by Dina Rae
Within minutes, I heard the sound of blow horns and saw floodlights and headlights radiate from a pair of military trucks that raced into the neighborhood. The militia to the rescue.
I walked onto the porch for a better view of the night’s events. Other neighbors including Wendy Grossman gathered outside. Jaxie, groggy and half asleep, joined me. The noise must have woken her. The night air felt like ice whipping through my bones. I guessed the temperature around zero degrees, yet none of us spectators wore jackets. Adrenaline and stress kept us warm enough for the moment.
I saw two soldiers wearing camouflage uniforms jump three of the looters. The looters didn’t stand a chance. They were cuffed and pushed into the back of one of the trucks. Three more soldiers ran after the others. They swiftly caught up to them and returned with another five members of the night’s little gang.
I couldn’t hear what was said, but the soldiers’ response chilled me even more than the windshield factor. Two looters dropped to the ground, refusing to go inside of the truck. One of the soldiers grabbed a machine gun and blew both of their heads right off in the middle of the street. More shouting occurred. More gunshots rang through the windy air.
“Did you see that?” Jaxie whispered.
“A little harsh, don’t you think? Guess this is what martial law looks like. Or…”
“Or what? Some kind of take over?” Jaxie asked.
“Exactly. Conspiracy has now become fact. Lucky for us those war mongers didn’t show up at the grocery store last night while we were clearing it out. They weren’t at the sporting goods store or the hardware store either. We’d be like those two looters. Dead.”
“They said there would be no tolerance for crime. Maybe this is for the best. It sends a message. Safety first,” Jaxie whispered.
The soldiers took a couple of tarps out of the truck and rolled the dead bodies inside the flatbed shared with the other detained looters. One of the soldiers pulled out a bullhorn from the driver’s side of a truck. The entire neighborhood was awake and some of the neighbors got off of their porches and crept closer to the street for a better look at what was taking place.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you just witnessed what a zero criminal tolerance policy looks like. Some of these looters got away. If you know anything, tell us. We are here to protect you and help you get through this tragic moment. No need to be afraid. All of your community stores are temporarily closed. We will be here in the morning with rationed supplies.”
The small mob of Jaxie’s neighbors were asking questions. I was too far to hear. One of the Peacekeepers took his machine gun and fired shots in the air.
“This is not a Q and A session, however you all seem concerned about the people who tried to rob you, the people who we saved you from and who sit inside of our trucks. Who knows what these hoodlums were up to? They will be temporarily incarcerated until we have an established legal system that will determine the justice they face. Now it’s late. Please get some sleep. We will get to know each other tomorrow.” The man hopped back into his truck as did the other soldiers and drove off.
“Established legal system? What was wrong with the old one? I mean, it wasn’t perfect, but…I don’t like this,” Jaxie said.
“Neither do I. Good night.”
The next day brought more changes. Jaxie went to Fogle, and I stayed home. As the soldier announced, he and his crew were back bright and early. Four trucks pulled into the subdivision and blew their horns a few blocks away from Jaxie’s unit. I checked my hiding place for the twentieth time. The Glock and ammo were safely wedged between the cabinet panel and the refrigerator door. Hopefully, that would hold as the hiding place. I suspected that the military goons outside would try to confiscate it.
Cautiously, I approached the trucks which parked two blocks away. Several others from adjoining streets of the subdivision walked ahead of me as a line formed steps away from the four military vehicles. Looks of confusion and fear were shared by us civilians. I saw Wendy. She wore sweatpants, no hat, and a long parka. Her white hair whipped all over her face from the wind.
My eyes looked up to the gray sky. Was it even darker than yesterday? Would we soon die from the radiation? New York City was just to the south of us. I then looked at Wendy. Her hazel eyes welled. She and I stood at the end of the line.
