The Mechanics: A Post-Apocalyptic Fiction Series

by Bobby Akart

  “Yeah, thanks, Julia,” said Susan, who was proud of the DIY birthday gift. “The hardest part was teaching the wand operator the necessary coordination to create bubbles.”

  “He makes it look easy.”

  “Donald has been practicing. The process is simple, at least in theory. With the two branches, or wands, held together, you dip the string into the bucket. As you lift the wand out of the bucket, you slowly spread the handles apart to let the bubble form. With just enough breeze, like today, you spread the wands apart, the bubble forms in the loop, and voilà, you have giant bubbles and happy girls.”

  “I love it, and I love the girls,” said Julia. The ladies laughed as Donald lost his balance attempting to make the biggest one ever. The exhibition was beginning to draw a crowd of Boston Brahmin as they arrived early for the morning meeting.

  “You should have a couple of dozen,” pried Susan, breaking the silence. Call it woman’s intuition.

  Julia remained quiet and then giggled. She whispered into Susan’s ear, “I hate you.” Then they both laughed. “Do you have a pregnancy test?”

  “I knew it,” Susan whispered back. “I’ll discreetly get you a First Response. Do you know how far along you are?”

  “I’m a month late. I thought maybe it was just stress. My last period ended around August twentieth. I’m always regular, so I’ve never kept a calendar.”

  “Did you guys have sex around September first?”

  “All weekend, including the night the lights went out.” Julia giggled.

  “Well, you certainly were in the prime window of opportunity, so to speak.” Susan laughed. She added, “I suspect there will be a lot of babies born at the end of May next year.”

  “I haven’t told Sarge yet, and I’m not a hundred percent sure how he’ll feel about it. I think he’ll be happy, but these aren’t exactly the best times for giving birth and raising babies.”

  The girls squealed with delight as Donald pulled off a whopper of a bubble. The breeze caught it, splitting it into two smaller bubbles, and the girls chased them in hot pursuit.

  “I don’t know. Right now seems like as good a time as any,” said Susan.

  Sarge snuck up behind Julia and hugged her around the waist. She and Susan exchanged smiles. Sarge nuzzled her neck for a bit.

  “You smell better today than you did yesterday,” teased Sarge. Julia broke away and took a swat at him, but missed to the left. Julia dropped her arms, inducing Sarge to let his guard down, and then she landed a punch to his left shoulder.

  “You smelled yesterday too, Mister Man.” Today was their shower day. Sarge allowed Julia to shower first to take advantage of the available hot water.

  “Good morning, Susan,” greeted Sarge. “Is Donald testing out some new secret weapon?”

  Susan laughed. “Nah, it’s the new prepper bubble bath. You strip naked and he bathes you with the bubbles. Whadya think?”

  “I think we should volunteer my brother to be the first bather.” Sarge looked at the ground for a moment, thinking about the strained relationship that was festering between them.

  Steven and Katie were spending the majority of their time at 100 Beacon. This was by design. Steven was leading daily insurgent activities with the Mechanics. They’d become a royal pain in the ass to the Citizen Corps and their new partners, the UN troops.

  Julia rubbed Sarge’s shoulders. She knew something was troubling him. The mention of Steven’s name accompanied by Sarge’s reaction confirmed what she suspected. Julia would discuss it with him, and the results of her pregnancy test, when the time was right.

  The daily briefings were conducted by Donald until Mr. Morgan’s stroke. Sarge had increased his role in the process over the last three weeks. Whenever he was at Prescott Peninsula, more often than not, he briefed everyone. Today, there was a lot of ground to cover, and Sarge would lead the meeting.

  “Girls, it appears Daddy is out of world-class bubble mix,” said Susan. “Why don’t you girls come with me into the kitchen. Aunt Stella wants to bake some birthday cupcakes.”

  “Chocky!” squealed Becca.

  “It’s my birthday, and I want vanilla,” replied Penny, giving up the chase for the last bubble.

  “How do both sound?” asked Susan.

  “Swell!”

