Doomsday Anarchy

by Bobby Akart

  No, Hayden was singularly focused on two things. One was the series of text messages she’d received before she’d hustled off to Walmart. Ominous in their tone, it prompted her to go on a shopping spree for ammunition and supplies.

  As she entered the kitchen to make coffee and feed Prowler, she picked up the television remote to turn on the news. Then she grabbed her phone and read the messages aloud.

  “Luck can come from a tragic sequence of fortuitous events. For one, everything in life is luck. Godspeed, Patriot.”

  She fixed her coffee and glanced at the TV screen. The volume was muted, but the antics were unmistakable—two partisan contributors were going at it. She recognized Rachel Black immediately. Black was an icon for conservative, female attorneys, as she was somewhat of a glass-ceiling breaker in Washington.

  Hayden looked at the phone a second time as she took her first sip of coffee.

  Trust the plan.

  MM

  She’d tossed and turned all night replaying the words in her head. She searched the far recesses of her memory in an attempt to remember who talked like that. The term patriot was used often by those on the right who felt it was their duty to protect the Constitution.

  In legal circles, conservatives often argued that the Constitution was under attack by activist judges who considered the Constitution to be a worn-out, out-of-date document that needed to be brought into the twenty-first century.

  Whoever sent this anonymous message clearly considered her to fall within their definition of being a patriot. Hayden couldn’t dispute that, although she always tried to see legal issues from both sides of an argument. That was her job, and failing to do so usually ended in disastrous results for a client.

  But the second message still puzzled her. Trust the plan. She had no idea who the mysterious MM was who sent the message, nor did she have a clue as to what their plan was. The night before, she’d fallen asleep with Prowler curled up on her lap and her iPad resting on his side as she searched the internet for people whose initials were MM.

  The results were as varied as the theories Hayden had generated about the events of New Year’s Eve. Matthew McConaughey came to her mind first, naturally. She was single and generally uninterested in dating, but she wasn’t oblivious to the man’s sex appeal.

  The next person who came to mind was Marilyn Monroe, but she was dead. Another Marilyn, Marilyn Manson was next, but, um, no, it wasn’t her, or him, or whichever. Hayden wasn’t sure on that point.

  Marshall Mathers, also known as Eminem, was an option, but not likely. She ultimately found a website called People By Initials. The site listed hundreds of people with the initials MM, including the celebrities who came to mind. She researched them all, and none of them had government or political connections. Eventually she drifted off to sleep.

  After feeding Prowler, she made her way into the living room with her coffee and a Yoplait blueberry yogurt. The commercial break ended, and the CNN discussion continued. Curious as to why Black and her fellow guest were so animated before the commercial, Hayden turned up the volume to listen in.

  “And we’re back with our panelists, fellow attorneys Rachel Black and Jeannie Ray,” began Kate Bolduan. Hayden had met Bolduan at a dinner party in New York years ago. Bolduan had been pregnant with their daughter and had been accompanied by her husband, Michael David Gershenson, who’d just been named managing director of a major real estate client of Hayden’s firm. Bolduan was a genuinely nice person and a respected journalist. Hayden’s interest piqued as the discussion continued.

  Bolduan took a deep breath and addressed her guests. “I’d like to get your take on the issue of martial law. We are in the throes of a crisis in this country following the attacks of New Year’s Eve. Six major U.S. cities were brought to a standstill by various tools of terrorism. Local law enforcement is ill-equipped to handle the unrest, and some authorities are clamoring for the president to act. What should the president do? Rachel Black, you first.”

  Black sat a little taller in her chair and leaned onto the desk to look Bolduan in the eye. Her response was curt. “Whatever is within his legal authority.”

  Bolduan, caught off guard by the sudden change in Black’s demeanor, pressed for more. “That’s just a few words from an eloquent attorney. Would you care to expand on what those options might be?”

  “Obviously, the elephant in the room that everyone wants to address is martial law,” began Black in response. “So let’s do it. The concept of martial law is not expressly mentioned in the Constitution, but the activation in time of rebellion or invasion is addressed in Article One, Section Eight. Also, the suspension of habeas corpus, which prevents someone to be held by the government without due process, is available under Article One, Section Nine.”

  Hayden knew all of this, and the arguments had been made many times. Several times in the history of the country, martial law had been declared to varying degrees. The most obvious and often-cited example was when President Abraham Lincoln declared martial law during the Civil War. Hayden’s mind wandered as she equated the hostilities associated with the Civil War to today’s sociopolitical climate. The similarities were remarkable.

  “He needs to ask the Congress to make the declaration!”

  The sudden outburst by Jeannie Ray brought Hayden back to the present.

  Ray, red-faced from the previous exchange, continued. “Lincoln had the authorization of the Congress. This president, despite what he might think of himself, is not a dictator. If it’s for the good of the country, the Congress will agree. In just a few days, the new Congress will convene, and he can get their answer. Not before then.”

