Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  “You did? Didn’t you?”

  “The point is, you can talk to me. I’ll understand.”

  “Sensitive and badass, intriguing combination.”

  Bradley’s head jolted toward her, an eyebrow arched in contempt. “If you’re fine, why are you being so damned evasive?”

  Warmth was stealing into Abby’s cheeks. “Okay, I’m not fine. I don’t feel the way I’m supposed to. I just ...” She hesitated, trying to simplify a hazy tangle of emotions into a coherent thought. “It’s crazy. I feel guilty because I don’t regret shooting him. What does that make me? A heartless bitch? A cold-blooded murderer?”

  “Not at all. You did, what you had to do.” Bradley glanced over his shoulder at her parents. “You saved their lives. No room for regret there.”

  She let his words sink in then asked, “Do you feel remorse?”

  Bradley’s expression hardened as if guarding a secret. “Right now, those savages are probably attacking another neighborhood. My remorse is for all the Americans I couldn’t save.”

  Abby’s arms enveloped his neck, and he stood rigid, palms planted on the railing, fingers typing a hundred words per minute.

  “You know, it’s customary to reciprocate when someone hugs you.”

  “I don’t think your dad would approve.”

  “A Sniper afraid of a retired shortstop? What ship are they stationing you on? Carnival Cruise Lines?”

  “That’s it. Into the pool.” Before Abby could say another word, she was thrown over his shoulder and whisked into the screened room.

  “Bradley, I swear, if I go in, you’ll go in.”

  Scoffing at the threat, he stepped onto the diving board, cradling Abby in his arms, and their eyes met in a split-second exchange of emotion.

  He rocked her backward. On the forward swing, Abby clutched his belt buckle with both hands, fingers burrowing inward against his skin. Bradley’s head snapped downward. Eyes wide with disbelief, he tumbled into the pool with a blundering splash.

  The sixty-five-degree water felt frigid, and Abby surfaced, laughter rumbling through chattering teeth.

  Bradley shook the water from his face and elevated Gramps’ 1911 Springfield to drain the barrel. “What the hell was that?”

  “If I go in, you go in,” Abby told him. “Least expected. Mission accomplished.”

  64A

  WILL RETRACED HIS northbound route, capitalizing on his previously cleared path. Stops in three small Georgia towns had yielded no medical supplies, and Billy’s fever was dangerously high. How could a three-dollar tube of antibiotic ointment mean the difference between life and death?

  He had never felt so frightened, so powerless.

  “Hey, Heather, pull off Billy’s T-shirt.”

  “No,” she said as though he had suggested a human sacrifice.

  Navigating around defunct vehicles, Will wriggled out of his own shirt, soaked it with bottled water, and switched on the truck’s air conditioner. He held the wet cotton against the vent, chilling it, then said, “Use this to cool him down.”

  Annoyed, Heather snatched the shirt from his hand and pressed it against Billy’s forehead. A lethargic frown played over the toddler’s face.

  Hang in there, Buddy, Will thought, eyes shifting to the low fuel indicator. Back on Interstate 10, he braked to a stop at the first cluster of vehicles. Although gas caps were sealed and doors locked, the tanks had all been punched and drained.

  He inspected another jumble of vehicles. Nothing. Will checked an isolated car, hoping that gas bandits had bypassed it. No luck. With desperation and restlessness growing, he decided to try again a few miles down the highway.

  “It’s hopeless.”

  “Shut up, Heather!”

  “There’s no medicine. You can’t even find gas. Billy’s gonna die—”

  “Shut the fuck up!” His outburst silenced her, at least for the moment, and Will gulped in an uneven breath to calm himself.

  Fifty yards ahead, armed men were pushing a minivan across the grass, perpendicular to the highway; and directly ahead of it, a Lexus straddled the paved shoulder and right lane.

  The minivan gained momentum; it was blocking his lane.

  Will shouted, “Get down!”

  Foot jammed against the accelerator, he swerved onto the grass median. Shotgun blasts pinged against the truck.

  His window splintered.

  Heather shrieked.

  The baby was wailing.

  Then the truck’s bumper clipped the Lexus.

  65A

  BRADLEY WALKED HOME, soaking wet, shivering, and muttering to himself. He had come dangerously close to kissing Abby, and that was before her fingers ventured halfway down his pants.

