Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Feeling isolated and claustrophobic, Ryan left the containerized housing unit that served as troop barracks. Maybe a little of that overhyped Florida sunshine would help. It was a beautiful February day, seventy degrees with a gleaming, cloudless blue sky. Closing his eyes, Ryan turned toward the sun. Its rays heated his face, and he sucked in a deep breath as if nature’s light and warmth could fill the holes inside him.

  Then a raucous growl quaked the ground beneath his feet, the tremor rumbling upward through his legs.

  Ryan’s eyelids flew open. He wheeled toward the sound.

  A fire-lit cloud of smoke was rising over command quarters, the base’s center of operations.

  Another suicide bomber? Ryan thought, senses jumping to DEFCON one, the most acute state of readiness.

  Sirens wailed. First responders flooded the site—understaffed, overworked, and on edge since the teddy-bear bombing.

  Another blast nearly knocked Ryan off his feet, this one followed by a large fireball.

  The generators and diesel.

  A funnel of dense black smoke confirmed his suspicion. How many more bombers are there?

  Ryan was running toward command quarters to help evacuate wounded Soldiers when he saw it. A hundred feet above, descending in a near-vertical angle—there was a Predator drone in a full-on kamikaze dive.

  Mouth agape, Ryan watched the aircraft impale itself on the flagpole at the center of Camp Sunshine. His body shook, seething with fury as the battered American flag landed irreverently in the dirt.

  They hacked our fucking drones!

  91A

  BRADLEY WAS CROUCHED behind the sand-filled plastic bins, waiting for the gunman to switch magazines, a reprieve that never came. He concluded there had to be at least two gunmen and that they would not be wasting all that ammunition on suppressing fire without purpose. Someone had to be closing on his position.

  Unlike the savages from Fern Ridge, who had shied away from a fight, these guys had some discipline.

  Who are they?

  Bradley peered around the plastic bins. A smattering of sand and pine needles danced a foot from his face—bullet strikes.

  He sprung backward, heart jackhammering.

  Somehow, he had to disrupt the steady downpour of bullets. He switched out his magazine, preparing to send an unaimed, twenty-round volley toward his attackers.

  Then the automatic fire unexpectedly ceased.

  Cautiously, Bradley peeked above the sand-filled bins. Two gunmen were running, abandoning the cover of the electrical box.

  He pounced on the opportunity and shot one man in the chest.

  The second gunman must have tripped. Lying facedown in front of the electrical box, he was an easy target.

  It was over.

  Finally.

  Why did they make such a stupid move? Did they run out of ammunition?

  He descended the hill, squeezing the walkie-talkie, and said, “Gramps, we’re all clear, but we lost Will.”

  “Damn it ... ! I’ll let Jessie know.”

  His gaze drifted toward his friend, and an ache carved through him. Was it suicide? Did he really believe that child was his blond-haired, blue-eyed Billy? Did it even matter?

  Palming his forehead, fingers gripping his temples as if wringing emotion from his mind, Bradley recalled how Will had always been there—through his mother’s battle with cancer, through all the shit his father had pulled, through his first heartbreak. Scenarios streaked through his mind, things he could have done, should have done to protect Will from himself.

  “I tried to warn him,” Abby said. “Will, he—he just wouldn’t listen.”

  Bradley draped an arm around her shoulder. “It’s not your fault ... Why don’t you go to the Levins’ house and get some sheets to cover him up? Give him a little dignity.”

  “It’s a damn shame.” Gramps’ voice was husky, his blue eyes glistened. “That boy was family.”

  Sucking in a breath, Bradley said, “Will wanted to be reunited with his kids ... and now he is.”

  He abruptly walked away and busied himself with rounding up weapons and ammunition. None of the dead men bore identification. All appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent, and he recognized one of them as the teen from the propaganda parade.

  Did I lead them here?

  Bradley stacked five AK-47s in a pile and headed toward the green electrical box.

  What were you guys thinking? he wondered, noting the placement of the bodies. They had been moving toward the street instead of up the hill toward the cover of trees, an escape route that would have made them more challenging targets.

