Doomsday Anarchy

by Bobby Akart

  Delta persisted. “Setting aside the basis for the Civil War, can it happen again?”

  “Back then, it was easy to define your opponent, the enemy. Southerners spoke in a distinctive dialect, and their cultural mannerisms were far different from those in the North. They lived in states like Virginia, Georgia, and others across the Southeast. As the conflict deepened, it was easy for certain states to secede because the vast majority of its citizens were like-minded thinkers.”

  “That wasn’t necessarily true west of the Mississippi,” interjected Cort, who was also a student of history. “States like Kansas and Nebraska were brutally divided as people were forced to take sides.”

  “The same is true today, Cort,” said Ryan. “Our nation is homogenized.”

  “There’s a hundred-dollar word,” said Blair sarcastically. She was always teasing Ryan, her author-wannabe, about his use of big words.

  “Do you mean like the milk?” asked Meredith, who decided to play along and tease her host.

  “Yes, and it’s not a hundred-dollar word,” replied Ryan with a wink. “Onomatopoeia is a hundred-dollar word. That means—”

  Blair interrupted him and raised her palm toward Ryan. “Hold up. You need to explain homogenized first.”

  Ryan grinned and playfully wagged his finger at his wife. “To homogenize something is to take two normally insoluble liquids, like fat and cream, and integrate them into something that works—milk.

  “Our society has become integrated since the sixties, supposedly into something that works. America is no longer divided geographically by culture or political thinking. North Carolina used to be a traditionally red state that has turned purple by the influx of liberals into areas like Charlotte and Raleigh-Durham. Virginia is similar, as left-leaning federal government employees moved into the northern part of the state, but commute to DC.”

  Cort was enjoying the conversation. “So, because the nation doesn’t have defined geographic boundaries, like whole states during the first Civil War, a division, or secession, couldn’t take place.”

  Ryan sighed. “No. Not in my opinion.”

  “Then how do we resolve the continued division between us?” asked Meredith.

  Ryan grimaced and then answered, “Sadly, I think it’ll happen the same way that Nettie and Wilma resolved it in Needful Things—with a butcher knife and a meat cleaver in the middle of the street.”

  Chapter 48

  Delta’s Cabin

  The Haven

  Skylar was having so much fun with her new friend, Hannah, and her mom that she’d completely lost track of time, although there was no set schedule for her. At home, her mom worked, and she was used to fending for herself after school. In fact, it wasn’t unusual for her to stop at a friend’s house to play and even eat dinner before her mom got home around six in the evening.

  She’d said her goodbyes earlier and declined the offer by Meredith to escort her inside. Despite the fact she was in a new place, under mysterious circumstances, Skylar was comfortable in her surroundings. The day at the Little Red Schoolhouse had helped give her a sense of normalcy.

  So when Ethan wasn’t at the cabin, and her dad was still busy, the isolation didn’t feel unusual. In fact, she immediately embraced it. Back home in Philadelphia, she’d probably turn on some brainless television show and get a snack.

  She wasn’t into video games like her brother had been when he was eleven. Skylar was a painter, and, on this evening, she was excited about being alone to focus on the artwork requested by Miss Blair.

  She retrieved her sketches from her bed and spread everything out on the dining table. Feeling a chill, she opened up the wood-burning stove’s door and stoked the coals like her dad had taught her. They kept a stack of firewood and kindling in the cabin to stay dry, so it didn’t take long for Skylar to get the heat going again.

  “I’m a pioneer woman,” she said to herself as she retrieved the last of the Mountain Dew her dad had brought home for lunch.

  She sat at the table and became immersed in her artwork. Time flew by, and Skylar stopped just once to use the restroom. She didn’t have a watch, but since it was dark outside, she assumed it was after six o’clock. Skylar found her dad’s laptop and opened it. Although the display was locked by a passcode, she could see the time.

