Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  “I’m not leaving until I bury my grandfather.” Bradley’s tone came out harsh, edged with anger.

  “Of course I-I,” Kyle stammered. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Bradley downed a mouthful of whiskey, and it hit his stomach like a mortar round. “It’s okay. I know you’re just worried about Dave.”

  Kyle leaned toward Ryan. “Camp Sunshine has a hospital, right?”

  “Affirmative.” The Ranger lifted the whiskey bottle from Bradley’s hand and swilled it. “But they’re gonna confiscate your guns and personal possessions.”

  “Like the savages in Tavares?” Kyle demanded.

  “You can’t have sleepers waltzing in with assault rifles or bombs hidden in suitcases and stuffed animals.”

  Bradley eased his head back against the wall, waiting for the alcohol to dull the ache inside him.

  “I don’t like it,” Kyle said, resignation echoing in his voice. “But I don’t have much choice, do I?”

  “There’s more.” Ryan paused to down another gulp of whiskey. “Since there’s no post office, e-mail, or telephones, people are being drafted as they walk through the gates.”

  Silence thickened in the night air, congealing into a solid mass, pressing against Bradley. Civilians expected a military rescue, not a military induction.

  That can’t be going over well, he thought.

  “I’ll gladly fight for my country,” Kyle said. “But I can’t just leave Abby on her own.”

  “They’re not gonna draft you,” Ryan said softly. “They’re enlisting everyone ages sixteen to forty. Male and female.”

  Bradley’s already tense muscles jumped to high alert. He watched Kyle rub his face as if kneading dough. Would he still opt to go?

  “Ryan, what if you and Kyle take Dave to Camp Sunshine for treatment, and I stay here with Abby and Nikki until they return?”

  “No go. Once Kyle and Dave are in, they’ll relocate them to Texas—where the power grid’s been partially restored—and assign them jobs based on their skill set and government needs.”

  “So it’s a combination draft board and labor camp?” Kyle asked, anger radiating like a blast furnace. “When did this country become a dictatorship?”

  “Look, we’re at war on multiple fronts,” Ryan told him. “If the U.S. can’t start producing beans, bullets, and bodies to fight, you’ll find out what it really means to live under a dictatorship.”

  Bradley had mixed emotions. If the government could draft someone and ship them overseas to fight, why not to Texas to work an assembly line? But how long would these extraordinary powers endure?

  After lengthy introspection, Kyle said, “Dave’s bleeding is under control, the wound’s been disinfected, and he can still move his fingers. If he babies that arm for—” His head swiveled toward Bradley; a eurekalike expression lifted Kyle’s features into a hopeful question. “Is there any chance Abby’s pregnant?”

  Laughing, Ryan said, “You’re banging his sixteen-year-old daughter?”

  In unison, Bradley and Kyle shouted, “Shut up!”

  Yesterday in the lanai, the thought had tempted Bradley. His overprotective inclinations had wandered dangerously close to controlling and sabotaging. “No, sir. No chance.”

  “Well, you still could—”

  “I won’t.”

  Ryan leaned toward Kyle and said, “How do I apply for that job?”

  The flippant remark triggered a firestorm inside Bradley. He grabbed Ryan’s throat and pinned him against the house. “I’m already getting court-martialed, and the Army thinks you’re dead. Do the math!”

  “Relax, I was joking. I’m old enough to be her father.”

  “Not funny.” Although Bradley released Ryan, his stare continued drilling into him.

  “Understood.” The Ranger redirected his attention to Kyle. “Now that you have the facts, what are you gonna do?”

  “We’re staying,” Kyle said flatly. “If the wound gets infected, then we’ll go to Camp Sunshine.”

  “It will get infected. It’s just a matter of time,” Ryan argued. “And if you wait, Bradley and I won’t be here to help transport him. He might need to be carried part of the way.”

  Kyle rolled his head back. “Then we’ll lie about Abby’s age, tell them she’s fourteen. Without a birth certificate or electronic records, how would they know?”

  “Won’t work,” Bradley said, his words dripping frustration. “Abby wants to enlist. She would lie to get in. Not to dodge.”

