While her husband was busy shaking hands, Whitney Schmidt was busy cutting her eyes at Fred after catching the sarcasm in his monologue. Not one to typically miss an opportunity to assert herself, she was quick to admonish him.
“Fred, I swear to God,” she reacted, “if you start your shit today, I promise you it will not end pretty.”
Fred lifted his hands in a rare gesture of surrender, but it wasn’t enough to create a détente between the two. Confrontations between the two were routine but had become more frequent after their households had combined. Whitney turned to her husband and began whispering angrily while keeping Fred in her peripheral vision.
Fred continued, “The last time we met, we had the ill-fated duty of discussing the loss of the valley’s matriarch, our neighbor Mrs. Erika Ackermann. Two members of a rogue motorcycle club somehow made their way into the valley and murdered her. Since that day, they’ve become a new potential threat to us. The potential threat became a dynamic one when Norman and Peter, Michael and myself ended up in a skirmish with a few of their buddies at Wolf Gap when we went to check on the barricade.”
Fred paused to take a breath and to gauge the expressions of those in front of him before continuing.
“Our encounters with these men thus far should’ve told us everything we needed to know about them. We know they’re on the hunt for something—most likely food and supplies, and we know that they’re willing to kill for it. They drew first blood by murdering Mrs. Ackermann. If they’d gotten the upper hand on us at Wolf Gap, I doubt they would’ve had any problem watching our side take heavy losses. The men that killed Mrs. Ackermann were carrying some garden-variety firearms, but the ones at Wolf Gap were using H&K MP5 submachine guns—a weapon that isn’t usually found in a typical gun store.”
Fred reached for an MP5 he had sitting on the altar and then held it up for all to see.
“The MP5 is probably one of the most popular firearms of its type in the world. It’s a highly reliable, accurate, close-quarters weapon. It’s also selective fire, meaning that it’s capable of firing more than one cartridge with a single trigger press. If they’re carrying these, we know they appreciate adequate firepower.”
Fred turned and set the weapon down before continuing. “What we also know about them, from items found on their person and in their possession, is that they like their drugs, alcohol, and they fancy things that…well, things that are so vile I’d rather not mention them here.” Fred paused. “So, with all that being said, let’s put all our uncertainties on the table so we can hash them out.”
Peter Saunders raised a hand and Fred acknowledged him.
“Let’s talk numbers,” Peter said. “Do we know how many of them we’re dealing with?”
“That’s one of the things I’ve asked our friend every day, Pete,” Fred replied. “It took a while to get him to acquiesce. At first, he claimed his chapter held well over one hundred men.”
Peter crossed his arms and sat back in his seat while random audible gasps were overheard in response to Fred’s reply. After a few seconds, Fred continued.
“In a subsequent conversation, he changed his tune and told me it was closer to fifty. Since then, the number keeps shifting to something in between the two.”
“He could be inflating the number…you know, to intimidate us,” Amy said. Her head faced her husband while her eyes played tennis with him and Fred.
“Well, if that was his intention, it’s working,” Whitney added, a confounded look on her face.
“By the same token, he could be deflating the actual number, you know, to give us a false sense of confidence,” Peter remarked.
“I don’t disagree with either logic,” Fred said. “The man is a disgusting human being—a prick with a capital P to boot, but I don’t believe he’s lying. If anything, he just doesn’t know the exact answer. Either way, I’d rather we prepare ourselves for the hundred and end up fighting the fifty—than the other way around.”
Fred took a pause as the group began to murmur and stir.
“Any idea how they’ve been able to survive for so long?” Michael Perry asked.
Fred nodded. “A rogue biker club with access to weapons and a willingness to kill—it’s not hard to come up with theories, Michael,” he began. “Our prisoner has helped by…filling in some of the blanks. But the answers he’s given me have only spawned more questions, I’m afraid. Some that even he can’t answer. It would be nice to have some confirmation.”
