Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  “I’ve been looking for a civilian leader,” Rodriguez told him. “Someone who can motivate and organize people to rebuild society. Mr. Murphy, I think you’re the guy.”

  198L

  Monday, March 17th

  BRADLEY WAS AT THE main gate when the draftees emerged, forty-nine glum faces and one glowing like sunshine. Dressed in an Army PT uniform, Abby jogged toward him, her blonde hair sheared off at chin level, bouncing as she moved.

  “They cut your hair?” he asked, fingers combing the loose waves that framed her face. He wanted to remember the silky feel.

  “No, I did.” She presented him with a five-inch braid of hair, fastened with rubber bands at both ends. “I have your ring. I wanted you to have something.”

  Bradley clutched the braid in his left hand and pulled her against him.

  Kissing his cheek, Abby whispered, “How’d it go with Captain Rodriguez?”

  “No charges, no court-martial.”

  “Thank God he wasn’t as bad as Ryan made him out to be.”

  “I think he feels guilty for ignoring Ryan’s warning about Al-Zahrani. He transferred both of us to a new branch of the military called TEradS, so we’ll be hunting down savages here, in the U.S. And Rodriguez said that if you excel in Basic Training, he’ll recommend you for Scout Sniper School.”

  “You told him about me?” Abby stepped back, excitement glimmering in her eyes. “That’s awesome!”

  Bradley didn’t mention that as an underage draftee, she couldn’t be assigned combat duty without parental consent. The government—anticipating that ninety percent of the U.S. population would perish within a year—had begun inducting sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds in an effort to keep them alive and preserve the country’s future Soldiers. Bradley grinned, thinking the situation couldn’t have worked out better. Abby would have all the protection of the military—food, shelter, and security—without the risk. At least for the next two years.

  He could hear the bus approaching. Its tires crunched and popped against the gravel road surface, and he felt like the steel-belted treads were rolling over his chest.

  “Thanks, Bradley ... I know it wasn’t easy for you to subdue those overprotective instincts.”

  Offering an innocent smile, he said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  A Private with a clipboard exited the bus and began calling out names, an alphabetical countdown that made Bradley ache. Caressing Abby’s cheek, he drew her closer. He wanted to compress everything he felt for her into a single kiss, and sear it into her memory. He wanted the bond between them to strengthen her, to carry her through the difficult days ahead.

  Names zipped past, and he held her tighter, not wanting to let go.

  “Webber?” the Private shouted.

  Not acclimated to her “married name,” Abby didn’t react; and Bradley pulled back, grinning at her.

  “Webber, Abigail?” the Private repeated.

  “Oh, that’s me.” A rosy hue seeped into her cheeks.

  “Saying good-bye sucks even more than I thought it would,” Bradley said, his voice thick with emotion.

  “But this is something I really want to do.”

  Was that supposed to make it easier? It didn’t, but he knew he had to let go.

  Bradley watched her walk toward the bus, feeling as if his heart was being wrenched from his chest, then he shouted, “I love you, Squirt!”

  Abby glanced over her shoulder and flashed that adorable, pissed-off pout, the one that always made him smile. “I love you more, Sexy!”

  Then a bizarre feeling of calm spread through him.

  We will be together again, Bradley decided. Because the good Lord always provides.

  * * Change of Heart(5L)? * *

  YES ... Back to Moral Dilemma 5L

  NO ... This is the End of Book One

  WARNING: Paging forward will take you into a different story path.

  The Powerless Series continues:

  EMPowered: America Re-Energized

  Power Play: America’s Fate

  Mind Power: America Awakens

  ( ( ( PATH 172M ) ) )

  172M

  THROUGH THE DAGGERLIKE streaks of light and shadow, the savage had been difficult to detect. His position was slightly elevated, but he wasn’t moving. Abby increased the tension on the two-stage trigger, and a bullet tunneled through the bastard’s forehead, just above his spotting scope. She didn’t notice the well-camouflaged man beside him until he moved. Like an alligator in a death roll, he spun himself behind the ridge, out of sight and out of range.

