Back | Next
Contents

Liberation Day

BRENDAN DUBOIS

On the sole dock leading out of Massabesic Island off the coast of Maine, Fred Paige, chairman of the Board of Selectmen for the village, was waiting, seeing the early morning fog still hanging around this brisk morning. The dock was like the middle tine of a three-tined fork, with the other two tines being the stone breakwaters leading out into the Atlantic, protecting the small harbor.

Next to him the other selectman, Paul Lucian, checked his watch and said, “They’re late.”

“It’s foggy,” Fred said. “Maybe they’re just being cautious. Or lost. What do you think, Chris?”

Chris Allain was about fifteen years younger than Fred and Paul, skinny, with long stringy hair and a face with a bad complexion. But despite his appearance, he was one of the most important people on this island, for he was the best operator of the still-surviving shortwave radio equipment in the volunteer fire department building.

“They sounded legit,” Chris said, also looking out to the fog. It was so thick that it was hard to see the end of the breakwaters, where large plywood signs were posted, painted black and orange, with a skull and crossbones, and large letters stating KEEP AWAY. One old cabin cruiser that was partially sunk still bobbed at the harbor entrance, having been there for a year.

“So did the others,” Fred said, hands in his dungaree coat. He and Paul both had thick beards. Most men on the island had beards, when the razors and so many other staples disappeared. He and Fred also had holstered pistols at the side—his a 9mm Beretta, Paul’s a 10mm Glock—and Chris had a 20-gauge Remington pump action shotgun over his shoulder.

Fred turned to look behind him, at the piled up lobster traps, the trash barrels, and the various buildings and homes that made up the village and island of Massabesic. There was a faint twinge of sadness at seeing the large barnlike structure that was the village’s town hall. Every other Tuesday evening the three-member board of selectmen had a business meeting, but now the town was down to two. The third member, Matilda Grant, was once the oldest resident on the island and a constant smoker. She died two months ago after some bouts of serious coughing that brought up a lot of blood and sputum. Lung cancer was probably the cause of death, but there was no need nor ability to perform an autopsy, so she was laid to rest in a freshly made pine casket, like her ancestors.

And at least, some whispered, she had died naturally.

Not like the Clark or Pemrose families, up on the northern end of the island.

He shivered at the memory.

Late last year, as the winter storms had begun, Fred had urged the town to continue the mobile patrols, to ensure trespassers and even the Zeds didn’t make it on the island. But he had been outvoted by the other two selectmen—including Matilda, before her death—who had said, “Shit, Fred, you can’t expect people to tromp through the snow, night and day. Who’s gonna come try to across during the winter? We’ll start the patrols up come spring.”

That had been that, until during a particularly bitter cold spell in February, the wide sound between Massabesic Island and the mainland—where the abandoned town of Gilbert was located—had frozen. That allowed a number of Zeds to walk out to the island, where they ended up at the homes of Bob and Tracy Clark, and Hank and Helen Pemrose. It had been a slaughter . . . made worse when Bob and Tracy’s twelve-year-old boy Glen, had turned, and they had to hunt down the poor kid for two days, up in the rocky and forested north end of the island.

The patrols had started up the next day, during a sleet storm.

“Fifteen minutes late,” Paul said. “Looks like fourth time ain’t gonna be the charm.”

Fred nodded.

Being out here, prepared to be disappointed, well, that was the job of being head of the little town government of Massabesic, for the princely sum of one hundred dollars a year and lots of heartache.

Not many townspeople had come out here this morning, after the disappointments of three earlier promised visits. Today there were about a dozen or so townsfolk, huddled around, looking out into the fog. A few months after “it” happened, the first promised visit was announced over the radio, when supposedly the State of Maine had secured one of the ferries that did the Portland/Halifax run to make a rescue, but that turned out to be a hoax. A couple of months after that, a rich computer mogul was going to swing by and pick up survivors aboard his luxurious yacht. Another hoax. The third time . . . that had been rough.

The radio operator talking to their own Chris Allain that third time claimed to be under contract with the famed Wolf Squadron, and he had arrived one late summer day in a Boston Whaler. He offered to shuttle islanders to a larger boat—just out of view, of course—but only if the islanders would pass over gold jewelry or other valuables.

