The Doomsday Series Box Set | Books 1-5

by Akart, Bobby

  Chepe needed to elevate their involvement. They needed to do more than wear a funny pink hat in the form of a vagina. They needed to do more than lie down in the middle of the street and block traffic or carry signs in support of people who were from another country. They needed to do more than throw eggs at a politician’s home or pour paint on a socialite’s fur coat.

  Chepe took a moment to introduce himself and then he further quietened the crowd. Over a hundred men and women had crowded into the ground floor of the Varnadore building, with several dozen more standing above him on the balconies of the second and third levels. The group was somewhat raucous, filled with anticipation of their new leader, who they knew was sent by the family who’d helped fund their activist gatherings in the past.

  “First, I want all of you to pull down your masks,” Chepe ordered. He pointed to the variety of face masks worn to obscure the identities of the anarchists. Many had donned the Guy Fawkes masks worn by members of the Anonymous group. He picked them out of the crowd and explained why.

  “There are many in this country who drape themselves in the flag and declare their patriotism to be greater than all others’. Let me tell you something, the patriots, the Founding Fathers whom they revere so much were no different than we are. Think about it. The new land was ruled and colonized by Great Britain. Those colonists who rose up against the crown to take America from the England were looking for change. They formed a resistance. And they were rewarded for their efforts with a new nation.

  “The Loyal Nine, the men known by many as part of the Sons of Liberty, were the leaders of this movement as it began in Boston. Their resistance required soldiers, but not in the sense of an all-out war. Instead, they needed people loyal to their cause who’d do whatever was necessary to unnerve the British soldiers and harass the politicians who’d kept their foot stomped on the chest of the people.

  “Hiding in secret and gathering in buildings just like this one, these men rallied their operatives with fiery speeches. They also recruited people like yourselves who’d been shunned by the upper crust of society. They didn’t live in neighborhoods like Eastover, Wessex Square, and Myers Park. They weren’t welcomed into social clubs like Carmel or Providence.

  “They sought to shake things up just like we are. We know that the only way to get attention is to bring it upon ourselves. Like Guy Fawkes, who attempted to kill King James in 1605, and those like him, insurgents like ourselves learned to take the battle directly to those who want nothing to do with our cause. Followers of Fawkes adopted the masks like yours, with the oversized smile and red cheeks, upturned mustache and the pointed beard, as a show of support.

  “Together, the American Revolution movement, using the muscle and enthusiasm of the downtrodden, created a new nation. And once they did, they could take off their masks, come out of hiding, and be proud of their accomplishments.

  “So my question to you is this. How are we any different from the Sons of Liberty and the men they recruited to stir things up?”

  “We’re the same!” shouted a man in the rear of the room.

  “We need a new nation!” yelled another.

  “That’s exactly right!” Chepe responded. “This nation has lost its way. It no longer respects the common man. It’s all about corporate interests and lining the pockets of the rich. It’s time that we show them what the power of the people can do.”

  “Freedom!” a woman yelled.

  Chepe smiled and pointed in her direction. “Yes! Freedom. A free society of free individuals. No more capitalist economy, and do away with a nation-state that is governed by the wealthy. We deserve a society based upon equality of the human spirit, not one based upon a hierarchy established by wealth.”

  “We need to reclaim the streets!” a man near Chepe shouted.

  “Take our country back!” added another.

  “Exactly, and we’ll start with one neighborhood and one city at a time,” said Chepe. “Listen to me. We are not alone. All around the country, others like us are gathering and making their plans. While in the past we’ve tried to organize a nationwide movement, now we’re focusing on our task of showing Charlotte that we’re serious about real change.

  “We will no longer fight behind masks and under the shadow of darkness. That’s what they expect. The police, the politicians, the media expect us to sneak around like rats after the sun goes down. Not today. Today, we march into the homes of the wealthiest bourgeoisie of Charlotte, proud of our cause and determined to make our points.

  “Nobody will expect this bold action. They will be unprepared. They will learn what happens when workers are exploited, when people are told to shut up, and when they use their wealth and power to hold us down.”

  “Yeah!”

  “We’re ready!”

  Chepe allowed the demonstration to simmer and then he finally shouted over the crowd, “The fuse has been lit and it’s time for war!”

  The group roared its approval, and each of them symbolically removed their face coverings, from masks to bandannas, and slung them into the air as they congratulated each other on their newfound freedom.

  Chepe stepped off the crates and began to wander through the crowd, receiving pats on the back and words of thanks. He knew what he was doing. With his gift of rhetoric, he was able to convince this mob from diverse backgrounds to move throughout Charlotte, destroying property and murdering if they chose to.

  He gradually made his way to the front of the building and stepped out into the crisp, midmorning air. Chepe was contemplative as he stared out toward the glass towers of bank and insurance buildings in downtown Charlotte. He shoved his hands into his pockets and shuddered slightly as he warded off a chill.

