shock. One muttered.

"Holy Mary, Mother of Christ, Marvin, is that... Donald Trump?"

"Hell, Hank, WTF!"

"The one and only," Trump replied.

"Now I have two questions to ask ya. Are you patriots? Or are ya sympathizers for the new world order?"

"Me and Hank here are as American as they come, Mr. President. It's just that they have taken our families hostage."

Hank added nervously. "Well uh, We...manage the infrastructure, Keep things hummin' ya know? for the executives. This facility runs the whole of Bohemium Grove—power, security, all of it. Mostly they leave us alone. Then they lock us up at night with our families."

"Where are these executives you speak of? Are guards close by?"

Hank stepped forward cautiously.

"Sir, you really shouldn't be here. Them foreigners are lookin' for ya everywhere."

"Screw them. Don't worry about that, just gimme the lowdown on this place.."

"You have no chance being on your own."

A loud scraping sound came from above as Hank spoke of the dire situation. Hank and Marvin looked up in alarm to see three figures dropping down stealthily from the ceiling, landing in a trio behind Trump. It was Colonel Rickson, Asp, and Dante.

"We'd thought we should drop in for a little break-in," Rickson said coolly.

"What in the heck?" cried Hank.

"You tryin' to break in this place is downright crazy!"

Trump flashed a fearsome grin. "I am as crazy as they come, fellas!"

Before any more could be said, a familiar English accent called out weakly.

"Erm, hello chaps...a bit of help down here perhaps?"

Grey's head was poking out of the pipe, struggling to climb out unaided. The engineers stared in open-mouthed disbelief at the small band of American rebels who had materialized before them, wondering what they had stumbled into. Colonel Rickson perused through the maintenance racks, eyeing up wrenches and crowbars or anything else for that matter that looked hefty enough to clonk someone over the head with.

"Both of you know the layout of this whole campsite. Is that correct?" asked Rickson.

"Well yeah mostly!" said Hank.

"I want to know our way in without being noticed. Just point us in the right direction. And let us worry about the rest."

"Please understand. We're Americans, just like you. But this whole place is locked for the rituals. We can't help," said Hank flat out.

"We don't want to be collaborators either," Marvin said worryingly.

"We just want to survive this place without our families being hurt."

"Rituals? What rituals! "I thought that was a load of old clickbait on YouTube," Colonel Rickson inquired.

"Disturbing things are happening here each summer. Terrible rituals conducted by the elites...to please unseen forces."

Hank shuddered. "Many children go missing, never to return."

Grey went pale. Gulag's proclamation of his daughter's whereabouts now made perfect sense.

"Children...when does this take place?"

"Tonight. Midnight, for the solstice celebration," Hank said regretfully.

"They celebrate it for two weeks every summer."

"We don't ask any questions," Marvin said.

"We gotta make a living."

Grey reeled in anger. "How long have you both been working here?"

"Me going on about fifteen years. Marvin here has been working with me for ten years."

"Shame on both of you. You work for people who let innocent children die."

"It's been going on since the early1900s," Hank explained.

"It's an American president's tradition!"

"Rituals? What kinda hooey is that?" Trump shook his head.

"Not on my watch it ain't."

"That's not quite true sir!"

"Well, I dammed. I'm always on the outside looking in." Trump said ruefully.

Grey picked up a crowbar, threatenly springing toward the American maintenance men. He was not going to let his daughters get lost in some unspeakable purpose among these godless monsters. So far, the engineer's lack of helpful involvement just wouldn't cut it with him.

"I swear, I will cave your skull in if you don't help us."

Colonel Rickson clothed-lined Grey, sending him flying out of action. Then he took hold of the crowbar.

"We need them alive you fucking idiot!"

The shrill ring of the old rotary phone sitting on Hank's wooden desk shrilled through the coiled cord. Marvin looked at Hank.

"Ahh shit, it's that crazy psychopath. Tammy's coming!"

##########

As she pulled up to the security checkpoint in the laundry truck, Tammy rolled down her window and batted her eyelashes at the armed guards stationed there.

"Good evening, boys!" she said in a sing-song voice.

"Just here to pick up another load of laundry for tonight."

