by Bobby Akart
Marion La Rue was a longtime member of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters until he retired. He was periodically called upon by union leaders in Boston to undertake special projects, which included orchestrating the walkout of MBTA bus drivers during the St. Patrick’s Day festivities. Most of his assignments required months of planning and were flawlessly executed. Although the death of Pumpsie Jones was unforeseen during the St. Patrick’s Day project, it ultimately helped gain the MBTA union the upper hand.
“Am I allowed to call you Jim, or should I use your fucking highness?” La Rue laughed. The men clinked glasses and downed the scotch. They both stood at the edge of the roof and stared off into the rapidly disappearing daylight.
“Isn’t this some shit?” asked O’Brien.
“Sure is. I’m glad you found me. I took the missus and our stuff over to my sister’s place. When your guys showed up at the door, I almost shot ‘em. When they told me you were the new governor, I told them to fuck off and slammed the door in their face.”
O’Brien’s whole body shook with laughter. “Listen, I’m still shocked by these events too. This whole situation presents a tremendous opportunity for us, my friend. Before I tell you what I have in mind, I need to know if you’re in. You and I have been friends for thirty years, Marion. We need each other now more than ever.”
La Rue poured another glass of scotch and drank it all. He poured each of them another glass. “Of course I’m in, Jim. But you’ve got all the power. What do you need me for?”
O’Brien pulled up a chair at an outdoor dining table and motioned for La Rue to do the same. “I’m a believer in turning a crisis into an opportunity. I need someone I can trust implicitly, not these mopes assigned to me by the government.”
“Obviously, I’d take a bullet for you, Jim. You know that. So what’s the plan?”
“Region I encompasses a lot of territory. I need to establish myself with the people of these other states, but I think it all starts right here in Boston.” O’Brien tapped his index finger as he spoke. “Once I get Boston under my control and running the way I want it to run, the rest of the region will follow by example. Of course, if they don’t, then we will have ways of dealing with that.”
“You have a solid base of support here,” said La Rue. “The unions have a strong representation in the community. We just need to get in touch with them and tell them what to do.”
“Yes, that’s part of it. To gain respect as their governor, I also need to give the rest of the population a reason to believe in me. Listen, power is not only what you have, but it’s what your adversaries think you have. Our people, the working men and women, will respect us because we’re the same. It’s the money people, you know, the ones who bought their yachts and big houses on our backs, that need to understand who’s runnin’ shit now.”
“So what do we do about them?” asked La Rue.
“In a normal world, before the lights went out, a threat is usually more terrifying to scare people than the thing itself. For example, when the blacks invade the malls, do you see the fear in the eyes of people? Black people aren’t there to rape, pillage, and burn. But the whites that fill up these malls don’t know that. They think just the opposite. So they’re afraid.”
“Are the tactics the same now that the power has gone away?” asked La Rue.
“Not necessarily. Remember, a good tactic is one that your people enjoy doing the most.” O’Brien took another swig of the scotch and winced. He was feeling good now.
“So, do you want me to round up the blacks and send them to the malls?” asked La Rue.
O’Brien laughed and toasted La Rue. “Very funny. No, what we need are some useful idiots. I don’t want to get in bed with the blacks necessarily, but I do have a plan for them. Tell me what you know about the gangs of Boston.” O’Brien stood and walked next to an air-conditioning unit. He began to pee while La Rue spoke.
“Let’s start with the blacks who are primarily located to the south in Mattapan, Roxbury, and Dorchester. They have never been able to coalesce as a unified group until recently. At the Boston Marathon, a large group of gang members came together as part of a Black Lives Matter march. The leader of the Academy Homes gang in Roxbury is a kid named Jarvis Rockwell. They call him J-Rock.” When O’Brien returned, La Rue took his turn at the restroom.
