The Retreads Chronicles

Chapter 1

The Man Who Loved Earth First

The morning fog was hovering low over the ground when Luis arrived on the site. A light in the mobile office told him that his boss, Supervisor Bell, was already at work. As Luis headed toward the light, he envisioned himself walking on a cloud until brought back to earth by a spherical object that lay nearby, perhaps a rock, for the bare lot was strewn with them. But rocks don’t move. Or do they? Luis was sure they didn’t. And yet . . . He tiptoed toward it. The fog lifted its skirt. Luis stopped dead in his tracks, rubbed his disbelieving eyes, crossed himself in one quick motion and then ran, tripping and stumbling toward the mobile office as fast as his stubby legs allowed.

Luis was difficult to understand under the best of conditions—excited, he was incomprehensible.

The torrent of Spanish that poured out of Luis’s mouth soon overwhelmed his boss’s grasp of the language. If a slap in the face could get Luis to revert to English, he might have felt the sting of Supervisor Bell’s hand on his cheek. An enlightened man, Bell did the next best thing. He followed the much-agitated Luis out of the office and onto the fog-shrouded field.

They had gone fifty yards when Luis came to a sudden halt.

Unable to avoid a collision, Damn it, Luis, warn a fellow when you’re going to stop, Bell complained.

It’s better I stay here, no? replied Luis, his voice quivering, and pointed to the object.

The supervisor proceeded alone. He was sure Luis had seen a rock, but his imaginative description made him approach the object with great caution, fearing it might be the macabre artifact Luis had described. He halted a few feet from the object, adopted a stalker’s crouch, and sent out his senses to gather intelligence. Because of the mist, his sight was slow in reporting back, and when it did, it confirmed that on the ground—just as Luis had described—was a human head.

It was a mutual discovery, for the eyes in the head opened slowly, as if waking from a deep sleep.

What time is it? the head asked.

"Díos mío!" cried Luis, crossing himself faster than before.

Jesus H. Christ, you nearly gave me a heart attack. What the hell are you doing there? Supervisor Bell demanded.

What time is it? the head insisted.

It’s seven o’clock. Is this some stupid prank? Come on. Get out of there.

The eyes stared but without seeing.

Listen, kid, I’ve got a crew arriving any minute now, and they’re going to tear this place up every which way from Sunday. If you stay there, you’ll just get yourself hurt. Let us dig you out and we’ll put paid to your little lark. Luis, get a shovel.

"Only one, jefe?"

How many can you use at one time?

Wait, said the kid, please, don’t do that.

Why the hell not? the supervisor snapped.

The young man paused. Because I’m sitting on enough explosives to blow us all to kingdom come.

Bell grinned. The kid almost had him fooled, but he knew a bluff when he heard one.

Still quaking in his work boots over his encounter with a talking head, Luis nearly jumped out of them when his boss told him about the explosives. Because the fresh development exceeded Luis’s understanding, Bell succeeded only in convincing himself that the young man meant what he said.

I arrived at the office to find the team huddled around Darrell’s desk. I filled my coffee mug and joined them. Connie, a head taller and a foot wider than me, made room for me. Lieutenant Bryce favored me with a nod, then returned his attention to Darrell’s computer screen. Like the other members of the Retreads, Darrell was taken off disability leave. Wheelchair bound after a spinal injury, he became the team’s self-appointed researcher, Internet guru and default communications director.

I went our fair city’s website to see what it said about the quality of our water, said Darrell, addressing the group. The good news is that, unlike some cities, we can drink it straight from the tap. The bad news is that at the rate we’re using it, we could see water rationing in our lifetime. We waste an unconscionable amount. Agriculture is the biggest guzzler, no surprise there; over-watered lawns came in a close second.

Beats a mangy-looking lawn, Vince retorted.

Cut the water in half and your precious emerald lawns would look as green.

What makes you an authority on lawn care? Vince demanded.

It’s all on the Internet, Darrell assured him.

Lieutenant Bryce, impatient with the Q&A, interjected, Can we fast forward past this dissertation on lawn maintenance? What did you want to show us, Darrell?

From our city’s water quality, I began researching its history.

A thorough study of our city’s history is at the very top of my post-retirement to-do list, which can’t come soon enough. So, expedite, son, expedite.

I bet you were unaware we once had a People’s Park, was Darrell’s non-expeditious response.

Imagine that. An honest to goodness, who-gives-a-damn People’s Park, said Vince.

Ignoring Vince’s taunt and the lieutenant’s admonishment, Darrell continued on his meandering way.

I followed that link and found myself in the middle of a message board. A message board, for the Internet impaired, which by my calculation is all of you, is a forum where individuals exchange information on shared interests.

Come on, Darrell, said the lieutenant. Enough foreplay! We’ve been standing here watching you get off on your geek thing long enough to try my patience ten times over.