  “Seven!” she said aloud as she instinctively looked around the nine-hundred-square-foot cabin to see if anyone heard her.

  Consumed by her project, Skylar had lost track of time and considered that neither her father nor Ethan had come back to the cabin. For the first time since their arrival at the Haven, she became concerned. She didn’t have a phone, and her father had a two-way radio, but he carried it with him everywhere.

  For the next fifteen minutes, Skylar paced around the cabin, stepping onto the front porch several times to look and listen for any signs of life. The Haven was like no other place she’d ever seen before. It was completely quiet and dark. Standing in the dim light emanating through the open front door, she blew smoke into the cold air as the water vapor in her breath condensed into tiny droplets of water and ice.

  Skylar grimaced, looked up and down the deserted gravel road one more time, and decided to go find somebody. She scurried back inside, gave the fire a final look-see to make sure it was safe, and bundled up for a walk.

  She ambled along the gravel road, kicking at rocks and blowing smoke, trying to make the most out of a frightening situation for a young girl. She expected to come across a moving car or a cabin with a light on, but neither materialized.

  An eastern owl screeched to her right, startling her. Skylar picked up the pace as she made her way toward the fountain in the middle of the circle between the main house and the front gate.

  She’d begun to jog toward the fountain when she came to an abrupt stop, causing her to slip on the gravel and fall to her hands and knees. Skylar wanted to scream in pain, but her voice betrayed her. A primal fear had overcome her as she froze on all fours, eye level to a ghostly creature that stared directly at her and hissed.

  Then it began to utter a low growl followed by a chattering sound. Skylar’s eyes grew wide as the all-white animal approached her. Mouth agape, she tried to find the strength to yell for help but couldn’t. She backed up, tearing the knees in her jeans on the gravel road, causing her hand to bleed on a sharp stone.

  The moonlight illuminated the animal, so Skylar could see it better. She stopped her retreat and, in total bewilderment, studied her adversary. She was face-to-face with one of the rarest creatures in existence—an albino raccoon.

  Albino raccoons, weighing twenty-five to thirty pounds, live naturally in the Eastern United States but rarely make it to adulthood. Because they weren’t born with natural camouflage like their counterparts, they spent the vast majority of their lives avoiding predators.

  The probability of Skylar encountering this unusual critter was similar to the odds of winning the lottery. Yet, there they were, in a standoff as the two tested each other’s will.

  Skylar was relieved to see that the ghost was in fact a raccoon. She was aware of the rabies threat from her classes in school, so she knew better than to reach out to the rare raccoon. At this point, she was happy for the experience and would like to be on her way, as she suspected was the case for her adversary.

  “Shoo! Go away, pretty girl!” Skylar had no idea how to determine the gender of the raccoon, but the animal was cute in its all-white fur, so she presumed it to be a girl.

  Skylar started to stand, and the raccoon rose slightly to mimic her actions. The standoff continued, as neither was willing to give ground. As Skylar found her footing, she inadvertently kicked a rock in the albino’s direction, causing it to react with a subtle hiss before moseying back into the woods.

  Skylar brushed the leaves and stones off her pants before letting the albino raccoon know she hoped to see her again sometime. The fear had left her, and she remembered the reason for being out in the dark alone in the first
place. She picked up the pace and trekked up the hill to Haven House, where only a faint orange glow could be seen from the windows.

  Chapter 49

  Danbury Municipal Airport

  Danbury, Connecticut

  Jonathan Schwartz stood on the tarmac outside the Bombardier Global 6000 jet as the final preparations were being made for their departure. He wanted to personally supervise the loading of their luggage and nearly two dozen crates hastily put together by the estate’s staff. Under the circumstances, he and his father would not be traveling light for their trip to New Zealand. Computers, some family heirlooms, and precious metals would also accompany them out of the country. Jonathan surmised that their self-imposed exile from the United States would be long-lasting.

