Charlie's Requiem: Resistance

by Walt Browning

  “What can I do for you?” Lester said after kissing his wife on the cheek and then returning to his chair behind his desk. She sat across from him, her hands folded in her lap.

  “Bart, the convoy’s leaving this afternoon and you haven’t given me an answer on the lake house.”

  “You know the rules. I can’t make an exception for you just because you’re my wife.”

  “Oh Bart, please. The children need to get out of here. It’s stifling. Your son-in-law’s off doing God knows what in Washington and our daughter needs to get out of the house. You know how she loves the lake house.”

  He leveled his gaze at her, trying to contain his frustration. He had work to do, damn it. “I said no, Ann. Don’t ask again. The rules are the rules.”

  “You made the rules, Bart. Need I remind you?”

  “I don’t have time for this. I’ve just been given a huge assignment by Washington. They’ve made me commander of our southern forces.”

  “All the more reason to get me and the grandkids out of here. You’ll be living in this office for the next week, so we should get out of your hair. Besides, Haylee could use the break. It’ll be another month before her husband gets home from the Pentagon.”

  General Lester had to admit that his wife’s logic was sound, but he wasn’t eager to break the rules. He hadn’t risen to this level of responsibility and rank by ignoring the manual. Letting his family vacation while the rest of the base was on lockdown went against every fiber in his body.

  On the other hand, the next few weeks were likely to be hell. He’d be lucky to get six hours of sleep at night and probably wouldn’t be home for meals.

  His wife could see the gears moving in her husband’s brain, and from experience, she knew that silence was the best path to get what she wanted.

  Lester sighed. “You know this goes against everything I believe in.”

  “Bart, you know it’s safe. The entire county surrounding the lake has been cleared and everyone’s been relocated to a safe zone or camp. There’s no one within miles of our house.”

  Lester smiled at his wife, and Ann knew that she’d won him over.

  “Thank you, Bart!”

  “Take a sat phone,” Lester said. “And check in with the sheriff’s office when you arrive. I want to talk to him directly before you go to the house.”

  “Yes sir!” Ann said, giving him a mock salute.

  His wife left the room and waved to the sergeant as she closed the outer office door, feeling pleased with herself. Their daughter Haylee would be thrilled to get away from Fort Knox. The families that had been evacuated to the fort were not shy about venting their frustrations at leaving their off-base homes. And because of the forced relocation, her daughter Haylee had been the recipient of several rude comments made behind her back. Nothing serious nor threatening, but aggravating just the same.

  Ann walked to her government vehicle, a Cummins diesel-powered 2001 Dodge pickup. The base’s mechanics had brought the truck back to life after the EMP, and her husband had grabbed it for the family’s use. All Ann knew was that it drove over just about anything and that it had leather seats. Its extended cab allowed for a comfortable second row of seating with enough room for the kids and her daughter. They’d take the truck to the lake house, a four-hour drive in normal times. She had plenty of fuel to make the trip there, and the convoy that was leaving for Knoxville later that afternoon had fuel trucks that could top her off during the trip.

  Driving the pickup to the base’s vehicle “barn,” Ann saw the man she was looking for standing by a six-wheel truck that was already loaded with boxes and other supplies.

  “Captain Herman,” she called out to the harried Army officer with a little wave.

  Herman was organizing the convoy, reviewing the supplies and readiness of the M49 fuel haulers, HUMVEEs and a dozen M939 6-wheeled trucks. Over 40 vehicles in all, the logistics were difficult enough to organize without the general’s wife tagging along.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” Herman said, his eyes and concentration on the ledger and clipboard he was reviewing. “What can I do for you?”

  “The general has given me permission to accompany you this afternoon.”

  Herman put his clipboard down and sighed deeply. Just what he needed, a VIP to deal with.

  Sensing the growing frustration in the captain’s attitude, Ann Lester put her well-honed social skills to work.

  “Captain, I promise I won’t be a burden. And the general will be so happy to know that you’ve worked me into your convoy.”