  Behind the electrical box, pools of blackened-steel shell casings littered the grass—hundreds of them. Bradley stopped midstride. “No fucking way.”

  He moved two yards to his right, toward the base of the hill, and picked up the baseball-sized black hunk of metal—Abby’s grenade. In the chaos of the firefight, the savages assumed it was live. That was why they had scrambled toward the street.

  Pocketing the grenade, he glanced at Abby, admiring her unorthodox problem-solving skills. The breeze tossed her long blonde hair; and with her rifle slung over her shoulder, she was as lethal as she was beautiful. His pulse doubled, pumping something beyond admiration through his veins.

  92A

  KYLE’S MIND BRISTLED with troublesome questions. Who are these gunmen? Why did they attack us? How could they use a child as a weapon? It was incomprehensible. This new world continued to grow more horrific, and a biting question barreled through him.

  Would I have approached the child absent Bradley’s warning?

  That could’ve been me, Kyle decided, staring at Will’s blood-soaked, shrapnel-pocked body.

  Three times in two weeks his naїveté had nearly gotten him and his family killed—the intruder, the tainted food, and the child bomber. In a world ruled by survival of the fittest, Kyle felt hopelessly out of shape. Inept.

  “You okay, Dad?” Abby asked as she jogged toward the Levins’ house.

  “Yeah, just a little shell-shocked, I guess.” He turned away to hide the fear rampaging through him; then seeing the dead man on the Levins’ lawn, words began howling through his mind.

  I killed him.

  He couldn’t shut it off. Chest aching, heart bludgeoning itself against his rib cage, he felt dizzy. A veil of sweat dampened his face, his back. He staggered around the side of the house—for privacy. Then feeling as if he had inhaled firecrackers, he sunk down onto the grass. His body shook uncontrollably.

  Am I having a heart attack? he wondered. Will Jessie and Abby survive without me? Or am I so worthless, so powerless as a protector that my absence won’t matter?

  93A

  BRADLEY WALKED TOWARD the Levins’ house. Two more gunmen lay dead in the driveway, a third in the grass.

  “I got those two ...”

  He turned, surprised to see Abby behind him.

  “... And believe it or not, my dad got that one.”

  “That makes ten.” Grinning sheepishly, Bradley lobbed the grenade to her and said, “I think you dropped this.”

  Abby caught it with a downward swiping motion. “You’re welcome.” A playful taunt glinted in her blue eyes, then she began walking up the hill. “Did you count the two up here?”

  Bradley trailed after her.

  A man halfway up the hill had been shot twice, through the thigh and the back.

  “Freaking lead,” she muttered. “Took me four shots—triple miss.”

  Bradley liberated an American-made M4 from the dead man’s grasp and cleared the rifle. Unlike the others, this guy was clothed in a U.S. Army battle dress uniform with name and rank insignias identifying him as Sergeant Smith.

  Bradley squatted beside the body and removed a black headband, adorned with a silk-screened white rectangle and a foreign script that looked Middle Eastern. His attention was riveted on the emblems printed on either side; a globe, and in the foreground, a fist grasping an assault
rifle.

  He followed Abby to the second body at the top of the ridge. “Sergeant Dias” clutched an M4, and Bradley tracked the barrel to overwatch. A frosty tingle ricocheted inside his skull, whizzed along his spine, and blitzed every nerve ending in his body. He had come within seconds of being shot.

  “He never should’ve made it this far,” Abby was saying, her tone apologetic.

  That’s why she was so pissed about the four shots, he thought. Bradley took a closer look at the man who had nearly killed him. “A head shot? Up here?”

  “That’s all I could see. And it still took me two stinking tries.”

  Their eyes fused in an unspoken conversation, and Bradley knew his were betraying his emotions, exposing feelings he had desperately tried to conceal. Abby was seeing that he adored her; that he wanted her so badly it scared him; but he didn’t care. She already knew. Everybody freaking knew.

  Abby sidestepped to higher ground, eliminating the height difference between them. “You could’ve been killed. And I never would’ve gotten a chance to find out.”