  “Hell yeah!” Abby said as she emerged from the house. “Dad, if we don’t go, we’ll be spending every waking moment on overwatch. That’s no way to live.”

  She glanced at Bradley, soliciting help that he couldn’t bring himself to offer, then she continued, “And what happens when we run out of food and ammunition?”

  “The good Lord always provides.” Angrily, Kyle rose to his feet and wrenched open the front door. “We are staying!”

  “Damn it, Dad, you can’t protect me from this,” Abby shouted, stomping after him. “Either way, I’m gonna end up fighting the savages. At least let me get the proper training. Give me a chance to survive!”

  The door slammed, and Bradley felt the vibrations rattle the house behind him. He stood, gripping the stucco wall to steady himself. He’d had a few beers with the guys on base, but never whiskey on an empty stomach. Once the light-headedness passed, he shouldered his backpack and rifle then started toward the slain sniper.

  Scurrying to catch up, Ryan said, “Why don’t you get some shut-eye? I’ll keep watch.”

  Bradley mumbled his thanks and kept moving.

  It’s my fault, he thought. I engaged at Astatula and Haywood Field; I left a trail that led them to Sugar Lake.

  He knelt beside the man who had murdered his grandfather, ejected a round from the M110 semiautomatic sniper rifle, and slipped it into the outer flap of his backpack.

  “I understand Kyle’s reluctance about Abby serving,” Ryan was saying, “but you were training her. Why are you dead set against it?”

  Using a red-filtered flashlight to search the dead man, Bradley said, “I hate the thought of savages shooting at her.”

  “Give me a break. They were shooting at her here.”

  “But here, I knew her status.” Bradley paused to extricate a black IRGC headband and a ring from a cargo pocket. It was a wedding band with some sort of inscription inside. He began flaking away the dried blood with his fingernail. “I just don’t want to wake up every morning wondering if Abby’s dead or alive.”

  “Well, if that’s the issue, I might have a solution for you.”

  Bradley wasn’t listening. Eyes fixed on the ring, a bitter sense of resentment was surging through him, making his entire body quake with rage.

  191G

  SINCE READING THE NAMES engraved into that wedding band, combative thoughts had been colliding in Bradley’s mind, anger versus empathy, vengeance versus mercy.

  He had been awake all night, restless and inconsolable. By 0800 hours, Bradley had dug Gramps’ grave, laid him to rest in the backyard beside the fishpond, and marked the site with a slab of granite wrested from the kitchen island. Onto it, he had chiseled: Beloved Grandfather, Brigadier General, George Anderson.

  After the impromptu memorial had concluded, he set out on the three-mile hike to Fern Ridge.

  From his hillside perch overlooking the concentric-ringed neighborhood, Bradley stared at the house as he had that fateful night, this time with condemnation rather than compassion.

  Although Kyle had insisted the dead sniper was not Zaakir, Bradley was certain the bastard had steered death toward Sugar Lake. The only variable was intent.

  He knew damned well that we fed his family, that I put myself at risk to protect them. How could he betray us?

  Did he disclose the information under duress? Did the Iranians threaten his family? Take them hostage? Was the blood-encrusted ring evidence that Zaakir had been tortured?


  Or did he voluntarily trade the information for food?

  What if he was one of the savages? Maybe he died fighting alongside his jihadist brethren; maybe the Iranians were planning to return the ring to his widow.

  Then why didn’t Zaakir shoot Kyle and Dave yesterday?

  Was he disseminating those flyers to herd Americans into that death camp? His family, the suitcases—was it all just part of the ruse?

  Bradley’s gaze dropped to the brass casings scattered at his feet.

  If I hadn’t intervened that night, would Zaakir have died? Would Gramps be alive? If we hadn’t shared our food, would they have moved on, away from Sugar Lake?

  Without answers to so many crucial questions, how was he supposed to make the right decision?

  Detecting movement, Bradley’s head bobbed upward. A puffy-eyed woman exited the glass sliding door and scanned the hillside, calling Zaakir’s name. The sight of her personalized his dilemma.

  Invite her to accompany us to Camp Sunshine? Or leave her and the children to fend for themselves?

