The Heretics of St. Possenti Page 23

  “How many you got out there now?”

  “Forty-five. Not expecting any more for a while.”

  “Hmmm. Forty-five, eh? Well, how about we get the rest of the things you want and then ring it all up together?” He led the way back to aisle three.

  Ten minutes later they had three carts full and were joined by Bill pushing his nearly full cart as well. As they briefly compared notes while Rodger rang them up, Liza came back to the front, not exactly moving silently. When she saw the two men standing side by side she froze, looking back and forth between them. They glanced at her for the barest of moments and went back to comparing notes.

  Liza interrupted them. “Are you two… together?” The implication in her question was obvious.

  “Yes,” replied Bill, answering the literal question and deliberately ignoring the implied one.

  “Is that a problem?” inquired Hugh, tone bland and not the least bit defensive.

  “Oh… No. Not at all. Of course not, just… Damn.” She looked back and forth between them, blushing furiously.

  “Please do not curse, Miss Aker,” admonished Hugh, tone and expression turning only slightly less bland.

  A barely muffled guffaw escaped Sellers, and his grin was irrepressible as he continued to scan items in the carts and pay elaborate attention to them as he did so. “I’ll fill you in later, Liza.”

  The rest of the checkout (of items from the store, not posteriors) and truck-loading was uneventful as the lone female in the store suddenly appeared to remember numerous items from the back aisle. The three men let her shop in peace as they discussed the weather forecast, fencing options, and future fresh grocery delivery expectations.

  * * *

  Trips to town took place twice a week, always with two or more of the brothers working as a team, sometimes in habits (if they were baptized and making good progress), sometimes in street clothes, always with an admonishment to keep a low profile and a high level of propriety and self-control. They almost always encountered interesting interactions with local folks. When it became known that they were likely to be found at the store on a regular schedule, others in town who wanted to meet a real monk managed to arrange to “happen” to need to do shopping on that same day, too.

  Some of the local ladies who had not tied down a husband yet dropped by to see what the fuss was about, and more than a few decided it was their duty to “accept the challenge.” None of the monks rose to the bait—after talking over Hugh’s experience, they realized that as a practical matter, they had far more to gain long term by being polite, patient, and very careful to not get entangled or tripped up in any sort of honey-trap. They thought it was oddly entertaining to be on the receiving end of such a “social hunting matrix” from women seeking “forbidden fruit” and decided that always working in teams would be the best way to avoid temptation. The fact that pragmatic real-world considerations backed up their vows of chastity while with the monastery was a bonus; knowing the flesh had its own biological programming aimed at reproduction made it easier to exercise self-control when nearly all the incentives were pointing in the same direction: wait and take the long view of it.

  Gas Leak

  Before and above all things, care must be taken of the sick, that they be served in very truth as Christ is served; because He hath said, “I was sick and you visited Me” (Mt 25:36). And “As long as you did it to one of these My least brethren, you did it to Me” (Mt 25:40).

  The Holy Rule of Saint Benedict, Ch. XXXVI (Of Sick Brethren)

  Two things rapidly became clear as a line of brothers dug trenches in the frozen ground to lay sewer line, gas lines, water lines, and electrical service lines. First, while it was certainly possible to hand-dig, it was a great deal of back-breaking labor, and it might make sense to find a mechanized way to do some of the bulk earth moving (or at least breaking through the frozen surface) if they wanted to get the early parts of construction done in a timely fashion. Second, the soil was very rocky, and some of the longer-term plans for agriculture and growing most of their own food eventually might have to be rethought.

  Once again a pair of the brothers were sent to town, this time to secure a backhoe, bulldozer, track hoe, tractor attachments, or some sort of earth-moving machinery as the tractor they’d agreed to buy didn’t have that sort of attachment. They planned on stopping in to see the seller of it, though, to see if such attachments might be had. Sadly, the farmer informed them, there were not. However, he did have a backhoe they could rent, and his neighbor had an old—roughly 1960 vintage—bulldozer that could likely be rented if the need arose.

