Martial Law

by Bobby Akart

  “Hey, fat-cat politicians!”

  “Give us a ride!”

  “When are you gonna fix the power, asshole?”

  Drew instinctively reached for his weapon but composed himself before issuing instructions. “Trooper Walker, we need to move now. Go! Go! Go!”

  “Ripley,” Drew continued his instructions, “we have an angry mob surrounding us. Let’s roll!”

  The buzz of spinning tires on the rain-soaked pavement filled the air as the trooper quickly turned left on Pensacola Street and back towards the Tucker Center.

  “We’re going back?” asked Abbie, now sitting on the edge of the bench seat.

  “This isn’t safe, and the northeast route of the city is at a standstill,” replied Drew. “We’re going to backtrack slightly to access the interstate. Between the event and the football game, there are nearly one hundred thousand people within a mile of us.”

  The three-vehicle caravan pushed its way west to Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard and then turned north at the FSU College of Law.

  “This is madness!” exclaimed Abbie. Drew couldn’t disagree. Traffic was at a crawl and pedestrian traffic was shoulder to shoulder. Abbie was clicking the keypad of her phone.

  “Abbie, our first goal is to extract you from danger,” started Drew. “Then we need to gather information so we can better assess the situation. Listen, seat belts, please.” Abbie clicked her belt and adjusted it for comfort. She held her phone up for the guys to see her display.

  “Well, I might be able to help there. Rhona sent me a text. She said the hashtags collapse and SHTF are trending on Twitter. Apparently, with limited cell service, information is still being disseminated.”

  “Our service-issued phones aren’t getting any signal. Do you have any details?” asked Drew.

  “It’s all based on speculation,” replied Abbie. “There are allegations of an attack by Russia. Apparently, the BBC reported an EMP weapon may have been used. You know the media. In their quest to be the first with the breaking news, they tend to play loose with the facts.” They were approaching a major intersection ahead when the state trooper’s vehicle abruptly turned left—followed by Ripley.

  “Hold on,” shouted Drew. The hefty armor-clad Suburban hustled to catch up with the other two vehicles. Traffic was beginning to decrease as they passed a cemetery. Several people stood on the sidewalks as the motorcade sped past, and watched with amusement as it suddenly skidded to a stop at North Macomb Street.

  “What the fuck!” exclaimed Jonesy. “Excuse me, ma’am.”

  “Ripley, you guys got this?” asked Drew. Drew listened for a moment and then spoke. “Apparently the major cross street up ahead is blocked. The troopers appear hesitant to cross the road.” Drew placed his hand to the earpiece.

  “We have the lead highway patrol cruiser back with us,” said Drew. “They’re going to block westbound traffic and our guy will block the eastbound lanes. We’ll shoot the gap.” Jonesy held the Suburban back for a moment while the troopers positioned themselves for the maneuver. Horns were blaring, and a crowd was gathering in the Popeyes Chicken parking lot.

  As the lead Suburban lurched forward, Ripley shouted, “Green light!” The two-truck train screamed through the gap just as an eastbound pickup truck going the wrong way in the westbound lane rumbled past them and T-boned the highway patrol cruiser. The impact of the collision caused the cruiser to spin four times before knocking down a streetlight.

  “Keep going, Ripley,” instructed Drew. “Jonesy, we can’t help them. This is a doggone disaster!”

  “To say the least,” added Abbie. “Rhona says the power is out nationwide, according to the BBC. She got connected to Washington, but the signal was lost immediately.” Two Tallahassee police cars—sirens and lights blaring—sped in the opposite direction toward the accident.

  “I think we’ve lost our escort,” said Jonesy. “According to GPS, it’s only a couple of miles to the 10.”

  “Pay attention,” interrupted Drew. “Ripley said to keep our eyes open. We’re in Frenchtown, the most dangerous neighborhood in Tallahassee. Wonderful.”