  Least expected, he thought, that’s for damn sure.

  Why was Abby so enticing? Was it a mind game of wanting something he couldn’t have? Would kissing her break the spell and set him free? Or drag him deeper into the abyss?

  Bradley yanked open the glass sliding door and stepped into the kitchen, shedding his wet sneakers.

  Gramps gave him a lengthy stare. “Son, how exactly did a sixteen-year-old, hundred-pound girl throw your ass into the pool?”

  “Ambush,” Bradley said tersely.

  Gramps rolled a hand, requesting further explanation. After realizing none would be forthcoming, he said, “Oh, never mind. I’m sure I’ll get all the details from Abby during dinner.”

  I hope not, Bradley thought, grateful that he would be at overwatch. Pointing to the radio on the kitchen table, he said, “Anything new?”

  “Yee-yup. And none of it’s good.” Gramps flicked the power button.

  “Terrorist sleeper cells are massacring Americans—nationwide. Ninety-two nuclear reactors are in danger of meltdown, and a dozen simultaneous Fort-Hood-style attacks have claimed the lives of nearly two hundred Service Members. Langden Air Force Base has been attacked by a U.S. Fighter Pilot, and sabotage has rocked naval ships, including the U.S.S. John C. Stellate, which has lost a billion dollars worth of fighter jets—”

  Bradley swatted the power button. “Psyops bullshit.”

  Gramps rubbed his hands over his face, dragging his skin forward then backward. “Well, there’s no way our government would put that news out—even if it were true.”

  “That’s for damn sure,” Bradley said. “But sleeper cells would explain the front-lawn executions and the playground rape. They wanted people to see it—to incite panic. It also would explain why they ran away from anybody who shot back.”

  “What they lack in discipline, they make up for with numbers,” Gramps said. “And if gangs could infiltrate the Armed Forces, why not homegrown terrorists?”

  “Are you saying you believe all that?”

  “How can you rule it out?” Gramps asked, palms up, elbows bent. “I mean, what would it take? A few dozen terrorists slipping into our military?”

  The question clawed at Bradley’s stomach. A traitor would have access to security protocols, classified information, and equipment. He would know the most efficient and devastating manner of sabotage; and he could remain virtually invisible with no telltale purchases. The U.S. military would supply all the weapons needed.

  Bradley thought about the Marine Corps motto, Semper Fidelis—always faithful, always loyal. Trust was vital to military success. Your life was in the hands of the men beside you and countless unknown Soldiers, Sailors, and Airmen. You relied on them to do their jobs. Destruction of that trust could surely dwarf any physical losses the enemy could inflict.

  Thoughts of the Marine Corps sent conflicting obligations surging to the forefront of Bradley’s mind; they wrestled for dominance while guilt refereed. Tomorrow, the family-versus-country dilemma would demand a resolution. There could be no compromise. Leave or stay? And by day’s end, Bradley would betray someone. His country? Or his grandfather who had raised him?

  66A

  A GRINDING CRUNCH punctuated Heather’s shrieks, underscored by the pe
rcussion of buckshot tunneling through the truck bed. Will jerked the steering wheel, and the pickup fishtailed over the median, kicking up a spray of grass and sand. Panic whooshing in his ears, he struggled for control, righted his course, then wedged the accelerator pedal to the floor.

  The truck careened and bucked and shuddered for over a mile before Will slowed down enough to return to the roadway. Even at five miles per hour the vehicle still shimmied.

  Peering through the serrated remains of his driver’s window, he swore under his breath.

  The fender had bent, causing it to scrape against his left front tire. He braked to a stop.

  Above Heather’s hysterical rant, Will checked on both kids. Miraculously, neither had been injured by buckshot or flying glass. Billy hadn’t stirred throughout the ordeal, and Will pressed his lips against the toddler’s forehead.

  At least 103, he thought, dousing Billy’s hair and clothes with water. “Hang in there, Buddy.”

  He leaned over to kiss his crying infant daughter. “Sorry, Susie-Q. Daddy has to keep moving.”

  Will exited the truck, shaking tempered glass crumbs from his jeans. Tiny bleeding cuts flecked his chest and left arm, and he plucked two glass fragments from his skin.