  It sounded like a good deal all around. He offered to have his daughter drive it over for them and give them a lesson in its operation as she was skilled in its use.

  James replied uncertainly. “So… the farmer’s daughter drove the backhoe to the monastery one day….”

  The farmer sniffed, stifled a laugh, straightened his features out, and replied very seriously. “Yes, I s’pose you got a point. The jokes do sorta write themselves. How about I teach you now and let you drive it home?”

  “Uh-huh. That might be for the best.”

  They got the quick lesson on the backhoe—James had used one before—and returned to the monastery earlier than expected, Jon driving the truck and James driving the backhoe.

  The trenching went a lot faster after they returned.

  * * *

  James was at the backhoe controls, Jon was directing, and another dozen brothers were working along the trench with them, making sure it was straight, even along the bottom, sorting out the larger rocks, tossing them in heaps they had been making every twenty feet or so, and watching to learn the controls for when it was their turn.

  They were about eighty yards from the ranch house when the bucket came up with two pipes trailing away from it, pulling out from the side of the trench they’d been digging heading back toward the building. A slight hissing could be heard, and the whiff of sulfur hit them. They didn’t bother freezing and wondering what had happened, they all started running or diving for cover while screaming, “GAS LEAK!”

  WHOOMP!

  Unmarked gas and electrical lines, found the hard way.

  Dirt and rock went flying from the explosion that rocked the frozen ground. It was nowhere near as powerful as some of the mines and IEDs that many of them had experienced, but it was undeniably an explosion, and the rocks hurled through the air were big enough, and fast enough, to do real damage.

  The monks who were not nearby came running. Mickey, working his way through Matthew with two other brothers, grabbed the medical kit off the wall as he sprinted out the door toward the sound of yelling, and Hugh did the same from the arena.

  Near the trench Jon was no longer rolling around in the snow to put out any potential flames on his clothing. James had not been able to jump clear of the backhoe very fast; he had minor burns on the little skin he had exposed, a twisted ankle from landing badly after he jumped, and seriously bruised and possibly cracked ribs from the blast bouncing him off the roll-cage on the backhoe. Brothers Tim Goll and Anthony Pembroke, who had been in the trench nearest the blast, had numerous bruises, ringing ears, and minor lacerations in places not covered by their robes. Tim also had a dazed look and said he had slightly doubled vision, a sign of possible concussion from when his head came down on a rock after being tossed head over heels.

  The gas still hissing slowly from the line fed a flame that diminished with each passing minute. Nearly every one of the vets had some trauma-treatment training, and the evaluation of the injured was rapid. The bruises they could ice, the lacerations they could clean and bandage, the injured ribs and ankle they could bind, the burns minor enough to treat with burn cream and bandage to keep an eye on. The only injury deemed serious enough to get checked out professionally was the concussion. They’d seen far too many TBIs turn out poorly to take it lightly.

  Mickey thought it best for Hugh to drive Tim, the injured brother
, to the nearest ER, and to take their second-best medic—Alan Dimitru—along with him. They bundled the two of them and their injured charge into the truck and sent them off with a dose of acetaminophen and a (gently applied) ice pack while their best medic stayed and patched up the others. They did so out of a growing sense of independence and self-reliance and partially to save money. They could also pick up a pipe-detector on the way back so the pipes could be traced and avoided.

  ER

  The police cannot protect the citizen at this stage of our development, and they cannot even protect themselves in many cases. It is up to the private citizen to protect himself and his family, and this is not only acceptable, but mandatory.

  —Col. Jeff Cooper

  The drive to the ER was not as fast as Hugh, Tim, and Alan would have liked, what with patches of icy road and sometimes gusty wind, but the brothers arrived uneventfully. Tim said in a somewhat fuzzy, unfocused voice that he felt nauseous, but he never vomited. Alan asked him a series of questions designed to establish his mental acuity and memory, look for lapses or problems, and help keep Tim alert and gently trying to focus. It was deliberately low pressure so as to not tax his likely injured brain. It was just done to establish a baseline level of injury.

