When the few passerby cars saw the cop car and a man with a shotgun standing next to it, they sped up and exited the area not wanting to find out what was going on. One of the men brought his Ford F250 along and it was being quickly loaded with five gallon water jugs.
Erik was concerned about using the precious gas they had in the apartment complex vehicles, but he saw no other way to haul as much loot as possible without making a hundred trips. It was just plain faster and safer to use the load bearing cars and trucks, get it all over with in one or two trips and get back home. He chided himself for considering the food and water ‘loot’. After all, he himself was holding the detailed list of everything they were liberating. He would go place it on the counter inside the restaurant before they left and locked up.
He looked around the deserted parking lot. A few homes across the street were charred and looked partially burned. There were some people walking about, plastic bags in hand, as if they were scavenging for anything they might be able to use or eat. More than one person limped by, obviously wounded in some manner. The general movement of people was bringing them from west to east, away from the downtown area of Sarasota. They all gave Ted and his shotgun plenty of room as they passed. Erik could see the half dozen or so light plumes of smoke coming from the north west.
“Looks like fires downtown…” Stan said behind him.
“Yeah.”
“Makes you glad we live in the suburbs.”
Erik looked over his shoulder. “I’d rather be in the boonies, man. Away from all this shit,” he said, pointing at the spray paint on the side of the restaurant. Big fancy colored in letters and arrows and such. Typical gibberish placed there by uncaring ignorant youths.
“We’re almost done. Tom checked in with me about the walkie-talkies. I totally forgot about them. We had about fifteen little radios,” said Stan, handing one over to Erik. It was a Wally-World special, the cheapie little 2-way FRS radios that can be had for anywhere between $20 and $50.
“Awesome…” said Erik, examining the radio. He turned it on and the radio responded with a little chirp. “Batteries?” he asked, shutting the radio off again. No sense wasting what you had until you needed it.
“Only a handful. Maybe enough for one set for each radio. We mostly just used the recharging stands,” Stan shrugged.
“Well, they’re great, no matter what,” Erik replied, writing down on his list the radios. He began thinking of ways to generate electricity. He wiped his forehead in the morning heat. Glancing up at the cloudless sky, Erik thought, Solar? Where do we get the photo-cells though?
“I think we’ll be all done here in about a half hour, Erik.”
“Great, thanks Stan—the sooner we load up and get back home, the safer we all are.”
Ted’s head never stayed still for more than a few seconds. He was constantly watching both directions of the main drag through town, keeping a wary eye out for cars. He was also watching the side streets for people on foot or bikes. Any time he spotted a group of more than two or three people, he changed his stance to be ready to bring the police shotgun to target. Mostly the people he saw just looked bored and hungry and dirty.
There were a few kids who went by, teenagers really, who had a look in their eyes that he didn’t like, but they didn’t start anything, just kept moving. Every now and then he could see people trudging south on the main highway leading right through downtown Sarasota, U.S. 41. They casually checked the door handles on cars they passed.
Every now and then one would open and the scavengers would disappear inside for a few moments. Mostly they found nothing, but a few were still stealing radios. Ted shook his head at the idiocy. They were following the road along the coast, heading out of town and away from whatever it was that was causing the fires.
Tires squealing from the east caught his attention. He spun around, shotgun already at his shoulder, looking for a target. A car had just turned onto his street from a side street a few blocks east. It was heading east, towards him and gaining speed, racing along the lines of stopped vehicles. After a second or so, he could tell it was another police cruiser—a Sheriff’s department car. The dome lights were all skewed on the roof, like they had been half blown off the car. As it gained speed and grew ever closer, Ted could see a gash in the partially crumpled hood and some black marks that could only be bullet holes.
“Crap,” he said to himself. Over his shoulder, he called out, “Erik! We got company! Get a move on!” He could hear Erik shouting out directions and commands from inside the restaurant, urging the others to hurry in their efforts.