Fred and Police Chief Aaron Swinton hadn’t bought it, and when he and Chief Aaron demanded that a test run be made, the guy in the Boston Whaler had cursed them, said, “You had one chance, and you lost it,” and he backed away from the dock, and just before he could make a turn, someone in the crowd with suitcases and knapsacks at their feet took off the top of his head with a .308 hunting rifle.

Like that dark day, everybody here this foggy morning was carrying a weapon, bicycles were propped up against the stacked lobster pots, and three horses were tied up the fuel pumps. About three yards away at the end of the town pier was an M2A1 Browning .50 caliber machinegun, secured by concrete blocks and surrounded by sandbags. Gil Pachter, a quiet yet scary inhabitant of the island, who claimed to have been a cook in the Army, had donated the weapon after “it” had taken place. He was standing behind it, hands loosely draped around the receiver, like he was relaxing with intimacy with an old friend.

Fred said, “Well, looks we got skunked again.”

His fellow selectman Paul said, “Shit.”

Fred started to turn and the younger Chris said, “Hold on.”

“What?” Fred asked.

“I’m hearing something,” he said. “Honest. Not making it up.”

Fred looked out in the fog.

Heard it now.

Low throbbing of an engine.

Some of the townspeople heard it and joined him and the others on the dock.

Fred stared and stared.

Movement in the fog, becoming visible.

A few hoots and hollers behind him.

A black RHI approached with two inboard/outboard engines in the rear, about thirty feet in length, with two men standing at the pilot’s station about two-thirds back. Black hard plastic containers and silver coolers were piled high at the bow. At the stern of the craft, a large American flag snapped in the breeze, along with one from the State of Maine.

More joyous yelling, and handclapping, and shouts, and about a half-dozen volunteers surged forward to help tie off the craft.

Fred couldn’t talk. He took a breath, remembered the promise he had made back when it started, that never would he let his emotions grab him in public. Not when food supplies went short, not when the Sherman house burned down with no fire department to save those trapped inside, screaming for help, and not the thought of everyone he knew back on the mainland was either dead or changed, never would he tear up in front of his townsfolk.

But not today.

He was weeping, and in looking around, saw he wasn’t the only one.

An hour later—after MREs and other canned goods had been offloaded from the boat and brought up to the town hall for later distribution—Fred chaired a quick meeting to introduce their visitors. Both were young, strong-looking men, clean shaven and with clean uniforms. One had short red hair and the other had well-groomed brown hair.

Clean, strong, and confident.

The residents of Massabesic—with more trickling into the town hall every minute as the word spread—seemed to stare at the pair with wonderment, like they were time travelers from the past, where full supermarket shelves, laundromats, and hot showers were everyday occurrences.

The two uniformed men were on stage with Fred and Paul Lucian, the other selectman, and Fred didn’t need to use the gavel to quiet down the residents.

They looked shocked, in awe, and Fred couldn’t blame them.

“Well,” he said, “it looks like the fourth time was the charm after all. Folks, we have visitors here from the outside, and I’ll let them introduce themselves to us. Sirs?”

The first one stepped forward, wearing the light khaki trousers and shirt belonging to the State of Maine Marine Patrol, took off his baseball cap and nodded. “Folks, I’m Ward Turner, a Marine Patrol Officer . . . and I’m part of the effort doing survey and relief along the Maine coast, attached to the so-called Wolf Squadron that’s taking the lead in reestablishing the government of the United States, and ensuring the safety of the uninfected. This here is Tim Porter, Lieutenant, U.S. Navy. We’ve been working together for about two months. Tim, you want to say a few words?”

The Navy lieutenant looked to be about the same age as the Marine Patrol Officer, maybe early thirties, but his face was worn, lined, and looked tired. He was wearing clean blue Navy camo fatigues. He gave everyone a good look and said, “Folks, congratulations. I mean . . . well, this survey and recovery has been going on for a few months, and Massabesic Island has one of the largest populations of survivors. Good job.”

Silence, and Fred thought he should be happy or impressed, but instead, he was horrified.

This small island, less than a hundred people, was the biggest survivor population along the hundreds of islands along the coast of Maine?

Lieutenant Porter seemed to sense he had said something wrong, and he said, “Okay, moving forward, I just wanted to admire you folks for sticking together, and surviving, and now I want to let you know that the United States of America—battered—is not beaten, and not bowed. Welcome back.”

A couple of people started applauding.

A few more.

