by Akart, Bobby
“Do you think they’re having the same trouble that Richmond is?” asked Donna. Her nose was pressed against the glass as she watched the men work to secure the restaurant.
Tom was rubbernecking the activity as well, so when he pulled into the Exxon station, he didn’t notice that plastic bags covered all the pumps.
“Dammit!” he exclaimed out of frustration. The store had a single clerk inside and a couple of customers, but clearly, they’d sold out of gasoline. Tom pulled through the pumps and glanced in both directions on the four-lane road. Several businesses were closed, but Popeye’s and Bojangles’ seemed to be operating on all cylinders.
Donna leaned forward and turned the radio back on. They’d given up on listening to national news, as the networks had no definitive answers and instead supplied a variety of commentators who voiced their opinions via speculation.
Tom had avoided telling Donna about his morning conversation with Tommie. The fracas in Richmond had interrupted their talk and she never brought up the subject again. As they drove south, mostly in silence, the pundits raised all kinds of possible culprits for the terrorist attacks, but none of them suggested an inside job, as Tom considered it to be. The ramifications of Tommie’s revelations were enormous. He suspected the intelligence agencies would leak the information to the media at an opportune moment, depending upon the leaker’s agenda.
“I see a BP station a little farther down the road. Might as well give it a try.”
Donna didn’t respond, instead focusing her efforts on finding a local Durham news station to determine why the businesses were closing. Tom pulled into the BP station and beamed when he saw motorists pumping gas.
“Jackpot!” he exclaimed as he drove between a pickup truck and an old Buick in order to access the center pump. He was so ecstatic to be able to fill up, he shrugged off the price tag, which exceeded eight dollars per gallon.
He frowned, however, when he saw a cardboard sign taped on the pump that read CASH ONLY. He had no idea how many gallons the Yukon held, but he guessed at least twenty-five. Based on the yellow warning light on the truck’s fuel gauge, he calculated he’d need two hundred dollars’ worth. A record fuel purchase in his lifetime.
As he walked inside to pay, he pulled out his wallet. He only had a few twenties, so he dug into his emergency stash. When he was young, his father had taken him aside and taught him some of the basics to becoming a man. Some of the tips had to do with carrying a wallet.
First and foremost, his father had told him, always carry your wallet in your front pocket when in a crowd to avoid being pickpocketed. He rarely followed his father’s advice on that point. His father also said don’t stuff your wallet with anything unnecessary. A fat wallet was considered a prime target for thieves.
He was told to carry a condom at all times—just in case. This was old-school fatherly advice that Tom didn’t follow either. He was a rare young man growing up, opting to wait until he and Donna were married before he took the plunge into sexual activity. He laughed to himself as he wondered if there were any more like him today.
The other important thing he learned was to keep a secret stash of emergency cash, as his father called it. Back then, a twenty-dollar bill was sufficient. Over time with inflation, he had increased the amount he carried to two hundred-dollar bills.
He recalled explaining the logic to his son-in-law, Willa’s husband, one day. “I look at it this way. I think about what I paid for my first house. Then I compare that to what I paid for my new car. I paid more for my car than I paid for our first house. Twenty bucks barely gets you a number one at McDonald’s nowadays.”
Tom reached into his wallet and retrieved the crisply folded hundred-dollar bills and handed them to the clerk. She took his cash and told him to come back for change when he was finished.
He didn’t bother.
Tom was mesmerized by the fuel pump as the dollars and cents ticked away until he’d spent over a hundred dollars.
“Thirteen gallons so far,” he muttered, amusing himself over the outrageous price per gallon. He shrugged it off as he considered that Europeans had been paying these prices for years.
As the pump continued to dispense gas into the truck, Tom heard shouting from the direction of the interstate. On the other side of the adjacent Family Dollar, people were marching down Duke Homestead Road, shouting and yelling. They weren’t in trouble but were clearly agitated.
Expletives were hurled, and soon a hundred people or more had spilled out into the intersection of Guess Road and Duke Homestead Road. Donna turned in her seat and waved to get Tom’s attention. He rushed to the driver’s door and opened it.
“The president is declaring martial law!”
“When?”
Donna was quick to reply. “Right now. I just found it on the radio. Listen.”
Tom backed out of the truck and looked down the street just as the gas nozzle clicked, indicating the tank was full. He had thirteen dollars to spare on his prepaid amount, but he didn’t wait to squeeze a few more drops out. He returned the nozzle to the pump and climbed into the driver’s seat.
Tom wheeled the Yukon around two vehicles blocking the exit and jumped a curb in order to get back onto Guess Road. He pressed the pedal all the way to the floor, and the heavy truck roared to life, speeding toward the intersection, where a large group of people had gathered. Many were carrying signs and waving banners.
“Tom! You can’t run over them!”
“Hold on!” Tom kept his speed, and some of the group noticed him racing toward them. They didn’t yield and instead faced him down defiantly.
“Tom!”
“Here we go!” he shouted as he whipped the steering wheel to the right and raced through an office building’s parking lot. He bounced over a sidewalk and slid across the grass in front of the entrance to an adjacent church.
