The Mechanics: A Post-Apocalyptic Fiction Series

by Bobby Akart

  “I’ve noticed this in Katie too,” said Julia. “Her behavior is more nonverbal—folded arms, sighs, and eye-rolling. I thought about confronting her, but I feel we have bigger fish to fry.”

  “I’m afraid it’s gonna build up into something hard to overcome,” said Sarge. “I can talk to him man-to-man, but I can’t compete with someone undoing our conversation.”

  “Under the circumstances we live in, it’s more than two brothers needing to work out a disagreement. In a way, both Steven and Katie are employees who have a job to do. You have to be able to give them direction and have confidence that your orders will be carried out. Do you have that right now?”

  Sarge hung his head to where his chin touched his chest. He was losing confidence in Steven. Sarge was excluded from the meetings with the leaders of the Mechanics. If it wasn’t for the interaction with the top lieutenants who lived at 100 Beacon, Sarge would have no direct involvement in their activities. Granted, he needed to be protected because of his role as head of the Boston Brahmin, but he felt like Katie and Steven were pushing him out. It had bothered him for days.

  “I don’t know, honey,” replied Sarge. “For right now, if all of this does stem from jealousy, which is the only logical explanation, I’ll have to diffuse it before the situation becomes disruptive.”

  The two sat in silence for several minutes, interrupted by the sound of an occasional gunshot or a siren. After eight weeks, Boston was largely abandoned. The UN troops were effectively instigating a mass exodus from many neighborhoods. Perhaps that was by design. Word of atrocities began to surface—executions, rapes, and theft. The Mechanics continued to grow in numbers, but there weren’t enough to take on the trained UN forces head-on. For now, the insurgent activities were the best tactic, but eventually a plan to drive the UN out of the city would have to be put into place.

  “By the way, in just forty-eight hours, HAMRs across the country have exploded with excitement over your speech Friday night,” said Julia, breaking the silence.

  “I didn’t really say much. It took all of five minutes.”

  “Don’t underestimate yourself, Sarge. People out there are starving for a leader. They crave someone who thinks like they do. They need someone who isn’t afraid to stand up for what’s right, especially against tyrants like the President and the Citizen Corps.”

  Sarge sat up and stretched his arms. “I’ve just taken the reins of what is arguably the most powerful and wealthy cartel in America, if not the world. I’m still digesting that. I have to leave this part of my life hidden while I try to convince the masses that I’m one of them and a patriot to boot.”

  “Yes. Welcome to politics. If you only could muster up a Southern drawl on command like Hillary, you’d be unstoppable.”

  “Very funny, Julia. She’s probably gonna be elected President on the eighth and this whole exercise will become moot.”

  “I don’t know about that. There hasn’t been any discussion out there about the elections. I suspect the President has something up his sleeve.”

  “Yeah, a coronation. He will anoint himself King of the Americas!”

  “Don’t laugh,” Julia said. “Would it surprise you?”

  “Nope.”

  Sarge pushed himself up and offered his hand to Julia to help her as well. “Let’s walk around so I can stretch my legs a little bit. I’m getting stiff.”

  “Old fucker.” Julia laughed.

  As the two descended from the top of the HVAC unit, Julia asked, “Are you worried about tomorrow?”

  “You mean Governor Baker’s shindig? No, not really. It’s all for show anyway. I believe the politicians are simply showing their voters they are doing something, even if it’s all talk.”

  Julia stuffed their blanket into a storage cabinet near the hot tub. The city remained strangely still. The two walked the perimeter of the rooftop, taking a moment to glance at the sidewalk below from time to time. The majority of the UN activity had been to their south, and the gangs remained in South Boston. Their Back Bay neighborhood, which now contained a couple of hundred families from the Mechanics, was fairly safe.

  “Are you taking security with you?” asked Julia. She appeared to be apprehensive about his attending the impromptu legislative session.