  “Okay, both of you inside to get cleaned up for your baking lesson.” The girls turned towards the door and then, in unison, returned to hug their dad around the neck.

  “Thank you, Daddy, we love you!” said Penny. Donald knelt and hugged the girls. Julia was moved by the moment and then she noticed Sarge was beaming with a smile. Just maybe he’ll be a hundred percent Baby on Board.

  *****

  Sarge waited while everyone got settled. He was pleased that Mr. Morgan joined them this morning. Patriot activity was ramping up around the country, and he was encouraging Sarge to think towards an overall game plan, not just Boston and Region I.

  “Good morning, everyone,” he started. He looked at Julia and smiled. “Julia, with her innovative Digital Carrier Pigeon network, has been able to keep abreast of events across the country as well as around the globe. Regionally, the Citizen Corps governor, James O’Brien, has clamped down on the citizens of Boston in particular. Through the use of a United Nations occupying force, curfews have been implemented, roadblocks established, and now door-to-door searches have been initiated under the guise of assistance to survivors. In reality, our reports indicate that the troops are more interested in weapons confiscation and looting.”

  “Can’t they be stopped?” asked Mrs. Cabot. “Where are the police?”

  “I’m afraid they are the police now,” replied Sarge. The group mumbled to themselves, and Sarge was quick to add a positive spin. “I understand your concern, but there is an upside. The majority of law enforcement have joined our ranks. Under Steven’s leadership, we’ve undertaken several covert actions that have been, quite frankly, and pardon my tongue, driving O’Brien and his new friends bat-shit crazy.”

  The group erupted in laughter, and Morgan nodded approvingly.

  “That said, we do not take the power our anointed governor wields and the potential harm this UN force is capable of for granted,” Sarge continued. “History shows us that a tyrannical ruler is capable of many things. For example, during the rise to power of the Soviet Empire, Vladimir Lenin decreed the creation of a group of ruthless soldiers and operatives called the Cheka. The Cheka were granted broad police powers and tasked with the elimination of any form of dissent within the communist system.

  “Lenin launched what would later be known as the Red Terror, in which every Russian population center had a Cheka office of operations using surveillance, infiltration, nighttime raids, imprisonment, torture and execution to silence opposition to the authority of the state.

  “Some of these people were active rebels, some were outspoken political opponents and journalists, others were merely average citizens wrongly accused by neighbors or personal enemies. The Cheka created a society of fear and suspicion in which no one could be trusted and little criticism was spoken above a whisper for fear of retribution.”

  “That kind of intimidation can’t happen here, can it?” asked Dr. Peabody. “I mean, where is our military in all of this? Doesn’t the UN have to follow our directives?”

  “All very good questions, Art,” replied Sarge. “I am of the opinion that this kind of activity is exactly what our President wants. By quickly announcing the onerous Declaration of Martial Law, he taunted freedom-loving Americans into reacting angrily. It worked, and as a result, he used the outcry as the impetus for injecting the United Nations Peacekeeping force into the equation.”

  “And our military?” Peabody persisted. Sarge looked to Brad, who nodded, allowing him to restate a conversation the two men had earlier.

  “Military leaders and the soldiers who serve under their command are people just like us,” started Sarge. “They have political leanings and opinions just as we
do. Many are oath keepers and promised to uphold the Constitution. In some cases, their conscience tells them to disobey orders, but they remain on post. Others have left the service of what they consider to be a tyrannical commander in chief. Naturally, some agree with the President and have used this as an opportunity to advance his political agenda.”

  “Do you have an opinion as to how strong our military remains as a fighting force?” asked Cabot, looking in the direction of Morgan. Morgan again nodded and tilted his head towards Sarge. Sarge is in charge.

  “Yes, sir, we do,” he replied. “Brad has been in contact with his counterparts throughout the country. Our active military troop level is at thirty percent of its pre-collapse numbers.” The attendees roared in disapproval. Cabot was most vocal among them.

  “How are we supposed to defend our shores against the Russians without our armed forces?”