  Herman knew there was nothing he could do about it, other than accept the inconvenience of having a gaggle of civilians accompany them.

  Make the best of it, Herman thought.

  “No problem, Mrs. Lester. We’re assembling the vehicles at 12:30 and departing at 13:00 sharp. Please be here no later than 12:15.”

  Looking at her watch, Ann saw she had two hours to collect her daughter and grandkids, pack the pickup, and be back to get in line. Having already planned on departing this afternoon, that wouldn’t be a problem.

  “Where will you be leaving us, ma’am?”

  “Crab Orchard, Tennessee.”

  The captain reviewed his map. It was about two hundred miles from Fort Knox to Crab Orchard. His HUMVEEs had a range of about two hundred fifty miles, that would actually be a good place to stop and refuel his convoy. Captain Herman smiled as he felt like he had been given a break.

  “That’ll work, Ma’am.”

  “Can you spare some fuel for us when we get there?”

  “Actually, I was planning on refueling all our vehicles there, so that won’t be a problem.”

  “Thank you, Captain. I’ll be sure to tell my husband how co-operative you’ve been.”

  Ann gave the captain her patented general’s wife smile and hopped into the Dodge. Driving to her daughter’s house, she mentally reviewed her supply list and found all in order.

  “Haylee!” Ann Lester called out as she entered her daughter’s kitchen.

  “Hi, Mom,” Haylee Romine replied as two fast-moving children shot by their mother.

  “Nana!” the little boy shouted. Four-year-old Bart flung himself into his grandmother’s waiting arms. Right behind him, his younger sister, Maggie, fought for some space in her Nana’s embrace.

  Hugging her grandkids, Ann looked up at her daughter and grinned. “You packed? We’re leaving in two hours.”

  “Are we going?” the young boy asked.

  “Your Grandpa said it’s okay.”

  Both children whooped in delight.

  “Up to your rooms,” their mother said. “Let’s get a bath before we leave.”

  The kids scurried out of the kitchen, laughing and jostling each other as their little feet clomped up the stairs to their second-floor bedrooms.

  “I really needed this,” Haylee said to her mother. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Thank your father,” Ann replied. “Quite frankly, I’m surprised he said yes. Something big is happening, and I think he wants us out of his hair.”

  “Whatever it is, I’m just happy we get to go. I’ve even packed the kid’s ice skates just in case the lake is frozen over.”

  “Good idea,” Ann said, smiling. “I’ll start loading up the truck. ”

  “Can’t wait!” Haylee said.

  As Ann Lester turned to leave, her daughter held out her open arms and gave her mother a hug.

  “Thank you so much, mom. I really needed this.”

  Ann Lester smiled and replied. “Watts Bar Lake, here we come!”

  – TWO DAYS LATER –

  WATTS BARR NUCLEAR FACILITY

  The generators had failed. The screeching of failing gears and metal-on-metal friction would have been deafening—if anyone had been there to hear it. The final death throes of the coolant system came and went without human witness as the water pumps went offline. The breakdown of the uranium inside the containment vessel accelerated and the rods began to
glow, the heat of the now-unchecked radioactive reaction building. The rods began to melt, forming a glowing slag of heavy metal at the bottom of the concrete container.

  The concentration of uranium was too low to lead to an explosion, but the heated material began to eat away at its containment vessel’s wall. By the end of the day, it penetrated the concrete barrier and hit the earth, drilling into the ground, flowing along the path of least resistance.

  At 11:00 am on the third day after Davidson had fled the facility, the radioactive slag reached the nearby pond, sending up radioactive steam. The hot gas was grabbed by the eddies of cold wind that were sweeping in from Canada. The swirling bands from the advancing front lifted the poisonous air up, carrying it several miles to the east.

  As the hot gas began to cool a few miles downwind, it settled on the shores of nearby Watts Bar Lake, bringing an odorless and colorless radioactive poison to whomever was exposed to it.