Wendy held my arm and whispered, “I am glad you are here. Gotta stop crying. I keep thinking of my grandmother. That old bird survived a German concentration camp. If she can do it, then so can I. You know that’s what coming. Almost like World War II was a dress rehearsal for this moment…”
“Exactly. I don’t trust them at all. This food that they are giving us-don’t eat it until you’re desperate.”
Wendy faintly smiled and then the line began to move. There were twenty people in front of us, another twenty or so had piled behind us. By the time I reached the front of the line, I could see the food bag being passed out. It was a large canvas tote filled with canned milk, canned tuna, boxed potatoes and cakes, and plenty of MREs. I took the bag and headed back. Wendy looked like she wanted me to wait for her. Tempted to have her join me, I thought it safer for both of us if I waved her goodbye. There was much more work to be done, and I needed to do it alone.
I quickly unpacked the bag of food and headed out of the subdivision. My goal was to find the town’s center and check out what businesses and governmental agencies were still open.
The town’s hub center was easy enough to find. It had a charming New England architecture while also maintaining a modern edge. All of the shops off of the main drag were dark. A real estate office had its lights on, but I doubted it was open. Next to the real estate office was a bakery. There was a photo in the window of Wendy behind a multi-tiered wedding cake. She must have owned the place. Like the rest of the businesses, they no longer were in business until the new unit economy took over.
Most of the parallel parking spots within the square were filled. Residents patiently waited at the police station’s entrance. I chose to make this my first stop. Maybe the police could explain the military’s presence. A few dozen people stood single file, and I walked to the end of the line.
As several minutes went by, the line got even longer, wrapping around the building and onto the public sidewalk. An older man wearing bright white dentures and an old Nike warm-up suit stood in front of me. He turned around and gruffly said, “I want some answers. Yesterday, those soldiers came into my home. Just walked in and pushed me aside. They wanted to know if I had a gun in the house. Can you believe that? What mother-fucking business is it of theirs? I got so angry. My wife kept telling me to just do what they said. They went straight into my bedroom and headed for the dresser. Took my Smith and Wesson. Took the box of bullets. One of the men said it was for my own safety. According to him, they were here to protect us from now on. He just left with my gun and bullets. I called these copper assholes and no one answered the phone. And now they hide. I saw a few of them inside.”
“Is that why everyone is here?” I asked.
“Many, yes. I want to know why our own cops aren’t patrolling instead of these U.N. Peacekeeper soldiers.”
“Absolutely. We need to know what is going on,” I said.
Another older man standing a few people ahead of me chimed in, “I’m ready to start throwing rocks at the windows. We need answers!”
A young man and woman at the very front of the line started chanting. “We want answers! We want answers!” The chant caught on like wildfire. We all screamed the same words. Some people kicked at the inserted glass windows within the wooden double doors.
A muffled sound came from the other side. The door slowly pushed outward. Shouts of ‘back-up’ came from inside of the building. A tall, buff, black man dressed in police blues exited the doorway with a bull horn in his hand. “Back up, please. Back up.” Two more men dressed in uniform, also in exceptional physical condition, exited the doorway. The three of them spread out among the short sta
irway in front of the building. The crowd got out of single-file line and formed a semi-circle formation around the entrance.
The first cop to come out spoke into the bullhorn. “Thank you. The mayor and the police chief would like to address your concerns in a town hall meeting format. If you could walk across the street to City Hall, we will help seat you.”
Like cattle, we plodded across the street, all anxious to hear from the town’s officials. Under the circumstances, I shook my head in disgust. This crowd was just too calm for everything that happened. I wanted to kick and scream until I got the truth. The police allowed a U.N. military division that no one ever heard of to just come into town and take control without a blink of an eye.
As we sat ourselves in the city hall auditorium, more cops appeared throughout the room, all guarding the entrances. Paranoia set in. Were they protecting us or were they keeping us in custody? The room’s silence made the hair on the back of my neck stand erect. A middle-aged, paunchy, white woman with long bleached hair and a cheap business suit approached the podium. She pressed a few buttons until the audio was on. An older, distinguished Hispanic man stepped alongside of her. They seemed to bicker about who would do the speaking at this impromptu meeting. The woman hesitantly took the lead.
