Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Kyle winced as horrific memories resurfaced: the grief in that mother’s eyes, the frustration when the bolt-action rifle didn’t fire, the desperation when she’d hurled herself onto that knife.

  “I just walked here from Tampa,” Dave said. “I’ve been eating dandelions and squirrels.”

  “And what’s your story?”

  The rifle drifted toward Kyle, and his mind went blank. He couldn’t tell the truth. If the man knew food was nearby, he would surely attack.

  “Don’t have a ready-made lie like your friend here?” the man shouted. “I’ll ask one more time. If you’re not a cannibal, where’s your food coming from?”

  Impaled by his damning stare, Kyle said, “Call it divine intervention. The good Lord always provides.”

  “You?” The man’s eyes widened. “You’re the one who left the rice and beans on my doorstep?”

  Stunned, Kyle blinked. Questions stampeded from his brain to the pit of his stomach, setting off tremors along the route. George was anonymously feeding this man, and Bradley must have delivered the food.

  Why didn’t they mention it?

  “It wasn’t me,” Kyle told him, “but I’ve received rice and beans, just like you.”

  The distrust and fear scrunching the man’s face softened. He shouldered his rifle and called to his family. A teenaged boy with an AK-47 emerged from the woods followed by a woman and a young girl, each loaded down with backpacks and small suitcases.

  “I’m Zaakir Abbas. This is my wife, Eliza; my daughter, Raeleah; and my son, Zak.”

  Kyle and Dave introduced themselves, then Zaakir said, “Do you know who this guardian angel is?”

  Kyle squirmed, unsure how to respond. “At first, I was curious. Then I decided that if he wanted to remain anonymous, I should respect that. It’s the only thing I can do for him.”

  Zaakir nodded, his sunken brown eyes dewy with gratitude. “I wish I could thank him. He saved my family from starvation and kept terrorists from slaughtering us. He is quite the marksman.”

  Dave said, “Thank God for the Sniper of Sugar Lake.”

  Kyle scowled at him. With eight words he had blurted their address and outed Bradley, who was risking court-martial to keep them safe. Deliberately changing the subject, Kyle pointed to the family’s suitcases. “Where are you headed?”

  “Tavares.” Zaakir removed rolled up sheets of paper from his back pocket, unfurled one, and handed it to Kyle.

  “Federal Emergency Management Association opens Refugee Camp, Tavares Medical Center, Route 441.

  “Three meals a day.

  “Hot showers, housing, and medical teams in standby.

  “Survivor database to locate missing family.

  “Facility is under the prevention of the U.S. Army.”

  His jaw dropped, optimism and skepticism dueling inside him. Kyle wanted to believe this nightmare was a thirteen-mile walk from being over, but the wording troubled him. Medical teams in standby? Under the prevention of the U.S. Army? Taking a deep breath, he said, “Where’d you get this?”

  “Near Lake Apopka. I was hunting yesterday, and they were falling like giant snowflakes from an old biplane. I gathered a few dozen, so I could spread the news along my way.”

  This wasn’t right. Kyle could feel it. “This may sound crazy, but I think you should wait—”

  “What on earth for?” Eliza asked indignantly.

  “To make sure this is legitimate.”

  Zaakir’s brown eyes hardened with a defensive and resentful anger, the expression of a man being stripped of hope. “Why wouldn’t it be legitimate?”

  “I know FEMA has been inept in the past, but I doubt they’d get their own name wrong. It’s Federal Emergency Management Agency. Not Association. And yesterday, foreign paratroopers landed just south of Tavares. There was a wicked firefight, planes blowing up—”

  “That’s what all the explosions were?”

  Kyle nodded. “Please, Zaakir, wait. If it’s legitimate, our families can make the trip together. Just two days.”

  “Agency? Association? Who cares?” Eliza said. “Raeleah has asthma. She needs a new rescue inhaler, and I need real food and a hot shower.”

  “Listen, if I’m wrong, you’ll get to Tavares two days late,” Kyle told her. “But if I’m right, your family could be killed. Is it worth gambling their lives?”

  Zaakir’s gaze tarried over each of his children, bypassed Eliza, and returned to Kyle. “Thursday at sunup. We’ll meet right here.”

