The Mechanics: A Post-Apocalyptic Fiction Series

by Bobby Akart

  “Here we go,” said Sarge. They broke into a sprint as screams echoed throughout the State House. More gunshots could be heard.

  They reached the end of the corridor, and the men frantically searched for a stairwell or fire escape. With the doors to the offices closed, the light was dim. Sarge cautiously moved down the dimly lit hallway to the south and looked toward the ceiling until he found the fire exit sign. There!

  He ran back and retrieved the security detail. “This way!”

  Gibson took a moment to look out the window and announced, “Clear outside.”

  As they worked their way down the stairs, gunmen suddenly burst through the first-floor doorway and started up towards them.

  Sarge’s detail didn’t hesitate and opened fire. Three quick bursts and the UN soldiers dressed in maintenance-worker coveralls were dead. Only the open door saved Sarge from a concussion from the report of the gunfire.

  “C’mon,” shouted Gibson. “That’ll draw a lot of attention.”

  Taking two steps at a time, they bolted down to the first floor and burst through the exit door into the bright sunlight. All of the men needed a moment to adjust their eyes.

  “Follow me,” yelled Gibson as he led them across a short stretch of lawn to the ivy-covered brick walls of the row houses on Joy Street. He used the leafless oak trees to provide them some cover until they reached an alley leading away from the State House grounds.

  Glass broke in a third-story window of the Capitol and bullets penetrated the brick above them. A body fell out of the window and was impaled on the spires of a black iron fence behind them.

  “Run!” They sprinted away from the body and turned the corner in the alley until they were able to crouch behind a disabled delivery truck. All of the men were breathing heavily.

  This was Sarge’s neighborhood, and he had to get them back to 100 Beacon. He could hear the sounds of trucks parking near the entrance of the State House and at Boston Common. Returning on Beacon Street was out of the question. In fact, all of the streets seemed like a really bad idea.

  “Everybody good?” asked Gibson.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sarge spoke up. “The streets are too dangerous and it would be crazy to hide out here and wait.”

  “I agree,” added Gibson. “They’ll be moving quickly to secure the perimeter. We’ve got to boogie.”

  “This is my neighborhood, guys, I’ve jogged these streets a thousand times,” said Sarge. “We need to slip through the backyards. If we go down any of these streets, we’re screwed.”

  “Lead the way, sir!” said Gibson.

  Chapter 34

  Monday, October 31, 2016

  12:00 p.m.

  Massachusetts State House

  Boston, Massachusetts

  O’Brien was pleased with himself. He’d caught these treasonous bastards off guard. He walked past the security checkpoint and stepped over the dead security guard. He stopped in the middle of the lobby and looked around. This was more like it. Maybe I should relocate my offices here.

  He pulled out one of the Cuban cigars given to him by La Rue. He lit it and allowed a large puff of smoke to exhale out of his lungs toward the ceiling. He approached a woman and child cowering in the doorway of an office. They were both crying.

  “Miss, are you a traitor?” he asked.

  “A what?” she replied in broken English with a Spanish accent.

  “Traidor, traidor!” he shouted at her.

  “No, señor. We are hungry.”

  O’Brien stared down at the mother and daughter and studied the frail women. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a Snickers candy bar. He tossed it towards the child, where it landed in her lap. After the little girl didn’t make a move towards it, he spoke.

  “Food, there you go.”

  The girl buried her head in her mother’s shoulder.

  O’Brien finally lost interest. “Fuck it. Let them go!” he shouted. “All of these people need to be questioned; then let them go. I’m interested in the treasonous bastards upstairs.”

  O’Brien finally reached the top of the stairs where La Rue was waiting.

  “Welcome, Governor,” said La Rue formally, and loud enough to be overheard by anyone in the hallway outside the House Chamber.

  O’Brien dismissed his welcome with the wave of a hand. He was out of breath from the trip up the stairs. He could hear the crying and occasional raised voices coming from the Chamber.

  “How many?” he asked breathlessly.