  “Of course, babe. We have to remember nobody except our group knows who I am and what I do. Unlike Mr. Morgan, who had been in the political limelight for years, I’m just a humble professor from Harvard that happens to control seventy percent of the world’s gold reserves and countless billions in dollars or marks or something of value.” They both laughed at Sarge’s attempt to downplay his importance.

  “Okay, Mr. Big Shot,” said Julia. “Call it a hunch, but I think it would be a good idea to take a handful of the guys from downstairs with you. Dress just like them so you blend in. Don’t wear a suit like the politicians. If something is going to happen, they’ll go after the suits.”

  “Fine.” He laughed. “I’ll wear a Halloween costume. Tomorrow, I’ll go as Darth Vader!”

  The well-earned shove almost knocked him on his ass.

  Chapter 32

  Monday, October 31, 2016

  9:00 a.m.

  Massachusetts State House

  Boston, Massachusetts

  “Now, this is a day to die for,” said Sarge to the entourage that escorted him up Beacon Street toward the Massachusetts State House. The temperature was in the upper forties, but the sun rising over the deserted skyscrapers of downtown Boston provided a warm glow on his face. Most of the leaves had fallen on Boston Common to his right, creating a carpet of fall color. Gone were the rotting corpses that were strewn about. The UN troops had systematically cleaned up the streets and moved abandoned vehicles out of the way. The scene still resembled one from The Walking Dead, minus the zombies, of course.

  “I’m surprised at the number of people out this morning,” said Captain Chin Gibson, who had been assigned to head up Sarge’s newly formed security detail. Gibson was the lone active-duty Marine who, coupled with six of the Mechanics residing in 100 Beacon, would provide Sarge protection whenever he was in the city.

  “Me too, Captain. This was planned for a couple of weeks, but I don’t know how Governor Baker would’ve gotten the word out. There must be four or five dozen people headed toward the State House.”

  Sarge and Gibson were flanked by men roughly twenty paces in front of and behind them. Across Beacon, walking along the wrought-iron fence, were two more members of the detail. All of the men dressed casually, with winter jackets. They didn’t want to stand out for any reason. Each of the men, including Sarge, wore a shoulder holster.

  Gibson and his detail also carried AR-15 pistols confiscated by the Mechanics from UN troops. For all practical purposes, the 5.56 NATO Tactical pistols were identical to a ten-and-a-half-inch AR-15 rifle. The only difference was the absence of a stock. The compact profile made it easily hidden under a jacket while attached to a single-point sling.

  As they approached the grounds of the State House, the sun reflected brightly off the gold-leaf dome and temporarily blinded Sarge. Standing high on Beacon Hill, the gleaming gold dome of the State House actually had a humble beginning—gray, weathered wood. Just a few years after the State House was completed in 1798, Paul Revere’s company covered the wooden structure with copper to preserve it and prevent water leaks.

  Seventy-five years later, the entire structure was covered with 23-carat gold leaf. The cost at the time was $2,863. Today, the price to regild the dome would be in excess of a million dollars. The golden-domed State House was a joyous sight to Bostonians in the late nineteenth century. Oliver Wendell Holmes, who coined the phrase the Boston Brahmin, referred to the State House as the hub of the solar system. The State House was such an important influence in the governing of Massachusetts and surrounding New England states that signs were erected on major roadways leading into the city, which read Boston, 26 miles.

  For days, legislators and thei
r families made the trip to the famed Massachusetts State House. They were inspired by their governor, Charlie Baker, to show the citizens of the state that their government was intact and prepared to function. After nearly sixty days, it was apparent that the crisis would not be resolved quickly. Bay Staters needed to see their government in action. Governor Baker hoped to start the process today.

  Two members of the security detail led the group through the wrought-iron gates and up the steps toward the bright white Doric columns that stood atop the entry. The other two joined Sarge and Gibson.

  “I don’t see any building security, do you, Captain?” asked Sarge.

  “No, sir. It seems odd under any circumstances.”