  “Please, everyone, let me finish,” replied Sarge. “First of all, through our usual means of communication with Putin and the Chinese, we have prevented any immediate threat to the nation from outsiders. Despite the President’s inaction on this issue, we have effectively put the world on notice not to take advantage of our brief moment of weakness.”

  “That’s good to hear,” said Endicott, “but where did all of our soldiers go?”

  “Sir, many of them are with us or like-minded patriots around the country. For years, libertarian-minded thinkers, tea party activists, and self-reliant individuals became painted with a broad brush as domestic extremists and terrorists. In fact, a narrative was established in the media and liberal think tanks like the Southern Poverty Law Center that these individuals represent a clear and present danger, alluding to the doctrine allowing the government in times of national crisis to prosecute almost any citizen giving material support to enemies of the state. Material support has included verbal opposition to government policies, while enemies of the state included anyone in vocal opposition to this administration. Under martial law, that definition has broadened to include, arguably, anyone who has survived.”

  Sarge paused to take a drink of water and then surveyed the group. Sometimes he wondered if it made sense to provide all of the details to the Boston Brahmin. In the end, he determined that they were capable of taking the truth.

  “But to finish answering Mr. Endicott’s question,” added Sarge, “the soldiers who have left their posts have, in large part, joined groups like ours throughout the country. These groups are made up of organized and patriotic citizens. Some are military; most are not. They are all committed to fighting for our country.”

  Sarge decided to move on to financial matters. This was something they would all be interested in hearing.

  “World financial and commodity markets are collapsing,” said Sarge. He referred to a sheet of notes provided to him by Donald. He would continue to lean upon Donald for navigating the financial stratagems employed by Mr. Morgan. “The dollar is no longer trading on the FOREX. Hyperinflation has set in, and our Federal Reserve Notes are becoming worthless.”

  “What about gold prices?” asked Lowell. Sarge looked towards Morgan, who provided him an imperceptible nod. Okay.

  “At the time of the cyber attack, gold traded at about eleven hundred dollars an ounce. Today, it’s trading at seventy-three hundred dollars an ounce, with no end in sight.”

  Lowell and Cabot couldn’t contain their excitement with back slaps and handshakes. Sarge smiled and shook his head.

  Let’s end today’s briefing on a high note, shall we?

  Chapter 23

  Wednesday, October 26, 2016

  4:00 p.m.

  Huntington Avenue near Northeastern University

  Boston, Massachusetts

  The four soldiers of J-Rock’s gang remained hidden as they watched the young couple scurry past the entrance to the Northeastern University School of Law. They laid in wait as the pair—probably students of the university, based upon their backpacks bearing a crimson N—worked their way up the sidewalk from Wollaston’s Market. Each of them carried a pack full of what remained from eight weeks of looting.

  The white couple was unaware of their observers. It was still daylight, and besides, why should they worry? The United Nations troops were now patrolling the streets and providing them protection.

  The tallest of the men, nicknamed Jacko for his proficiency in carjacking, was adorned with gold jewelry boosted from prior home invasions. As a high-ranking member of the consolidated black gangs of South Boston, he was also extended the privilege of sporting the gang’s colors—a Raiders jersey. In a city which loved its hometown New England Patriots, there were not enough Raiders jerseys available to go around for the new recruits. Only senior leadership was afforded that honor.

  The other three gangbangers, relatively new hires, had not yet earned their stripes. The approaching couple provided Jacko a teachable moment for his newest protégé, fifteen-year-old Latrell, a former honor student at the Brooke Mattapan Charter School.

  “You ready to do this thing, Latrell?” asked Jacko.

  Latrell was shaking and looked nervously toward the couple as they reached the intersection. The two students hid behind an empty newspaper stand as a van roared through the intersection.

  Latrell’s dreadlocks stood in stark contrast to his soft, innocent hazel green eyes. He still proudly wore his navy blue hooded sweatshirt bearing his school’s logo. He rose from his crouch and pulled up his oversized blue jeans. It was his weight loss, and not his desire, which resulted in his looking like the stereotypical gangbanger.

  “Yeah, I’m ready, I guess,” he replied hesitantly, which earned him a slap across the back of the head from Jacko.