  When they arrived at the ER, they got a rather surprised look: it’s not every day a couple of monks drag in a third with a concussion and minor blast injuries.

  They sat Tim down, and Alan rattled off to the receptionist, “TBI, moderate concussion. Complains of double vision and nausea, ringing ears, slight dizziness, speech slow and slurred, thinking slowly but no noticeable memory lapses and no vomiting. We were doing some remodeling at the monastery and hit an unmarked gas line that sparked and blew. He hit hard. Bruises and some minor lacerations we patched up on the way here.”

  They handed him the forms to fill out, and as Brother Alan started to do so, he realized they didn’t have any sort of insurance card. He wasn’t even sure if they were insured; he thought they might be, but he didn’t know… and he realized he didn’t have the landline number for the monastery, and he knew there was no cell reception in the valley. He explained the situation to the receptionist, and he said just to make sure the contact information was filled in and they could work it out when they knew.

  * * *

  The ER waiting room was not crowded. There were just three other people waiting. Brother Hugh sat, slightly self-conscious about his habit and appearance, reading one of the magazines while he waited for a progress report. Alan was in with Tim and the doctor. He heard the argument before he saw them walk in. A Hispanic couple—well, a pair who were Hispanic and side by side anyway—were arguing loudly in Spanish as they entered, she very visibly pregnant and apparently in labor, he very angry and animated. It was unclear what exactly they were arguing about, but it didn’t appear to be joy and the impending need for a new name in the family.

  Hugh kept an eye on them while pretending to continue reading. The receptionist picked up the phone. The couple kept arguing. When an orderly showed up and tried to speak with them in Spanish, attempting to calm them down and understand or defuse the problem, the man only got more animated.

  The receptionist made another phone call.

  The argument got worse, and the woman sitting down and panting hard while a contraction hit didn’t make it get any better.

  Two more orderlies showed up. So did a knife in the hand of the Hispanic man.

  One of the orderlies dodged a slice by his attacker, tripped backward over a coffee table, and nearly landed on Hugh.

  Hugh put on his best pissed-off sergeant face, stood up, feet apart and arms akimbo, and glared at the unruly assailant. Suddenly, the woman’s argument prominently featured the words dios, sacerdote, and monji. The young man continued screaming and waving the knife around. The orderlies all backed off. The receptionist was talking urgently into the phone. The knife wielder made as if to threaten the woman with it.

  Hugh took a step forward and went into a more combative stance. “Kid, put that damned cuchillo away NOW because if you hurt her or I have to take that pig sticker away from you, I swear to God I’m tempted to rip your arm off and beat you half to death with the bloody stump!” His tone said he meant it. He pulled one hand inside the sleeve of his robe, ready for action.

  The pregnant woman looked aghast. Her boyfriend slashed at the bigger man, who dodged it. Slice, slash, short stabbing motion; side-step, block, dodge. The smaller man started coming after the monk more aggressively but still took a swipe at anyone else who got too close. He was as quick as Hugh, but much less disciplined and much more erratic. Hugh could feel the blade contact lightly a couple of times, but felt no bite of cutting pain or changes of motion, only the barely noticeable sting of impact.

  His opponent made a leap and a stab. Hugh trusted the material of the robe, deflected the blade slightly, and grabbed the man’s arm with a pull, twist, and trip. He put on a vicious arm lock as they went down together. The knife was still in the man’s hand, but at a totally useless angle, with Hugh in total control of the arm as he lay atop the struggling man, putting gradually more and more pressure on it. The orderlies saw the knife was captive, so they joined in to pin the kicking legs, using their knees, the violent man’s pressure points, and leverage to render him nearly immobile except for his incoherent screaming. But the man still held the knife and tried to struggle. Hugh and the orderlies didn’t even try to talk to him.