  Retrieving his hammer, Will sighed. Lead pellets had perforated the boxes in the truck bed, and two water containers were leaking.

  Heather trailed after him mumbling, “My Billy’s dying.”

  Will eyed her, wishing he had the gumption to knock her out. Instead, he pounded the metal fender until the noise drowned out her voice. His hand slipped. The crimped metal gouged his knuckle, slashing open the same spot he had cut last month at work.

  A celebratory whoop chimed through him. Why didn’t I think of it sooner?

  With renewed energy, he pummeled the fender; then sucking on his bleeding knuckle, he shooed Heather back into the truck and headed east toward Jacksonville, Florida.

  Spotting a Ford dealership, he forged his own off-ramp across the grass and drove around to the service department. Will smashed a window to gain access to the building, opened a service bay door, and pulled his truck inside.

  Rooting through cabinets, he found a first aid kit and whispered, “Thank God.”

  While Heather ranted, Will cleansed Billy’s wound and squirted antibiotic cream deep into the puncture. After applying a fresh bandage, he stowed the first aid kit on the floor beneath the car seat. Thankfully, the baby had cried herself to sleep.

  His attention turned to fuel. Since the pink gasoline bucket had been riddled with buckshot, Will scrounged a few oil drip pans from the garage and, courtesy of the showroom vehicles, collected a few gallons of gas.

  In the customer waiting area, he found complimentary snacks arranged on a credenza. Will tapped a petrified jelly doughnut against the table then gathered up individually wrapped chocolate chip cookies.

  They may not be nutritious, he thought, dumping them into a white plastic bag imprinted with the Ford logo. But at least my family will have something to eat.

  Will headed outside, debating whether to rest here for the night or keep moving. Weary, he slumped back against the building and bit into a cookie; then hearing an airplane, he scanned the horizon. An aircraft was heading east toward the city. Plump and gray, it was a military cargo plane flying at low altitude, and packages were falling like raindrops.

  The military was air-dropping food.

  The plane was a beautiful sight, a sixty-ton winged angel glistening in the sunlight—salvation.

  Is there a base nearby? With medical personnel? Antibiotics for Billy?

  As it passed to Will’s left, smoke trails snaked up from the ground like two ghoulish fingers reaching toward the aircraft.

  What the hell?

  A cruel, hope-consuming fireball rose toward the heavens.

  Burning wreckage tumbled to the ground, bleeding dismal black smoke.

  Why the hell would somebody shoot down an American plane dropping relief supplies over Jacksonville, Florida?

  ( ( ( 37% Complete ) ) )

  ( ( ( DAY 10A ) ) )

  Sunday, February 23rd

  67A

  TO EASE THE BOREDOM OF life without electronics, Abby donned her ghillie suit and embarked on a playful mission: to ascend the northern ridge unnoticed by her parents, who were working in the yard.

  She skulked from the screened room, stooping behind hibiscus bushes and palms; then Abby skull dragged fifty yards to a four-foot-high berm, an unnatural protrusion from the hillside constructed by landscapers to conceal unsightly utility boxes. From there, she crept up a forty-degree incline, enthusiasm waning.

  I could’ve somersaulted up the hill, and my parents wouldn’t have noticed.

  Ensconced behind a bushy weed just below the hill’s crest, Abby eavesdropped on birdsong, surveilled the squirrels, and monitored the flutter of leaves, but her unruly mind still wandered back to Bradley.

  His ten-day leave expires today, she thought. Is he going to abandon us?

  A two-stage needle of dread skewered her, typical teenaged heartbreak supplanted by the profound fear of assuming defensive responsibilities beyond her capability.

  An hour later, Bradley joined her parents in the yard. Dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, rifle dangling against his back, he began helping her father transport lake water to the garden.

  He’s not leaving this morning, Abby thought, and a selfish strain of relief succumbed to empathy. It must suck, being forced to choose between protecting Gramps and reporting for duty.

  Initially, she had been attracted to Bradley’s handsome face, impressed by his Sniper credentials. Now, she felt drawn to the man beneath it all. More concerned about his grandfather than himself, protecting Abby from everything from alligators to savages, he was selfless and heroic; and he made her feel safe in a dangerous world.