  Above the agonized ballad of Uncle Dave’s moaning, a voice within Abby shouted, “Move!” The gunman might have seen her muzzle flash. She had to change position. She had to get to her hide.

  Skull dragging up the hill, the realization struck. This time, it was real. The consequences of being spotted would not be embarrassment or going back to start. This time, failure would mean death.

  Abby’s heart felt like it had divided and spread miniature replicas of itself throughout her body, simultaneously hammering her chest, her throat, her hands, her skull. The numbing sensation made it difficult to move. Uncle Dave’s cries made it impossible to concentrate.

  She could feel the creeping darkness engulfing her, chilling her. Soon it would be pitch black, and Abby would be fighting blind ... and deaf thanks to Uncle Dave. She would never hear an approaching footstep or a snapping twig.

  Shut up, idiot, so he doesn’t shoot you again! Dear God, please make him shut up!

  Abby knew he had been hit since he’d announced it to the world, but Gramps remained silent. Was he just being smart? Or was he ... ?

  The question crystallized the air in her lungs.

  She banished the possibility and slowly retrieved her walkie-talkie. “Gramps?” she whispered, wondering if he could hear anything over Uncle Dave’s bawling.

  She tried a half dozen times with no response then continued crawling toward her hide.

  “I need help,” Uncle Dave shouted. “I’m bleeding to death!”

  She closed her eyes to shut out the despair and pleading in his voice. It was maddening.

  I can’t help you, she thought. Not without getting shot, so shut up. Shut up! SHUT UP!

  Abby’s eyes snapped open, reeling from a moment of fearful clarity. That’s why the gunman had left Uncle Dave alive: to lure her into the line of fire.

  Then an even more terrifying thought snaked through her. In all likelihood, this guy was an IRGC sniper.

  173M SKIPPED

  174M

  BRADLEY FOLLOWED RYAN through the dark hallway, trying to ignore the pained wails of a little girl being abused. Militarily, Bradley understood and respected Ryan’s reasoning—that the lives of the many outweigh the life of one individual; but emotionally, the decision was vexing. In his mind, her shrieks were fusing with the screams from that girl at the swing set, merging into a single haunting memory, a regret-filled duet. Another innocent he’d failed to save.

  They entered a storage room directly beneath death’s doorway. Barren metal shelving lined the windowless room, and the floor crunched beneath each footstep, crackling like a thin layer of ice. Bradley swept his foot over it as if smoothing sand. It was shattered glass from dozens of fluorescent light tubes.

  He eased his backpack off his shoulders then removed twelve bricks of C-4 and a spool of wire with a detonator and shock tube attached at either end.

  “I’m not so sure this will be enough to put the building out of commission,” Ryan said as he stripped the green plastic from each brick. “We need a backup plan.”

  “Have something in mind?”

  “You have a lighter or some matches?”

  Bradley stopped molding the bricks. Unable to shut out the panic and misery in the little girl’s cries, he bit his lower lip until it throbbed then said, “You want to set the building on fire?”

  “No alarm. No sprinklers. No fire department. They won
’t be able to continue operations. At least not here.”

  Expressing his objection with a lengthy silence, Bradley resumed molding the explosives. A fire would set the clock ticking, eliminating all flexibility from their timing.

  Ryan sensed his reluctance. “You realize that if they’re able to reopen for business, this is all for naught.”

  Bradley glanced at the shoebox-sized white blob of explosives. Would it be enough? Could he live with the guilt if it wasn’t?

  No, he would have to try again; and next time, it would be more difficult to breach the building. With a resigned sigh, he nodded toward his backpack. “Outer pocket on the right.”

  Ryan retrieved a Bic lighter then snapped, crackled, and popped his way to the door. He paused to pick glass from the soles of his wet shoes, muttering, “Might as well be wearing tap shoes.”

  The little girl’s screams escalated into one drawn-out howl, a death cry saturated with agony, then the room fell morbidly silent. Frustration and guilt were like a meat grinder, shredding Bradley from the inside out.