  The pilots were readying the aircraft as the final boxes were loaded in the baggage compartment. Jonathan paused to check his cell phone for any final messages or phone calls before he removed the SIM card. SIM, an acronym for subscriber identity module, was a small circuit board that, practically speaking, acted as a middleman between the phone and the carrier’s cell tower, allowing the two pieces of hardware to communicate.

  Each SIM card had a unique identifier that was engraved on the body of the card and communicated to the cell phone tower. Once it was removed from the phone, it didn’t have the necessary hardware to connect with a cell phone tower, rendering the phone useless, but untraceable.

  Jonathan was in the process of dismantling the device when a black Chevy Suburban came roaring around the side of the airport hangar. Several other vehicles could be seen at another entrance to the airport runway.

  He had to make a decision. They were caught by surprise and it was too late for the jet to take off. The baggage handlers were frozen like a deer in headlights, mesmerized by the sudden activity. Jonathan wanted to protect his father, but he knew there wasn’t a way to avoid his own capture.

  He glanced up at the porthole windows of the Bombardier. His father’s sullen face looked back at him. With an imperceptible nod and a wink, he received the blessing he needed to run. In a flash, Jonathan ran toward one of the baggage cars and grabbed a blue Danbury Airport uniform jacket. He quickly slipped his arms through the oversized jacket and scampered under the nose of the aircraft.

  The airport was dark except for the blinking runway lights. Jonathan had to hope that the approaching vehicles would be focusing their attention on the aircraft and the prospect of arresting its passengers.

  He raced across the concrete runway as fast as his leather Ferragamo slip-ons could carry him. His hopes of escape lifted when he hit the tall unmowed grasses between the runway, until he slipped and fell, falling forward. He tumbled over and over into a drainage ditch, ripping open his pants. Blood began to ooze out of his knee.

  Out of breath and scared, Jonathan lay in the cold grass, listening. Sirens were approaching, but he dared not look up to see how close they were to him. He rolled over onto his belly and began to crawl through the ditch. Now soaked and shivering, he came to a thirty-six-inch corrugated-steel culvert.

  He needed to get his bearings, so he risked popping his head out of the grass despite the closeness of voices carrying across the runway. The culvert led away from the aircraft. To where? Jonathan didn’t know. All he knew was he’d be caught if he remained where he was.

  A gentle trickle of icy water poured out of the culvert. He took a deep breath, put aside his fear of the dark, and entered the pipe. Crawling, slowly at first, Jonathan focused on a faint light off in the distance.

  He’d traveled for three hundred feet when he finally reached the other side of the culvert. He crawled up a slight incline and found himself next to another runway. He could no longer hear conversations, so he raised his body onto his knees to look back toward the terminal. At least a dozen FBI agents could be seen in the headlights of their vehicles, milling about the jet.

  His father was being led away in handcuffs and was thrown into the backseat of an unmarked car like a common criminal. Anger built up inside Jonathan before a tear rolled down his cheek. It saddened him to his core to see his father being treated that way.

  The sadness turned to fury when he began to assign blame for what was happening. Ultimately, it was the President of the United States who’d have to approve a hastily made arrest like this one. However, Jonathan Schwartz was also astute enough to know that revenge against his family would not be foremost on the president’s mind during this time of crisis. Someone else. A powerful individual who had both the contacts and the motives to settle old scores was behind this.

  Jonathan clasped his hands together and then extended his index fingers forward to emulate a gun barrel. He pointed toward the east. Toward New Haven. Toward George Trowbridge. Then he muttered the words, “It’s time for you to die, old man.”

  Chapter 50

  Haven House

  The Haven

  Everyone helped clear the dishes from the table, and Ryan poured a final round of after-dinner drinks. He didn’t want it to appear that there was an unlimited supply of alcohol at the Haven. As part of their vetting process, they tried to learn about the personal habits and activities of their residents. If someone appeared to visit Cancun on a regular basis, constantly photographed with a Corona in hand, they were most likely excluded from the start. The Smarts were interested in a community of responsible adults, not partiers.

