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Revolution No. 9

Revolution No. 9 by Neil McMahon
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Take this, brother, may it sere you well....

As he lies, bound and hidden, on the floor of his abductors' SUV, Carroll Monks is only dimly aware of the bizarre series of high-profile murders sweeping across the nation. What he thinks about instead, a they travel for hours deep into the Northern California wilderness, is that the face of one of his abductors belongs to his own son, Glenn--long estranged and living (the last Monks knew) on the streets of Seattle.

The vehicle finally stops. when Monks is untied and stpes out, he sees he's been brought to a remote off-the-grid community where paramilitary training and methamphetamine makes for combustible, uneasy bedfellows--and that Glen has fallen under the spell of a disenfranchised counter-cultural sociopath known simply as Freeboot, who claims that a revolution "of the people" is already under way. Monks is appalled by Freeboot's violent histrionics and Manson-like affinity for the hidden messages buried within Lennon and McCartney lyrics, yet acknowledges that he hears echoes of his won feelings when Freeboot speaks about the disintegration of workers' rights, the escalating differential between the haves and the have-nots, and the slap-on-the-wrist "justice" doled out in cases of billion-dollar corporate malfeasance. Could this well-armed madman actually have his finger on teh pulse of the underclass?

The reason Monks has been abducted, he soon discovers, is Freeboot's own son, a four-year-old boy who is deathly ill--a conundrum for Freeboot, who's distrust of institutional America (hospitals included) borders on the psychotic. Monks, and ER physician, has been brought in to care for the boy, but he can see immediately that the boy's condition is acute and that only immediate hospitalization will save him. When Monk's pleas fall on deaf ears, he fashions a daring escape during a snowstorm, with the young boy slung across his back--and brings the wrath of a madman down on himself and his family, culminating in a diabolically crafted "revolution"--a re-creation of Hitchcock's The Birds, but with human predators, unleashed on the town of Bodega Bay, California.

Title: Revolution No. 9
Author: Neil McMahon

Chapter One

Carroll Monks was planning a trip to Ireland. His grandfather

had grown up near Kilrush, on the west coast, before emigrating

to the States. Monks had seen a photo of the place -- a stone

hovel in a barren field, miles from the nearest tiny village.

But Monks himself had never set foot on Irish soil. Why that was

so was a puzzle even to him. The only answer he could give was that

his life for the past thirty-odd years seemed to have been one long

struggle to stay on top of whatever he was doing, while stumbling toward

the next goal -- college, medical school, five years in the navy,

getting established in practice. Then marriage, children, divorce, and

the thousands of vicissitudes that went with all that. Most of the traveling

he had done had either been out of necessity, or vacations that

were aimed at pleasing his children.

But the lapse was still inexcusable, and he was going to rectify it,

come next March. He was not in search of his roots -- he intended to

make that clear to everybody he met. Mainly, he hoped to drink in

some good pubs, walk on deserted beaches, and listen to a lot of rain,

while he was warm and dry inside.

He was warm and dry right now, inside his own living room. It

was early December, getting toward dusk, and the northern California winter was starting to settle in. A fire crackled in his woodstove,

with cats sleeping in front of it, waiting for him to break out the slab

of fresh salmon that they knew was in the refrigerator, ready to broil

on a charcoal grill. Meanwhile, to get himself in shape for the journey,

Monks had put aside the vodka that was his usual preference and

taken up an apprenticeship with John Power whiskey, a working-class

Irish malt with a good rough edge. He liked to sip it neat, slowly,

sampling various stouts as chasers. The effect was like nectar and ambrosia


He had been reading up on Irish history and had a pile of maps and

guidebooks that he consulted while plotting his course. His main focus

was a leisurely trip up the west coast, through Galway to Donegal,

staying as close as he could to the ocean. He had no fixed schedule. In

early spring, lodging should be easy to find. He would be traveling

alone. Ideally, he would have a female companion along, but there was

no one on the radar just now. He was starting to wonder if there ever

would be again.

Monks decided to pour one more short splash of whiskey before

starting the charcoal for the salmon. He was getting to his feet when

a knock came at the front door.

This surprised him. His house was a good hundred yards off a little-

traveled county road, surrounded by redwoods, all but hidden

from view. He would have heard a car coming up his gravel drive. So

the caller was on foot -- but there were no near neighbors, and no one

in the habit of dropping by.

He stepped to a window that gave a view of the deck outside the

front door. His surprise deepened. A young woman was standing there.

The evening darkness was closing in, but he was quite sure she wasn't

anyone he knew. She was looking around, in a way that suggested she

might be nervous at approaching a stranger's house at dusk.

Monks walked to the door and opened it.

She was in her early twenties, tall and full-figured; not really

pretty but attractive, with olive skin and strong Mediterranean features.

Her black hair was pinned with a clasp and worn long down her back. She was dressed as if for business, in tailored slacks and a

silk blouse. She smiled but that looked nervous, too.

"I saw your lights," she said, with a slight stammer. "I got a flat

tire, down on the road."

Monks's heart sank a little. Changing a tire, in the dark, on a vehicle

he didn't know anything about, was not an enjoyable prospect.

"I'll come take a look," he said.

She murmured thanks.

He was wearing jeans, a flannel shirt, and well-worn Red Wing

work boots -- clothes that would do. He got a powerful Mag flashlight

out of the front closet and put on a wool-lined Carhartt jacket. Then,

seeing that she had crossed her forearms and was rubbing her upper

arms with her palms, he said, "You're welcome to stay here and warm

up while I go check it out."

She shook her head. "That's okay."

"You want a coat?"

"That's okay," she said again. "I've got one down there. I didn't

think it was this cold."

Monks switched on the flashlight, illuminating their path down

the gravel drive toward the county road. The woods were still. A few

brave tree frogs emitted hopeful croaks in the chilly damp air, trying

to strike up the usual evening chorus, but apparently most of their

comrades were bedded down in amphibean comfort, exercising selective


"I can't promise I can do this," Monks warned. "Is there somebody

around here who could come pick you up?"


She didn't live nearby, then, and wasn't visiting someone who did.

He wondered what she was doing on a narrow, out-of-the-way road

that ran from noplace to noplace else. Probably she was just lost.

"Do you know where the jack and spare are?" he asked.


"Do you have an owner's manual?"

"I'm not sure."

His lips twisted wryly. There was nothing like traveling prepared.

But he reminded himself that at her age he had been pretty feckless,


"We might have to call a tow truck," he said.

She nodded, still clasping herself.

Monks thought about trying to keep up small talk, but it seemed

clear that she wanted to get this done and get out of here ...

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