  Find out what? he thought, pulse accelerating as her arms looped around his neck. Then those warm, full lips pressed against his, softly and seductively.

  Bradley’s restraint shattered. His left arm closed around her waist, drawing her body against him; his right hand cupped her face. He returned her kiss, his tongue grazing her lips, gently prodding them apart, and he felt her shiver. Pent-up emotion coursed through him like a tidal wave. Kissing her felt so intoxicating, so natural; Bradley never wanted to stop. Nothing else mattered.

  Not that she was sixteen.

  Not that he would have to report for duty.

  Not even her parents ... watching from the street below.

  94A

  “I KNOW YOU FEEL TERRIBLE right now,” Jessie said, fingers massaging Kyle’s scalp, “but you did the right thing. You protected Abby and me. You kept your promise.”

  His posture straightened, his chin lifted, and he pulled her into a hug. “Thanks. I guess I needed to hear that.”

  Arm in arm, they started toward Sugar Lake Road, then Jessie lunged in her husband’s path. “Kyle, don’t go over there.”

  “Look at them! Of course, I’m going over there—”

  “To do what? To yell at her? To make her run off again?”

  A crippling pain shone in his green eyes, but she couldn’t let him confront Abby. Not now; when he was so angry.

  “So there aren’t rules anymore?” he shouted. “Moral values go out the window? We just let her do whatever she damned well pleases?”

  “Our street is a freaking combat zone.” Jessie drew a prolonged, uneven breath, measuring her words, trying to forestall an emotional firefight sure to devastate her family. While physical wounds could heal and be forgotten, Jessie knew hateful words could inflict pain over a lifetime. “Kyle, I’m saying we can’t dump adult responsibilities on Abby then treat her like a child—”

  “She is a child.” The words sputtered from Kyle’s mouth.

  “Not anymore.”

  Eyes widening in horror, he said, “Are you telling me she’s already sleeping with him?”

  “Not yet—”

  “Yet?” Kyle plowed forward, and Jessie lodged her hands against his shoulders. She planted her feet and leveraged her body to halt his advance.

  “I’m just asking you to wait ... until you calm down,” Jessie said, her voice pleading, eyes filming. “Please, Kyle. Wait. For me?”

  95A

  BRADLEY GRABBED A SHOVEL, and as he began digging the grave, it seeped into his consciousness, how close he had come to dying.

  Rattled and disillusioned, it was more than the prospect of dying in a firefight; it was his own obliviousness that haunted him. Abby had snuck up on him the day Will arrived; and today, he had allowed a savage to do the same thing. When it came to situational awareness, Bradley was failing.

  If Abby had missed, he would be dead right now. The thought soured his stomach. He was supposed to be protecting her. Giving a flustered sigh, Bradley wondered which was worse: Being shot by a sixteen-year-old girl? Or being saved by one?

  Or maybe it was French kissing one on a hilltop for all to see?

  His resolve had crumbled, he had crossed a boundary, and the damage was irreversible. No kiss had ever stirred him so intensely. Was it just a psychological craving for forbidden fruit? Infatuation? Or something far more frightening?

  Kyle was approaching, shovel in hand, and Bradley grimaced.

  What do I say to him?

  “Are you planning on burying all the savages?”

  “Hell no,” Bradley told him.

  “Feed them to the gators?”

  “Not a good plan if you intend to eat the gators.”

  Both men shoveled in uneasy silence, metal slicing against sand, the slooshing sound ticking off time until Kyle said, “Can you help me to understand something?”

  Dread rioted through Bradley. Here it comes.

  “You watch your best friend get shredded. Corpses litter our street. And you decide it’s a good time to jam your tongue down my daughter’s throat?”

  Spoken aloud, it sounded even more unseemly, indefensible. Bradley slammed the shovel into the sand, rested both hands atop the wooden handle, and stared down into the hole, wishing he could disappear into it.

  “Look, Bradley, I know you’re the reason we’re alive. I get that. And I appreciate it.”

  “But?”

  “But, I’m asking you to back off. Stay away from Abby ...”

  He was surprised how deeply those words cut.