  That savage killed her, he thought. And unlike last time, I could’ve saved this girl.

  Bradley shuffled his feet, shushing and tinkling toward the exterior wall, pushing glass rather than crushing it, to minimize the shards embedded in his boots. He inserted the shock tube into the fifteen-pound block of C-4, wrapped the connected wire around it like a ribbon, and secured it with duct tape to prevent the shock tube from accidentally dislodging.

  He forced his thoughts to Kyle. Was he able to stop the pedestrian traffic? Or were refugees still pouring in? He strained to listen, hoping the quiet indicated a respite from the slaughter.

  Bradley positioned the C-4 just feet below the executioners. He unraveled twenty feet of wire from the spool and inched toward the door, feet plowing through jagged particles. Just as he began extracting glass slivers from his boots, Ryan returned.

  “We’ve got to move. The laundry area was packed with linens. Even looters didn’t want shitty hospital sheets.”

  Bradley scurried down the hallway, unwinding the spool while Ryan guided the wire against the wall, where it would be less conspicuous.

  With fifty feet to go, footsteps began charging down the stairwell.

  “We need to get the fuck out of here,” Ryan grumbled.

  “There’s no time,” Bradley said, reaching for the nearest doorknob.

  175M

  HEARING THE HUM OF insect night song and the guttural croaking of bullfrogs, Abby sighed. Uncle Dave’s cries had abruptly ceased. Did he tire of screaming for help? Did he die? Is Gramps bleeding to death?

  Unrelenting guilt boomeranged between her conscience and common sense.

  I should try to help them ... but then I’ll get shot ... but I should do something ...

  She had been holding back unwelcome thoughts, allowing them to accumulate like floodwaters behind a levee, and now they were about to rupture with destructive fury.

  I’m counting on you to keep everybody safe.

  And Gramps and Uncle Dave had been shot.

  She had let Gramps down, let Bradley down, let everyone down.

  A layer of sweat blossomed. Her hands began to tremble.

  “Snipers don’t fall apart under pressure,” she whispered to herself. “Think, damn it!”

  The full moon had just peeked above the eastern horizon, its light barely sufficient to distinguish roadway from woods. Her scope and iron sights were nearly useless.

  Is the sniper equipped with night vision? Thermal imaging?

  The possibility undulated through her nervous system until a snapping sound snared her attention. Veiled by the fading twilight, a hunched-over figure with a long gun was creeping along the house. Abby angled her scope toward the target.

  Aunt Laura ... Oh, no ... ! How can I warn her without giving away my posit—

  A solitary gunshot rendered the question moot.

  Abby’s head jerked toward the sound. She repositioned her rifle then grabbed the twine with her left hand, rolling the rough fibers between her fingers.

  God, I could really use your help, she thought, slowly tugging the string.

  The AK-47 boomed with successive shots.

  Pulses of light winked.

  She released the twine, but it must have snagged on a branch because the fully automatic weapon continued spitting bullets until the magazine emptied.

  Then she saw a muzzle flash. The sniper had returned fire.

  Abby didn’t think. Her rifle barrel instinctively lurched toward the flash, and she fired, regretting it before the sound of the blast had waned.

  Another stupid emotional reaction, she thought. There was no way she could have hit him, and she had foolishly risked giving away her position; then an even more dire realization rocked her.

  Dumb, Abby! Stupid, stupid, STUPID!

  Snipers substantiated “kills” by collecting personal items from their targets. If he located the AK-47, the twine would lead him directly to her.

  ( ( ( 87% Complete ) ) )

  176M

  WITH FOOTSTEPS CLOSING, Ryan and Bradley had ducked into the nearest room, a claustrophobic closet packed with portable oxygen tanks.

  The Marine was crouched beside the partially opened door, head protruding like a dog enjoying a car ride.

  “You see anything?” Ryan whispered.

  Bradley leaned backward and gingerly closed the door. “Another guard must’ve heard the girl screaming, and I think he noticed the smoke. He and the child molester are headed our way.”

