“Now!” came Malcolm’s voice over the radio.
Tahru pulled out his .45, aiming vaguely towards the rear of the crowd, still a block away from the bridge, but picking up speed. He pulled the trigger a few times, as did the “guards” of the hostages. A handful of civilians screamed in pain and dropped to the pavement, bleeding. When the rest of the stampede figured out what was happening in the rear, all hell broke loose.
The stream of humanity became a raging river—it was every person for themselves. A few people jumped or were shoved off the bridge to drop some twenty five feet below into the swiftly moving Chicago River.
From what Tahru could see, the soldiers looked like ants who’s hill had been stepped on. They ran here and there, pushing and fighting their way through the civilians who continued to pour into their lines. Any organization the National Guard had enjoyed before the ‘hostage release’ had been totally destroyed. Through his binoculars, Tahru could spot a few of the ‘loaded’ Whiteys running for aid stations and medical tents, still carrying their backpacks and briefcases.
“Any time now…” came Malcolm’s voice over the radio.
A few seconds later, Tahru spotted the first flash by the big green tent that had a giant red cross on it. Then another and another. Three more flashes went off in quick succession to the right, by the time the first explosion was heard by Tahru. It was a muffled pop. Smoke mushroomed out in at least six different spots behind the National Guard position. The backpacks and briefcases filled with explosives were ripping through the hostages, blowing bodies and bits of bodies all over the streets on the north side of the bridge. The Medical tent was half knocked over, all of it in flames. More than one cop car was on fire.
The screaming actually caused Tahru to catch his breath. He had never heard anything so awful before. One of the big tanks with a little gun and lots of antennae suddenly jumped with an explosion that echoed across the river.
Tahru sat in stunned silence, watching the chaos across the river erupt in front of his eyes. The smoke from the explosions was blocking his view more than a block away, but from what was going on just across the bridge, he could tell his brother was a genius. Not only had Malcolm figured out how to sneak all those bombs into the Man’s nest, he had killed a shit load of soldiers.
They had stirred up some excitement all right. The four helicopters were all circling over the scene, looking confused. There were no targets the attack choppers could hit that wouldn’t endanger scores of civilians. There was no place for the transport helicopters to land and take on wounded. They merely buzzed around like enraged bees.
The radio, forgotten in Tahru’s hand, suddenly came to life. “Malcolm, we found ‘em! Jus’ like you said, Brother!” said a new voice, full of excitement. “It was in the big truck with tank treads!”
“Excellent…remove that pestilence from Allah’s sky,” was the immediate reply.
“By Allah’s will!” the radio clicked off.
Movement to the northeast caught Tahru’s eye. A thin trail of smoke leapt out of the chaos on the streets and shot across the sky heading straight for one of the Apaches. Tahru realized someone was shooting missiles at the helicopters. For Tahru, the battle was like watching something out of a movie or a drug induced hallucination. The missile sailed past the dodgy little helicopter and disappeared to the north over Navy Pier.
“Whoa! yelled Tahru as a second streak of smoke leapt up and hit the wildly bucking helicopter. It was consumed in a fireball in mid-air, raining chunks of burning metal on the ground below. The wreckage dropped straight down, trailing smoke and fire onto the streets still crowded with terrorized people running for their lives. There was no way to dodge missiles for long at that altitude. He almost felt sorry for the poor bastards flying those things. Almost.
“Daaaaaaamn!” said Tahru into the radio. “Homeboy took dem fuckers down da block!” he grinned, watching the second attack chopper explode in mid-air. The bigger vehicles turned and raced away.
“Both Apaches are destroyed?” asked Malcolm’s voice, a slight edge to it.
“Yeah, man—blew the fuck out of ‘em!”
“That is our sign from Allah, my Brothers,” Malcolm’s voice came in now on all frequencies used by the Brotherhood. “Take what is ours, my Brothers—what the Man has given us. Harvest our crops!”