All right. Bear with me. I clicked on the People’s Park link, and guess where it took me?

Dammit, Darrell. If you don’t get to the point, I’m going to push your geek head through the screen.

Voilà. The RARE website.

So they have a website, said Vince, unimpressed. Every asshole with a computer has one. I bet even Darrell here has one.

As a matter of fact, I do, Vince. Say the word and I’ll create one for you. How does ‘Neanderthals-anonymous.com’ grab you?

Grab this, geek.

Get a room, you guys. Darrell. The screen! Bryce ordered.

Every neck craned for a better view.

It’s an open letter from RARE, Darrell explained.

What is RARE? I asked.

I was neither Retread nor cop. As part of an experimental program, the Retreads were in effect guinea pigs who had volunteered à la Hobson’s choice, but more on that later. My task was to observe them and churn out reports. Because I was the face of a program that saw them as test subjects, I could understand the team’s aloofness toward me.

RARE stands for Radicals Against Raping the Earth, Darrell replied.

It’s a group claiming to be saviors of life as we know it. Whether Vince was answering my question or qualifying Darrell’s answer was unclear.

Maybe life as we know it isn’t worth saving, said Mason, the youngest member of the team.

Good point. That still doesn’t make them the bad guys, Rita responded.

Not according to the owner of the Hummer dealership here in town. These RARE types claimed responsibility for breaking into his Hummers and reupholstering them with buckets of blood and guts. Couldn’t give them away after that, said Vince.

Offal. All eyes turned toward Connie, surprised, as if they’d heard a mute speak.

Damn right it was awful, Vince replied. Get behind the wheel of one of those beasts and you won’t want to drive anything else.

What kind of mileage do they get? Mason asked.

If you have to ask, son, you can’t afford one, replied Bryce.

I think RARE’s position is that none of us can afford one, said Darrell.

And who the hell are they when they’re at home? Vince countered.

They consider the planet their home, which means they can’t be anywhere but.

How Zen! Gives me goose bumps.

As I recall, one of them built a tree nest and stayed up there for nine months, added Mason.

Closer to twelve, said Rita.

And what did he achieve? Vince asked, in what sounded like the opening salvo to another contentious exchange.

She, Rita corrected, stopped a private company from logging on public land. Anyway, that was a different group.

Same difference. While she was hugging a tree, local employment took a hit. I doubt Vince was making common cause with unemployed loggers, though coming from him, it was a rather astute observation.

Lieutenant Bryce rolled his eyes. Here we go again, he muttered.

Is she still up there? Mason asked.

I bet she wrote a book and made a pile of money. It always comes down to money, was Vince’s oblique reply.

A relative of mine lost his job because of these eco-freaks, declared Mason.

Seems to me we of all people shouldn’t be so quick to call anyone freak. The leaden silence suggested Darrell had touched a chord.

All right, Darrell, what’s this RARE group say for itself you think is so all-fired important? And it better be good. Lieutenant Bryce left to Darrell’s imagination the fate that awaited him if it wasn’t.

Ignoring the lieutenant’s implicit threat, Darrell read RARE’s manifesto aloud:

"Monday morning at 10:00 AM, join RARE to protest the demolition of Balustrade Park, aka People’s Park, to make way for still another strip mall the city doesn’t need. Once again, our politicos are giving away public land to a greedy developer and bartering away an important part of our city’s past, in exchange for promises of increased tax revenue.

"In a sweetheart deal made with Crasswell Corp, who took this land from the people, our magnanimous leaders granted Crasswell ten tax-free years. That means the corporation will operate for ten years without putting a cent into the city’s coffers. Other cities have learned to their sorrow that after the grace period, large corporations, by threatening to leave, dictate their own tax rate, which is far below what other, smaller businesses pay. This is yet another example of a private corporation maximizing its profits at the public’s expense.

"If the city sought much-needed revenue from that quarter, why did it strike such a lopsided bargain, except to kowtow to the oligarch class, to which Mr. Crasswell is a platinum card member? Unfair tax breaks are the gift that ordinary taxpayers keep on giving to the rich, connected corporations year after year, budget after budget.

"But this isn’t just about corporate greed and concupiscent office holders. The last remaining orange grove in the entire city, if not the county, will be uprooted and plowed under in the name of profit. CEO Crasswell dismissed those who demanded that the grove be preserved as ‘sentimentalists.’

"The strategy of the unsentimental Crasswell is to buy up irreplaceable farmland from distressed farmers at fire-sale prices, pave it over and build, build, build. At the rate CEO Crasswell is despoiling arable land, he will convert our country from food exporter to food importer. From plenty to want in a single generation. Well done, CEO Crasswell!

So, come, if not to protest, to see the city’s last orange grove before it disappears under tons of steel, concrete and macadam. Come, if not to protest, to witness the destruction of one of the city’s few remaining historic parks. Come, if not to protest, to listen to the echoes of voices that pushed the limits of free speech beyond the confines of conventional wisdom. Come, if not to protest, to bid adieu.