Donna turned to watch as several people in the crowd began to shout and throw rocks at them. Tom plowed through the wet grass and steered back onto the road, where his tires grabbed the pavement, causing the top-heavy Yukon to shake back and forth as it gained traction.
“Are we clear?” He shouted his question.
“Yes! Slow down, please!”
“Not until we’re on the highway,” he responded under his breath. He weaved past several slow-moving cars and raced up the ramp on to I-85, looking in his rearview mirror the entire time. After a mile, he exhaled and removed his hands from the steering wheel, one at a time, to wipe the sweat off his palms.
“Tom, do you think they were protesting the martial law announcement?” asked Donna, who was remarkably calm.
Out of breath from the anxious moment, he replied, “Maybe, but that’s not what concerned me.”
“What was it?”
“Did you notice what was on the sheets they turned into signs?”
“No, what?” asked Donna in reply.
“A black rose held by a fist.”
Chapter Forty
George Trowbridge’s Residence
Near Pine Orchard, Connecticut
Trowbridge was philosophical as he watched the events unfold from Mar-a-Lago. The president had formally declared martial law and, with a significant military presence protecting him, lifted off in Marine One, which had been transported from Washington to the Southern White House in Palm Beach, Florida. The fighter jets overhead were escorting the president and members of his family to Patrick Air Force Base in nearby Brevard, just north of Palm Beach.
“Harris, when you’re the leader of the free world, you’re bestowed with a tremendous amount of power. This president has been besieged from the day he was elected in 2016. The constant attacks by the media and the opposition party may have bruised him, but it strengthened his resolve. It also created a martyr, of sorts.”
“How so, sir?” asked Harris before adding, “Martyrs are typically deceased.”
Trowbridge managed a slight laugh. “Well, if you believe the media reports, this presiden
cy was dead on arrival in Washington. That proved to be a continuous false narrative. His reelection confirmed that.”
“Sir, if the media couldn’t bring him down, either the Twenty-Fifth Amendment actions or promised impeachment proceedings will.”
“Maybe, maybe not. At least a third of the country, if not more, believe those political machinations are nothing more than revenge and sour grapes. Some have outright called these efforts a coup against the president.”
Harris pointed to the television. “Yet there he is. Still in charge.”
“Taking actions to safeguard the ideals he believes in,” said Trowbridge before taking a deep breath. “What we have initiated is not different, although many will question our methods. It’s been said that if there’s something wrong, those who are capable of taking action should take action. That’s what we have done. History may condemn our efforts, but the results will be warranted.”
Harris’s cell phone vibrated, and he quickly powered on the display to read a series of text messages. “Sir, there’s been a development.”
“Go ahead,” grumbled Trowbridge. He was in no mood for surprises.
“The Schwartz jet has been readied for takeoff.”
“Have they submitted a flight plan?”
“Not yet,” replied Harris. “However, they have circumvented FAA policy in the past when it suited Schwartz. His unexpected appearance at Davos the year you couldn’t attend is one such example. It enabled him to avoid media scrutiny and, frankly, was a blatant attempt to take advantage of your health issues.”
Trowbridge nodded. The World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland, was attended by world leaders, entrepreneurs, and wealthy financiers. Many deals were made, and alliances confirmed. It was during that January in 2019 that Trowbridge’s health took a turn for the worse, forcing him to ultimately be bedridden in his home.
When Trowbridge didn’t verbally respond, Harris tried to get his attention. “Sir? Is there anything you’d like me to do?”
Trowbridge rubbed his temples. If Schwartz fled the jurisdiction, the opportunity to use the martial law declaration to take him into custody would be lost. Once in custody, the Department of Justice could create any number of charges to hold him indefinitely, and well after martial law was lifted.
“Ground him!” he blurted out louder than either man expected. “This might work to our advantage. He is showing himself to be a flight risk in the eyes of a court. Attempting to leave the country without a filed flight plan is ample evidence of that. Between the inability to get bond and the suspension of habeas corpus, Schwartz may spend the rest of his life confined to a prison holding cell.”
“I’ll call our FBI contacts now,” said Harris as he scurried out of the bedroom.
Trowbridge leaned his head against his pillow and closed his eyes, but not to nap. The safety of his daughter and Cort wore heavily on his mind. He desperately wanted to make arrangements for military assets to surround the Haven.
But if he did, it would raise unnecessary suspicion and put them in danger. If he sent someone to pull them out and take them to a location he perceived to be safer, he ran the risk of alienating his daughter, which might also serve to push Cort away.
And that couldn’t happen, as Trowbridge had big plans for his son-in-law.
Chapter Forty-One
Outside the Haven
Ethan was not an athletic kid, but fueled by adrenaline and excitement, he hustled through the woods of the Haven undetected and scaled the perimeter wall with the aid of a fallen tree. He cautiously made his way toward the farmhouse, using large oak trees and several outbuildings for cover. By the time he reached the side of the farmhouse, he was winded, but exhilarated.