“Thank you all for coming. For those of you who don’t know me, I am Mayor Cynthia Sheffield of Brookline. Next to me is Superintendent Juan Velasquez. Our Brookline police force is also with us, in and out of this building. Do not be alarmed. They are here for your protection only. I can see and smell your fear. Believe me, I understand because I feel the same way.
“As of a few days ago, I knew as much as you did after the vice president broadcasted his speech.” She paused and looked at the superintendent. He nodded with an expression of encouragement. “Within a few hours of that broadcast I was contacted via phone by someone claiming to be from the U.N. This man said that our vice president in conjunction with other world leaders had a plan to help all of the surviving cities in maintaining peace among the citizens. He claimed that looting, riots, even rapes and murders would surely happen in the beginning stages of reconstructing our country. I didn’t know how to respond. To be honest, I don’t believe I had a choice in refusing their help… Juan, can you please take it from here.”
I looked around the room at the stoic faces as they hung on each and every word. As they listened, I got angry. Juan, the top cop, placed a hand on her shoulder and took the microphone. She dejectedly walked off to one of the city hall’s board member seats on the stage and sat down.
“Again, I am Juan Velasquez, Superintendent. I’ll be brutally honest right now. We don’t know what we are doing. Less than an hour after Cynthia received that U.N. call, eight military trucks filled with dozens of U.N. Peacekeeping troops barged into the police station and politely told us that they would take over. I wasn’t exactly sure what they meant, but it didn’t take long to figure out. One of our detectives along with a public defender who happened to be at the station began talking legalese to these guys. Their questions and opposition got them cuffed and taken away. None of us have seen them since.
“The bottom line is this-dozens more trucks with hundreds more troops have landed. We, the police force, are outnumbered. They leave us alone, occasionally use our jail cells and ask us for blueprints and other documents. It’s only been a few days, and we don’t know our new role in this aftermath. We feel helpless and afraid, like you do. I know they have confiscated your guns. There are no trials for those who have been arrested. I am told that the Constitution is on hold and we are under martial law until the world is stabilized. Like you, I am suspicious. Like you, I am worried that they will take away our guns as well, completely crippling our town of any kind of defense. I don’t have any answers. Our mayor has chosen to hope for the best. Maybe these soldiers are really here to keep the peace until we get this country back on track. On the positive side of things, they are passing out supplies at various parts of the city. This morning it was food. Tonight it will be toiletries. I don’t know if they brought these items from their military bases or if they confiscated them from local businesses. Maybe a combination of both…”
A woman in the front row stood up and shouted, “Confiscated? They down right broke into my convenience store late last night and stole everything! They are no better than the thugs going around looking to loot!”
An older woman in the second row also stood up and shouted, “My husband’s been dead for eight years! He once legally owned a gun so he was on a registry. But I gave that gun to my son a few years ago. He lived in Los Angeles and now he’s dead. They barged in and ransacked my house!”
A middle-aged man from the back row called out, “I saw them murder some kids in my neighborhood last night!”
He must live by Jaxie. No doubt anymore as to why everyone was here. There will be no more America or any other country for that matter. This is the brave new world my late grandfather had predicted. He must have told me one hundred times that New World Order spells ‘o.w.n’ backwards. The nightmare was now confirmed.
More voices erupted from the town hall. Finally, the superintendent gained back control. “Okay. Please, everyone, we all need to remain civil. You want to know what we should do? Think! If we fight back, that will only bring more attention to this city, more soldiers. We can’t do this alone. Thinking of moving? Think again. My sister is a police woman in Dallas and they are there as well, setting up a military presence. I bet they are in every surviving city.”
Dallas. Not too far from Oklahoma, my grandfather’s farm.