  It was especially damaging to the two little children who were preparing to ice skate on Watts Bar’s frozen surface. The inhaled mixture of radioactive iodine, tellurium, cesium and strontium found its way into their lungs. Within minutes, the poisons had settled into various glands and fat deposits and began to release deadly protons. These radioactive particles smashed through cell walls and broke apart strands of DNA, doing massive—but unseen—damage to their bodies.

  A bomb had been set inside General Lester’s grandchildren, and the countdown was already ticking.

  CHAPTER 5

  MAITLAND, FLORIDA

  “The truth of what one says, lies in what one does.”

  — Bernhard Schlink

  I WAS WORRIED ABOUT BEKER. SINCE I had found his stash of stolen jewelry a week or so ago, I’d become more and more concerned about his motives. He seemed the same on the surface, but now I knew there was more to him than the sweet, shy kid.

  We had hoped to leave by now, but the weather turned nasty and a couple of hard winter storms, along with an increase in gang activity, had kept us here a few weeks longer than we’d wanted. Jorge and Maria were chomping at the bit to start their journey, but we’d all agreed to hold out until the weather cleared. Today was that day.

  I had decided to go with Garrett and Janice to find Dr. Kramer’s place. We chose a route that will take us north and then west of the city. The indirect path would avoid ninety percent of the heavy population centers west of town, but it would also add a few days to the journey.

  Jorge and Maria were going the opposite way, east then south. If they manage to make it to the cattle ranch, they should be in a safe place with plenty of food and shelter.

  And Beker’s plans? No one knew. All of us had asked him, in one way or another, but he refused to tell us who he wanted to accompany. He might even stay, and after having told others about Beker’s burglaries, Harley and Ashley were less than thrilled at the prospect of having an unreliable and shady neighbor a block away.

  “Well, I think we’re ready,” Jorge said after we all reviewed the contents of our backpacks and battle belts.

  With the life straw water filtration kits provided by Beker, we could get by with carrying far less water. Three clear bottles each should cover us for at least a day’s water needs, and the filtration system would give us an unending supply of drinkable H2O. A week’s worth of calories via our homemade pemmican, along with trail mix, candy bars, and peanut butter, added considerable weight, but we couldn’t rely on scavenging along our journey. We could only count on the things we carried on our backs.

  Even budgeting for a few delays during the fifty-mile trip, we should still be able to make it to Monteverde in eight or nine days.

  I planned to load up on calories today so that I could keep a steady pace and bang out at least ten miles on our first day’s travel without needing to stop to eat. Janice and Garrett were going to follow the same plan. I was feeling hopeful for the first time in a long while that everything would all work out.

  Harley and Ashley were going to grill off some fish that we caught in nearby Lake Maitland during our last meal together. Janice, Garrett, and I were planning on leaving around dusk, reasoning that the night would reduce our profile and hopefully help us avoid conflict along the way.

  I tightened a strap on my bugout bag and nodded at Jorge. “Agreed,” I replied. “Ammunition looks good too. Everyone’s rifles and pistols clean and lubed?”

  All heads nodded as we broke up to spend the next few hours resting. The winter storm had been followed by clear, blue skies. The last couple of nights were nearly moonless, with the constellations a vibrant and shimmering roadmap that would help steer us in the correct direction. Each of us had a more mundane paper map marked with rally points along the way, places where we could meet up if we got separated. I could only hope that we wouldn’t need to use them.

  I went to my dad’s study. My heart was heavy as I sat in his swiveling office chair, surveying his room for possibly the last time. His absence was palpable, with pictures and knickknacks all reminding me of him.

  I caught my breath, holding back a sob. I felt so alone. I thought I had come to terms with my new life, but now I was overwhelmed, engulfed with grief. My breathing became shallow and my eyes watered, but I didn’t cry. I wasn’t sure I had any tears left. There was nothing left but anger at whoever had started this mess and regret at surviving this apocalypse when so many others had died.

  I drank in the sights of the room and inhaled the familiar smell, a mix of cologne along with the musky, earthy scent of my dad. I would miss this room. I missed him. I missed the world the way it used to be.

