by Akart, Bobby
“Celeste, get the child’s sippy cup with water and also a cold wet cloth. He’s got a powerful fever and we need to cool him down.”
Ethan managed to open his right eye to see his caregivers. A heavyset black woman in her forties hovered over the top of him, studying his facial movements. He glanced toward his feet, and a much older woman, possibly the child’s grandmother, peered at him over her wire-rimmed glasses with a concerned look on her face.
The young girl, Celeste, Ethan presumed, arrived holding a child’s sippy cup with a picture of Bambi on the side. He tried to reach for it, but his arm was too sore to move. He suddenly became aware of the bruises and painful cuts he’d received from the beating.
“Hold still, young man,” said the elderly woman. “We’re gonna get some water in your mouth and a wet cloth on your forehead. There ain’t no reason for you to talk, so just lie still for a minute.”
The ladies doted over Ethan for several minutes in an effort to make him comfortable and to hydrate his body. After five minutes of cold compresses on his sweating forehead and neck, Ethan was feeling better and was able to take some of the woman’s pain medications.
“Thank you,” he barely mouthed the words, but they clearly understood what he was trying to say.
“You’re welcome, young man,” the elderly woman said. “I’m sorry that we couldn’t take you to a hospital, but we didn’t have enough gas to go into the city, and the ambulances ain’t runnin’ in South Richmond.”
He looked around the room with his eye that was open and noticed he was in a bedroom. “How?” Ethan attempted to ask how he’d arrived in their home.
The mother spoke up. “My son found you when he was out looking for food last night. He thought you were dead at first, but then felt your pulse. We didn’t know what else to do because the police don’t even bother to come down here, so we all worked together to carry you to our house down the street.”
Ethan closed his eyes and began to visualize the blows descending upon him by the men at the gas station. He seemed to be reliving the beating because he winced and his body shook as he recalled the attack.
“Hey, hey, take it easy,” said the mother. “It’s over, okay. You’re safe.”
The elderly woman spoke up next. “Young man, you need to see a doctor or something. Do you live around here? Can we call your parents for you?”
Ethan took a deep breath and then exhaled, gathering the strength to reply. The small sips of water were working wonders on his throat and mouth. He opted to try his other arm that hadn’t been injured. Anticipating the pain, but grateful it wasn’t there, he motioned for the mother to come closer to his mouth.
“Okay,” she said as she placed her ear near his mouth. “Celeste, grab Na-na a pencil and paper. Hurry.”
Ethan began to whisper to her, ignoring the pain as he mouthed the words. The mother repeated what he said.
“Mom. Philly. Two-six-seven. Three-two-two. Twelve-fifty.”
The older woman repeated the number and then looked down to Ethan. “Young man, do we have it right? This is your momma’s phone number?”
Ethan shook his head side to side. “No,” he whispered.
“Who is it?”
The mother put her ear to Ethan’s mouth and then repeated his words again.
“Frankie. Mom’s boyfriend.” She pulled away and looked down to Ethan. “You want us to call your mom’s boyfriend and not your father?”
Ethan nodded and closed his eyes before falling asleep.
Chapter Nine
West of Danbury Airport
Near the New York-Connecticut State Line
Jonathan Schwartz ached all over. He was never one for exercise, choosing instead to control his weight by instructing the staff at the Schwartz Estate in Katonah, New York, to monitor his calorie intake. He rarely took his meals in public, in part because he feared assassination by poisoning or being rendered incapacitated, which might make him susceptible to being kidnapped. His father grew up in a world of post-World War II Nazi sympathizers and Russian mob activity that often resulted in the rich being kidnapped for ransom. He’d warned Jonathan to watch his back, and soon it had become ingrained as part of his lifestyle.
As he began the midnight trek from the airfield at Danbury, Connecticut, back towards the estate, he cursed himself for letting his guard down. He should’ve known that his family’s enemies would use the occasion of the martial law declaration to their advantage. After all, he had rallied the Black Rose Federation to move into the suburbs of traditionally conservative cities to wreak havoc. It was a game of chess and he’d been blindsided.
He continued walking along the deserted stretch of country road, wondering how his father was faring in a cold, dark holding cell in the basement of a federal courthouse somewhere. He was certain the Department of Justice would keep his location well hidden, and any information concerning his arraignment out of the press, if he was even entitled to one under martial law.
His father might have been the big prize for the people behind the feds swooping down upon them the night before, but they certainly intended to have him arrested as well. Whoever gave the order must know that the son of the powerful financier wouldn’t sit idly by as his father was persecuted under what could amount to dictatorial rule for many months.
But first things first. He’d been walking along Ridgebury Road toward the New York state line, dashing into the woods as the occasional vehicle passed. At one point, he stopped and retrieved his dismantled cell phone and the SIM card that he’d removed while on the tarmac next to the awaiting jet. He contemplated putting the phone back together for a moment to call a member of his staff or one of the family’s many operatives for assistance, but he resisted the urge. He knew the moment he placed the SIM card back into the device to activate it, he’d be on the feds’ radar and the manhunt would intensify.