  Her thoughts meandered. What would it be like to kiss him? When would he finally quit fighting it? Bradley felt the attraction; Abby could see it in his eyes.

  It’s just a matter of time, she told herself.

  On a lark, she decided to stalk him. How close could she get undetected? She inched ahead, attention fused to him, breathless and motionless whenever his eyes swept the hillside. Bradley was dutifully observant, unlike her parents, but the chore of watering the garden was a distraction Abby could manipulate.

  When I get close enough, I’ll nail him with an acorn, she thought.

  Minutes ticked by; he dumped bucket after bucket, scanning more frequently as though he could sense her watching. Abby advanced to the edge of the tree line, barely twenty yards away.

  She studied his movements, the way his eyes repeatedly swept the screened room in addition to the hillside.

  Looking for me? she wondered.

  Abby was about to pelt him with an acorn when she heard a peculiar noise, a low rumbling whoosh.

  Her gaze jerked toward the street.

  Chambering a round, she watched a battered pickup truck glide past the berm, its rear fender a hunk of metallic Swiss cheese. Abby’s sights were on the driver; her finger, on the trigger.

  68A

  SARAH KHALID AL-DOSSARI fidgeted with her watch. Time was running out. Uptight and jittery, she glanced at an F-22 Raptor sitting idle atop the flight deck of the U.S.S. Stellate aircraft carrier.

  After she had refueled the jet with her unique feminine touch, it had failed preflight inspection and been re-spotted amongst five other jets, three F-18 Super Hornets and two F-22 Raptors, all awaiting an elevator ride to the maintenance hangar.

  Following the first wave of missing fighter jets, the Navy concluded fuel tanks had been sabotaged. All fuel handlers had been questioned, their possessions searched, but Sarah’s tampons had bamboozled the well-trained eyes of investigators. The forgery of commercial packaging included cardboard cylinders indistinguishable even by touch and the airtight plastic sleeve had defeated the ship’s electronic gadgets. Officers would have had to open the tampon or X-ra
y it to detect the threat—at the risk of offending a Muslim woman.

  Sarah checked the time again, less than three minutes.

  She staggered toward the doomed F-22 Raptor, and voices shouted as she violated a dozen safety protocols. Flight deck operations halted.

  Within ten feet of the Raptor, Sarah let her body go limp and sunk onto the deck. Emergency calls went out. A medical team stormed toward her.

  Two minutes.

  Six faces loomed over her. Hands attempted to whisk her onto a stretcher. Sarah rolled and writhed, kicking and punching. A call went out for Military Police.

  At ten seconds, nearly a dozen Sailors surrounded her, foreheads puckered, heads shaking. Two men grasped her wrists, stretching her arms skyward, and an MP bound her hands with flex-cuffs. Sarah glanced at her watch.

  Fanning the fingers on her right hand, she shouted, “Five.”

  Baffled looks skittered amongst the medical team.

  Thumb retracted, she said, “Four.”

  MPs were kneeling atop her flailing legs, attempting to restrain her feet.

  “Three,” she shouted, pinky tucked against her palm.

  Restraints tightened around her ankles.

  “Two.” She illustrated, projecting a pair of middle fingers.

  A few Sailors backpedaled, leery of her countdown; most stood entranced by the freakish scene.

  “One.” A single middle finger, then a thunderous roar vibrated the flight deck. A fountain of jagged metal and burning jet fuel erupted.

  Surrounded by Corpsmen and MPs, a foxhole of human flesh, Sarah heard shrapnel piercing bodies with a sloshing whump. Flames were ravaging the Raptor. A specter of roiling black smoke swamped the flight deck.

  Sirens blared. Fire crews scrambled.

  Through fluctuating patches of smoke, Sarah made eye contact with the Corpsman beside her. Face bloodied, twisted metal ribbons jutting from his chest and face, he was a dying man, and she cackled with joy. The Raptor had been destroyed, surrounding planes damaged, Sailors maimed—and Sarah would walk away without a scratch.

  “Allahu Akbar!”

  Shock registered on the Corpsman’s face; then grimacing with pain, he wrenched the daggerlike metal from his chest and drove it deep into Sarah’s neck.