  Working carefully, Hugh adjusted his grip slightly. With a wad of his robe protecting his hand he gripped the knife blade and twisted it out of his opponent’s hand and tossed it aside.

  In spite of being disarmed, the hostile man continued to fight a losing battle until a pair of police officers ran in and added an additional two pairs of hands, cuffs, and pressure point activations to get a reasonable level of compliance. While that was going on, the pregnant woman was whisked off in a wheelchair to a safer, quieter delivery room.

  After they secured the shackled man in their cruiser, the two officers returned to take statements, starting with the receptionist who had called them, and then the orderlies. When they got to Hugh, who looked to be unconcerned with it all and was back to reading a month-old Popular Mechanics, the two policemen wore somewhat amused expressions.

  “Name?” asked the first, whose name-tag read Gonzales.

  “Hugh Antczak. A-N-T-C-Z-A-K.”

  “What happened?”

  “What they said,” he looked toward the admissions desk. “The guy and his squeeze came in arguing. Orderly came in to ask questions and calm him down. The guy pulled a blade. One of the hospital guys nearly landed on me trying to save his own neck, so I figured it was time I did something. I got up and hoped the habit here would get through his drug-haze. Didn’t work, and he threatened the girl, so I told him to knock it off. He tried to stick me. I blocked it and dropped him, and then the orderlies piled on and helped keep him down until the cavalry showed up to take him away. And we all lived happily ever after.”

  Gonzales chuckled at his wry description.

  “Did you get cut when he took a poke at you?”

  “No, don’t think so.” Hugh did a quick check just to make sure. “Yep, blade missed me. He wasn’t particularly fast as I recall.” He didn’t say anything about the material his robe was made out of.

  “Do you remember what you said to him?” asked the second officer.

  “Not exactly.”

  “What the receptionist said you said didn’t sound very… priestly.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m kind of new to all this. Less than a month, in fact. Spent a lot of time in a different uniform. Wasn’t working out. Old habits die hard, you might say.”

  The three spent the next fifteen minutes going over details, his contact information, and all the normal things that a police report has to have.

  They were wrapping up when Brother Alan showed up. “I hear I missed some excitement.”

  “You could say so,�
�� replied Hugh. “How’s Tim?”

  “Likely be okay. Gave him some more meds to help the swelling and reduce his blood pressure a little bit. Nothing broken in his thick skull. Hey, mind going in there for a minute? The young lady who came in a little bit ago wants to see you.”

  “Young lady?”

  “Yeah, you know. The preggers chick… I mean, the gravid Hispanic female whom you saved from her hopped up insignificant other.”

  “Why? I mean, why would she want to see me?” Hugh noticed the police officer’s expression. “He’s new to the monastic thing, too. Still working on proper etiquette.”

  “Dunno, hoss. She seems to have a child now, and I don’t speak Spanish, but it sounded like she wanted your blessing or something.”

  “Blessing? Me?”

  “Well, you are of the cloth, now, Brother Knife-Meister,” reminded Alan.

  “Well, yes, I guess, but… I suppose I can mumble something that sounds somewhat godly.”

  The cops thought the whole scene was a bit humorous. “We can hang around for a minute while you go see what she wants,” offered the second cop. “No need to rush Mr. Tough and Silent out there back to the station.” They could still hear the cuffed man shouting from the cruiser parked out front. The two would likely want to wear hearing protection for the drive back with screaming like that coming from right behind where they’d be sitting.

  “Sure, that’d be fine. Fine. Uh, wish me luck.” Hugh followed Alan back to where Tim was sitting up in a bed and then left him to follow an orderly up to the delivery room, where Maria lay with her newborn. A midwife and nurse were also in the room. Working through the orderly acting as an interpreter, he quickly learned that while she did want a blessing, what she really wanted was to know his nombre, his name. “Hugh,” he said simply.