Tahru scrambled to the edge of his burned out office and looked out in the gathering darkness as a few dozen dark figures emerged from the buildings around the south side of the Michigan Street bridge and ran across. There were some gunshots heard echoing back, as the Brothers pumped some more lead into the remnants of the fleeing crowd of released hostages and shocked soldiers.
The battle—a rout, actually—was already over. Swarmed by civilians and IEDs exploding all around them, the National Guard was forced into a ragged retreat in every direction away from Occupied Chicago. They threw down packs, weapons, helmets, even the wounded in their flight. Anything that would slow them down was abandoned. Tahru smiled, watching his people emerge from the buildings and rush forward over the bridge to loot. The wounded and dying —soldiers and civilians—lay everywhere. The sobbing and screaming started the moment the explosions ended. The Brotherhood ignored them all and stripped corpses and wounded alike of anything valuable. They were like locusts.
Tahru blinked. Before his eyes lay Hell itself. The bodies and body parts, the smoke, the fire, the noise. He smiled.
The Brotherhood, Tahru could see, quickly pounced on the military hardware left behind in the Guard’s haste to evacuate. HumVees, a slightly damaged APC, ammunition, food, communications gear, a few old Jeeps, and three huge trucks, including the one loaded with heavy weapons. Bodies of fallen Guardsmen were striped clean or thrown in a vehicle to be stripped once safely back across the river. Anything that remotely looked military or valuable was snatched and brought back to their side of the river.
In minutes, the first of the captured vehicles roared to life—a fully loaded HumVee—and made its way towards the Michigan Street bridge heading back into Occupied Chicago, headlights flashing and horn honking in celebration of the Brotherhood’s victory. To the west, the sun was nearing the horizon.
Soon as d’em boys take da Pier, we gonna party tonight! Tahru thought, heading back down to the street level to get in on the looting of the military gear. He wanted a big-ass rifle with a grenade launcher.
Motherfuckin’ Rambo in da ‘hood, y’all!
SARASOTA
The Reluctant Caesar
ALFONSE FINISHED LIGHTING the tiki-torches around the pool deck. There was water everywhere, not yet evaporated after the late afternoon thunderstorm. The usual three o’clock storm had been a little late today and dumped a bit more rain than normal, but it was a welcome relief as it cooled things off and dropped the humidity a bit.
It had been 48 hours since Erik and Ted had killed the intruders, but it had taken that long just for things to settle down a bit. Some people had gone walking around the complex, nervous about more intruders. Others had stayed by the pool, trying to keep cool and forget what had happened. A few had a somewhat impromptu vigil at Building 6, where Ted, Susan, Brin and Erik lived. Ted and a few others had removed the bodies of the dead convicts to a spot of unused land a ways down the road from the complex, where they were buried without ceremony under some trees thick with Spanish Moss. Erik had kept himself in isolation in his apartment, thinking about what had happened. Brin hadn’t left his side since the attack.
Tonight, about a half dozen families were already at the pool deck, just round sunset on Day Five, as they had begun calling it. Somehow, the fact that it was Monday didn’t matter anymore. After all, no one had gone to work since the day the power went out, and since there was no power coming back anytime soon, who would go to work tomorrow? Or the next day? Or next week?
Due to heavy cloud cover, it was as dark as full night at Colonial Gardens. Most of the families that were staying for the time being had gathere
d on the pool deck. A few men and women were standing around Ted and Erik, who was holding tightly to Brin. His katana was strapped to his waist with a heavy sash, in the same manner the samurai originally wore the sword. It rested horizontally against his right hip, the hilt, or tsuba, next to his lower ribs, the tip of the saya, or scabbard, near his knee. It looked odd to many people, expecting to see the more ‘Hollywood’ style, strapped over the back.
Erik ignored the questions from those around him. His face appeared to have aged ten years in two days. He had spent little of those two days sleeping. Whenever he tried to close his eyes and sleep, he saw that man in his vision, leering at Brin with lust in his eyes. Then in a heartbeat, Erik’s katana was slicing through the convict’s neck; the feeling of the sword slicing through muscle and bone jarring his mind from sleep time after time.