A full glass of scotch awaited his return. La Rue continued. “The Academy Homes gang, representing a large territory in central Roxbury near Martin Luther King Boulevard, has about five hundred members. J-Rock rose up the ranks starting as a runner, and graduated to enforcer by age sixteen, when he supposedly committed a double murder against an encroaching gang. At age twenty-three, he was the undisputed leader of the Academy Homes gang. At the Marathon, he marched side by side with his pregnant girlfriend and the leaders of the Franklin Field Boyz and the Castlegate Road Gang. I guess they found a common purpose. Anyway, you know how that ended. The thing got out of control and J-Rock’s girlfriend lost their baby.”
“Is he still runnin’ things?” asked O’Brien.
“As far as I know,” replied La Rue. “Afterwards, he sat down with the leaders of the rival gangs mafia-style and they all came together. Jim, they’ve got a small army down there.”
“What about the Mexicans?” asked O’Brien.
“You mean the El Salvadorans out east?”
“Same thing.”
“Kind of,” said La Rue. “They’re brutal. A Central American drug cartel known as Mara Salvatrucha, or MS-13, predominantly operates in the East Boston ghettos, though they recently started to spread out all over the city. They’re headed up by a banger named Joaquin Guzman. This guy’s been deported four times, but he keeps coming back.”
“You say they’re brutal?”
“They’re rapists and conduct murders using machetes, like those ISIS fuckers. MS-13 already controls the alien smuggling routes along the Mexican border. They’ve teamed up with al-Qaeda terrorists and run the largest Islamic terrorist smuggling network in the country.”
“That’s a helluva combination,” said O’Brien.
“Then we have the Asians in Chinatown,” said La Rue. “They’re different from MS-13 and the blacks. I guess I could call them businessmen. MS-13 is all about demanding respect and revenge killings. They’re heavy into drugs. The black gangs just want to steal shit. But the Asians operate a huge oxycodone-running operation as well as legitimate businesses, but with an iron fist. They’re led by a white guy.”
“You’re kiddin’me, right?” asked O’Brien.
“Nope. He goes by the nickname Bac Guai John, or White Devil.”
“Seriously?” O’Brien filled their glasses with the last of the scotch.
“He’s got quite a story, like a celebrity. Hell, they did a whole article on him in Rolling Stone magazine.”
“Does he think he’s John the-teflon-don Gotti?” asked O’Brien.
“Pretty close.” They both sat silently for a few minutes and finished their drinks.
“Can they be controlled?” asked O’Brien.
“They’re all businessmen, Jim,” replied La Rue.
“Listen up, here’s what I want you to do.”
Chapter 10
Saturday, September 10, 2016
8:20 a.m.
Massachusetts General Hospital
Boston, Massachusetts
J.J. was filling his backpack with medical supplies when Katie and Steven came down the stairwell. He wanted to be left alone. Sabs was on his mind constantly, and he felt the anger come back. For years after his retirement, J.J. carried a lot of anger with him. He was disappointed in the lack of appreciation the veterans of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan received in the media and by politicians. The mistreatment of vets at the VA hospitals made it worse.
Gradually, with the help of the Quinns, the anger over the atrocities of war and lack of respect for the soldiers who did their duty subsided. Falling in love with Sabs put his life on a new
course. Then she was ripped away from him, by a bullet, on American soil. He tried to save her, but her wounds were too severe.
He hurriedly finished packing because he wanted to leave. He was not ready to engage in idle conversation.
“Hey, Doc!” said Steven. “I’m glad we caught you. We were thinking about tagging along. You know, it’s really not safe on the streets alone. Katie and I’ve got cabin fever and were gonna check things out around the building anyway.”
J.J. could tell Steven was trying hard to be chipper. It didn’t matter. “Thanks, but no,” he said. “I’d rather go alone.” He started for the stairwell and Steven followed him.
“Listen, Doc, I know you’re going through a rough time. But you are too valuable to us to get hurt by some thug wanting to steal your backpack or something.”
Katie added, “Plus, let me introduce you to Dr. Daugherty. He’s a great guy and really cares about his patients. I’m sure you two will hit it off, and he can help you hit the ground running. C’mon, J.J., let us walk you over there.”