  Before entering, Sarge turned and surveyed Boston Common and the street below. This was where Abbie had stood when she announced her senate re-election campaign. A lot had happened since then. Her career had taken off when she was named the running mate to Hillary. On the surface, it was an odd coupling. Hillary was decidedly liberal, and Abbie was a libertarian. But, as Sarge learned, like many political pairings, theirs was not a match made in heaven. Rather, it was made in a back room, under suspicious circumstances, between John Morgan and Bill Clinton. Will I be able to maneuver in the world of politics like John Morgan?

  “Sir,” said Gibson, grabbing Sarge’s attention, “it’s almost time.”

  Sarge turned and joined the group. “Yeah, okay.”

  The men moved into the open hallway and passed through a security checkpoint of sorts.

  “Gentlemen, are you carrying weapons?”

  Gibson responded, “We are.”

  “Governor Baker has instructed us to inform you that weapons are acceptable under the present circumstances. However, you are admonished to keep them obscured from view. Also be aware that you are not the only visitors carrying weapons today. We ask that you remain orderly during these proceedings. Understood?”

  “Of course,” said Gibson.

  The men made their way into the building and were awestruck at the ornate architecture and beautifully painted murals. Of the group, only Sarge had been inside of the building. However, Gibson had briefed his team on the layout of the building and surrounding grounds, using a history book from Donald’s prepper library at 100 Beacon.

  Walking up the grand staircase to the third floor, Sarge attempted to estimate the number of people milling about on the main floor. He was amazed at the crowd. Granted, a large number arrived in Boston from out of town, but this was more people in one place than he’d seen in a month—combined.

  They entered the State Representatives Chamber, where Governor Baker was going to speak. Statues, paintings and marble busts adorned the walls. The flags of the United States and Massachusetts flanked the Speaker’s chair. Well-dressed men and women made small talk as they awaited the governor’s speech. Except for the .45-caliber handgun pressed against his ribs, Sarge thought this looked like any other day when the General Court was in session.

  Sarge began walking toward the front, but Gibson gently grabbed his arm. “Sir, let’s sit toward the rear, near one of those side exits.”

  Sarge looked at him and nodded.

  Gibson spoke to the detail, who immediately took up positions behind them and near each of the closest exits. Sarge relaxed. His detail was well prepared.

  After sitting in silence, and as the crowd began to shuffle into their seats, Gibson asked, “What’s the deal with the fish up there?”

  Gibson was pointing to the five-foot-long carving of a codfish. One of the most visited items in the State House, the revered Sacred Cod was a reminder of the state’s survival and success.

  Sarge explained, “The story goes that in the mid-seventeenth century, local fishermen caught three hundred thousand cod and it quickly became the biggest source of revenue for the locals. According to the colonists’ journals, the cod were clustered so thick in the bay that you could walk across the water on them.”

  “That’s a real fish story,” said Gibson.

  “Here’s another one for you,” started Sarge. “Back in the thirties, some of my predecessors at Harvard entered the Chamber, pretending to be visitors. They armed themselves with wire cutters and clipped the wires holding the Sacred Cod to the wall. Then they smuggled it out in a flower box.”

  “Undercover cod-nappers?” asked Gibson.

  “You got it,” replied Sarge. “It created such an uproar that the legislators claimed they couldn’t conduct the state’s business without their beloved Sacred Cod. They did, however, pass a law stating a suitable punishment for the cod-nappers, as you say. The Harvard police ultimately recovered the Sacred Cod, and there it is, safe and secure.”

  “I feel better, don’t you?” Gibson laughed.

  “Yes, and by the way, the Senate chamber has its own fish too,” said Sarge.

  “What kind?”

  “A mackerel,” replied Sarge.

  “Let me guess, a holy mackerel.” Gibson laughed.

  “It is indeed.”

  They were startled by the rapping of the Speaker’s gavel. The Massachusetts General Court was being called into session.

  Chapter 33

  Monday, October 31, 2016

  9:20 a.m.