He eventually turned west when he came upon a farm located northwest of Ridgefield, Connecticut, and just a mile from New York. Earth Root Farm was a locally owned micro-farm specializing in organic crops produced with non-GMO seeds.
Like any farming operation, including a small local operation like Earth Root Farm, the lights were on well before dawn as the employees prepared for their day.
Jonathan was growing weary of the long walk and realized that he’d only traveled a third of the way to the estate. He was also keenly aware that their home was probably being watched. He crouched behind a granite boulder that was perilously close to the narrow tree-lined road that swept by the farmhouse and barns.
In the driveway sat an old, slightly banged-up white Ford pickup that looked like thousands of others that traveled the roads of rural New York and Connecticut. It was idling, most likely to warm up its old bones for another day on the farm.
Jonathan inched around the large rock and climbed up a slight incline until he could get a better view of the front of the two-story farmhouse and the pickup. The truck was unattended. He considered his options and the likelihood that the vehicle would be immediately reported as stolen. Then he thought about the fact that local law enforcement would be slow to react due to the circumstances surrounding the New Year’s Eve attacks, and most certainly the Connecticut police would need to get approval to enter New York State to pursue the stolen vehicle. That would take days with New York City still in the throes of mayhem.
He decided to go for it. He raced across the lawn, his leather shoes crunching in the partially melted snow that had refrozen overnight. Without hesitation, he eased open the driver’s side door and slid into the warm cab of the truck. The vehicle was parked on a hill that sloped back toward the road. He placed it in neutral to avoid the reverse lights illuminating on the truck’s rear end. He released the parking brake and it slowly rolled backwards.
Jonathan’s sweaty palms gripped the wheel. His eyes darted between the side-view mirrors, to ensure he wasn’t headed for a ditch or a tree, and the house, to make sure his theft hadn’t been discover
ed.
Relief swept over him as the four wheels reached the pavement of Mopus Bridge Road, and he was able to easily turn the steering wheel to point the pickup toward the west. With one final glance toward the house, he eased into drive and slowly drove away, using only the moonlight to illuminate the one-lane road.
After he narrowly avoided striking a concrete barrier designed to prevent vehicles from driving into Mopus Creek, he felt more comfortable turning on the headlights, enabling him to pick up speed, but not so fast as to draw attention.
A minute later, he saw a single green sign that read New York – State Line sitting cockeyed on the shoulder of the road. Crossing that border just bought him time to escape into obscurity while he devised a plan to help his father and exact his revenge on George Trowbridge.
During the twenty-five-minute drive toward the estate, the only place he could think to go at the moment, he considered the obstacles he faced by not being able to communicate with members of the Schwartz security team and his most trusted operators. Undoubtedly, the most obvious bank accounts used by the family were frozen by the Department of Justice, and his credit cards were locked.
There was still money, precious metals, and weapons hidden at the estate, but he couldn’t risk going onto the property. To satisfy his curiosity, he drove near the estate, being wary of roadblocks or traps. Unsurprisingly, the roads leading to the Schwartz Estate were patrolled by New York state troopers and the occasional black Chevy SUV, whose appearance screamed federal law enforcement.
Traveling into Pennsylvania was Jonathan’s next logical move. The family had a remote hunting lodge off U.S. Route 222 near Reading. It was rarely used and had been held by a charitable trust since the seventies. The FBI ranks were thinned as they investigated the attacks of New Year’s Eve. He seriously doubted they’d have the manpower to stake out a property owned by an obscure charity that the Schwartz family hadn’t funded since the early eighties.
With a newfound resolve, and the confidence that he’d formed some semblance of a plan, Jonathan Schwartz picked up speed and headed across the Hudson River into New Jersey just as the sun rose on a new day.
Chapter Ten
George Trowbridge’s Residence
Near Pine Orchard, Connecticut
George Trowbridge winced as his medical team helped him to sit upright in bed. The mental strain surrounding the events of the last few days were beginning to take a physical toll on his body as well. Despite his doctor’s admonishments to avoid the news reports and to turn over his business dealings to someone else, Trowbridge ignored the well-intentioned instructions and carried on business as usual.
His longtime aide, Harris, stood at the foot of the bed and powered up the monitors for him to view the latest news. “Sir, do you want the volume on any network in particular?” he asked as the monitors came to life.
“Not yet, closed-captioning will suffice,” replied Trowbridge, who patiently waited for the nurses to finish taking care of his bodily waste. He’d grown accustomed to the embarrassment and humiliation of allowing others to clean him up each day. It was part of the medical routine to keep him alive, but disconcerting, nonetheless. When they were finished, he waved his arm toward a member of the house staff. “Please close that as you leave. We’re not to be disturbed until lunch.”
After the door closed, Harris turned to his boss and asked, “Where would you like to start?”
Trowbridge furrowed his brow and ignored the question. He studied the monitors that displayed a variety of news feeds with visuals from across the country.