Fred paused as if to buy a little time before continuing. His eyes veered toward Christian to gauge the young man’s expression before moving forward. “What I’m about to say may come as a surprise to you folks. I know it did for me. Our prisoner, evidently a tenured member of the Marauders motorcycle club, has informed me that they’ve been working for the Department of Homeland Security. And that the DHS has been providing them with supplies as a form of payment.”
Christian’s face contorted when he noticed that Fred was now staring a hole right through him.
“Well—what in the hell for?” Amy questioned brashly as looks of interest and astonishment coated the faces of everyone in attendance.
“That’s what I’d like to know,” replied Fred, his voice nearly devoid of emotion. “Like I said, it would be nice to have some confirmation.”
Fred paused and turned his attention from Amy back to the former DHS operative in their midst, a person whom obviously still hadn’t gained his trust. “Christian, do you think you could enlighten us?” he quizzed.
Every eye in the church fell on Christian, but he remained amazingly resolute. If his confidence had taken a hit, he didn’t let it show. He stood up calmly and placed his hands on the back of the pew at his waist.
“Look, everyone. I get it. I’m the new guy in town and no one trusts me,” Christian began humbly, “And I don’t blame you. I know all of you have questions. Some of them I’ll have answers to. Some of them I won’t. But I’m willing to tell everyone everything that I know. You’ve provided me asylum among you, and in return, I owe you that at the very least. Just know this, before I begin—no matter what I say, no matter what information I can or can’t provide you, it’s not going to prevent the inevitable.”
Christian moved into an at-ease stance and crossed his arms over his chest. His sigh could be heard distinctly above the silence that had now overtaken St. James Church.
“Before the collapse, I was a security officer with the FPS—the Federal Protection Service. I mainly worked out of the FEMA Disaster Ops building in Stephenson, but I also spent a lot of time underground, stationed inside Area B at Mount Weather. My position as a DHS security agent was conjured post-collapse when I got reassigned to Camp Bravo in Woodstock. My primary job there was in-camp security, but the other agents and I were sometimes assigned to scavenging details outside the fence. In a limited capacity, we also performed raids, searches and seizures, and apprehended violators of martial law.”
Lauren glanced up at Christian for a split second before returning her gaze to the front of the church. She couldn’t help but dwell on his words, and the welfare of her grandparents began to swirl in her thoughts.
Scott and Whitney stirred, and Scott gestured to Christian. “Hold up a second—so there actually is a FEMA camp?” he asked.
Christian nodded. “Bravo is just one of several in Virginia,” he said. “It encloses the area of schools, hotels, and residential areas between the interstate and the railroad. It was constructed to efficiently utilize existing buildings and infrastructure.”
“Interesting,” Scott concluded.
Christian continued. “DHS has what they refer to as contingency plans that can be put into place in the event of a catastrophe, that give them options to help put down widespread civil unrest, especially in highly populated areas. Some of those plans incorporate securing assets—particularly the violent, expendable ones.” He paused. “Now—I have to admit, I’ve never been read-in on the literature. But I have seen
the contents of the orders we were given concerning asset acquisition. I’ll tell all of you that right now, in our current situation, with martial law being enforced—the DHS’s bounds are limitless. There’s no rule that inhibits them from doing anything they desire to further their agenda. And that includes using an outlaw biker gang as an asset to do their bidding. Those men are killers. They’re preconditioned for violence and don’t know a thing about morality. If DHS is using them, it’s a damn effective way to get the job done—and get it done on the cheap.”
Christian took a pause and glanced down at Lauren, who returned his glance vacantly. What he was saying now wasn’t news to her. She’d already heard much worse from him. He smiled grimly at her before returning the blank, contemplative stares he was now receiving from the group.
“I’m confused,” Kristen said with a hand held up. “What job? What are they trying to accomplish?”
Christian acknowledged her. “That involves a lengthy explanation, I’m afraid. And some of the things I might say won’t be easy for most of you to digest.”