The cop car barreling down the road started swerving. It looked to Ted’s practiced eyes that the driver was losing control. The car behaved like one under the control of a person falling asleep at the wheel. It was generally going straight, then slowly started pulling one way or the other, then jerked back straight, then slowly pulled the other way. At the speed it was going, quick movements could cause an accident.
Ted double checked the safety on his shotgun, it was on. He adjusted his grip, thumbed off the safety and aimed at the car, waiting for a shot. If that was a cop, he was either drunk or wounded. If it wasn’t a cop, the driver had no business in that car and Ted was damned well going to do something about that.
The cop car pulled to the right as it neared Ted, heading for the other side of the road. The driver—Ted could see only a lumpy form in the driver’s seat and so he didn’t fire—jerked the wheel too much, causing the front tires to skip off the pavement momentarily. Traction thus lost, the car went into a flat spin, catching a parked car in the middle of the street with its rear bumper.
At the speed it was traveling, the forward momentum was just too much to keep the car straight. The battered police cruiser twisted and flipped on its side, crashing into a telephone post and spraying the area with bits of broken glass and plastic. It finally came to rest against two other abandoned cars, setting off a car alarm in the process.
The noise of the crash and wailing alarm brought most of the men inside the restaurant out to see what had happened. Ted held his shotgun aimed at the car but quickly scanned the surrounding area to see if it was just a diversion. No other movement besides a few curious homeowners across the street stepping outside of their darkened dwellings to see what the latest catastrophe was. The rear tire on the ruined cop car was slowly spinning itself out as Ted cautiously crept forward to get a closer look, his shotgun still at shoulder level and ready to fire.
“Come on, get the rest of that stuff so we can get the hell out of here!” said Erik to the gawking volunteers. They saw Ted move forward with the shotgun and looked around nervously, waiting for more convicts to appear.
“Stan, get ‘em finished up—“ Erik started to say when he heard the loud pop of Ted’s shotgun. Most of the volunteers dove for cover, a few ran back inside the restaurant. Erik ducked and peered around the corner of the building, his hand on his katana, strapped to his right side.
“Go! We may not have much time, get the last of it!” Erik said, waving his arm to get Stan moving. When Stan disappeared back inside, Erik saw Ted trotting back across the street, weaving in between cars.
“We gotta get moving, man, like now!” said Ted, keeping an eye on the street.
“What the hell was that? Did you shoot someone?”
“Some gang-banger was driving that thing. He’d been shot up pretty good. Mostly bled to death in the front seat anyway. That explained his driving skills. He said there was a bunch of people Downtown doing a lot of looting and beatin’ the shit out of people. Said they came in from the north.”
“Why did you shoot him?” Erik asked. “Sounds like he had info—“
“’Cause the dumbass pulled a gun on me and tried to shoot me,” Ted replied. He handed Erik a shiny revolver. “That’s a .357, man. He would have dropped me pretty quick if I hadn’t already had this pointed at ‘im,” Ted continued, holding the shotgun up. “My vest is good, but not that goo
d at point blank range,” Ted said, tapping his chest, covered by a blue bullet-proof vest.
“This looks pretty nice for a street thug…” Erik said, looking at the brand new handgun. It only had two rounds chambered, he noticed.
“Someone must’ve knocked off a gun shop by now…I knew it would only be a matter of time.” Ted looked up the street again. “Look, I think we need to get the hell out of here. We got all of it yet?”
Stan came out of the building carrying one half empty box. “This is…yeah. There’s only a few more water jugs left.” The volunteers started coming out after Stan, a few checking the area to see if it was safe first.
“Erik, we need to get people trained on weapons…we need someone other than just me and you armed,” Ted said, nodding at Erik’s sword.
“Right…You’ll have to teach us all. We’ll get started this afternoon.” To the gathered volunteers, he said, “Okay, let’s get the last of the water on the truck there and go home!”