Then the entire population of Massabesic Island were on their feet, whooping and cheering and clapping, and Fred joined right in.


When the applause faded away somebody yelled, “Hey, who’s the President? I heard over the radio it was that wingbat, Sovrain, the secretary of education!”

Lieutenant Porter shook his head. “Briefly she claimed to be Acting President but thanks to the bravery and dedication of a unit of Marines attached to the Wolf Squadron, Vice President Rebecca Staba and her family were found in a secure bunker at FEMA headquarters in Washington, D.C. She is now the President, and work is underway to reestablish Congress.”

Another voice: “You think having Congress back is a good idea?”

Lots of laughter, and the questions came fast and quick after that.

“Any idea where that damn virus came from?”

Lieutenant Porter said, “Above my paygrade, I’m afraid. Lots of theories, nothing rock solid.”

“Is it worldwide?”

“Yep,” he said, “and President Staba said that while we’re recovering, we’ll be doing our best to help the rest of the world.”

“Fuck the rest of the world!”

More laughter, and as the laughter eased, Grace Moulton stood up, voice quavering, and she said, “I’m just wondering . . . I mean, there’s been so much misinformation and fake news over what radio we can hear . . . is there some way to find any survivors on the mainland?”

Marine Patrol Officer Turner stepped forward and said, “Parts of the Maine Red Cross are up and running in Rockland, where the relief efforts are centered. They’re trying to get a census lined up as to the survivors who are still out there. But it’s a slow process . . . a lot of the infected are still in the cities and countryside.”

Grace said, “I was just wondering, you know, because my sisters and brother, and their families, they live in Portland. And if they were infected . . . I mean, well, is there a cure? Can they get better? Is there a chance?”

Turner looked to the Navy lieutenant, almost pleading, and Porter said, “No. There is no cure if you’re infected. We do have a vaccine—which we brought ashore with the MREs and medical supplies—but there’s no cure.”

Grace choked up. “But . . . suppose people are infected. It’s not their fault. What happens to them?”

Lieutenant Porter said, “I’m sorry, ma’am. They can only be killed.”


Later that day Fred and his wife Lori, along with their daughter Penny and son Ken, ate a feast of MREs at their kitchen table, where an old calendar from last year was still hung by a magnet on the refrigerator door, along with reminder cards for dentist visits and OB-GYN appointments long missed. The refrigerator hadn’t run for months, and some days Fred thought its presence was mocking them, reminding them of a better and earlier world.

He and Lori each had macaroni and chili—“My God,” his wife said, “have you ever eaten anything so fine?”—and he could only nod with his mouth full.

The kids laughed, with Penny dining on chicken and egg noodles, and Ken slurping up a beef taco with beans.

Fred said finally said, “No, not in a while,” glad there were no fish items in the military rations they had received. Cod, clams, lobster, sea bass, halibut, Gulf shrimp . . . God, the diet had gotten so monotonous, with just an occasional egg here or there.

Twice brave souls—the Monahan brothers—had taken their fishing boat across the strait to the small town of Gilbert, and had quickly raided the Hannaford’s Supermarket over there, coming back with cans of beef stew, Spam, and B&M baked beans. And while Fred and the other two selectmen had publicly criticized them for doing something so reckless, privately he was pleased, and happy that instead of trying to trade their goods for gold or ammo, they had donated it to the town.

The last time . . . the boat was overdue for a few days, until it drifted up against one of the breakwaters, and young Timmy Monahan was the only one in the boat, and he had turned into a Zed, frothing and bloody.

After he had been shot down, nobody wanted to go on the boat to see if there were any supplies on board, and later it drifted away.

Ken said, “Dad?”

“Yes?”

“What’s next?”

He took a moment to relish the feeling of a full stomach, and the sight of a plate with plenty of food left on it. “This afternoon, we get the vaccine. That means we’ll be safe from the virus, forever.”

“No,” Ken said, wiping his chin with an old frayed towel. “I mean, is it safe now? With the Zeds all going to be killed?”

“I don’t know,” he said, and his wife looked at him and he sensed she knew that he had answered both questions with one answer.


Later that afternoon there was a happy mood amongst the townspeople of the island, as they stood in line inside the town hall to get the vaccine, and the shots were administered by both Marine Patrol Officer Turner and Lieutenant Porter of the U.S. Navy. Moms with kids were first up, and the lines moved along well, and Fred didn’t even wince as the needle slid into his upper right arm.