So Erik had meditated the way Obu-san had taught him. He sought guidance for his soul. He tried hard to focus the scared part of himself into resolve. It was hard for him to not think about the man he had killed. It was a struggle to clear his mind for more than a few minutes. To refocus himself, he cleaned and polished his sword in the bedroom with the door shut for hours at a time, sweating in the confined, steamy space. It was a cleansing process for Erik. Brin, meanwhile, stayed nearby helping Ted care for Susan, who was in turn worried about Erik. She had been around men in Erik’s position as a wife of a Marine, but Ted bid her leave Erik to figure things out for himself first.
By the time Erik finally emerged from the bedroom, his mind was at ease. He had asked God for guidance, help and forgiveness, and at last a strange sort of calm had descended on him. He still regretted the fact that he had been forced to kill that man, but more and more, his mind was hardening to the new truth of reality. Erik realized he had been forced to kill that man…he didn’t want to do it, but if that man hadn’t jumped over the wall and tried to assault Brin…
“So why you still got that sword? Ted, aren’t you going to arrest him?” asked Henry Grimes, looking for all the world like something a dog dragged in from the gutter. He hadn’t bothered to even try and shave since the power went out. People tended to give him a little more space than everyone else because he reeked of sweat and alcohol. A lack of running water had not helped his hygiene.
A few murmurs of approval after he spoke set the mood. Those near Erik seemed to be in support of what he and Ted had done. Those on the other side of the pool deck, near Henry, thought the killing was a bad thing, or at least wrong.
Ted glanced at Erik quickly, then stepped forward, into the no-man’s-land between the two groups of residents. He opened his mouth, then realized he was going to have his back to some people no matter what. Changing tactics, he spoke: “Alright, before we get started, I’d like to make a suggestion. How ‘bout we let anyone who is going to speak step up on the hot tub deck there,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. The hot tub was set in its own concrete deck adjacent to and three feet above the pool. A perfect little stage.
“If we talk down here, some people aren’t going to hear. How about it?” Heads nodded, people whispered to each other, but no one really objected. Taking that in stride, Ted mounted the five concrete steps and stood on the “stage” holding the rail with both hands. I don’t know if this is any better….feels like I’m giving a speech now. God, I hate public speaking!
“So why haven’t you arrested him?” someone called out.
“Look, I’m not arresting him because he did nothing wrong—“
“He killed a man!” shouted Henry, a little too loudly. The affects of his liquid dinner were still with him, it seemed.
Ted’s face darkened. “That man—and I use the word loosely—committed a crime and went to jail, where he broke out, helping to kill some of my fellow deputies, then assaulted my wife and was about to assault Erik’s wife. The jail break and killing of a police officer were enough right there to justify Erik’s actions, as far as I’m concerned. Let alone the physical assault—”
“Well, you ain’t a court!” someone retorted.
“I got news for you, there aren’t any more courts,” replied Ted. “When all this…” he swung his arm out to encompass the darkened community. “Went down, things started to fall apart. Hell, look at the rioting in St. Pete and Tampa. Can you believe it? Rioting? What the hell they got to riot about? Have they ever lived in Iraq or China? Do they know what it means to literally have nothing? Hell no! For all its problems, this country is still better than the alternative. That means something else is going on…something bad, and I don’t like it.”
Ted paused to let his words sink in. “I believe that this county is on its own now. There are no more cops—we’ve all gone home to protect our own families. There’s no word on when it’s going to get better—think about that one for a second.” He paused again and collected his thoughts.
“Look…When the power goes out, normally the power companies fall all over themselves to tell the press and the public how quickly they’re going to get power back up and how many people are affected. Well, we all know by now that everyone in the country is affected. So what have they told us? First they said it’d be a week or more, then two weeks—then they were cut off by the Government. Now we get these little speeches every night from the President saying that well, they just don’t know how long it’ll take.” Ted shook his head in frustration. There just wasn’t anything he could think of to say that would convince people the system they relied on wasn’t merely broken, it was destroyed.