  “... She worships you because you’re a Sniper. You know that, so don’t take advantage of it.”

  Take advantage? Bradley bit the inside of his mouth, attempting to contain his anger. “Understood, sir. And you won’t have to worry about it much longer because I’ll be leaving.”

  “Leaving?” Kyle repeated.

  “I have an obligation to the Marine Corps.”

  Kyle stumbled backward, clumsily taking a seat on the hillside. “Bradley, I don’t want you to leave.”

  “Well, I have to. And I’m done waiting for you to figure shit out. Your training starts tomorrow at 0700 hours.”

  ( ( ( 49% Complete ) ) )

  * * Change of Heart(2A)? * *

  YES ... Back to Moral Dilemma 2A

  NO ... Page forward to continue

  ( ( ( DAY 14A ) ) )

  Thursday, February 27th

  96A

  “IT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE,” Bradley said, tossing two black headbands onto the kitchen table.

  Gramps examined the tattered fabric, speckled with blood and missing its ties. He plunged a pinky through the bullet hole. “Showing off on this one?”

  “Nope. That was your protégé.”

  “Abby should be aiming center mass,” Gramps said, tapping his chest. “No head shots. Did you set her straight?”

  “She, uh ... That’s all she could see.”

  “The body at the crest?” Gramps’ brow tightened as he reconstructed the scenario. “So the tongue wrestling on the hill? That was your way of thanking Abby for saving your ass?”

  He stiffened, eyes momentarily clamping shut to deflect the question.

  Gramps began humming Can’t Help Falling In Love.

  “Can we get back on task, here?” Bradley snapped. “Those weren’t just garden-variety savages.”

  Grudgingly, Gramps’ attention returned to the headband. “If we’re lucky, it’s a group of wannabes ... Or we could be dealing with the Al Quds Force, the branch of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps responsible for spreading the Islamic revolution abroad.”

  “IRGC?” Bradley repeated. “Why the hell would they attack us?”

  A pained recognition registered on Gramps’ face. “Will’s truck.”

  Bradley swatted the possibility as if shooing an insect. “It’s been in the Levins’ gar—” His chair scraped backward. He sprung to his feet, palm
s flattened against the table. “Abby’s bike! You let Will take the truck to get it?”

  “I didn’t exactly let him.” Gramps’ arms folded across his chest. “He just took off. I gave him hell when he got back. He assured me he hadn’t been seen.”

  Bradley’s thoughts spun. Foreboding feelings buzzed through him. What if they have explosives, rocket-propelled grenades, or mortars? What if they come back with fifty fighters?

  “Damn it, Gramps. We may have just swatted a hornets’ nest.”

  “The question is, will they want revenge? Or just the truck?”

  “Probably both.” Bradley shouldered his rifle. It was time to put that truck to better use.

  97A

  IT’S GOING TO BE ANOTHER long day, Kyle thought, yawning. The aftermath of yesterday’s battle and his argument with Abby had made sleep impossible.

  I don’t want her involved with a twenty-year-old. Does that really make me a tyrant?

  A strained silence loomed during the six-mile drive to Summit Springs, but as Bradley backed the pickup onto the playground, Kyle’s mood lightened.

  One by one, they pitched dead savages over the tailgate and erected a human monument beside the swing set, an inkling of justice for that young girl.

  Bradley jumped down from the truck bed.

  “What about that last body?” Kyle asked.

  “We’re taking him with us. Just get in.”

  Taking him where? Kyle wondered, climbing back into the passenger’s seat. And why?

  Bradley drove north for ten miles, weaving around vehicles; and for brief stretches the landscape appeared ordinary, untouched by the EMP. Kyle began to reminisce, mourning the beautifully intricate and indulgent world he had lost: being able to eat anything, anytime; feeling safe inside his own home; having an entire planet of experts an Internet connection away. He had taken so much for granted.

  I want to go back, Kyle thought, knowing he would have a better chance of getting to Mars. At least Mars still existed.

  Bradley braked to an abrupt stop south of Astatula. “You need to stand watch,” he said, gesturing toward a scraggly orange tree at the side of the road.