When the rains may come (Science Fiction)

26. The Last Memory

Week one

Cathy woke up before the sun rose. Everything was dead quiet, dead still. Lisa was still asleep. Cathy quietly slipped out of bed and stepped into the bathroom. She came out fully clothed in an old sweatshirt and tracksuit lowers from her highschool. She carried her shoes downstairs. Erik was waiting for her in the living room. In a grey T-shirt and black shorts.

"Ready for your training?" He said.

Cathy nodded. The two of them put on their masks and strode out of the manor.

"Why do we have to wear masks when we don't need them?" Cathy asked as they began to jog down the road.

"To keep a low profile." He said. "Gemma trusts her townfolk a little too much. But I won't put it past them to snitch on us for a pint of beer or a can of fresh meat."

"Didn't you just steal important government equipment from right in front of their faces? You are scared of a bit of snitching commoners?" She said.

Erik snorted under his gas mask. "I really wouldn't have cared if I was all alone in this. But that's not the case. The plan involves Gemma too. And she loves this town that she is building. I don't want it all to come crashing down because of my actions. I'd want she and her dream to survive even if I die or get arrested by the government."

Cathy kept looking at Erik for a bit before looking ahead. They kept jogging down the road.

They ran for about three miles. Cathy felt a bit exhausted. The rest of the morning was spent doing push ups, squats and chin ups. And then they jogged back to the manor.

The evenings were spent with Erik explaining her different parts of an AR-15 rifle. The assembly, the dismantling, the cleaning and how everything worked together.

Cathy made flashcards for it all and read it over each night before bed.

#

Week Two.

Lisa had finished two thirds of the hefty A.D.C operating manual. She had figured out twenty four different sequences that could be used in a standoff against conventional military tanks.

She spent most mornings in the garage where the armored truck was, poring over the operating manual, scribbling sequences and ammunition type into a notebook. She'd pasted about a dozen sticky notes on the dashboard inside the truck, listing different sequences and their functions.

And most evenings she'd spend inside the truck, punching sequences into the panel until she didn't have to review the sticky notes she'd put up. She'd go for hours, memorizing sequences like this. And sometimes she'd fall asleep in the truck.

#

Week Three.

Cathy could run up to three miles without feeling like she was about to pass out. Her workout had gotten progressively more strenuous. Forty push-ups, thirty sit-ups and twenty chin-ups.

She felt like she was getting back in shape again, getting stronger. Her endurance had certainly gotten better than before. He body was mostly aching and sore. She felt always on the verge of passing out after exercise.

Yet the hardest part of life wasn't the training. It was the nights that terrified her.

Every night when Lisa wasn't next to her, Cathy would wake up in cold sweat, breathing heavily. The voice of her father echoing in her head over and over like an ominous chant.

She would look down at her hands and find the fingers twitching slightly, feel a vibration going up her wrist and then the rest of her arm would go numb. This is the hand that pulled the trigger. She would remember the gunshot that thundered in her silent neighborhood that night and feel herself shiver at the sound of it.