CHICAGO
Rebels
MALCOLM WAITED FOR the cheering to die down. He stood on top of a captured Humvee, his hand rested on the .50 caliber machine gun mounted in the turret. The echoes of his men danced around them in the cavernous underground parking garage. All the abandoned civilian cars had been removed to the street level to make room for the captured military hardware. A good two hundred Black Fighters surrounded him, working on how best to make use of the new tools they took from the Man the night before.
“So, Allah has deemed our cause righteous, my Brothers. The United Nations is sending an army to help us liberate ourselves!” The crowd exploded in cheers of triumph and deliverance. Hands and fists were raised in defiance of the America that had repressed their race for centuries.
When it grew quiet enough again, Malcolm pressed home his advantage. “Even now we are contacting our Brothers and Sisters in New York and other cities to let them know the good news. If we can hold out until soldiers from the United Nations arrive, nothing will stop us!”
The cheering gradually died down a third time. Malcolm brought himself to his full stature, then raised his right fist in the classic Black Panther style. He looked at all the smiling faces, the tired looks of hope from his Brothers. They had attacked the Man last night and won!
“ARE YOU READY FOR A WAR?” Malcolm yelled. The roar of his men was deafening.
THE MASSIVE ABRAHMS tank came to a stop with the usual squeaking and rattling of treads, its mighty engine rumbling. Brigadier General Joseph Stapleton opened the hatch and stood up, scanning the horizon with his field binoculars. The skyline of Chicago leapt into vision, smeared by the dirty plumes of smoke that stabbed at the sky. There was an orange glow about certain parts of the city, General Stapleton could easily see. No lights. A handful of police and Guard helicopters buzzing about. They looked like nervous birds.
His tanks had just rolled off the transport trucks after a long, weary road trip from Fort Knox. They had cleared more cars than he thought he’d ever see in his whole life off the congested roads leading into Chicago. All those civilians had panicked and flocked to the nearest highways causing the mother of all traffic jams. There was much evidence of violence and looting among the abandoned cars as waves of refugees from the cities hoofed it into the suburbs.
It felt damn fine to be back in a tank again, to feel the earth shake under its treads. It was almost a spiritual experience.
Through his binoculars he could see the skyline of Chicago clearly. His brigade was only a mile outside the occupied part of the city. They were tearing the hell out of the paved highways and streets, but such was the price of getting to the center of the action as fast as possible. He didn’t give a hoot about the roads—he was told to get to Chicago and retake the city, at all costs.
His intel briefing on the way up from Fort Knox was very detailed. The downtown district had been taken over by some sort of Black Muslim extremists, declaring open warfare on the United States. They had slaughtered innocent civilians and just the night before had taken prisoner some number of Federalized National Guardsmen along with an ass-load of materiel.
Stapleton chewed on his stub of a cigar. The 51 year old general grunted and swung an arm towards Occupied Chicago. “All right, Charlie, move ‘em out.” The helmet mounted microphone relayed his message to his XO, in the tank next to his own at the head of the column. He was a brash and bold field commander, Stapleton, and he enjoyed leading his men, rather than following.
The digital linkups between all the tanks and soldiers of the brigade ensured that everyone got the right messages. The long column of sleek tanks rumbled forward, followed by engineers and soldier transports—armored personnel carriers. Above, a Kiowa scout helicopter raced forward to get a lay of the land, heading towards the Sears Tower—apparently the base of the rioting. Stapleton was quickly coming to the conclusion that it was more of a rebellion than a riot anymore. He rode his tank like a horse cavalryman, preferring the open turret and unobstructed view as they rumbled towards Chicago.
“Inform General Collrade the cavalry has arrived,” he said into the microphone, pushing the unlit cigar to the corner of his mouth.
NORAD
Aim Small, Miss Small
DAMMIT, MAN, GET to the point. I want an answer. Gimme the bottom line, Howard—will you back us up or not?” asked the President over the phone. He looked at the monitors on his conference table that depicted the faces of the Secretary of Defense, the Director of the CIA and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. The phone was set to ‘speaker’ so the other men could hear through their own monitors at their secret locations.