  Black couldn’t mask her distaste for Ray and her position. Looking at Bolduan, she said, “Kate, I’m pretty sure if the election had gone differently, Jeannie would take a counter position. The law is clear. Supreme Court precedent in the case of Ex Parte Milligan laid the groundwork. The president can declare martial law when circumstances warrant it. Look around you. These monitors of your live news feeds depict an America collapsing from these attacks.”

  Bolduan began to speak when Black cut her off and continued. She turned to Ray and said, “Come on, Jeannie. You spoke earlier of doing what’s best for the country. Are you arguing against the president because you want America to descend into the abyss?”

  Ray slammed her fist on the table in response. “No, I’m trying to argue against a tyrant of a president using this opportunity to avoid getting kicked out of office. I resent you saying otherwise.”

  The two women began shouting at one another, prompting Hayden to stand and approach the television monitor for a closer look.

  “Prowler, get over here,” she shouted to her Maine coon cat. His instincts were to fight and he’d enjoy a good human catfight. “I think they’re gonna come to—”

  Before Hayden could finish her sentence, it happened. Ray stood and shoved Black until her chair spun around on its swivel base. Black had barely caught her balance to avoid falling to the floor when Ray gave her another push. This time Black couldn’t avoid the sudden plunge downward.

  “I can’t believe this!” shouted Hayden at the screen as Prowler hopped on the coffee table to get eye level to the action. The two of them had ringside seats to the scrap.

  Black leapt to her feet and lunged at Ray headfirst, thrusting the crown of her skull into Ray’s midsection, knocking her backwards. Ray, in an attempt to avoid falling, grabbed Black’s hair with both hands, causing her adversary to scream in pain.

  The two rolled over and over across the studio floor until they crashed into the supports of the news feed monitors Black had referred to earlier. After several blows were exchanged, members of the production team moved in to break it up.

  Hayden watched with her mouth agape, more astonished that the CNN cameras continued to roll than she was at the fight itself. Only the ringing of her phone could drag her away from the spectacle befitting a Jerry Springer episode.

&nbs
p; Chapter 6

  Congress Heights

  Washington, DC

  Hayden had barely pressed the accept button on her iPhone when she heard Pat Cipollone’s voice. “Blount! Are you watching CNN?”

  “Um, yes.”

  “My money’s on Rachel. She’s a real fighter. I’ve squared off in court against her in the past. She’s a take-no-prisoners type of litigator.”

  Hayden laughed and decided to play along, enjoying the playful banter with her boss. “It seemed to me she was blindsided by Jeannie Ray. She should’ve never let her guard down like that.”

  “Maybe, but how could she expect Ray to start throwing punches?” countered Cipollone.

  “Because, sir, you should always expect the other side to fight dirty. We’re at war.” Hayden used the phrase facetiously, but deep down, she felt that one was coming.

  “Interesting choice of words, Blount,” said Cipollone. “My guess is the president agrees with you.”

  “Have you heard something?”

  Cipollone chuckled and replied, “You know, unofficially, off the record. The usual malarkey.”

  “And?”

  Cipollone hesitated, and Hayden turned her attention back to the television momentarily as CNN broke away from its coverage of the catfight to update a report from Richmond. There, news crews showed buildings on fire near the Virginia State Capitol building, the location of the capitol of the Confederacy during the Civil War.

  “Richmond?” muttered Cipollone into the phone. “This is spreading like the plague.”

  “No doubt,” responded Hayden, who brought the conversation back to what her boss had called about. “Sir, have you heard something from the president?”

  Cipollone returned to the conversation. “His chief of staff, actually. Without saying so officially, he told me that, with ninety percent certainty, the matter before the Supreme Court will be postponed indefinitely.”

  “Wow, the president is going to declare martial law.”

  “It appears so. But, interestingly, he may not specifically suspend habeas corpus. A decision hasn’t been made yet.”

  “But, sir, they go hand in hand. I don’t know how—”

  Cipollone cut her off. “It’s political brinkmanship, Blount. You’re right, naturally. By exercising his executive privileges under Article One, Section Eight, all governmental functions will come to a standstill while the military gets things under control. I’d be shocked if that process took less than a month.”

  “Just in time to get inaugurated and to regain the public trust.”

  “Exactly,” said Cipollone. “Listen, his chief of staff is very politically astute. He single-handedly turned this presidency around. On the political battlefield, he was more of a general than the general who occupied his position before him.”

  “What does that mean for the case, and us?”

  “The hearing will be postponed indefinitely,” replied Cipollone. “The president, his new cabinet, and the justices will be taken into the government’s labyrinth of protective bunker complexes around the country for safekeeping.”

  “Continuity of government,” added Hayden.

  “Yes, and frankly, at least in my lifetime, I can’t think of a more appropriate time to do so. 9/11 was the closest thing to a war on our soil, and the use of the airplanes pointed directly to a specific group of terrorists. This is different. The weaponry and planning were far more sophisticated. The targets were diverse, yet they weren’t.”

  “Sir, what do you mean by that?” asked Hayden.

  Cipollone hesitated. “Um, never mind that. It’s rambling speculation from someone who hasn’t taken a shower to fully wake up yet. Blount, are you comfortable remaining in Congress Heights? That part of the District has the potential to get ugly.”