  Then his cell phone began to vibrate.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Armageddon Hospital

  The Haven

  Angela and Donna had spoken at length about the drone attacks on New York City and the probability that dirty-bomb materials might have been dropped onto Midtown Manhattan. Angela’s first inclination was to conduct online research into whether Donna might have been exposed to the radiation and then determine what impact, if any, it might have had upon her. That was no longer possible, at least for the moment.

  Between the power outages in the mid-Atlantic states and the unexpected cyber attacks on aspects of the nation’s infrastructure, internet connectivity had been intermittent at best. Angela, whose field of expertise was in trauma care and who was not fully versed in cancer treatment, had to rely upon the volumes of materials downloaded by Blair onto the iPads kept in the EMP-protected box.

  She and Donna studied the materials together, as Donna had a working knowledge of medical terms and procedures, especially as it related to her situation. As they reviewed the materials, they discussed the possibilities.

  “I’ve always known that just because my breast cancer was in remission didn’t mean the challenges were over,” said Donna as she scrolled through the iPad, looking for relevant articles. She and Angela had both plugged their chargers into the outlets to bring them up to one hundred percent before stowing one of them away, as per Blair’s explicit instructions.

  “It must’ve had a profound impact on your life, as well as Tom’s,” added Angela.

  Donna nodded. “When I found out that I had breast cancer, I was in shock. I was worried that I could die, which was terrifying. After spending hours at the infusion center, undergoing a lumpectomy and the chemo, I was struck by a range of emotions. My feelings were unpredictable. Some days I was sad and worried about my future and Tom’s. Other days, I’d be mad at the world for what had happened to me. Unfortunately, I’d take out my anger on him.”

  Angela stopped glancing at an article in order to be fully engaged in the conversation. She sensed Donna needed to pour her heart out. “Tom seems like a strong man.”

  “Incredibly so,” said Donna with a smile. “After my second chemo treatment, I was so sick that I couldn’t stand to greet him.
I became depressed and locked myself away in a guest bedroom to keep him away from me. It broke my heart because I could hear the sadness in his voice as he begged me to come out, but I didn’t have the energy to lift my head up off the pillow.”

  “Yet you guys persevered and you beat it.” Angela tried to change the tone of the conversation. Donna was, after all, a cancer survivor.

  “Oh, yes. We’re both survivors, in a way. My cancer was finally defeated after a year of chemo. I religiously followed up with my doctors, and my scans have continuously read clean for years. In fact, I just recently reached the five-year milestone.”

  “Which greatly increases your survival probabilities,” interrupted Angela, who was aware of the importance of the clean screenings.

  “You know, survivor isn’t really the right term to use. It suggests something horrible like a car accident or the sudden death of someone you love, and you were lucky enough to get through it. Cancer, however, is not a onetime event. It continues forever, in a way. Remission isn’t the same as being cured.”

  “I understand.” Angela reached across the desk to take Donna’s hand. “I imagine that you have to pay attention to every change your body goes through. A cold isn’t just a cold anymore, right?”

  Donna set the iPad aside and clasped Angela’s young hand with both of hers. “Every ache and pain, each cough, or even a day of lethargy concerns me. It’s never out of my mind. That’s why I’m concerned about the effects of the radioactive substances released by those drones. You can’t see it or taste it, but if it was there, it can invade my body quicker than someone else’s.”

  Angela caught a glimpse through her window of Tyler’s medical cart driving up the hill toward them, so she wanted to summarize her opinion for Donna before he arrived. “Donna, of course I’m not an expert, as you know, but I want to be honest. It is possible that the dirty bomb materials could exacerbate your cancer and hasten its return out of remission. I suggest you see me daily to monitor your vitals.”

  “Tom will grow suspicious if I’m constantly reporting to the hospital. I don’t want to worry him unnecessarily.”

  Angela thought for a moment. “I have an idea. Why don’t you work here as my assistant? It’s my understanding that another potential resident with medical experience was turned away from the Haven. Meredith can handle the school duties with someone else. What do you think? Work here, and we’ll monitor you without Tom becoming alarmed.”

  Donna smiled and stood to embrace Angela. The two women fought back tears as they bonded over Donna’s illness. Finally, they broke their embrace just as Tyler was entering the building.

  Angela whispered into the older woman’s ear, “I almost lost both of my children to horrific deaths. They both live life with vigor and an amazing spirit. Always remember that saying you only live once is a myth.”

  Donna paused and became emotional. Angela reached down to touch the older woman’s cheeks, comforting her as she regained her composure. Donna mustered the energy to add one more thought.

  “The fact is that you only die once. You live every day.”

  Part II

  Chapter Fifteen

  Eastover Neighborhood

  Charlotte, North Carolina

  Chepe had many weapons at his disposal, but the enthusiasm of his followers was his greatest. To be sure, the truckload of military-grade equipment ranging from fully automatic weapons to grenade launchers would allow him to launch a major assault on governmental targets. But those were wholly unnecessary for the first day of their attack on Charlotte.

  His first goal was to instill fear in those who wanted nothing to do with the fight between haves and have-nots. By directing his teams into the affluent neighborhoods of Charlotte, he’d not only intimidate those who have influence over government, but he’d also provide his fellow anarchists the pleasure of knocking the man down to size.