“We are witnessing the collapse of a great empire,” he began as he adjusted himself in the bed. “Throughout history, military, political, and financial leaders have sought to create great empires modeled after ancient Rome. Over time, nations were formed that spread their wings across continents and oceans. Take Spain, for example. With its mighty armada, it was able to conquer the New World, and the gold harvested allowed them to gain greater influence throughout Europe.”
“Much to the detriment of Great Britain,” added Harris. “The cost of the colonies and the many wars that they fought in the eighteenth century took a heavy financial toll on their coffers.”
“That opened the door for the great American experiment, the United States, to take over in the nineteenth century and beyond,” continued Trowbridge. “However, Harris, like all great empires, America was destined to collapse, and we were well on our way to yielding the title of greatest nation-state to the Chinese. Like Rome, we rose as a republic, with minimal central control, but we began to crumble under the weight of an expanding federal bureaucracy.”
“We’re not even taking into account the rapid change in societal values that our country has experienced in the last five decades,” said Harris, who, unlike Trowbridge, was a devout Christian. “Rome was fraught with debauchery, declining morals and values, together with a general attitude of self-absorption.”
“I can’t disagree, Harris, but frankly, I believe those types of societal issues are secondary to the bigger factor associated with the size and intrusion of government in people’s lives. The Founding Fathers never intended to create an out-of-control, centralized bureaucracy to exert authority over its citizens. They envisioned the state government, those legislators closest to the people they govern, determining what was best for their citizenry.”
Harris pointed toward a monitor that showed President Xi Jinping commenting on the situation in America. “Depending on how this plays out in the States, is he the heir apparent to the world’s next great empire?”
“Most likely,” replied Trowbridge. “I’m not so sure it will come to that. Invariably, the last people to understand that their empire is collapsing are those who live within it. Americans, who are self-absorbed, as you put it, would be the last to truly understand that their days are numbered. Most look at the gradual decline of the last fifty years to be a temporary setback, one in which a rebound is sure to follow.”
“And you disagree,” interjected Harris.
“I do. Historically, once an empire has been knocked off its pedestal, it’s replaced by a rising power that is typically more productive and forward thinking.”
Harris wandered toward the monitors and tapped the ones that depicted the chaotic scenes from cities like Charlotte and Richmond. “How does instigating this help?”
Trowbridge allowed a slight smile and responded, “We were sinking deeper into the abyss, Harris. It required a drastic change, a catalyst, to set the nation back to where it was.”
“But not so far back that we couldn’t compete on the world stage, am I right?” asked Harris.
“That is the plan. The United States, its political leaders, and its populace needed a wake-up call. Those who sat on the sidelines and watched the decline of our society and the nation’s standing in the world must now become engaged.”
Harris walked over to the bed and set the remotes on the medical table next to it. “A civil war may be the natural result of this plan. Warfare is often the death knell of a declining empire. Great Britain is an example of that.”
“True, but that’s an example of a nation that spread itself too thin by fighting outside its borders and meddling in the affairs of others. I believe the president will see this as an opportunity to close ranks, bring our military closer to home. If not to quell the unrest, then as a protective shield against any military power, whether from Beijing or Moscow, taking advantage of our moment of weakness.”
“This will set the foreign policy of our nation back to the start of the twentieth century,” Harris opined.
“Certainly, and one would hope that our new leaders, the ones who emerge out of this difficult time, will learn to pay attention to our own before we interfere in the affairs of others.”
Harris was not convinced. “But, sir, what about the argument that we can maintain peace throughout the world while keeping the Russians and the Communist Chinese in check from expanding their power
?”
“Harris, we’re too powerful to be challenged at this point militarily, unless, of course, like the Brits of centuries past, we become spread too thin. Make no mistake, I will have an opportunity to get a message to the president. He thinks like I do, and I’m sure he’ll agree that pulling our military forces closer to home is the right course of action.”
“And in the meantime, do we continue to stand down while the nation tears itself apart?”
Trowbridge grimaced. “For the time being, yes. Today, Briscoe will initiate another important step in the plan. Redefining the role of the media.”
Harris smirked. “After that, Briscoe will be eliminated.”
“As planned,” added Trowbridge.
Chapter Eleven
The Armageddon Hospital
The Haven
Angela stood in the center of the building that was once part of the Hunger Games movie set, and prior to that, it was a storage facility for bales of cotton used in the textile mill operated nearly a century ago. The transformation from storage to dystopian cabin to Armageddon Hospital was remarkable.
She was impressed with the Smarts’ commitment to providing the makeshift hospital with as many modern tools as possible to care for wounds, including serious trauma injuries like those she was accustomed to treating. She and Tyler had often discussed what would happen if America was ever attacked or subjected to widespread societal collapse.
The medical care system was overloaded under normal conditions, but if the nation was subjected to a significant collapse event, health care providers would be immediately overwhelmed.
The Smarts attempted to address the same concerns by creating the functional equivalent of a walk-in clinic, adding advanced medical equipment under the assumption that hospitals and trauma centers would be unavailable to residents of the Haven.