  Hayden had the sense he was giving her a nudge to move to safer surroundings. “I have a place to go, sir, thank you. Might I ask you about something else, off topic?”

  “Sure.”

  “Have you ever run across a political movement symbolized by a black rose? Yesterday, I saw a group of people dressed in black with face masks to obscure their identities. They were spray-painting a fist holding a black rose on a bridge abutment near my condo.”

  Cipollone gave his opinion. “A black rose, something that doesn’t exist naturally, usually symbolizes death or something coming to an end. You know, like a relationship breaking up. I’m unaware of any relationship to political movements, if that’s what you’re driving at. Do you think it’s connected to these attacks?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Hayden. “I just found it unusual that in the midst of all of this, graffiti artists would be taking to the streets unless they had a specific purpose or agenda in mind.”

  “Well, if you think it’s related, call our contacts at the FBI. Let them sort it out.”

  “Okay, it’s probably nothing. Thank you for calling me, sir. Is there anything else?”

  “No, Blount, that’s it. Keep safe and we’ll stay in touch by phone. If something changes, I’ll let you know, but watch for the president’s declaration today. I suspect they’re working on the verbiage now.”

  The two said their goodbyes and disconnected the call, neither aware that it would be many months before they spoke again.

  Chapter 7

  Rankin Residence

  East Clay Street

  Richmond, Virginia

  It was almost midnight on New Year’s Day when the Rankins pulled into the driveway of their 1920s Craftsman-style home in downtown Richmond. Angela was curled up in the front seat with her head leaning against the window, while the kids had crawled under their respective blankets in the back. Tyler had pulled into the short driveway and turned off the ignition, yet none of his family stirred. For a moment, he contemplated leaving them there because they were sleeping so soundly, but when he heard a group of teenagers yelling down the street, he thought better of it.

  That night, the family had slept hard. Their ordeal since New Year’s Eve was more than most could endure, yet they’d managed to get home safely. Angela was the first to rise, as was often the case. It wasn’t unusual for her to be up as early as five thirty so she could go for a run. That morning, she allowed herself to sleep in. It was almost seven.

  The house was quiet as she spun the cap off a Starbucks Cold Brew coffee drink. She wore Tyler’s pink Hilton Head sweatshirt that she’d commandeered out of his closet when they first met and claimed as her own since. It had become a security blanket, a reminder of his love and ability to protect her, as she’d vowed to love and protect him forever.

  Angela walked around their modest home, which had been renovated before they purchased it several years earlier. The home was their place of refuge. It was a place where the family gathered at the end of a long day and ate supper together when her schedule as an emergency room resident allowed. Oftentimes, the family played board games or spent time together in a local park.

  The Rankins were a family, but moreover, they were close-knit friends and an alliance, of sorts. Kaycee and J.C. would much rather spend time with each other, or their parents, than with the other kids in school or the neighborhood. Angela credited that family closeness to helping them survive the harrowing experience aboard Kingda Ka and their ability to avoid being killed in the tunnel under the Chesapeake Bay.

  As she strolled barefoot on the wood floor, admiring the ornate woodwork and the period pieces of furniture she’d purchased at yard sales, she began to question whether Richmond was a long-term home for them.

  She liked the vibrant atmosphere that downtown Richmond offered. Their home was within walking distance to the convention center, the Richmond Coliseum, and the Downtown YMCA where they frequently worked out. Both she and Tyler could walk or jog to work if they wanted to. The kids’ school was close, and overall, despite being in an inner-city neighborhood, they felt safe.

  But her heart was still in the Carolinas. Richmond, and her position as an emergency ro
om physician at the Virginia Commonwealth University Medical Center, was a means to an end. Her goal was to make it through her residency and immediately hope to land a job closer to Hilton Head.

  She was staring aimlessly out the front windows when Tyler eased up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He nuzzled against her neck and kissed her, a gesture she’d never tire of.

  “Good morning, Dr. Rankin,” he whispered in her ear as she turned to kiss him back.

  “I guess so,” she responded in a melancholy tone.

  Tyler immediately noticed and pulled away so he could get a better look at her. A rare tear streamed out of her right eye.

  He showed his concern but tried to lighten the mood at the same time. “Hey, hey, why the gloom and doom?”

  Angela sniffled and wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. “More doom than gloom,” she replied before pausing. “Um, well, maybe a little gloom.”

  Tyler took her by the hand and led her to the sofa, where they sat next to one another. Angela scooted up against the back and tucked her legs underneath her. He looked her in the eyes and said, “Talk to me.”

  “We both know what needs to be done,” she began. She pointed her thumb over her shoulder towards the bedrooms. “We have two miracles asleep in there, and we’ve always vowed to do whatever it takes to protect them.”

  Tyler squeezed her hand and gave his wife a reassuring smile. Half-jokingly, he said, “We’ve done a great job, too. They’re both still alive.”

  Angela laughed and playfully swatted at him. “Barely! But protecting them means more than keeping them alive, Dad. It means insulating them from the ugliness of the world, too.”