But as the line dwindled away, a loud voice erupted from the end of the line, a male voice that said, “Nope, no way! I’m not gonna get a government vaccine.”

Fred walked back to the entrance, were Bud Collum stood at the open doorway, shaking his head. He had on a tattered gray sweatshirt hoodie and patched jeans, with a thick black beard down to his mid-chest.

His wife Tina was at his side, a foot shorter, tugging at his thick arm. “Bud, c’mon, please . . . ”

He shook his head. “Nope. You go ahead and take that poison if you’d like . . . but I’m not doing it. Who knows what’s in it. Could be tracking stuff, shit like that. Nope.”

Tina looked to Fred. “Isn’t there anything you can do?”

“Tina . . . ”

“Please,” she said. “I can’t stand thinking of him turning . . . ”

By then Mark Twombly was there, standing behind Bud, and Gil Pachter, the one who had supplied the .50 caliber Browning machinegun, stood next to him.

Next to Fred was the other selectman, Paul Lucian, and Fred said, “Paul, I think we’re gonna have to declare another public health emergency. You agree?”

“Yep,” Paul said.

Twombly kicked Bud’s legs out from underneath him, and Gus twisted an arm, and the Marine Patrol Officer cut away his hoodie, and Lieutenant Porter gave him the vaccine.

In seconds Bud was on his feet, face red with anger, and to his wife, he said, “Tina, you bitch. That’s your fault. Damn it woman, I’m gonna divorce your skinny ass.”

She was crying but defiant. “Then you should thank me for making sure you live long enough to do that, you moron.”


Later in the day, after more MREs and other canned goods were distributed, Lieutenant Porter stood up on the stage and said, “Folks, we need to leave tomorrow, head back to Rockland. But we’ll return later in the week, with other watercraft, and get things organized.”

The meeting room fell silent.

Fred and Paul were sitting in the front row seats, and Paul looked to him, and Fred stood up. “I’m sorry, organized for what?”

Lieutenant Porter said, “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought it was understood.”

“What was understood?” Fred asked.

“We’re going to evacuate all of you off the island, for your safety.”


Murmurs and some voices perked right up, and still standing, Fred said, “Evacuate where?”

“To Rockland,” the Navy officer said. “Like I said earlier, that’s where the main recovery effort has been established for the state of Maine. There, you can get fresh food, clothing, and reside in a well-defended community. There’s electricity, laundry facilities, and hot showers.”

Fred couldn’t remember the last time he had taken a long, steady, hot shower, and he said, “But . . . that sounds nice and all, but will that be a temporary evacuation?”

“Doubtful,” Porter said. “Once the effort was made to safely evacuate you, then I’d have to say that you’d be staying there permanently.”

Fred said, “But . . . most of us have grown up here. Our families were the first settlers. You can’t ask us all to leave now, can you?”

George Dayton stood up and said, “Hell, if it means hot showers and clean clothes, I’m ready to leave now! So what if my great-great-granddad had a farm here. I think he’d be happy to know a descendant had enough good sense to get out!”

Laughter, cheers, and applause, followed by shouts and boos and Fred held up a hand, and no one paid attention, and then Marine Patrol Officer Turner raised both of his arms up, and the crowd grew silent.

Turner said, “We’re going to do a survey of the island, and a census, and at eight tomorrow morning, we’ll be heading back to Rockland. Before we shove off, we’ll meet with anyone at the dock who wants to register so we can bring back a ferry craft to take you off. You’ll be allowed one suitcase per person, and no weapons allowed.”

The room was now silent.

“Think about it,” the Marine Patrol Officer said. “It’ll be for the best, to start a new life on the mainland.”


He and Lori and the kids talked and debated and argued, and talked some more, with a last minute goal “to sleep on it,” but Fred found it hard to sleep. He tossed and turned, keeping Lori awake, and then he went downstairs and tried to sleep on the couch, and that didn’t work. Eventually he got up, armed himself, unlocked and unbolted the heavy front door, and stepped outside, 9mm Beretta strapped to his waist, a .223 Mini-Ruger 14 over his shoulder, carrying a quilt from the couch.

As it was just a while before dawn, so the light was faint enough that he could find his way, although even in the dark, he could find his route, which led to a clump of land and rock on his property that offered a good view of the island, sound, and the mainland. He sat down and wrapped the quilt around his shoulders, and thought.