You called us over for this? Lieutenant Bryce asked, shaking his head in disbelief. With all due respect, son, you have got to get a life. You’ve set my imminent retirement back a decade.

Wait a sec, Lieutenant. Darrell might be on to the something.

Is there a bug going around? Mason, if you’re going to make Darrell’s case for him, make it quick. Else, I swear . . . Lieutenant Bryce was a master of the unspecified threat.

Look, RARE’s manifesto has gotten several interesting responses, Mason replied.

•Don’t let the high-sounding Radicals Against Raping the Earth fool you. It’s run by a single eco-crat. It has no members, no following and no voice. If this guy wants to save the earth, he should stop talking over people’s heads trying to show he’s smarter than the rest of us. There’s no record of the land in question being a People’s Park. If crying over something that doesn’t exist isn’t sentimental, what is? The so-called grove has a handful of trees that bear hardly any fruit that no one picks. Even if this vacant lot had historical value, what’s the point of preserving it if no one gives a damn? Instead of whining and wasting people’s time with a protest, this eco-twit should raise money for a commemorative plaque. I doubt the big, bad developer would object to placing it somewhere on his property.

•Re the protest in Peoples Park. I hear it’s going to end with a bang. Might be hype to get people to come. If true, it could be a good reason to stay away. These kooks will do anything to get attention.

•That’s a bunch of bs. RARE are what they say, radicals, not terrorists. Although I don’t always agree with them, they have something important to say about the environment and how we’re ruining it big time. People get offended when someone suggests they give up something minor to save something major. They don’t want to give up their gas guzzling SUVs and resent RARE for connecting the dots between the behemoths parked in their driveways and U.S. military adventures abroad.

•If they want to promote their cause, they should do what that Jones bunch did in Guyana. Instead of offing themselves with cool aid, they should strap explosives on their chests and blow themselves off the planet since they think it’s no longer fit to live on. With concrete and plumbing, they could convert the resulting hole into a fountain and dedicate it to all the members of RARE who left the planet a better place by leaving it.

•Brrr. That’s cold, man.

•Not cold. Demented.

•Hey, if extinction was good enough for millions of dinosaurs, it’s good enough for a handful of eco-twits.

•This is the first I’ve heard anything about explosives. If this piece of land is as sacred as RARE claims, blowing it up is a poor way of showing their respect. It doesn’t matter that we’re talking about a vacant lot.

•Killing oneself over a lost cause sounds noble. In fact, it’s an admission that one lacks the imagination to find a viable solution. Better people than they have wrestled with problems as big or bigger than the ones they bewail without contemplating the hissy fit these guys are throwing because they can’t have things their way. Ignore them, and maybe they’ll go away. For sure the problems won’t.

•This is nuts. Who said anything about killing? Will a member of RARE please set these guys straight?

That’s all very interesting, my geek minion, said Lieutenant Bryce. As you’re so smart, perhaps you can tell me what this has to do with the urgent business at hand, which is to not complicate my job any more than necessary before I retire.

You don’t think ‘end with a bang’ is interesting?

I’m sorry, I must have dozed off.

Or the references to explosives? Darrell insisted.

Whether the protest ends with a bang or a whimper, or takes place at all, it has nothing to do with us. Unless I hear otherwise from my overlords, as your overlord, I say, purge it from your thoughts. Besides, if there was the slightest chance this so-called protest got out of hand, the powers that be would sooner deputize crossing guards and dogcatchers than send you guys out. Anyway, why look for trouble? It’ll come when it comes, and always sooner than you expect.

The lieutenant let his words sink in, and then added, in a conciliatory tone: But since we are between assignments, if you want to waste your time, I don’t see the harm. Rita, if you’re not too terribly busy this morning, you and Connie mosey over there and see if there’s anything to this.

Why do you always partner me with Connie? Rita whined.

Because you and he make such an appealing couple. Now, would you, pretty please, take Connie and your whining ass, and check this thing out? And stop busting my balls every time I put you two together.

It’s against my religion to go into the field with a partner who won’t carry a gun. It’s unnatural, I tell you. This is the last time if I have to shoot him myself.

How about I partner you with Vince, your co-religionist? He carries a gun.

Him I would shoot.

Like I said, you and Connie make the perfect couple.

Mad Cow and Dough Boy, Vince mumbled.

Cute, Vince, said Bryce. Keep it up and I will partner you with Rita and give her a few reasons of my own to shoot you.

I’m not feeling the love, Lieutenant.

You’re not feeling my size tens up your backside either, so consider yourself lucky. Listen up, you two: If, for whatever reason, things go pear-shaped out there, get your asses back here. Have I made myself clear?

Neither his gruff tone nor his sharp words concealed Lieutenant Bryce’s concern for his team.

I was back in my office when Connie