Fred held out a hand, motioning for him to continue. “By all means,” he said firmly.
Christian nodded and, hearing no objection, continued. “I told Lauren when we met last week that DHS would eventually come for everyone and I meant it. Practically speaking, the better part of the country is now under some form of authoritarian control. Martial law is the rule of the land now. The guns we’re carrying today, the food, supplies, and ammunition you have stored in your homes, all infer our unwillingness to comply. And that makes everyone here in violation—enemies of the state. Virginia became one of the first states to become unstable enough to warrant full federal occupation after the collapse. The state border means nothing—we’re smack dab in the middle of FEMA Region III. Their mission is well under way now and they intend to see it through. It’s only a matter of time before they end up here.”
“Do you actually know all of this, or are you just shooting from the hip?” Michael asked, a cynical tone marking his voice.
“Like I said, it’s a lengthy explanation,” Christian said.
Whitney Schmidt sat up straight and turned to face Michael. “I appreciate his candor. It’s also the most information we’ve heard since this whole thing started. I’d like to hear what he has to say.”
“I agree,” Fred stated. “Go on, Christian.”
Christian smiled slightly, nodded his thanks to Fred and Whitney, and adjusted his stance. “After the blackout, the populated areas were the first to destroy themselves. There were over six million people in the DC area and its suburbs with densities ranging from five to ten thousand per square mile. Simply speaking—a hell of a lot of people in a very cramped space. What available military forces there were got called in to declare order, put down the mobs, and secure all federal resources. But it wasn’t nearly enough to do the job and it didn’t stop there. A mass exodus of scared, hungry, desperate people left in every direction, searching for ways to stay alive and escape the chaos. Areas west of the Blue Ridge Mountains were spared for a while, but eventually, civil unrest found its way everywhere, and FEMA was activated to enact order on the domestic front. An executive order was signed and martial law was predicated.” He paused. “In rural areas, it wasn’t so bad at first. Some people dug in for the long haul because in a lot of ways, they were already subsisting. Others though, didn’t have a choice and ran for help. The ones needing immediate help found that to get it, they had to give up what little freedoms they had left—something they’d been conditioned to do already as active members of society. Their possessions were commandeered and they were welcomed into the camps and given what they needed. In return, they were put to work.”
Christian took a pause and started to pace slowly beside the church pews. “The ones who had enough to survive on their own for a while eventually got visited by an armed detail of DHS agents, who served them with papers regarding the active enforcement of martial law and informing them that compliance was both mandatory and unavoidable. Curfews were enacted, habeas corpus no longer applied, and due to the rioting and civil unrest, possession of firearms became illegal. Amnesty was extended temporarily, and if they went along, their possessions were seized and they were welcomed into the camps and put to work. If they resisted, eventually they were raided. Their homes were ransacked, their possessions were confiscated, and they were taken to the camps by force, charged with a federal crime, and incarcerated.”
“Jesus,” Amy Saunders muttered, though loud enough to be heard over the silence.
“Guys, I’m sorry—but I’m having a hard time putting all this together,” Kristen said. “I know some of us came here to escape the craziness over there—and I’m not condemning that. To me though, it just doesn’t make sense that FEMA and DHS have become our enemy.”
“Is it really that hard to believe, Kristen?” Lauren asked. “They came for us at my grandparents’ house in an MRAP. We thought they were there to offer help, but instead, they threatened us. It’s why we ended up here. What Christian is saying is true.”
Kristen gave Lauren a snide, judgmental look. “I’ve heard your story before, Lauren, and I understand that. But we’re not a threat to them. And to this day, we haven’t seen hide nor hair of them here.”
“Yet…” added Michelle.
Christian held up a hand. “Does anyone remember the ammunition shortages?” he pondered to the group. “We’ve had several of them over the years. Remember how the shelves went bare and the prices went up and then you couldn’t find even the most common calibers?”