J.J. knew they were right, of course, so he acquiesced. Katie and Steven strapped on their weapons and made J.J. do the same. He hadn’t thought of carrying his sidearm before, and he was glad they brought it to his attention. Maybe I am in a fog.
The trio walked quietly to Mass General, taking a different route than the day before. As they turned onto Cedar Street in the heart of Beacon Hill, J.J. was amazed at how deserted the streets were. Vehicles were abandoned in all directions. The intersection of Pinckney and Cedar was completely blocked due to an accident. But there were very few pedestrians. No one was willing to make eye contact with them, much less engage in conversation. Bostonians were scared.
As they approached the entry of the hospital, J.J. was pleased to see that the patients had been moved inside. Sarge had described the scene to him last night when he arrived at 100 Beacon. J.J. was concerned that bacteria in such a non-sterile, open-air environment could cause infection for the burn victims.
Security had been increased as well. When Katie was able to gain access by using her hospital badge, J.J. realized that bringing them along was a good idea. They quickly located Dr. Daugherty, who had only slept a few hours since his arrival on the scene Thursday morning.
“Hi, Katie,” said Dr. Daugherty. He pointed up and down the corridors. “As you can see, we’ve moved everyone inside, but there aren’t enough beds to take care of everyone. More came in throughout the day Friday, and rooms are assigned based upon severity of wounds. Also, the ER has been filling up with gunshot victims.”
“It’s not going to get any easier for you, Doc,” said Steven, extending his hand. “I’m Steven Sargent. This is our friend Dr. J.J. Warren. As I’m sure you know, the Warren family founded Harvard Medical and were field surgeons at the Battle of Bunker Hill. J.J. was an Army battalion surgeon at Joint Base Balad in Iraq.”
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Daugherty,” said J.J. as the two men shook hands. “Most recently, I helped PTSD victims at the VA Jamaica Plain campus.”
“Call me Judd. Without a doubt, we can use a doctor of your capabilities and experience. Our immediate need is to help the burn victims, but I have to say, I’ve never seen this level of despair among the patients or their family members. I don’t know if it rises to the level of post-traumatic stress disorder, but it’s the closest I’ve witnessed.”
“And I’m J.J. In a nutshell, there are five types of PTSD, ranging from a normal stress response to the most severe cases of complex PTSD. The complex cases, which are also called disorder of extreme stress, are usually found among individuals who have been exposed to prolonged traumatic circumstances, such as childhood sexual abuse.” The group moved against a wall as two orderlies pushing a gurney sped past them.
“My guess is that the vast majority of your patients are undergoing a normal stress response to this single event. Their response will be characterized by intense bad memories, emotional numbing, feelings of unreality, or bodily tension and distress. These patients usually achieve complete recovery within a few weeks. I suggest a group debriefing experience for both patients and family members. Debriefings would begin by briefly reliving the event and discussing the survivors’ emotional responses to the event. I would put an emphasis on the survival aspect. Without diminishing their trauma, they need to be reminded that they survived.”
“You mentioned other types of PTSD, J.J. What are those?” asked Katie.
“Well, there is acute stress disorder that is characterized by panic attacks, confusion, paranoia, and being unable to perform basic daily functions. The next level is called uncomplicated PTSD, which involves the re-experiencing of the traumatic event. Finally, there is PTSD comorbid with other psychiatric disorders. These patients already have psychiatric issues that are exacerbated by the traumatic event.”
“It will be difficult to diagnose these PTSD levels in this chaotic environment,” interjected Dr. Daugherty.
“That’s true,” said J.J. “You don’t have sufficient personnel, whether trained or otherwise, to conduct a proper evaluation. The best you can do is interview and counsel the obvious cases.”
“Dr. J.J. Warren, welcome to the team,” said Dr. Daugherty. “Are you up for it?”
“I am if you’ll have me,” replied J.J. “I’m glad to be able to help.”