  “I think about two hundred, including the visitors,” replied La Rue.

  “Deaths?”

  “Several. We had some cowboys in there who tried to shoot their way out of the room. We piled the bodies in the House Majority Leader’s office over there. He joined them, by the way, when he refused to relinquish his own weapon.”

  “So you’ve secured the room?”

  “Yes, you can go in when you’re ready. But I have to warn you, a lot of these people pissed themselves when the bullets started flying. It reeks in there.”

  “Yeah, well, they’re about to piss themselves some more. Let’s go.”

  O’Brien relit his cigar and led a procession including La Rue and four uniformed UN troops that represented his new security detail. He waddled down the ramp and climbed the steps to the Speaker’s chair. The crying continued and the murmur of voices rose.

  He took another deep draw on his cigar and then pounded the gavel directly on the Speaker’s desk, disregarding the sound block.

  “Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye. Everyone shut the fuck up!”

  When the noise persisted, O’Brien pounded so hard that the gavel broke.

  “Enough! I’d be just as happy to shoot the noisiest among you, if you’d rather.” The room gradually became quiet.

  “My name is Governor James O’Brien, the real, duly appointed by the President of these United States, governor of Region I, which includes, by the way, Mr. Baker, the good state of Massachusetts.” Governor Baker sat in the front row and was held at gunpoint. He wouldn’t make eye contact with O’Brien.

  “I’m not gonna beat around the bush with you people. What you have done here today is not only a mistake, but a violation of the law. A big one, in fact. Short of murder, there isn’t a crime in this country more vile than treason. All of you are under arrest for treason!”

  The Chamber erupted in shouts of anger.

  “You can’t do this!”

  “We are the government!”

  “Under what authority?”

  O’Brien gave them a moment to vent. Nobody liked to be accused of a crime. But when the protests continued too long, he moved to quiet them again—except the gavel was broken. He got the attention of his security detail. He formed his right hand to look like a gun and moved his thumb to mimic dropping the hammer. Then he pointed up. The soldier understood and immediately fired three shots into the ceiling, causing plaster to rain down on Governor Baker and the other front-row inhabitants.

  Following a moment of screams, the room became quiet again.

  “That’s more like it,” said O’Brien as he reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He began to read.

  “By the authority vested in me by the President of the United States pursuant to Executive order 13777 titled Declaration of Martial Law, I hereby charge you with the following high crimes and misdemeanors.

  “You are guilty of the unlawful assembly of more than ten persons. In furtherance of such unlawful assembly, you have entered into speech that is deemed intended to incite a riot and hostilities against the United States. The sum of these activities constitutes treason!”

  Once again, fits of anger erupted in the Chamber. Nobody was crying anymore. Now they were all threatening. For a brief moment, O’Brien stepped back. His men were outnumbered ten to one. But his guys were armed, and these people were not. Fuck the Second Amendment. He chuckled and regained his composure.

  He looked to his
security guard again and nodded. Three more rounds into the ceiling got the people’s attention.

  “Let me continue so that we can go about our business,” he started as calm was gradually restored.

  “In accordance with the Declaration of Martial Law, if you are found guilty of these charges, the following penalties shall include, but not be limited to …” O’Brien paused and stared at Governor Baker until he finally made eye contact.

  “Death!”

  PART TWO

  November 2016

  Chapter 35

  Tuesday, November 1, 2016

  10:15 a.m.

  Citizen Corps Region I, Office of the Governor

  99 High Street

  Boston, Massachusetts

  “No, I’m not gonna kill them,” replied O’Brien to General Zhang’s demands for answers. “They’re more valuable alive than dead. Plus, we don’t need a couple of hundred martyrs on our bloodstained hands.”

  “That’s good news, sir,” said Pearson. “I received quite an earful this morning from the President’s chief of staff.” Pearson poured himself another cup of coffee. Earful was an understatement. Valerie Jarrett had ripped him a new asshole as if the raid on the State House was his idea. He made the mistake, after a heated barrage of criticism from Jarret, of reminding her that James O’Brien was nothing more than a thug who rose through the union’s ranks by being good at his job—thuggery. The President should not be surprised by the fact O’Brien had fallen back on his usual playbook.