  Eliza began ranting at her husband.

  Eager to hear what Bradley and George thought of the flyer, Kyle turned for home. He charged up the hill toward Sugar Lake with Dave huffing and chugging behind him.

  “Murph, did you ever think that maybe the guy who printed those was just an idiot?” Dave asked, frustration bubbling in his tone. “You’re turning a couple of typos into a damned conspiracy theory.”

  “Two more days, Dave. It won’t kill you.”

  “Well, I hope to God you’re wrong.”

  So do I, Kyle thought. He wanted to live without fear; to eat three meals a day; to reunite with his parents and sister.

  He opened the screened-room door. “What the hell?” He averted his eyes, but couldn’t erase the image—his daughter’s legs wrapped around Bradley’s bare ass.

  “Dad? You’re back?”

  Dave started laughing hysterically.

  Livid and embarrassed, Kyle stomped out of the screened room shouting, “Bradley, go home! Now!”

  “Come on, Murph,” Dave said, cackling as he chased after him. “You said, ‘Whatever it takes—duct tape, glue, nails.’ So he nailed her on the chaise lounge.”

  140B

  BRADLEY YANKED UP HIS shorts. Humiliation blazed like a wildfire inside him, its scorching heat radiating from every square inch of skin. “Sorry,” he whispered, kissing Abby’s forehead.

  “Don’t be. I’m the one who talked you into it.”

  And I’m the one who promised your father discretion, Bradley thought, trudging out of the screened room. He was anticipating a verbal ambush, a well-deserved tirade, but the yard was empty. His relief turned to foreboding, realizing this was merely a stay of execution.

  He settled onto Gramps’ deck and gazed at the lake, berating himself, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when libido had overpowered common sense. His grandfather’s warning rustled through his mind. You crossed a threshold that changes everything.

  Behind him, he heard Gramps call his name. What now? he thought. Bradley didn’t feel like talking to anyone. He just wanted to find a hole and slither into it.

  Passing through the glass sliding door, he swore under his breath. Dave and Kyle were sitting at the kitchen table.

  “Your face is redder than a communist flag,” Gramps said, motioning him toward the only available seat, directly across from Kyle. “What in the hell were you up to?”

  Dave snickered, Kyle initiated a death stare, and Bradley sunk onto the chair, fighting the urge to bolt from the room. Slowly, he forced his gaze upward, prepared for a withering glare or a wrathful outburst. The quiet disappointment in Kyle’s eyes was much worse.

  His grandfather finished reading a sheet of paper then slid it across the table to Bradley.

  “According to Zaakir, these flyers were air-dropped near Lake Apopka,” Kyle said.

  “Who’s Zaakir?” Bradley asked.

  “You left rice and beans on his doorstep, and you don’t know who he is? And where the hell are you getting all this food?”

  The family from Fern Ridge, Bradley thought. He began reading the FEMA flyer, leaving Gramps to furnish the explanation.

  “I bought a bunch of supplies for the annual Easter food drive at church. Didn’t get to drop them off before the EMP—that was God’s favor. And sharing the food was the right thing to do.” Gramps’ attention returned to the flyer. “Sounds like the FEMA camp on that radio broadcast, doesn’t it, Bradley?”

  “Si
nce when do you have a working radio?” Kyle asked, flustered. “Damn it! How many freaking secrets are you two keeping?”

  “We’ve only heard a few broadcasts,” Gramps told him. “Most were dangerous propaganda. But let’s not get off topic. This camp in Tavares needs to be checked out.”

  “Well, my daughter isn’t leaving Sugar Lake,” Kyle said.

  Bradley agreed wholeheartedly. He wanted Abby out of harm’s way.

  “Then it’s settled,” Gramps said. “Dave, you’ll stay here with me and the girls. Bradley and Kyle will leave tomorrow at first light—”

  “Kyle doesn’t need to go,” Bradley said. A twenty-six-mile roundtrip walk would be a long time to endure the silent treatment or worse, an interrogation. “I can handle this myself.”

  “No,” Gramps told him. “You can’t afford to march in there and get caught with your pants down.”

  Dave threw back his head and howled with laughter.