  “Damn right you’re ready, mutherfucker. This is your time.” Jacko handed him the thirty-two-ounce steel framing hammer.

  Latrell, hands shaking, accepted the tool-turned-murder-weapon. It still contained the bloodstains of the old Asian man one of his associates had bludgeoned to death earlier in the day. They’d stolen the man’s watch.

  Although he was visibly nervous, his heart thumped with adrenaline-fueled excitement. Jacko had introduced Latrell to the thrilling rush of crystal meth. Free drugs were considered a perk for being part of J-Rock’s crew. Methamphetamine was a white, crystal-like drug produced in hidden laboratories from amphetamines contained in over-the-counter cold remedies mixed with a variety of chemicals such as battery acid, drain cleaner, lantern fuel, and antifreeze. Despite the collapse of the power grid, the meth labs were still in full production.

  The drug user snorted meth through the nose, smoked it, or injected it with a needle. Crystal meth created a rush in which the user felt euphoric, confident and full of energy. Jacko used the drug to keep his recruits ready to do his dirty work. He provided them enough during the day to keep them high. He didn’t need his soldiers binging out of control or tweaking because they ran out of crystal meth. It was a controlled high. Mostly.

  Latrell’s drug-induced adrenaline kicked in and was in full effect. This was his final challenge before being fully accepted into J-Rock’s gang. In addition, he had learned over the past two months that killing white people would earn him extra props. He’d been given plenty of examples of how white privilege still existed, even after the collapse. Jacko showed him that it was white people who were receiving all of the food and supplies from the government.

  J-Rock’s gang had grown in numbers and began to thrive after it was given the green light by Governor O’Brien to raise hell throughout Boston. The gang expanded because it was profitable to steal, at first. But as the pickins became slim, as they say, the leaders of the unified black gangs of Dorchester, Roxbury, and Mattapan turned to another motivational tack—hate.

  Hate-filled speeches and a focus on racist rap music from artists like Common and Azealia Banks, who infamously wrote lyrics claiming the President hated white people, riled up the gang members to seek outlets for their frustrations. It became an initiation ritual for J-Rock’s
gang to kill a white person. This was going to be Latrell’s rite of passage.

  Jacko looked down at his three underlings. “Now, remember this is Latrell’s turn. He takes the first hits. I don’t wanna see nobody else involved, but our job is to jump in if he can’t handle it.”

  The other three gangbangers laughed and Latrell managed a smile as well. “I don’t need no fuckin’ help. That white boy ain’t gonna do nothing but cry.”

  “I know you got this, brother,” started Jacko. “I tell you what, leave the white girl alone. You boys grab her. After you do your bidness, we’ll party with the white ho and have some more of this chalk. I’ll let you have at her first, after me of course.”

  Latrell nodded and gripped the claw hammer tightly in his left hand. He gave it a couple of awkward swings to indicate he was ready. “Let’s do this,” he pronounced.

  Jacko nodded and waved his new recruit toward the intersection. He emerged from the bushes alone as the young couple, blissfully unaware, turned their backs to the gang and walked east on Huntington.

  Latrell stalked his prey while Jacko and the others walked fifty feet behind him. As Latrell got closer, he could see the couple more clearly. Both were in their early twenties and appeared to be neatly dressed. Clean clothes. They’re doin’ better than us black folk.

  He then assessed the young woman. She had long blonde hair, worn straight so that it hung well past her shoulders to her waist. She was attractive and her figure was athletic. He liked blondes. Jacko had promised him a party.

  Latrell gripped the hammer and gauged the distance between himself and the couple. They were thirty feet away and wedged onto the sidewalk by the fence guarding the commuter rail stop on their left and the elevated guard rail protecting pedestrians from eastbound traffic on Huntington Avenue. The time was almost right.

  As the couple reached the midway point of this stretch, the girl glanced behind her and saw Latrell’s approach. The plan was to bury the claw end of the hammer in the guy’s back while his boys grabbed the girl. He’d beat the dude down while his boys, and the girl, watched.