Sporadic nods filtered through the group.
“I remember having my orders curtailed on more than one occasion,” Fred said. “Lots of other FFL holders had the same problem.”
“Right,” said Christian. “And you recall why the shortage existed?”
Fred nodded. “Affirmative. It was primarily due to DHS initiating a purchase of circa two billion rounds—most of which were hollow points, if I recall correctly.”
“Right,” Christian said with a reactive nod. “And that doesn’t even take into account the purchases other federal agencies were making. Two billion rounds are enough to sustain a war for years—maybe even decades. Ever since their inception post-9/11, DHS has been stockpiling military-grade weapons, mine-resistant vehicles, food, and anything else you can imagine. Just before the blackout, DHS had just as many actively trained armed personnel as the entire Marine Corps.” He paused. “So ask yourselves—what did they need all that stuff for? In hindsight, the answer is easy. They were preparing for a war—a domestic war. With us. The people.”
No one spoke. Christian took another pause and sighed loudly.
“They prepared for this—and they prepared for it well in advance…almost as if they knew it was coming. The average joe who prepped for the future was labeled antigovernment, a conspiracy theorist, made fun of, and talked down upon for his actions. For ensuring survival for his family. Ironic, huh? They used our money to prepare for a war against us, right under our noses. They controlled the media and used propaganda to make the news so confusing that no one could make sense of anything. Thousands of invisible, silent battles won by attrition alone.”
“Sorry, Christian,” Michael said. “Some of what you’re saying makes sense, but this is a lot to absorb.”
“I know it is, and I told you it would be,” Christian said. “But answer this, Mike—who still has access to electricity? Who still has computers and technology that still works? Who still has a fleet of working vehicles and an endless supply of fuel for them? Who has all the food? Who has all the weapons? Who has everything…that we don’t have?”
Grace looked up to Christian and caught his eye. “What is it all about, though?” she begged. “There has to be a reason why they’re doing all this.”
“I don’t know, Grace,” Christian said, his tone relenting. “Originally, I truly believe the decisions made were for what was best for Americ
a, but somewhere along the line, everything changed. And now, today, I trust that whoever’s behind all this wants nothing more than a comprehensive structural change for the entire country—a new America. I believe that’s their mission now.”
“Well, I miss the old one,” Grace said. “I liked the old America.”
“Me too,” Christian said to her as he returned his attention to the group. “Admittedly, I’ve been a patriot ever since I was old enough to fish or shoot a pellet gun. My father was the same way. I memorized the words to ‘My Country, ’Tis of Thee’, and ‘America the Beautiful’ before I finished second grade. I can still recite the Preamble to the Constitution and parts of the Gettysburg Address from memory. My dad used to say that the Bill of Rights wasn’t worth the paper it was written on unless the people woke up and defended it every single day. He said that over time, apathy would cause us all to lose what our Founding Fathers fought so hard for us to have. As much as I hate to admit it, he was right. The government has continued to get bigger and more powerful over the years while our rights have literally been bought and sold off. They made their moves gradually, and every day, Americans, too busy living their normal lives, never even cared to notice. A system of control was put into place long ago and our republic was lost way before the collapse.”
“Control is one thing, Christian,” Michael said. “But an all-out war with the people? Fundamental change? A new America?”
Christian shrugged. “I can’t come up with any other explanation for what I’ve heard, seen, and experienced, Mike. The government has always desired to maintain control over the people. Taxation, food regulation, business, health and environmental guidelines, flow of information…you name it, they’ve found a way to control it. And whatever they didn’t control, they just made illegal. Speak out against them and you know what’ll happen to you. Name one constitutional right that hasn’t been declared inert over the years for one partisan reason or another…and while you’re at it, name the one right they’ve always pushed to take away from us—but for some reason, never quite could.”
What's Left of My World (Book 2): This We Will Defend Page 24