  141B

  RYAN ANDREWS SCOURED the crash site of the American C-130. The intensity of burning jet fuel had destroyed sensitive technological equipment inside the cockpit; and blackened, branchless trees stood like spikes, puncturing the heavy odor of damp soot.

  He poked his head inside a ten-foot section of the fuselage, wondering if the drop crew knew a traitorous Pilot had hijacked their plane. Did they warn their commanding officer about suspicious behavior only to be rebuked?

  A gunshot rang out.

  Ryan dove behind the wreckage, unsure where it had originated. Juan and Victor reported in, followed by a somber quiet.

  “DJ, what’s your status?” Ryan asked over his tactical headset.

  A faint, wheezing reply came back. “I’m hit.”

  Poetic justice, Ryan thought. DJ shot by one of his own.

  “I can get to him,” Victor said.

  A long, eerie silence set like cement around Ryan.

  Why only one shot? Jihadists usually wielded AK-47s like fire hoses, dousing targets. He had barely finished the thought when another shot resonated through the fuselage. This one sounded like an M4.

  “Anybody see where that shot came from?”

  As if in response to the question, AK-47s unleashed a bombardment centered on Juan’s position. Ryan returned fire, killing two gunmen then a sharp, piercing pain made him gasp.

  It morphed into a blunt ache then a fiery burning sensation. The back of his right thigh felt like it had exploded.

  Ryan became light-headed. Did the bullet hit an artery? Was he losing blood? It was getting harder to concentrate. Control over his body was slipping away. His arms and legs ignored commands.

  “Juan? Victor?”

  “They’re dead, Andrews.”

  Ryan squinted at a blurry shadow hovering above him. The last thing he heard was a garbled, hollow voice, saying, “Allahu Akbar! Asshole!”

  ( ( ( 71% Complete ) ) )

  ( ( ( DAY 20B ) ) )

  Wednesday, March 5th

  142B SKIPPED

  143B

  HAVING COMPLETED HER midnight-to-sunrise overwatch shift, Abby flopped onto a chair in the lanai. A rechargeable lantern filled the room with a somber light, illuminating a void where the chaise lounge had stood.

  Did he throw it into the lake? she wondered.

  Abby knew her father was mad as hell. So why was he acting so calm? No lecture. No rant. It was unnerving.

  I wish Mom was here, Abby thought. She would get him to understand.

  Toting a rifle and backpack, her father entered the lanai. His eyes skirted past her as if she were invisible.

  “Dad, will you please just yell at me already?”

  Frowning, he stared into the layer of fog obscuring the lake. “Abby, what do you want me to say?”

  “How about one of your usual lectures? Responsibility? Trust?”

  “You’ve heard them all. Evidently they haven’t done a damned bit of good.”

  “Come on, Dad. It’s not my fault that you came home early.”

  His lips pursed, his eyes briefly shut, and he mumbled something indistinguishable. Abby couldn’t decipher the emotion. Was that anger or disappointment?

  “Abigail, I shouldn’t have to knock before entering my own house because my daughter—” He stopped, unwilling or unable to complete the sentence, then walked away.

  Arms folded across her body, she followed him outside and watched him dissolve into the shadows of Sugar Lake Road, headed toward overwatch where her Aunt Laura stood guard. The sun had yet to breach the hills, but it was illuminating a band of high-altitude clouds, making them glow like neon tears against the morning sky.

  “Is your dad still pissed?”

  Recognizing Bradley’s voice, Abby spun toward him. “That’s an understatement. Why does he have to make such a big deal out of everything?”

  “It is a big deal. Imagine if you had walked in on your aunt and uncle—”

  “E-e-w-w—Oh my God!” Abby shuddered. She would sooner take a cheese grater to her eyeballs than see that. “Don’t even say that—”

  “Good. Now you understand how your dad must feel.”

  She bowed her head, remorse supplanting teenaged selfishness.

  Bradley whispered, “I have to go,” and kissed her forehead.

  Abby draped her arms around his neck, already dreading their next good-bye. “I should be going with you.”

  “Not on that ankle—”

  “My ankle’s fine!”

  “I need you here. I’m counting on you to keep everybody safe.”

  144B

  WALKING BESIDE KYLE, Bradley glanced back at Abby as he entered the woods, grateful that she would remain behind at Sugar Lake. Too bad her father wasn’t staying with her.