  In the nineteenth century, settlers from France moved to the Florida panhandle and settled in this area of Tallahassee. Many moved west to New Orleans or eventually back to France. Because the area was considered flood prone and relatively undesirable, Frenchtown became readily available to newly freed slaves after the Civil War. Today, Tallahassee had one of the highest crime rates in America. The part of Frenchtown from Alabama Street to West Tharpe was once designated a drug-trafficking corridor by the Department of Justice. On an ordinary day, police received an average of twenty reported crimes ranging from auto theft to strong-arm robbery. Today was no ordinary day.

  The Suburban carrying Drew and Abbie crossed Alabama Street north on Old Bainbridge Road.

  “What’s happening, Ripley?” asked Drew into the comms. The front vehicle was slowing as hundreds of people were crowded around a building to their right. Drew informed Jonesy and Abbie.

  “It’s the county health department. Ripley said it’s being looted.”

  “Do we have other options?” asked Jonesy. He looked back and forth across the hood of the truck. “I don’t like being on this two-lane road. It’s a natural choke point. We’re surrounded on both sides by that stone fence. Can we back up?”

  Drew turned to survey the options. He studied the GPS display. The side streets looked like a maze with no exit. You could drive on street after street and wind up where you started.

  “Ripley, can we pass?” asked Drew. “Traffic is approaching from the south. We need to decide.” Lightning filled the sky with momentary light.

  “Drew!” shouted Abbie. “To the right. They’re coming over the hill straight for us!” Rocks and empty bottles were pelting the vehicles—reminding him of Kandahar City in the southern part of Afghanistan. At least they’re not shooting at us—yet.

  “Reverse, Jonesy!” ordered Drew. “Ripley, this way.” The vehicle swerved in reverse to avoid the onslaught of over a dozen young men running towards the Suburban. For nearly two hundred feet, Jonesy adeptly avoided oncoming traffic until he could back into a middle school parking lot. Ripley was not as lucky, as he sideswiped a van, losing his passenger-side mirror.

  “Straight ahead, go!” shouted Drew, pointing to the east. The truck vaulted forward across the rapidly approaching traffic. He glanced to the rear and saw the headlights of Ripley’s vehicle, which was speeding to catch up.

  “Left, now!” The truck once again snapped their heads back as they roared north on Gibbs Drive. Was it less than a mile to the interstate and safety? Traffic dissipated and they pulled up to a stop sign.

  “Look at the mall,” Abbie said, speaking for the first time in several minutes. Staring across U.S. Highway 27, Drew was more concerned with crossing six lanes of traffic than he was observing the mob scene at the Tallahassee Mall. The parking lot was packed with cars and patrons running into the mall empty-handed, but scurrying out with more than they could carry.

  “Let the looting begin,” said Drew. “But as your running mate’s husband would say, you must—feel their pain.” Two men ran in front of their bumper with boxes containing laptop computers by Hewlett-Packard, holding them over their heads to protect themselves from the rain.

  “I don’t think those HPs are going to help them survive this, do you?” asked Jonesy.

  “Nope.”

  “Look at the Cash America store!” exclaimed Abbie, pointing across the highway. A car was trying to drive through the front entrance to break in. Jonesy found an opening in traffic and shot across the median into the northbound lane. Ripley and his passengers were following close behind.

  “Good work, Jonesy,” said Drew. “I see the interstate up ahead. Looks like traffic is moving. Good news, for a change.”

  Drew looked on both sides of the highway as they approached the cloverleaf of Interstate 10. People were walking or running in all direction
s. An ABC liquor store’s roof appeared to be on fire, but that did not deter looters from climbing through the broken plate-glass doors and carrying out bottles of alcohol. Stranded motorists stood angrily, hands on hips, waiting for the Shell gas station to resume operations. Even the shuttered Shoney’s Restaurant, a victim of the economic downturn the country experienced, wasn’t immune from the opportunists. One man carried out a microwave while another procured the electronic cash register. Idiots.

  Chapter 9

  September 3, 2016

  10:53 p.m.

  Eastbound Interstate 10

  Near Lloyd, Florida

  After the joyride through Frenchtown, the occupants of the Suburban were finally able to catch their breath. Each was quiet, trying to absorb the gravity of the situation, as the heavy rain pelted the windshield.