  Naturally, as was true in D.C. politics, or Hawaii politics under present circumstances, shit flowed downhill, and O’Brien’s poor decision making was Pearson’s fault. That’s what you’re there for. Fix it! she had screamed into the phone before slamming down the receiver.

  “I don’t give a tinker’s damn what that Iranian thinks,” responded O’Brien. “Let her come out into the trenches and out of the President’s bed for a day to see what it’s like.” Pearson couldn’t argue with that.

  “Sir, the White House is under tremendous pressure right now,” started Pearson. “We’re nearly sixty days into the martial law declaration and the Citizen Corps initiatives around the country are failing.” Pearson sipped his coffee and sat in a chair across from O’Brien. Other than a few initial questions, Zhang had remained quiet. Pearson got the sense that Zhang was not one hundred percent on board with the State House raid.

  “I get that,” said O’Brien. “We’re holding our own up here. With Zhang’s help, Region I is nearly secure. We can’t let the people question our authority. There can only be one boss in the northeast, and I’m it.” O’Brien poked his chest twice with his thumb.

  “That’s true, sir. The entire southeast consisting of Region IV is beyond the President’s control. He is contemplating a major military offensive, but to do so, he would have to send troops around Texas and the adjoining states that make up Region VI. Other than pockets of Citizen Corps loyalists in New Mexico, the state governments comprising Region VI are being systematically restored.”

  O’Brien pulled out a cigar and lit it. “I don’t get it. The federal government worked overtime to help those people, and they spit in their face. If the South isn’t interested in the feds’ help, we are. Let Jarrett and all of her cronies send help our way. It’ll be accepted with open arms.” He exhaled a huge puff of smoke and began coughing. He then mumbled, “Damn things are dried out.”

  Zhang was compelled to speak, finally. “Our troops have performed admirably in securing the city and we are now moving into the outlying areas. The curfew is being enforced and the roadblocks are effective. The looting has subsided as well.”

  “And the rapes are increasing exponentially,” interjected a smug O’Brien.

  “Excuse me?” questioned Zhang.

  “Don’t play dumb with me, General,” O’Brien snapped back. He waved his cigar toward the window, leaving a contrail of smoke. “I’ve got eyes and ears out there.”

  “I protest the use of the term rape,” he replied.

  Pearson wasn’t surprised. Stories of atrocities perpetrated by the United Nation’s Peacekeeping forces had existed for years. In 1997, Belgian troops making up a UN force in Somali roasted a young boy alive. Ironically, the operation was dubbed Operation Restore Hope. The two soldiers were reprimanded by a military court, which sentenced the two paratroopers to a month in jail and a fine of roughly two hundred dollars. During the same operation, a young Somalian, Muslim by faith, was forced to eat pork, drink salt water, and then eat his own vomit.

  Over the years the reports of rapes and sexual abuse became common, so it didn’t surprise Pearson that the UN troops would undertake the same behavior on U.S. soil.

  The general, still bristling, continued. “I am not going to apologize or be criticized for the methods my officers and soldiers utilize to take control of this city. Strong-arm tactics are needed at times to gain the respect of the people. In my country—”

  O’Brien cut him off. “In your country, you drive up to somebody’s grass hut and throw them in the back of a truck, never to be seen again. I get it. You don’t put up with any shit from the dissidents. We should’ve treated Republicans the same damn way in this country. We’d be better off.”

  Then Zhang surprised both Pearson and O’Brien. “It was your General William T. Sherman who once said should the inhabitants burn bridges, obstruct roads, or otherwise manifest local hostility, then army commanders should order and enforce a devastation more relentless.”