  Bradley had tried to apologize last night.

  “Don’t,” Kyle had told him. “I’m so angry right now, I’ll say something I’ll regret.”

  At least he’s not overreacting, like he did over Abby not shooting the intruder, he thought. Was that just two weeks ago? Hell, this silent hike already felt two weeks long. He could feel the pressure building like a ticking bomb, and the only way to neutralize it was to detonate it himself. Peeling his parched tongue from the roof of his mouth, he said, “I want to apologize for ... For yesterday in the lanai.”

  “Definitely not the discretion you promised.”

  “I’m not going to make excuses or try to justify it. I exercised lousy judgment, and I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry doesn’t change the fact that I can’t stand to look at that chaise lounge. I can’t even walk into my own lanai without thinking about it.”

  Bradley met his damning stare. “I’ve apologized. At this point, what more can I do?”

  Kyle’s cheeks puffed, and a slow, hissing sound escaped. “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

  An awkward silence lingered; and as they moved north of Astatula, the forest floor became a swamp. Leafy vines blanketed bushes like rolling green waves and stymied their progress.

  “We need to find a better route,” Bradley muttered.

  Although County Route 561 would have been more efficient, concealment trumped convenience, and he headed east until the terrain became passable.

  Thirty yards south of a two-lane rural road, Bradley halted and signaled for Kyle to listen.

  Someone was approaching from the east.

  Civilians headed to the refugee camp?

  Bradley counted seven armed men, carelessly walking down the middle of the road. Three wore military battle dress uniforms and carried American-made M4s. The other four, dressed in jeans and equipped with AK-47s, were hauling a miniature utility pole, the ends resting atop their shoulders, the center bowing toward the ground like a deranged smile.

  Bradley let out a groan.

  Dangling from the wooden beam was a man—gagged and hog-tied.

  145B

  RYAN ANDREWS’ HEAD FELT like it had ruptured, spinning off whirlpools of pain throughout his body. I’m alive, he decide
d, wondering if that was a good thing.

  With dogged concentration, he managed to lift his heavy eyelids. Sunlight rampaged through his skull, and immediately, he let them fall shut. Images darted through his mind, tumbling like leaves in the wind, a mangled Patriot battery, dead paratroopers, the downed C-130. Allahu Akbar chanted in a taunting refrain.

  DJ shot me, Ryan thought. But where am I?

  He parted his eyelids a fraction, minimizing the light, and realized he was sitting upright, arms bound behind the trunk of a huge tree, legs spread-eagle along the ground. Yellow ropes restrained his ankles, and Ryan’s gaze traveled along his camouflage pants toward his thigh, looking for a bloodstain that didn’t exist.

  If I wasn’t shot, what happened?

  Curious, he opened his eyes wider, teeth grinding against the biting ache. He was in a clearing with weeds rippling in the breeze, surrounded by a distant wall of green. A few fuzzy shapes flanked him, their boxy, light-colored outlines contrasted against a dark expanse of trees, too large to be cars, too small to be houses. Trailers? A campground?

  Ryan called out to Juan and Victor.

  “Morning, Andrews.” The voice was jovial and friendly, like a face full of battery acid.

  “DJ, you fucking traitor!” Ryan struggled against his restraints. “Where are Juan and Victor?”

  “Victor came crawling toward me. Plinked him in that ugly mug of his,” DJ said. “Then I killed Juan and put your ass down with a tranquilizer dart.”

  Through gnashed teeth, Ryan said, “I should’ve fucking shot you!”

  “But you didn’t have the balls, and now I’m in control. We both know this ends with you dead. The question is, how do we get there? A quick, painless bullet to the head? Or prolonged torture that’ll make waterboarding seem like a bubble bath?”

  “DJ, you are not gonna break me.” With bungling fingers, Ryan tugged at the binding on his wrists and discovered the nylon knot had been melted into a solid lump that could not be untied.

  “Oh, I know, Staff Sergeant. I’m just offering a professional courtesy. Answer my questions, and I’ll put a merciful bullet through your temple. Otherwise, I leave you with the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps. Those Shiites take torture to a new level.”