  The group assembled in Ryan’s study following dinner except for Charlotte, who insisted on cleaning up the kitchen and watching over Hannah. She really enjoyed the company of the young girl and wanted to allow the Cortlands the opportunity to participate in the discussions without feeling like they were pushing their child on their hosts.

  “Ryan, this is an impressive room,” began Tom as everyone walked around and admired his mix of historic collectibles and books. “I’m sure there’s a story behind every one of these pieces.”

  “Like this?” asked Cort, holding up a hardbound book depicting a colonial soldier holding a musket. “It’s from the Boys of Liberty Library. The Minute Men of Massachusetts by John Morgan.”

  “Yeah, that’s an old one,” added Ryan. “Published in 1892, if I remember correctly. It was part of a collection of school books taught in history classes before they started rewriting history.”

  Everyone passed the book around before Cort placed it back on the shelf. After he did, Tom scooted up next to Cort.

  “May I see that again?” he asked.

  Cort used his basketball-player frame to easily retrieve the book from the upper shelf. He handed it to Tom, who studied the cover and then thumbed through the pages before returning it to Cort.

  “Hmm,” he mumbled and then turned to the rest of the group.

  Ryan slid several wood panels to the side, revealing multiple concealed whiteboards. “Guys, I have a theory, but I need the help of different perspectives. And, let me say, a very important voice in all of this hasn’t arrived yet. Her name is Hayden Blount.”

  “I know of Hayden,” interrupted Cort. “She’s a real up-and-comer. She’s one of the attorneys representing the president in front of the Supreme Court.”

  “That’s right, Cort. She’ll have some interesting insight into all of this, which is why our conversation tonight will probably extend into tomorrow after she has arrived, hopefully.”

  “Hopefully?” asked Meredith.

  “Naturally, Hayden lives in Washington,” replied Ryan. “And, because she had to wait and see what happened with the Court’s calendar, she got a late start to the Haven.”

  “She’ll have to travel through Richmond like we did,” added Tom. “Is she aware of the problems we had?”

  “We don’t know for certain,” replied Blair. “I was talking on the phone with her when the call was suddenly disconnected. I wasn’t able to reach her after that.”

  Donna shook her head, seeming to recall their own ordeal on the highway. “I’ll pray for her and her safe arrival.”

  Ryan turned
back to the whiteboard. “Bear with me as I lay out what I’m calling the Leland Gaunt Theory.”

  “I told you,” lamented Blair, who laughed along with Meredith.

  “Cort does the same stuff,” she whispered.

  “All men think they’re Einstein,” Blair quipped.

  “Or Sigmund Freud,” added Meredith.

  “I heard that, and I’m ignoring you both,” said Ryan as he continued to use the specialized markers to write on the whiteboard. Applying different colors, he wrote down the locations of the major cities that were attacked, and the means. He also included the concert chaos in Atlanta and the downing of Delta 322, Cort’s aircraft.

  “Delta, let me ask you first,” Ryan continued. “At the stadium, the power was lost, but also, didn’t you say there was some kind of gas released through the ventilation system?”

  “Yes. Naturally, security treated it like a bioterror weapon. You know, some type of noxious gas or even anthrax. It turned out it was from smoke grenades.”

  Ryan thought for a moment. “Would it be safe to say the goal of the attackers, terrorists, or whatever was to create a mass panic situation but not necessarily kill anyone?”

  Delta shrugged. “Yeah. There were deaths, but they resulted from people trampled in the panic.”

  “What kind of concert was it again?” asked Ryan.

  “Beyoncé and Jay-Z.”

  Ryan stuck out his lower lip and nodded. He wrote this on the whiteboard under Atlanta. He then turned to Cort. “I know that you’re probably in no mood to talk about the plane crash, but can you remember anything about the moments before the plane lost power or immediately thereafter?”