After a pause and some muffled whispers, the strong English voice of the Prime Minister replied, “I’m sorry, old boy. We support you to the fullest extent that we are capable…however, His Majesty’s military simply cannot become involved. We will do our part by not participating.” It was obvious the man was pained to say so.
“Howard, you realize we’re going to have no recourse except to declare war on them or anyone, for that matter, if they actually try for an invasion.”
Another pregnant pause. “Mr. President, that is precisely what we believe they want—further proof that you and your government are out of control and pose a significant threat to the rest of the world, all facts notwithstanding. Of course, if you do nothing…well, they shall very much appreciate that as well, old boy.”
“Congress is damn near apoplectic about the U.N….yet we’ve got a handful that are actually welcoming this bullshit, can you believe that?”
“Honestly, how they can do that is quite beyond me,” came the lilting British accent.
“Howard…if it comes to fighting, you’re telling me you can’t help, or you won’t?” the President tried one last time.
“My apologies, old chap, but we simply cannot risk confrontation. Our forces are not quite so…large…as your own. The recent wars in Iraq and Syria has quite taxed us to our limit. Our Navy is all that stands between England and an outside threat. We simply cannot afford to do anything right now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Howard.”
“I am sorry to say it, I truly am. I want you to rest assured, however, that I will do everything possible to stall this move by the U.N.; we’ll block it every way we can and do what we can…but I regretfully cannot offer military aid.”
“Well, I’ll keep you informed…”
“Good day, my friend—God bless.” The line went dead as the Prime Minister hung up in Number 10 Downing Street.
The President pushed the button on his phone to hang up as well. He sat back in his chair, sighing. “Well, there you have it, gentleman.”
“Horseshit.”
“My thoughts exactly, Al,” the President replied to the monitor with a tired smile. “So, is there anyone we can rely on? Anyone out there gonna back us up? After all the shit we’ve gone through to help people around the world in the last hundred years…” he asked SecState’s frowning image.
The Secretary of State looked over his papers. “Sir…just about all of our major allies, Spain, Australia, Japan…they’ve all sworn not to help the U.N. if and when they decide to make a move against us, but they’re not going to send troops or money to help us, either. The Canadians say they’ll help however they can, but they don’t have shit. And we just heard England’s response. Everyone thinks it’s just too risky.”
“Too risky? What part of doing nothing do they think is too risky? If the U.N. wins, those bastards can say, ‘Well, we didn’t fight against you, so we can still be friends, right?’” said the Secretary of Defense bitterly.
The President rubbed his chin. “Gentleman, I can’t really blame them, they’re just being greedy and looking out for Number One. The same damn thing they condemn us for trying to do,” he remarked sarcastically. “It’s a no win situation for them. If they back the U.N. and the U.N. makes a move and we win, then our former allies look like enemies. If they back us and the U.N. wins—“
“I’ll be ice skating in hell before that happens, sir!” cried the image Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. The President waved him off politely.
“Regardless of who they back, if the other side wins, they’re up shit creek. If they back no one and attempt to stay neutral they might get out of this without many consequences,” finished the Secretary of Defense.
“Way I see it though, we might not be in a mood to thank people for staying out of the fight when it’s all said and done,” the Commander in Chief said darkly. The room went silent for a few agonizing moments.
“What time frame are we working with here?” asked SecState quietly.
“Even if the U.N. passes the vote to act tonight, it will take at least a month or so to get things organized militarily, I’d bet,” said the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “They’ll have to coordinate command structure among the nations willing to send troops—they always bicker and fight like a pack a dogs over a bitch in heat when it comes to that—then they have to get ‘em over here…I’d say on the outside, give ‘em six months to a year. If they really get their act together…” he thought, scratching his nose, “Maybe six months or a little less.”
Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) Page 30