  I must have drifted off to sleep because the next thing I knew, the light filtering in from outside was the yellow of evening. I stood up and stretched, mentally preparing myself for the trip. I needed to put on my game face, which I had discovered was much more than mere bravado. It meant I was committed. It meant I was in a place that wouldn’t allow for distraction. I was focused and ready. That’s my game face.

  I learned a trick in college when I swam competitively, a sort of self-hypnosis that focused my mind and pushed my emotions to the side. As I began the breathing exercise, I heard the distinct popping of gunfire. I grabbed my rifle and rushed out to the backyard, where I was joined by the others.

  The shooting sounded like it was coming from close by, but the tree-lined streets tended to both amplify and distort loud sounds. The distinct crack of two or more AR-15 battles rifle was clear, mixed with the deeper bark of heavier rounds, likely hunting caliber bullets.

  All of us had grabbed our weapons on the way out of the house, just as we’ve trained ourselves to do. We scurried out of the yard and took pre-planned defensive positions.

  The distant battle intensified at a terrifying rate as the number of AR rifles entering the fight grew. I heard at least a dozen weapons, the shots so rapid they sounded like a movie theater’s popcorn machine.

  The sound of the heavier caliber rifle boomed in answer. Four, then five heavy rounds in rapid succession were followed by the cacophony of a dozen .556 magazines being emptied once again.

  After a few minutes of this back and forth exchange, the neighborhood grew silent. A minute or so of quiet was followed by the unmistakable sound of a large diesel engine and then a loud boom that reminded me of a traffic accident. The ARs began popping again, but a few seconds later, it was all over. We each gave the others a confused, frightened look. All we could do was hunker down behind cover and wait for the coming storm.

  ***

  Cory Flannigan wasn’t going anywhere. Not too long ago, a man and woman had invaded his space. They had been looting the house across the street from his garage fortress. After emptying over twenty rounds from his Bushmaster MOE M4 AR-15 at the two thieves, he had decided to switch over to his more powerful AR-10. Trusting the heavier .308 bullets, he was determined not to let any more looters escape from his sights.

  Cory wasn’t worried about his fate. He had spent the first few weeks afte
r the loss of power collecting newspapers and phone books. He lined his garage with them, double stacking the paper to create an almost impenetrable barrier against most any bullet that could be sent his way.

  His house was booby-trapped as well, rigged with non-lethal alarms that would let him know if it had been invaded. He’d considered more deadly traps, but explosives tended to cause fires, and he didn’t want to inadvertently burn his fortress to the ground. A bullet would have to do, as long as he had some warning that someone was trying to sneak up on him.

  Like every other day since the lights went out, Cory sat in his garage, peering out of the bottom third of the open door. Since the last incursion into his kingdom by the two criminals, he hadn’t seen a soul. But that all changed when he heard the sound of over a dozen men breaking into the houses farther down his street. More looters were coming, and Cory was the man to stop them.

  His garage was a veritable warehouse of ammunition and weapons. He was one of the firearm “super-owners” that ATF had flagged. He had bought several AR-15s along with a couple of hunting rifles, a half-dozen handguns (all 9mm to avoid having to buy multiple caliber rounds) and, of course, his AR-10. All were pre-positioned at different shooting stations in his garage. One was by the back door, looking out over his backyard. He had another protected shooting position by the garage’s side window, and a third by the door to the kitchen. The last one faced out of the partially raised garage door and down his tree-lined street. It was there that he saw the gang of skinheads making their way down the road directly toward his house.

  As the thugs came closer, he could make out their tattoos through his magnifying rifle scope. Swastikas, knives, and eagles were plastered on every inch of their bodies. The men looted the neighborhood with brutal efficiency. A pair of hoodlums would kick in the front door and disappear into the darkness beyond while the others kept watch. Cory knew that knew there was nothing left to salvage. His neighbors had abandoned their homes, but not before consuming anything of value and taking anything worth stealing with them when they left. These criminals wouldn’t find a thing.