To the north were the buildings of Massabesic village, and he only saw one home with a flickering light inside, a lantern or candle. To the south was the harbor and moored there, along with other vessels of the local fishing fleet, was the dark shape of the Wolf Squadron RHI, where the Navy lieutenant and Marine Patrol officer were spending their night. Many of the townspeople had offered to put them up for the night, but they sheepishly said no, orders were that they would remain with their vessel overnight.

Made sense, Fred thought. It was only through blatant self-interest that most of the small fishing fleet here stuck close to home, because of the dwindling supplies of fuel. And going off to the mainland . . . who would want to take that chance? But with the good news that progress was being made in rebuilding the nation, it sure would be tempting to a few guys on the island to steal that big powerful boat and head off.

Across the dark strait it was easy to see the mainland and the town of Gilbert, for centuries the closet neighbor to Massabesic. He couldn’t help himself, he felt nauseated at remembering those frantic weeks last year when the plague spread. There were the news reports out of New York and Boston, about people going crazy, frenzied, biting and attacking people . . . and then those people being infected, so forth and so on. At first, the people here and in Gilbert thought it was funny that the big cities were having health problems.

Then . . . 

It got here.

Panic.

Police and National Guardsmen overwhelmed.

Then . . . the town across the strait started burning.

He and the other two selectmen had an emergency meeting, closing off the island to anyone fleeing the mainland, and the desperate measures here to keep this island isolated.

Firing on speedboats, fishing boats, and even canoes making their way across.

Almost being overwhelmed until Gil Pachter arrived with his M2A1 Browning .50 caliber machinegun, and then the heavy fire sank the approaching watercraft, and that had been that.

Until seeing Gilbert burning down.

Using binoculars and telescopes to monitor the coastline.

A group of people on the end of one of the main docks on Gilbert, who had barricaded themselves, holding up a white bedsheet with the words HELP US! spelled out in orange spray paint.

They had lasted only two days.

The light was now strong enough he could see seagulls floating overhead. The buildings of Massabesic were coming into focus, and he noted the town hall, which had been the meeting place for the GAR chapter, until all of the Union veterans had died off, and then became a Grange Hall, and then the Town Hall.

His bones seemed to ache. So much history here. First settled by veterans of the War of 1812—and most families, including his own, were able to trace their ancestry back to those original settlers—a flourishing community for decades, with farming, and fishing, and some lumbering of tall pines at the north end of the island. Men from Massabesic had sailed from here to serve in every conflict from the Civil War to Iraq and Afghanistan. Writers and poets had summered here. President Franklin D. Roosevelt had docked here for a fishing trip in the Gulf of Maine. . . . 

So much history.

And now?

Evacuation.

Leave all weapons behind.

One suitcase per person.

Evacuate Massabesic Island, never to return.

He checked his watch. Just a bit after 5 AM, full sunrise.

Time to get to work.


It was a short and well-remembered walk to the house of Paul Lucian, a weathered light gray Cape Cod house with shuttered windows, and an overgrown lawn. At the stone walkway leading up to the front door, there was a metal post and small bell dangling below. A sign was fastened on the pole:

RING BELL, STAND STILL, ARMS OUT. OR BE SHOT.

Fred followed the orders, ringing the bell three times, and then stood still, arms stretched out.

Eventually the front door opened up, and Paul came out, wearing worn L.L. Bean boots and a blue robe, carrying a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun in his hands.

He yawned. “Pretty damn early. What’s going on?”

Fred said, “Time to declare another public emergency.”

“Sure, why not,” Paul said. “I can’t keep track of how many we’ve issued over the year. Then what?”

“Then we start going around the town, knocking on doors. Talking to folks.”

“Without getting our heads blown off,” Paul said. “What’s going on?”

Fred said, “I think we need to remind folks about something.”

“About what?”

“About what it’s like to live here.”


Fred checked his watch, looked behind him. It was just before eight in the morning, and it looked like nearly the entire population of Massabesic was behind him, standing on the land rising up from the dock, and the dock itself. There were soft murmurs and talking, and he felt a dark stab of fear, that it wasn’t going to work out, that the seductive words of the Marine Patrol officer and the Navy lieutenant would work their charm.

Electricity.

Hot showers.

Three meals a day.