Chapter Seven
Jaxie
I didn’t want to go to work, but was even more afraid of not going. After our presentation from yesterday’s corporate heads and U.N. Peacekeepers, my role as a leader in computer and software engineering had become much more. Was quitting even an option? I needed to talk to my colleagues. They were friends before the war. Why was I so afraid to reach out to them now?
In the coffee lounge, I saw Sai White. She and I were the same age, both graduated from MIT, and even sat in some classes together. We had not become friendly until I saw her jogging in my neighborhood last summer. Ever since, we worked out together and shared a sandwich once or twice a week at one of the restaurants within the corporate’s compound. Although we were technically friendly colleagues, she was the closest relationship I had within the workplace.
While Sai made herself an extra-large cappuccino at the coffee bar, I snuck up on her. “Hey, how are you doing?”
“Jaxie? Oh, you scared me. I’ve been meaning to touch base with you…”
I interrupted her and spoke in low, quiet tone. “Me too. Listen, Sai, I know we are extremely busy and really can’t talk here…” She nodded and looked down. “Come to my house, you and your husband. Tonight?”
“Did you see what happened in our neighborhood last night…Oh God.”
“You saw it?”
“Yes. They were just kids. Scared like the rest of us. I can’t tonight. They want me to stay late. Tomorrow, okay?” I nodded. “It will be just me. I should have told you sooner, but Carl is probably dead. He was in New York when it happened…” Tears rolled down her smooth brown skin. “Now is not the time. I must get back to the world of corporate security.” I heard a faint twinge of disgust and sarcasm in her low, soft voice.
I was in charge of bringing back Internet connections among what was left of the eastern seaboard. My company recently contracted a major deal with the United Nations in building a new website, complete with all reconstruction plans. The U.N. would have to work as the primary news source via WBNX. They let it leak out that WBNX would be soon be taking over English speaking parts of the world. I would be sure to mention this to Raphael. The only surviving network was once his network’s main competitor.
Most of my work was easy. My team was assigned to disconnect the Internet during the war, so reconnecting it was not the problem. Fogle ordered new kinds of filter
s that were not in place before the war. Raphael’s New World Order theory banged inside of my head. Filters meant censorship. Everything we were doing felt like a takeover, but who would be the one taking over? Who was the inner circle?
Fogle was obviously a key player. The U.N.’s General Assembly was in shambles, and with New York City gone, there was no longer a building. All of the embassies in Washington D.C. were also gone. So many globalists were killed. Despite the lack of infrastructure and leadership, the U.N. still produced plenty of soldiers to each of the surviving cities. How many Peacekeepers were there? How was the U.N. still functioning?
Fogle ordered us to install a flagging application within all Internet connections. This feature would enable Fogle and the U.N., their best new customer, the ability to monitor the user’s words and phrases as well as the user’s viewing history. Social media had done this before. This time it was different, massive, and the ultimate Search Engine Optimization. An entire division, maybe even a separate headquarters would be needed just to watch it. The entire project was compared to a security guard observing an office full of security cameras except this would be a team of security guards watching what was left of the world. We weren’t told much about the details. The result was simple-every Internet user would be constantly tracked on what was searched, viewed, purchased, shared, liked, and written.
Late afternoon, our Sensei whose first name was Tim gave us another martial arts lesson. Yesterday, self-defense seemed duly unnecessary. Seeing the looters shot down like they were wild animals officially broke me out of my bubble. Self-defense in every form needed to be studied, learned, and mastered as part of our new survival. Fogle wanted me to learn this for them, but I took the training as an opportunity to learn this for me. The company I once loved and was so proud to work for had become the enemy.
When I got home, Raphael and I exchanged stories of the day’s events. Both of us were wired on fear and anxiety. He wanted to keep watch again, but I insisted. We both peeked through the several holes he cut out and watched the quiet streets from all sides of the house. Again, the weather was brutally cold. The dark days brought on even darker nights than I remembered before the war. Streetlights barely cut through the blackness.