  Ryan rolled his head back then let it fall forward. “That kid still managed to fuck up this mission. And now we’re trapped inside a burning building.”

  “And whose idea was that?”

  “The blame game’s a waste of time. Let’s take care of those guards and get the fuck out of here.”

  They cobbled together a plan and moved into position.

  Ryan could hear doors opening and shutting, moving closer.

  Gripping his KA-BAR knife, he mentally rehearsed every movement, every step, a choreographed combat ballet.

  The closet door was thrust open. A rifle poked through, its attached flashlight sweeping like a miniature searchlight.

  Bradley grabbed the barrel and dragged it forward.

  With one fluid motion, Ryan stepped behind the guard, locked a hand over his mouth, and slashed his throat. Bradley caught the body and eased it to the floor.

  They tiptoed into the hallway, repositioning beside an open doorway. Illuminated by night-vision goggles, soot particles whirled like ghostly apparitions and stung Ryan’s eyes. Acrid smoke tickled his throat, and he resisted the urge to cough. He tracked the guard’s movements throughout the room then nodded to Bradley, signaling the target’s approach.

  Within seconds, he met the same fate as his partner.

  Ryan thumbed the safety of his inherited rifle to be sure it was not engaged, then he and Bradley hustled through the hallway, unraveling the detonation wire.

  The door where the girl had been held was open. Her little body lay atop a gurney, an island amidst a lake of blood.

  He heard Bradley mutter, “Damn it! She was just a kid.”

  177M

  KYLE HAD STOPPED THE eastbound refugees a quarter mile from the extermination camp, close enough for the glow of electric lights to seduce and beckon the crowd.

  That building’s a human bug zapper, he thought.

  Using night vision, he estimated close to a hundred refugees were gathered on Route 441. He had expected foot traffic to diminish after sunset. Instead, it was steadily increasing as if people felt safer moving around in the darkness.

  Kyle scanned their restless, impatient faces. People stared at the lights longingly, as if they marked a magic gateway, a return to life the way it used to be. He understood their feelings, the relief, the craving for normalcy.

  But how would they react when that hope exploded before their eyes? Would they slip back into z
ombielike despondence? Or would they become angry—with him?

  If Kyle had followed orders and stopped the line a mile back, he could have released the refugees and slipped away before the big ka-boom.

  “Let’s go, Sergeant. We’re tired and hungry.”

  “My son needs a doctor.”

  “Come on, Man. You said one hour. Time’s up.”

  He’s right, Kyle thought glancing at Ryan’s ruggedized watch. The C-4 should have gone off fifteen minutes ago. Something was wrong. A technical problem? Or did Bradley and Ryan get caught?

  Dread seeped from every pore, drenching him, siphoning body heat, making him shiver in the cool evening air.

  A man climbed atop a BMW and began to chant, “Food now!” His clenched fist thrust angrily skyward, and a few voices joined his refrain. The chorus grew stronger, louder, angrier, until nearly everyone was shouting in unison. Fists, guns, and knives pumped like pistons.

  The ringleader descended from the BMW and marched toward Kyle, his mechanized mob falling into step behind him. “Are you going to stop us, Sergeant?”

  Stunned and bewildered, Kyle stepped to his left, symbolically removing himself from the man’s path. A river of bodies flowed past either side of him. A few people hurled curses at him; most offered sympathetic smiles, acknowledging that he was just doing his job.

  It was a mass exodus of good people following an idiot. Instead of anger, Kyle felt an overwhelming compassion, especially for the fathers.

  There, but for the grace of God, go I.

  178M SKIPPED

  179M SKIPPED

  180M

  EVERYTHING HAD CHANGED in less than a minute. Since then, Dave had been lying on the ground, moaning in pain. He hadn’t reacted to the first shot, expecting that Abby had tagged a rabbit or alligator for tonight’s dinner. Then a bullet had struck his right arm and hurled him to the ground. Initially, it had felt like getting pegged with a fastball, a blunt, scorching ache; then a stabbing pain had radiated throughout his body.

  He called out for help until his throat was raw. Why aren’t George and Abby answering me?