  Massachusetts State House

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Sarge listened respectfully to Governor Baker’s speech and admired him for his fortitude in calling the session. But his mind continue to wander to his own speech. Baker, a Republican, used phrases intended to instill confidence in government. Phrases like public trust, working hard for you, and protect and provide were used repeatedly. Sarge contrasted this with his own words—fellow patriots, freedom loving, stand up to tyranny. Baker was making a political speech designed to pacify constituents. Sarge’s address to the nation last Friday night was designed to be a call to arms. Am I, or have I become, a revolutionary?

  “Sir, I need you to remain calm,” started Gibson as he sat in the seat next to Sarge. Sarge was so engrossed in thought that he hadn’t realized Gibson had left.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Sir, after the governor began speaking, several late stragglers entered the Chamber. They’ve begun to take up strategic positions throughout the hall. I recognize two of them, sir.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Citizen Corps,” replied Gibson. “I wasn’t sure at first until I saw that man with the Bruins cap on.” Gibson nodded toward a heavyset man who’d found the only available seat on the front row. He was wearing the logo hat of the city’s beloved hockey team.

  “Maybe it’s a coincidence?”

  “No, sir. I just went into the hallway and had my man check the street. UN security vehicles are patrolling Commonwealth. They were noticeably absent thirty minutes ago. I have a bad feeling, sir. We really need to go.”

  “Okay,” said Sarge, who was now genuinely concerned. This had been too easy.

  “I’ll wait a moment and then join you.”

  “Should we alert everyone?” asked Sarge.

  “Sir, you are my priority. We can’t help everyone, and I am not going to place you in the middle of a gunfight.”

  Sarge looked around the room one last time. So much for democracy.

  He made his way through the north exit, where two of his detail stood vigilant. Their eyes were darting back and forth, and their weapons were protruding through the front of their jackets. Voices and the sounds of fast-moving footsteps could be heard from the south where the grand staircase was located.

  Gibson and the other two members of the team emerged. “Weapons ready, gentlemen. I’m afraid we’re a few minutes too late. Sir, you stay close to me.”

  Gibson moved them against the wall toward the state library. In the back of the library was a spiral staircase, which would allow them access to the staff offices on the second floor. They moved quickly but quietly as a unit. The activity was happening behind them.

  “Dammit,” said Gibson. “It’s locked.”


  “I’ve got this, sir,” said the only black member of the security detail. Standing six foot four, the man had arms like Thor. He pulled up his pants leg, which revealed a sheath and a six-inch fixed-blade knife.

  He pulled the knife and approached the door. He worked the blade between the door and the door jamb’s striker plate. Applying steady but forceful pressure, causing the wood to splinter, the bolt made an audible SNAP. They were in.

  Gibson closed the door behind him and instructed the men to barricade the door with a table.

  “Look through the windows to the west and tell me what you see,” he shouted as he went to the east wall of the State House. He shook his head. “They’re getting into position in the courtyard. What about over there?”

  “I’ve got a Humvee down on Hancock Street and another one parked below us on Myrtle.”

  Gibson started running towards the rear of the library and into a storage room. “This way. We’ll take the stairs to the second floor. They’ll be focusing their efforts on securing the main floor, but I think their real prize will be in that House Chamber.”

  “They’re here to kidnap, not kill,” said Sarge. “Do you think O’Brien is behind this?”

  “No doubt about it,” said Gibson. “I’m sure that was his man in the front row.”

  The group arrived in a hallway on the second floor. There were frantic people running back and forth, ducking in and out of offices, seeking cover.

  “We’ve got to make our way to the west wing. There isn’t a street adjacent to that part of the State House. We could lower ourselves out of a window, or maybe there’s a back stairwell to the first floor.”

  They began working their way along the landing overlooking the main floor. They had to get past the main staircase until they reached the corridor on the west side of the building. Just as they reached the double doors leading into the west wing, gunfire erupted on the main floor and bullets flew wildly into the ceiling of the State House.