  Chepe had several lieutenants who’d worked in community organizing and shadowy anarchist activities throughout Charlotte in the past. He used them to create several teams that would descend upon locations throughout Mecklenburg County, starting around two o’clock that afternoon.

  By spreading throughout the metroplex, Chepe followed the suggestion of his lieutenants who’d intentionally started fires in a way that the locals couldn’t efficiently respond to. He hoped this would work as well. And, he confirmed, the Guardian Angels who’d confronted his people in Richmond were not active in Charlotte. He expected to have free rein as he moved from one wealthy neighborhood to another.

  Chepe led the way from the Varnadore Building toward Queens Road, which was located in the heart of Eastover. What he found astonished him and almost forced him to move on to another location.

  Shops and restaurants along the street had been looted, and some were smoldering from fires having been set inside them. Men wearing khaki pants and Izod sweaters were pushing shopping carts along the sidewalk, filled with all types of foods and clothing. The looters of Eastover were no different than those in the French Quarter of New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. They were just better dressed.

  There was a mob scene outside the Harris Teeter grocery store at the corner of Queens Road and Providence Road. The ornately designed building that lent the appearance of a colonial mansion was being emptied by local residents. Every window was broken out, including the one facing Providence that used to display an image of a fresh ear of corn. Only the lower part of the husk was visible, as the rest had been broken out to make room for both women and men to step into the store, only to later emerge with armfuls of groceries.

  “Where are the cops?” asked Chepe as he looked in all directions from where the driver had paused next to a Methodist Church across from the store.

  “Chasin’ their tails,” a man in the backseat responded. “Here’s what you haven’t seen yet. The difference in Eastover and the poorest neighborhoods in Charlotte is these folks are being polite to each other.”

  The three men in the car with Chepe burst out laughing and immediately began to mock the wealthy looters.

  “Oh yes,” one of them began in his best, proper English accent. “May I have a jar of that Grey Poop-on.” The man intentionally misstated the word Poupon for effect.

  The driver joined in the playful banter. “Naturally, sir. Would you please pass me a tube of Preparation H? Oh, no, not that one. I don’t use generic. The other box with the big H on it, por favor.”

  This caused the men to break into uproarious laughter, but Chepe remained stoic as he studied the activity. His job was to generate chaos and create panic amongst the wealthiest residents of Charlotte. It appeared societal collapse had undertaken to do that for him. He began to rethink the use of his resources.

  “What’s the plan, boss?” the driver asked Chepe.

  Chepe pondered for a moment. If the rich were out of food and resorting to looting, albeit in their country-club attire, what could he do to make their lives worse?

  Cut off their sources of food to force them to turn on each other, he thought to himself.

  “Contact the other teams.” He began to give his instructions. “Tell them to locate the largest grocery stores or warehouse clubs like Sam’s and Costco. Precisely at two o’clock, tell them to hit the stores hard and drive everybody out. Do whatever they feel is best to convince the shoppers that the store is closed indefinitely. Once they’re afraid to venture out of their McMansions and gated communities, they’ll begin looking closer to home for sources of food. Let’s see if love thy neighbor applies then, right?”

  The men laughed, and each of them picked up their two-way radios to reach out to the other teams. Chepe exited the vehicle and walked to the other six cars in their caravan to spread the word. Part of the team hustled off to the other end of Providence Road, where they’d stage an attack on the Laurel Market.

  Chepe stood in the street for a moment, studying the determined faces of the people exiting the stores. Their eyes darted about, most likely concern
ed about law enforcement arresting them. Or they were afraid their neighbors might recognize them. These people didn’t understand hardship, Chepe thought to himself. They only understood being judged.

  The calls had been made and his team gathered around him. Both men and women stood in a semicircle behind Chepe as they marched toward Harris Teeter. Two visions immediately popped into his mind.

  He thought of the video clips he’d watched when white people pounded clubs and baseball bats in their hands as the race riots in Selma, Jackson, and Memphis exploded in the sixties. The broken bodies and the blood streaming from them left a lasting impression on his young mind during his high school years.

  The second vision was that of the Statue of Liberty, standing proud as a symbol of freedom and peace. He’d devoted his life to helping people out of oppression in a nation that prided itself on its freedoms. Yet, in the not too distant past, men in pressed-white shirts carrying clubs would beat another man down just because of the color of his skin.

  Chepe, a white man who felt guilty for the privileges he’d been afforded as a result thereof, felt compelled to make up for the wrongs of the past. The brutal attacks on the residents of Eastover was only the beginning of what was to come in Charlotte and surrounding areas.

  Emboldened by his memories, Chepe, without warning, began to run toward the grocery store, holding a fully extended telescopic police baton in one hand and a nine-millimeter handgun in the other.

  The guttural cry emitted from his throat caused his comrades to pause in surprise, but then they joined the fray, running after Chepe as if they were Mongol hordes attacking unsuspecting villagers in a valley.