Leaning down to peek into the truck, the Russian guard let his eyes run down Tammy's tight-fitting Girl Scout uniform.

"What's that song?"

Tammy grinned. "Oh, it's a little tune I recorded. Something to keep me company on these lonely drives."

Screams and cries of children filtered through the radio between verses of 'The Wheels on the Bus.'

The guard waved her through without a second thought, slightly turned on and highly disturbed.

She continued her drive, her hums harmonizing with the eerie music, until she reached the maintenance facility. Upon arrival, she silenced the music and positioned her vehicle at the front, leaving the engine idling. With a swift motion, she exited the vehicle and swung open the rear doors.

Hank and Marvin heard the rumble of the laundry truck pulling up outside.

"You need to go, now," Hank urged.

"Tammy will be here any minute, and you'll be done for if she finds you."

Marvin pushed open a fire exit for them to leave through just aft of Hank's work desk.

"You wanted a way in. Now's your chance. Hurry to her laundry van in the car park."

"Will it take us inside the campsite," Colonel Rickson asked.

"Yes, now go before you get all of us in trouble! We'll try to stall her," said Hank.

The gang snatched up crowbars and wrenches just as Tammy's heels clicked toward the door. They slipped out the back, eventually finding Tammy's truck out front, and dove in, hiding under piles of bedding as Tammy entered, in all sweetness and light in front of Hank and Marvin.

"Hey, boys! How's the family doing?"

"Hey Tammy," they both replied.

"There doing great. Thanks for upping the prison rations for them, Tammy."

"We really appreciate it," said Marvin.

Tammy tossed a soiled bag full of her Girl Scout uniforms on Hank's desk.

"If you get these cleaned and pressed by tomorrow morning, I might be kind and throw in some chicken for your children for the rest of the week!"

"No problem, Tammy, leave it with us," Hank replied as he scooped up the soiled bundle from her.

"Good, I'll just load up the laundry run and be on my way."

"See you tomorrow, guys!"

"Bye, Tammy."

Tammy wandered off, humming to herself, squeaking away with her laundry cart. The laundry room was peeled away from the generators at the back of the facility. A large handful of industrial washers and dryers sat quietly after a good day's worth of spinning cycles from Hank and Marvin. As well as being prisoners under Wang's and Pushkin's new world order.

Their duties also included being the dog's bodies for the foot soldiers. They pressed the military uniforms, polished the boots, and sorted the clothing into neat piles for the spoilt soldiers onto overflowing long wooden tables for each day.

By routine, Tammy collected the evening wear for the summer solstice along with the archaic monk-like brown robes for the esteemed guests. With her cart now loaded, Tammy wheeled it to the waiting truck and began hoisting the piles of laundry inside its waiting compartment. Rickson caught a glimpse of her profile in the dark, her blank eyes staring ahead. All were ready to attack her with the makeshift workmen's tools if she so much gave them a problem. Luckily, she finished up her duties none the wiser. She climbed into the cab and started the engine, and the nightmare nursery rhyme started all over again.

The truck traveled through Bohemian Grove along asphalt roads, past guard towers and residences. Trees whipped by the small windows as they held their breath, praying not to be discovered. She came to a stop outside a luxurious abode decked out with all the fittings. Outfront, manicured, freshly cut lawns reflected in perfect harmony with nature.

The first stop on her rounds was saved for the most distinguished of guests. She picked up two crisply pressed bags of laundry, her eyes catching the nametags: President Wang and President Pushkin, acknowledging the power those names held, and hauled the armfuls up the long, winding garden path.

Colonel Rickson slowly pushed back the sheet he was under.

"This is our chance!"

"All of you grab a robe each, so we fit in with these weirdos," Trump instructed.

Dante added. "Grey's still in a bad way. Once we're in these robes, we'll need to lay low and patch him up."

Grey spoke up. "My family needs me! Let's go."

They quickly started unzipping the laundry bags, grabbing their costumes for the night's events while Tammy was out on delivery, making sure not to ruffle the bags like uninvited interlopers. The fugitives got hold of the weapons that they had taken from the maintenance room and delved deeper into enemy territory.