“Still, it ain’t right,” was the sullen rebuttle from somewhere in the back.
“Why?” Erik’s quiet voice cut through the discussion like a knife. Everyone stopped to listen to him, speaking now for the first time in days. His voice was quiet yet strong, forcing the others to stop talking and listen. Erik stood there, staring at the group opposing him and waited, his face calm.
“Why what?” another voice called out.
“Why was what I did the other morning…why was that wrong? Who can tell me why I was wrong?”
“Well, because you killed a man, that’s why. We don’t like the idea of living with a murderer,” replied Henry Grimes, testily. Some others nodded.
The people around Erik paused at that and looked at each other. They hadn’t thought of it that way. Erik ignored their doubts and took a step out of their area into the undeclared no-man’s-land. He stood there, right hand resting on the pommel of his katana, letting the opposition get a good long look at him. When he looked at their eyes, they looked away, embarrassed.
There was a sudden commotion behind Erik as someone forced their way through the group and emerged to stand next to Erik. It was Stan, looking for all the world like he hadn’t slept in days.
“It was my fault! You can’t blame Erik and Ted!” he cried out.
“How’s that? You didn’t kill anyone like Lancelot here…” pointed out Henry to a few chuckles.
Stan looked nervously around. Everyone was watching the drama play out. “Because…” he took a breath, then spewed out his confession rapidly, “Because I went to my restaurant to steal food for my family from the storage room, and those two…thugs…must have seen me and followed me back here. They were trying to get to me and get my food…and my…” he swallowed, forcing the image of what the two men would have done to him and his wife and daughter from his mind.
“They wouldn’t have found this place if I hadn’t led them right to it…Erik and Ted saved me and my family.” He turned to Erik and hung his head. “I’m so sorry I brought this on you, Erik…my family was out of food and I didn’t know what to do, but I was so…I didn’t want to tell anyone else about the food the restaurant had…”
That revelation got a few angry curses from both groups on the pool deck. More than one family had run out of food already and was living on scraps and handouts from generous neighbors.
“Thank you…for the lives of my wife and my daughter, I thank you…God, I can’t thank you en
ough!” Stan burst into tears and wrapped Erik in a bear hug, sobbing.
Erik looked at Ted, who shrugged. He gently pulled away then addressed Stan quietly. “Stan, it’s okay. There’s nothing to be sorry about.”
“But he just admitted he brought those two men here!” someone said.
“He knew where food was and didn’t tell anyone else!”
“Yeah! My kid’s going hungry and—“
“—damn thief—“
“—I bet he’s keeping more food from us!”
More rumbles and murmurs. Both sides were angry now, angry at Stan for what he had and had not done.
“SHUT UP!” Erik suddenly roared, scaring most people into silence. His voiced echoed off the apartment buildings across the pond. He glared at both sides on the pool deck equally.
“Listen to yourselves! One second you’re calling me a murderer, the next you’re condemning a man for trying to keep his family alive! What’s wrong with you people?” Erik’s face dared anyone, from both sides, to make something of it. Finally someone had the courage to speak up.
“Well, I think you’re both wrong! He brought those men here because of his greed—you killed one because…” The woman lost her train of thought.
“Because the sonofabitch was about to attack my wife!” Erik roared back, the ferocity of his voice like a slap to the face.
“And he did attack my wife,” said Ted, moving to stand next to Erik and Stan. His 9mm was conspicuously strapped to his thigh in a drop holster now.
“If it were you, your husband would have done the same damn thing.” Erik saw the shamed look on the woman’s husband and realized sadly he wouldn’t have done as Erik and Ted had. The pitiful look on the woman’s face when she turned back to Erik let him know that she perhaps had realized the true nature of her husband for the first time. Those around her could tell as well. Someone cleared their throat to speak, then thought better of it.
Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) Page 24