  In his mind, he could hear Gramps asking, “Would you want to be punished for the sins of your father?”

  Bradley frowned. He didn’t feel like doing the Christian thing. He was in no mood to turn the other cheek. He wanted to hold someone accountable; and to his thinking, merely walking away was a hell of a lot more charitable than sending mercenaries to their doorstep.

  He turned for home, then speaking aloud as if to justify his actions to the world, Bradley said, “Zaakir got Gramps killed. He almost got Abby killed. Screw his family! I already went out of my way twice to help them, and look where it’s gotten me.”

  192G

  Saturday, March 8th

  ABBY TOSSED AND TURNED in a fitful sleep. The battle reenacted through her subconscious on a marathon loop; and with each round, her dreaming mind tried a different course of action. The outcome never changed. After running through every option, she said, “I’m sorry, Gramps. I couldn’t save you.”

  She was startled to hear him reply, “It was my time.” Gramps’ deep, warbling voice sounded at peace; and Abby sensed his presence engulfing her like warm bathwater. Then a hand began gently rocking her shoulder. “Abby, wake up.”

  Prying open heavy eyelids, she squinted at Bradley, who was squatting beside her. Her visual range widened, and she took stock of the unfamiliar room, dimly lit by a flashlight.

  Where am I? she wondered. Then it all rushed back: burying Gramps; leaving Sugar Lake; hunkering down for the night in an abandoned house north of Fruitland Park. She bolted upright, muscles stiffening. “Is it time for my shift already?”

  “No, I—” Bradley averted his eyes. His mouth hung open. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Is this my twenty-four-hour warning?”

  “Sort of.” He paused, reaching into his pocket. “This is for you.”

  Abby’s eyes zeroed on the copper-jacketed bullet, dangling from a length of black parachute cord. “You can’t give me your hog’s tooth. I want to earn my own.”

  “You did. And in some ways, yours is more real than mine. According to superstition, only one round is destined to kill you—the one with your name on it. When you dispatch an enemy sniper, you take that round from his magazine and wear it around your neck so it can never be fired, ergo you become invincible.”

  After draping it over her head, his fingers skimmed slowly downward, past her elbows and along her forearms; then he clasped her hands. “As for us, I was thinking that ... If the military thought we were married, we could get status notifications. We could find each other again.”

  Caught off guard, it took Abby a moment to recover. “You want to lie to the U.S. military?”

  “Not exactly. The way I see it, two people can be committed to each other with or without some piece of paper from the government.” There was an uncharacteristic flicker of vulnerability in his hazel eyes. “I already talked to your dad. He says it’s your decision.”

  Dumbstruck, Abby wasn’t sure if she was awake or still dreaming.

  “Before you say anything, you need to understand that my future isn’t exactly rosy. There’s a laundry list of reasons why I could be court-martialed. Besides being AWOL for two weeks, I could be facing murder charges.”

  The anguish in Bradley’s expression sent her heart into free fall.

  “You gave the savages back their poisoned chocolate. You were defending Gramps. And me,” she said in a raspy, yet forceful whisper. “And everybody else in the vicinity of Sugar Lake. You saved lives.”

  “Maybe.”

  Abby’s fingers glided along his stubbly jaw, beneath his chin, easing his face upward. “It doesn’t matter. I love you, Bradley. Nothing can change that.”

  He released her right hand, reached into his pocket again, and pulled out a tiny dark object. “This was my mother’s wedding band. I spray-painted it black, so it won’t reflect light.”

  His gaze floated from the ring back to Abby, and he dropped onto a knee, still holding her left hand. “I love you, Abby. Will you be my wife?”

  193G

  Wednesday, March 12th

  SURRENDERING HIS WEAPON, Bradley glanced upward at the imposing twenty-foot watchtowers surrounding Camp Sunshine. Triangular with cross-member supports, they looked like oil rigs connected by chain-link fencing topped with spiral razor wire.

  The damned death camp looked more welcoming, he thought. Did the facility feel prisonlike to everyone else? Or was his perception distorted by circumstance?