  “Okay,” said Pearson quietly, impressed with the general’s knowledge of General William Tecumseh Sherman, who infamously drove his Union armies from Chattanooga, through Atlanta, and to Savannah in what became known as the March to the Sea. It was Sherman’s scorched earth approach to war with the Confederacy that earned him both criticism and praise.

  “Impressive. Listen, General, I don’t give a damn what your boys do out there as long as they do their job,” said O’Brien. “But when you’re tooting your own horn, just know that I’m the one driving the bus. Keep doing as I request, and I promise not to throw you under it.”

  Zhang didn’t respond and seemed puzzled by O’Brien’s statement. While proficient in English, he didn’t quite understand the figure of speech used by O’Brien.

  O’Brien changed the subject, thankfully. “Let’s get back to yesterday’s brilliantly orchestrated maneuver. Not only have we secured the State House, which I should have done to begin with, but we now have a couple of hundred valuable assets at our disposal.”

  “What are you thinking, sir?” asked Pearson. Pearson continued to refer to O’Brien as sir and Governor, not out of respect, which was lost long ago, but out of fear of the governor’s wrath. O’Brien didn’t bother earning the respect of others, he demanded it—continuously.

  “It’s time to get our boys back from that asshole Bradlee. I propose a simple exchange. He gives us Fort Devens and my men. We will give him the governor and the rest of those wusses. I’ll even throw in their beloved State House to boot. I oughta strip the gold off the dome first, however.”

  “My troops can move their encampment into Fort Devens,” said Zhang.

  “Yes, General,” said O’Brien. “We’ll give you what you couldn’t take for yourself.”

  Zing, thought Pearson. “It sounds like a straightforward proposal. Should I contact Colonel Bradlee?” he asked.

  “Do that, Pearson. I also want to look at some other options.”

  “Like what, sir?” asked Pearson.

  “I want to take one step at a time here, but we need to deal with this Prescott Peninsula situation. I believe the activities at Prescott, the insurgent problems Zhang has experienced, and Fort Devens are interconnected. Bradlee might be the common thread.”

  “Do you think he’s behind all of this?” asked Pearson. Pearson had wondered the same thing but learned not to offer up any suggestions. His suggestion to raid the Massachusetts Guard Armories had failed miserably, and O’Brie
n made a habit of reminding him of the debacle.

  “It’s a good possibility,” he replied. “Why don’t you go up there and run our proposal up the flagpole. Gain his confidence. He might provide us an opening to get back more than our forty-four friends.”

  “What would that be, sir?” asked Pearson.

  “The head of the snake.”

  Chapter 36

  Wednesday November 2, 2016

  12:07 p.m.

  Prescott Peninsula

  Quabbin Reservoir, Massachusetts

  Sarge scratched his scruffy beard. Unlike his brother, who could grow a beard in a matter of a few hours, Sarge took weeks to have a full beard. He scruffed it again.

  “You got fleas in that thing, brother?” Steven laughed. Steven’s beard was in perfect, trimmed shape. The last time he’d sported a beard was almost a year ago during his Ukraine mission.

  “No, it’s just slow growin’,” replied Sarge. “I can’t grow them as fast as you do. I guess I’ve evolved more than you have, Neanderthal.”

  “Hey, we’re spawns of the same apes, pal!” He and Steven exchanged high fives. It was a rare moment of joviality between the two in what seemed like a month of tensions. Sarge immediately felt the connection again.

  “I’m glad we were able to get everyone together today,” started Sarge as he waited for the last of the Brahmin to return indoors. Katie finally joined the group after fetching her coat from their bungalow. It was a brisk forty degrees, but the lack of wind and a cloudless sky made conditions ideal for an outdoor meeting. “I’m especially glad to have Susan and her little storm trooper, Penny, back here at the ranch.”

  “Thanks, Sarge,” said Susan. “Dr. Daugherty took very good care of Penny, and I thank God for J.J. and his ability to keep me from losing it. I’m the one that needed to be admitted to the hospital.”

  “You did great, Susan,” said Donald, giving his wife a reassuring hug.