“Judd, may I check on a few of the patients we helped the other day?” asked Katie.
“Sure, Katie. Just go to the nurses’ station, flash your hospital ID badge, and they’ll help you out. I’m gonna show J.J. around.”
J.J. and Dr. Daugherty started down the hall.
“I’ll be honest, you’re the first person I’ve met named Judd,” said J.J. “Your accent is Southern, isn’t it?”
Dr. Daugherty laughed. “Oh yeah. Back home they referred to me as J-U-Double-D Party Daugherty. After med school, the party train pulled out of the station. Let’s get you into some scrubs.”
Chapter 11
Saturday, September 10, 2016
8:20 a.m.
Massachusetts General Hospital
Boston, Massachusetts
Katie led him to the nurses’ station, where an older woman was frantically trying to help several family members locate their loved ones. Lack of computer technology and phone communications took her out of her routine. The woman was in a frenzy and accomplishing very little.
“I’m going to try to help her for a moment, and then I want to check on this list of patients Julia wrote out for me,” said Katie as she stood on her toes to give Steven a kiss on the cheek. “Stand over there, stay out of the way, and if you lay eyes on any of these cute nurses, I’ll crush your nuts. Fair enough?”
“Damn! I’ll be a good boy and stay out of trouble.” Steven kissed her back and watched as she returned to the nurses’ station to offer her help. He had never been in love with a woman before. Katie was clearly someone he could spend the rest of his life with, as best they could in this post-collapse world.
A commotion at the stairwell grabbed his attention and he instinctively felt for his weapon. Some uniformed soldiers were making their way up the stairs and pushing civilians out of the way. They approached the nurses’ station.
“Who’s in charge here?” yelled one of the lieutenants at Katie. Steven inched closer to the desk. Clearly, these guys were in a foul mood. Two other men joined his side.
“Stop barking orders,” said Katie, leaning in to see the soldier’s name. “Lieutenant Rose, I’ll try to help you, but you are scaring people who have had a rough couple of days.”
Steven moved to the side to get a better view. Rose! You little bitch!
He immediately recognized Second Lieutenant John Rose, who had represented the 1st Brigade Combat Team at the exercise hosted by Camp Edwards last summer. Rose and Steven had battled it out in more ways than one during the training competition, including a simulated knife fight, where Steven made Rose look foolish. Based on attitude, Rose needed a refre
sher course.
He slammed a photo on the counter and stared Katie down. “We’re looking for this man. Have you seen him?”
Rose was part of the 10th Mountain Division stationed at Fort Drum, New York. What are they doing in Boston? Steven moved to intervene. Katie stepped back from the counter with a three-ring binder containing the names of the patients admitted to the hospital.
“What’s his name?” she asked.
“Mike Austin. He’s a fugitive and he’s wanted for questioning.”
Steven walked up to Rose, and the other two soldiers moved toward him.
“Aren’t you boys a little bit out of your jurisdiction?” asked Steven. “In case you haven’t noticed, this is Boston, not New York.”
“What?” screamed Rose, who spun around to face Steven. “Sargent, is that you?”
“Rose, you need to tone it down, pal. Perhaps you left your fuckin’ manners at Fort Drum.”
“Shut up, Sargent, this is military police business,” said Rose, pointing at the Citizen Corps patch sewn on his sleeve. “Stand down while we conduct it. Last time I checked, you are a civilian.”
Steven got into Rose’s face. “And you’re still a douche bag. You wanna go for another round outside. I’d enjoy kicking your ass, again, in front of your friends.”
Katie intervened. “Guys! Enough! Lieutenant Rose, there is nobody here by that name. Now please, calm down and leave.”
Rose ignored Katie and stood nose to nose with Steven, who returned the glare. “It’s your lucky day, Sargent,” Rose hissed through his teeth.
“You need to find some mouthwash, asshole.”
“Let’s go, men,” instructed Rose as he pushed his way past Steven. “We’ll see you around, Sargent.”