He had been part of a car theft before. Well, in his mind, it wasn’t really something as dramatic as grand theft auto or anything like that. It was more of a joyride. He and some of his buddies from high school had been running around, smoking weed, when they came upon a van parked behind a strip center near their neighborhood.
The Sherwin-Williams paint store had used the van for delivering paint to contractors in the area during home construction and remodeling. It wasn’t fancy, but for the kids high on marijuana, it was that perfect storm in which stupidity and opportunity crossed paths.
The driver had forgotten to remove the keys from the Ford Econoline van, and much to the delight of the high teenage boys, the vehicle was unlocked. For the next three hours, they drove around town, visiting the favorite hangouts of their classmates and doing donuts in the front yards of some kids they disliked.
As their high wore off, reality sank in, and they thought it best to return the van to where they’d found it. In their mind, no harm, no foul. Ethan and the other boys didn’t get caught, so their success emboldened them to try more daring adventures.
Soon, breaking and entering became part of their nightly activities. Once they found several pawnshops that happily accepted certain types of stolen goods in exchange for cash, no questions asked, Ethan and his pals decided to form their own criminal enterprise.
All of which led to this moment that encouraged Ethan to return to his criminal roots and steal the old couple’s car. Now, as most criminals often do, Ethan rationalized his theft. It was necessary to protect his mom. They could drive the car back to the owners with a full tank of gas and maybe an anonymous thank-you note. Besides, old people shouldn’t be driving around in the middle of the apocalypse anyway. It was too dangerous. In his mind, he had the best of intentions. All he had to do was get the keys and he’d be on his way.
Ethan ran to the side of the car. Most people didn’t leave their keys in their vehicles, but neither did most paint store employees. Ethan had learned early in life that if something happened once, it could happen again.
And indeed it did. He eased his head over the passenger door to avoid being seen by the old couple inside their house. He grinned as he saw the keys dangling from the ignition of the gold 2004 Oldsmobile Alero sedan. It wasn’t a sports car like he’d hoped for, but it wasn’t a Ford Econoline van full of paint buckets either.
Ethan quickly opened the door and slid into the passenger side of the Olds. He tossed the backpack in the backseat and then sat deathly still, waiting to see if he’d been noticed. When no one approached, he let out his breath and wiped the sweat off his brow.
He sat up and slid across the bench seat behind the steering wheel. Ethan was only fifteen, but his mom and Frankie had taught him the basics of driving. Ethan had enrolled in the Pennsylvania Graduated Driver Licensing program, having obtained his learner’s permit several months before.
He looked around and studied his surroundings. He didn’t have a map and wasn’t sure where to go. His first priority was to get off the farm undetected, and then he could make a run for it. The dirty gold sedan would easily blend in with traffic, and he’d be away from this backwoods hideout before anyone noticed.
Ethan fired the ignition and calmly backed the vehicle around the side of the house until he was pointed out toward the driveway. He glanced at the fuel gauge, which showed the fourteen-gallon tank of the Olds was full. Ethan smiled, thinking to himself that old people were responsible like that, although a little too trusting.
Back to the task at hand. He was careful not to gun the engine, hoping that the old people were hard of hearing or otherwise preoccupied. He gripped the wheel, ignoring his sweaty palms, which made it slippery. This was the moment of truth.
The Olds moved forward and he casually drove down the tree-canopied driveway as if he were going on a quick trip to the store. He kept his eye fixed on the rearview mirror, fully expecting the old guy to come chasing after him with a shovel or a gun.
None of those things materialized.
Ethan found his way to Costner Road and then followed it in an easterly direction, per the dash-mounted Ritchie compass. Before he knew it, he found another cross street that pointed him north and in view of a sign marking the entrance to Interstate 40.
His body awash with relief, Ethan began hootin’ and hollerin’ inside the Oldsmobile. He slapped his hands on the dashboard and picked up speed as he was eastbound and down on I-40. He fiddled with the radio and searched for some tunes.
Ethan Hightower was about to have the time of his short life. He was free and on a mission. And he’d be gone five hundred miles when his day was done.
Chapter Forty-Two
Front Gate
The Haven
Tom and Donna were filled with apprehension and excitement as they approached the front gate of the Haven. The sinister branches of the leafless trees hung over the dark entrance like guardians of an asylum. Beyond the iron gates, the main house could barely be seen, slightly obscured by the mist that filled the air. Prior to this time, the Sheltons had driven to the Haven on sunny days, intent on spending a rustic weekend away from their beloved Charleston, with the secondary intention of stocking up for the apocalypse that they feared would be upon them.
Tom had learned long ago to never underestimate the depravity of man. In a way, that was why he’d joined the Navy in the first place—to protect America from those who’d do her harm. The last few days had shown him that there were enemies within the nation’s borders as well. Combatants who’d stop at nothing to change the course of a nation’s history. The question he wrestled with was whether it was for the greater good.
He pulled the busted-up Yukon to a stop, immediately garnering the attention of several men, who took up defensive positions behind the HESCO barriers installed behind the gate. Their reaction alarmed Donna, who’d been on edge since Richmond.