  “I’ve gotta pee,” announced Abbie.

  “Me too,” chimed in Jonesy. “The rain isn’t helping.”

  “Well, sports fans, the shit has hit the proverbial fan, but first, we gotta pee,” Drew said to a round of laughter. The tension in the truck immediately lessened, and you could feel the relief overtake their bodies.

  “Ripley,” barked Drew into the collar mic, “everybody breathing easier now up there? Over.”

  “Roger that,” replied Ripley.

  “Let’s find an opportunity to pull over. Nature calls. No exits. Over.”

  “Roger.”

  Abbie once again unbuckled her seat belt and leaned forward to talk to the guys, drawing an admonishing glance from her protector. She shot back a don’t even look, which was worth a thousand words. Men might think they were running things, but women had the look on their side. There wasn’t a man on the planet who didn’t recognize and respect the look.

  “Okay, gentlemen. Seriously. Is this the twilight zone?” Abbie wanted to keep the mood light, but it was time to assess the situation. She looked out the side window at the numerous parked cars, some with hazard lights flashing. Nobody is coming to help you, weary travelers.

  “Here’s what we know,” replied Drew. “The grid is down, but the extent of the collapse is just conjecture. I don’t think it’s localized.”

  “Solar flare or EMP?” queried Jonesy. “I mean, did you hear the transformer explode while we were inside Tucker?”

  “I didn’t hear it,” said Abbie. “Was it before or after the lights went out?”

  “Simultaneous,” replied Drew. “I thought it was storm related. In fact, I still would except for the information via social media.”

  “Rumors spread like wildfire,” added Jonesy. “Cell phones were lighting up throughout the arena. Within minutes, everyone thought the nation was under attack. How would anybody know that at this point?”

  Drew shook his head. “They wouldn’t, but speculation would run rampant. That’s what people do.”

  “Why doesn’t our satellite radio work?” asked Abbie. “The receiver would be pulling the signal from space.”

  “That’s true, Abbie, but the satellites receive their programming from Earth,” replied Drew. “If this outage is as catastrophic as it appears, then the Sirius/XM ground station in D.C. together with the supplemental repeaters on Earth would be without power. Thus, the static we experienced earlier.”

  “The AM station we picked up out of Thomasville, Georgia, had to be running on a generator strong enough to produce a decent signal,” said Jonesy. “I’d guess fifty thousand watts.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Drew. “The airwaves are deserted right now. A lower-wattage AM would not be diluted under the circumstances.”

  “A lot of good the station did,” said Abbie. “All it did was repeat the NOAA weather warnings for Hurricane Danni. The owner of the station was asleep at the wheel.”

  “Losing the power grid is life-threatening to some, but can be endured for a limited time,” said Drew. “But as we know in our business, losing comms feels crippling.”

  “Whether this was caused by a nuke or the sun, we’ve got a real problem on our hands,” added Jonesy. “And by we, I mean the whole frickin’ country.”

  The three remained silent and soaked in the magnitude of the situation. The staccato swipes of the wipers on the windshield appeared to lull them into a momentary trance. A flash of lightning to the south snapped Abbie back to attention.

  “After my election in 2010, I was briefed on several national security matters,” said Abbie. “Wisconsin Senator Ron Johnson, chair of the Homeland Security Committee, provided me with a copy of a 2008 EMP Commission Report. He said a grid-down collapse event is the greatest threat we face as Americans because not only would it cause immediate death and damage, but the rebuilding process would take many years.” Abbie ran her fingers through her hair, trying to forget about her bursting bladder.

  “But we don’t know if an EMP caused this,” said Jonesy. He slowed the truck to navigate through stalled vehicles on both sides of the interstate.

  “That’s true, but I think I see where Abbie is heading with this,” replied Drew. “Whether an EMP, solar flare, or even an orchestrated cyber attack, the net effect on our nation is a collapsed power grid and chaos.”