Near the RHI the two men from away came up the dock, smiling, Marine Patrol Officer Turner on the left, holding a clipboard, and Lieutenant Porter on the right, not smiling, just looking like a serious Naval officer who wanted to get back to work.

They both stopped and Turner said, “Boy, what a turnout. Glad to see it. You folks should be proud of yourselves.”

He held up the clipboard, took a pen out of his shirt pocket and said, “Okay, let’s step up, and don’t rush. There’s plenty of time, and there’s plenty of room at Rockland. One at a time, give us your name, and if you’re a parent or a legal guardian, give us the name of minors that will be accompanying you.”

His words seemed to hang in the cool Atlantic air.

No one moved.

Fred struggled to keep the expression on his face calm and bland.

“Really?” Turner asked. “Come along, now. Who’ll be first?”

Fred didn’t dare move, to look behind, to break the mood.

Lieutenant Porter said, “What’s going on here? What’s wrong with you? Don’t you want to leave, be safe? There’ll be good food, no shortages, electricity. You’ll be safe.”

Now Fred looked behind at his townspeople, his friends, all of whom who had done so much to stay alive and together this past year.

He turned back to the two well-dressed and well-fed men.

Fred said, “You said yesterday, ‘welcome back.’ Am I right?”

The two men exchanged glances. “Yes,” the Navy lieutenant said. “Was that a problem?”

Fred said, “’Fraid so. Most of us took that as an insult, Lieutenant, ’cause we never left America. We were right here. America sort of left us, if you think about it. Nobody here on Massabesic had anything to do with that damn virus. But we did what we could. We were isolated. And to tell you the truth, if the whole mainland was infected and everybody was killed off, and we were the sole survivors, then we’d be America, right here, on this island.”

It felt like the townspeople—all of whom he and Paul had talked with, face-to-face, before this meeting—were filling him with words and energy. Even his wife Lori came up to him and put a hand on her soldier.

“And Americans aren’t refugees, aren’t evacuees, and we don’t run,” he went on. “This is our home, and this is where we mean to stay.”

Lieutenant Porter said, “You made it through one winter, isolated. Do you think you can do that again?”

Fred said “If we have to. We did it once, and our great-grandparents and beyond did so. But we don’t plan to do that.”

Marine Patrol Officer Turner said, “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

Fred looked back at the townspeople, who were silent.

He finally said, “Before, you said we were isolated. But we aren’t isolated now, are we? The country’s got a President, there’s progress in controlling the infected, there’s a vaccine, and you’re just down the coast at Rockland. That’s not isolation, and we mean to take advantage of it.”

“How?” the Navy lieutenant said.

“Trade,” Fred said. “Just like was done years back, when this island was first settled. You say you got a safe zone at Rockland. How are you feeding ’em? With MREs and old canned food?”

“Mostly,” Lieutenant Porter said. “That’s all that’s readily available now.”

Fred said, “Okay, then, that’ll make it easy. We got a small fleet here that hasn’t gone out too far because we wanted to ration our fuel, and heck, one or two boats could feed the island regularly. But we make a deal with the government at Rockland, the folks there will get fresh fish, lobster, shrimp . . . a lot tastier than your MREs.”

Porter said, “And in return for what?”

Fred said, “Some batteries. Regular medical supplies. Heck, even the MREs. They do lighten up one’s diet. Oh, and one more thing.”

He pointed across the sound. “About twenty miles up from Gilbert, on the Piscassic River, there’s a hydropower plant, run by Central Maine Power. Get that up and running, and you power our island, we’ll work twice as hard. Our fleet can help out the Wolf Squadron, running supplies out to the other islands, help build back Maine.”

He paused.

“That’s the deal,” he said.

Lieutenant Porter said, “We can’t agree to that.”

Fred said, “Well, you’re gonna have to figure that out. You bring our proposal to whoever your captain or admiral or whatever is; you tell him or her that’s the deal from the people of Massabesic.”

He thought for a second.

“No, you tell them that’s the deal from the Americans of Massabesic.”


Ten minutes later and after the RHI left with Marine Patrol Officer Turner and Navy Lieutenant Porter, the townspeople of Massabesic drifted away, and Fred felt exhausted. Was this a victory? Then why did he feel so tired and blue? His wife Lori came to him and kissed him.

“So proud of you,” she said.

Fred said, “Just doing my job.”


Back | Next
Framed