  His return to base was bittersweet. Bradley was thrilled that the civilians had made it to safety, yet disheartened that Gramps hadn’t; gung ho to reunite with his unit, yet hesitant to say good-bye to Abby; eager to end his AWOL status, yet reluctant to face the consequences of his actions.

  Cherub-faced teens clad with blue latex gloves were confiscating personal items while more seasoned Army personnel performed airport-style pat downs. A bomb-sniffing dog checked each pair of shoes and alerted on Bradley’s combat boots. Despite his uniform and military identification, his shoes were seized.

  Walking along the gravel path in socks, he swore under his breath. Ahead, a Soldier with a ruggedized laptop was processing civilians, gathering names, birth dates, and social security numbers; scanning fingerprints and logging specialized skills.

  After spewing all the required information, Kyle added, “My friend’s been shot and needs immediate medical attention.” They had been carrying Dave for the last twenty miles because his fever had spiked, and he was fading in and out of consciousness.

  “I’ll call for a stretcher,” Private Wilson said, not looking up from his computer screen. “But the surgical facility is on base, and you don’t have the clearance to accompany him. Report to the civilian clinic. They’ll keep you informed, and once he stabilizes, they’ll transfer him. Right hand, please?”

  The Private affixed a blue plasticized band on his wrist. “This identifies you as a civilian. I’ll need your friend’s hand too.”

  Kyle helped Nikki check in, at a loss to answer most of the questions.

  “Mr. Murphy, are you assuming the role of guardian for this child?”

  “Looks that way,” Kyle told him.

  “Her right hand, please?”

  Bradley stepped aside to allow Eliza, Raeleah, and Zak to check in; and he forced a polite smile. He was still grappling with resentment, alternately blaming Zaakir and himself for his grandfather’s death.

  Ryan whispered, “Given the circumstances, I would’ve left their asses behind.”

  “I tried,” Bradley told him. In fact, he had made it a quarter of the way home before relenting, a decision that proved beneficial since Eliza had watched over Nikki.

  “Well, you’re a better man than I am.”

  “I didn’t do it for them ... or for Zaakir. I did it because it’s what my grandfather would’ve wanted ... Hardest damned thing I’ve ever had to do.”

  Ryan met his eye. “The r
ight thing usually is.”

  As Bradley identified himself, medics loaded Dave onto a stretcher. Abby kissed her Uncle’s forehead while Kyle assured him that he was going to be fine.

  “Staff Sergeant Ryan Andrews?” Private Wilson’s eyes widened like a spreading stain. His attention seesawed between Ryan and the computer screen, employing old-school facial recognition, then he began typing at a feverish rate.

  Ryan offered Kyle his hand, and the handshake progressed into a backslapping hug. “Thanks again for saving my ass, Rambo. I owe you one.”

  “You should thank Bradley. He’s the one who got shot,” Kyle said, simultaneously deflecting the credit and ambushing Bradley with a straightjacket-type hug. “We wouldn’t have survived without you.”

  “Who’s next?” Private Wilson demanded, seemingly annoyed by the heartfelt good-byes.

  Abby approached the table, and after answering all his questions, she inserted her finger into the scanner.

  “You’ve just been drafted,” Wilson told her. “Report to the enlistment center.”

  Bradley could see the worry etched in Kyle’s face, a sentiment he understood—too well.

  Eyes clenched, lips pursed, father and daughter embraced, neither speaking for minutes.

  “I’ll be fine, Dad, I promise ... I love you. Remember that every time you start to worry.”

  “You think I’ll ever stop?” Kyle’s voice was a choked sob. “I love you too ... I miss you already.”

  Abby withdrew from her father’s hug, eyes dewy with tears, and walked toward Bradley. His arms enveloped her, and as if on cue, a bullhorn-amplified voice blared down from a watchtower. “You folks need to move along!”

  “Come on,” Ryan said, nudging Bradley’s shoulder. “This isn’t good-bye. You’ll see her before she ships out.”

  Will I? Bradley wondered, kissing her lightly. Or will I be in the brig?

  “I hope Ryan’s right,” Abby whispered, “because I can’t handle another good-bye right now.” She marched toward the draftee checkpoint, then Bradley heard Kyle shout, “Hey, Abby ... ? Semper Fi!”