  “You’re right, Drew,” said Abbie. “Regardless of the precipitating event, the damage to our critical infrastructure could be continental in scale. From coast-to-coast, our nation could be without power. Our utilities may be disabled for years. Senator Johnson stressed that a grid-down scenario represents a high-consequence disaster, as he put it, which is extremely debilitating. Within a year, ninety percent of Americans could die.”

  “From what we experienced in the last couple of hours, Senator Johnson may have underestimated the impact,” said Jonesy. He slowed the wipers as they cleared the last hurricane feeder band.

  “Listen, I always read that society would begin to fall apart in roughly seventy-two hours following a collapse event,” opined Drew. “Hell, it was barely seventy-two seconds before the folks in that civic center began to freak out.”

  “The damage caused to the critical infrastructure in our wired world is only part of the problem,” said Abbie. “The real challenge will be the way we treat each other. All of the governmental white papers I’ve read grossly underestimate the reaction of the human race after a collapse event such as this. As we witnessed, it’s one thing for your power to go out in a storm. Even the most hotheaded among us will deem a storm-related outage as a mere inconvenience. But with the advent of social media, the majority of the population knew within minutes that our power could be gone for a long time.”

  “Hence the rapid deterioration of society,” added Drew, finishing her thought.

  “Societal collapse,” said Jonesy.

  “Again, regardless of the cause, if our nation has been thrust into darkness, God help us,” said Abbie.

  Chapter 10

  September 3, 2016

  11:29 p.m.

  Eastbound Interstate 10

  Near Monticello, Florida

  As the two Suburbans slowed to enter a rest area, Drew was apprehensive. Granted, this was not Frenchtown in Tallahassee, but a new world that was forced upon them—a world with desperate people trying to understand, and survive.

  He was trained on the importance of situational awareness. In Afghanistan, failing to maintain a heightened state of awareness would get you and your fellow soldiers killed. Situational awareness was not something practiced only by highly trained secret service agents or military personnel. It should be understood by everyone in this potentially dangerous society. Drew thought of it as managed paranoia. As far as he was concerned, a little bit of paranoia helped him develop a keen sense of situational awareness.

  Clearly, it was time to be on high alert. This level of awareness, once mastered, enabled Drew to control the adrenaline rush needed to survive. It was the same type of rush a motorist might achieve when he saw an eighteen-wheeler rumbling through a red light towards him. Whether a motorist hit the brakes or mashed the gas might det
ermine life or death. The adrenaline rush you received aided your reflexes and mental acuity.

  Drew needed to keep his team on this level of readiness. He provided instructions for the two drivers, with a cautionary tone.

  “Gentlemen, nothing is the same now. Based on our experience in Tallahassee and the magnitude of the situation, every person must be treated as a potential hostile threat. No exceptions. Understood?”

  “Roger that,” came Ripley’s standard response. Jonesy nodded his head and appeared to grip the wheel a little tighter as the caravan slowed toward the rest area.

  The rain abated, but the sixty-mile-an-hour winds were causing the Suburban to shake from time to time. Drew pointed to a truck parking spot to the left.

  “Over there, Jonesy. Stay here and monitor my comms. Let me do a quick assessment.” Drew exited the truck and walked over to the other vehicle to enlist Ripley’s partner. As they crossed the parking lot of stranded and disheveled motorists, he wondered if they would make it to their destinations alive. There were no gas stations, no AAA wreckers to call, and no highway patrolmen coming to the rescue. Has this dawned on the people of this country yet?

  After surveilling the buildings and finding nothing out of the ordinary other than the looted vending machines, he returned to the Suburbans. He approached Jonesy’s window and opened up his mic to Ripley as well.

  “Jonesy, stay with the vehicles. We’ll take Captain and Rhona inside. Keep your comms open and report anything suspicious. In and out, nice and clean. Copy that also, Ripley?”

  “Roger that. I’ll send them over.”

  “Abbie, reach into my bag and grab a hat. Pull it down over your eyes a little. The last thing I need is for you to be recognized.”

  “Okay,” she replied. Drew walked around to her door and opened it. A bathroom break for a vice presidential candidate was anything but normal on a good day. Today, at least thus far, was not so good.