Shakespeare chuckled. “Let’s just say we have arms for any occasion.”
Ever since Pamela’s former classmate Granger Meade had broken into their home a couple of years ago, she and Jack had been back and forth about whether they should own a gun. When Granger got out of prison, Jack had carried a gun strapped to his ankle for a time.
“Do you have guns, Jack?” Margaret said.
He glanced at Shakespeare. “We have a gun. It’s under lock and key.”
“Good,” Margaret said. “And I want to get one for myself, too. Will you take me to the gun range if I do, Jack?”
“You can get them through the mail these days. Order online. It’s a breeze,” Shakespeare said.
“Really? That’s legal?” Margaret said.
“As long as it’s a dealer with a federal firearms license, absolutely.” Shakespeare was fiddling with something near the ammo, his back to them, then turned around suddenly. “And don’t forget your gas masks!”
Pamela and Margaret screamed. Even Jack jumped back and laughed nervously.
Shakespeare breathed in and out, sounding like an astronaut through the black, heavy-duty gas mask. “These are a necessity. One for every family member. They come in kids’ sizes.” He ripped the gas mask off. “Seriously. They could hit us with nukes, crop dusters, dirty bombs. There’s no other protection.” He shook the gas mask. “But get good ones. The cheap ones aren’t worth zip. You gotta spend money to get the best. I’ll send you the links.” Shakespeare tossed the gas mask aside. “There you have it. You now know about sixty-five percent of my secrets.”
“I am so ill prepared,” Margaret said. “Jack? We need to get busy, for the sake of the girls …”
“I’ve been thinking about it. Pam and I need to talk,” Jack said.
“You need to do more than talk,” Margaret said.
Pamela was restless and ready to get home. She was hot and overwhelmed. She was glad she’d seen Shakespeare’s stash, but she didn’t want to think about it anymore. “We should round the kids up,” she said.
“Okay.” Jack got the hint and started out of the garage.
“I mean it, Jack. This is paramount,” Margaret said. “Before I … you know … before my time comes, I want to know you’re prepared.”
Shakespeare turned the lights out, and they followed him back through the schoolroom and the kitchen, and out the sliding door to the back porch, where Sheena sat thumbing at her phone.
“Oh, one last thing.” Shakespeare stopped and turned toward them. “Everyone needs a Get Home Bag.”
Sheena shook her head and continued tapping away at her phone.
“What’s that?” Margaret said.
“Don’t ask,” Sheena said.
Jack told Rebecca and Faye it was time to go.
“It’s a bag of necessities you keep in your car in case the mud hits the fan while you’re away from home. It’s got everything you need to get you home—then you decide whether you’re going to bug out or hunker down. I can show you mine.”
“Oh yes.” Margaret began to follow Shakespeare, but Pamela cut her off.
“Mom, we’ve got to go. I’m wiped out. Maybe next time, Brian.”
“Oh … sure, sure.” He leaned closer to Margaret and lowered his voice. “It’s all about the basics: food, clothing, and shelter. It’s got a miniature tent, poncho, flashlight, knife, matches and tinder, filtered water bottle—”
“Will you write this down?” Margaret started digging in her purse.
“I’ll give Jack the websites. Mine has a folding shovel, rope, protein bars, instant coffee. Let’s see … extra socks, first aid, duct tape, weapon and extra ammo—”
“I have email,” Margaret said. “Send these things directly to me. If you send them to Jack, I’ll never see them.”
Rebecca and Faye arrived on the back porch sweaty, pink faced, and even dirty, which was totally out of character for them. Jack made sure they gave a proper thank-you to Sheena. All of Shakespeare’s kids gathered around too.
“What does ‘bug out’ mean?” Margaret said.
Pamela couldn’t help listening.
“Take off, get out of town, get to your SRL—survival retreat location,” Shakespeare said. “It’s where you go in a yellow or red event when there’s gonna be a complete breakdown of society with people starving and panicking, looting house to house. It’s when home base is no longer any good. You’ve got to bug out because every house, barn, store, and building will be searched for food and supplies.”
“But where would you go?” Margaret pleaded.
“You’ve got to have a plan.” Shakespeare looked at Jack.
Shakespeare’s oldest son, Bobby, spoke up. “Your survival retreat location should be at least one full tank of gas away from home.”
“And …” Shakespeare waited.
“And it should be at least forty miles from the nearest city,” Bobby said proudly.
“That’s right.” Shakespeare rubbed Bobby’s curly, black hair. “And at least forty miles from the nearest major highway.”
“Mom, time to go. Say good-bye.” Pamela was frustrated that Shakespeare would load her mom down with such fears. And it was scaring her, too.
Pamela and Jack had no petroleum or water reserves, they had no freezers or generators, they had no survival foods or gas masks, they had no Get Home Bag or survival retreat location. And the thought of looters going house to house downright freaked her out.
But what they did have was today and each other. They had the miracle of life growing inside her. They had a promise from God that he would never leave them or forsake them. For the moment, those things were going to have to be enough.
7
Festival Arena, October 6
Shakespeare and Chico were practically running down the white hallway below the arena, trying to keep up with Jenny King, the bossy, young handler of Ohio senator and independent presidential candidate Martin Sterling. She resisted their help, insisting she’d been there many times before.
“Miss King,” Shakespeare said. “We need to turn at this next hallway. You’re set up in room 3-A.”
King, wearing a tapered gray pinstriped suit, didn’t slow a beat but continued taking mammoth strides in her black stilettos, her jet-black hair bouncing at her shoulders.
They flew into 3-A, where she whizzed from table to table, checking beverages and ice, lifting the lid on each steaming silver tray, as if making sure the massive amounts of food prepared by the in-house caterers looked reasonably warm and edible.
“Jenny to Stagecoach.” She checked her sleek watch and looked up at the ceiling as she spoke into her big gray radio. “The senator is good to go for room 3-A, that’s 3-A. Have his security detail escort him in. Over.”
“Ten-four. It’s going to be just a few more minutes, Miss King,” said a male voice from the other end of the radio. Shakespeare assumed the reply came from inside Sterling’s tour bus, which was parked at the loading docks.
Jenny sized up Chico, then eyeballed Shakespeare, placing an index finger on her pointy chin. She smelled like a bouquet of expensive flowers. “You don’t have to be here,” she said.
Shakespeare took a deep breath and made himself pause before saying something he shouldn’t. “You are aware of the threat.”
She closed her eyes and nodded, as if dealing with a five-year-old. “We get threats all the time.” She squinted at his name tag. “Really? I suppose you’re related.”
“Actually, I am.”
She rolled her eyes. “We’re going to be fine in here. You gentlemen can go tell your boss to station you someplace else.”
“Her name is Clarissa Dracone,” Shakespeare said. “She just wants to make sure you have someone familiar with the building—”
Jenny nodded, looking annoyed. “I’
ve done the Sean Hannity Freedom Concert here five years in a row. We know the building, we know what we’re doing. Really, your time would be better spent elsewhere.”
Shakespeare looked at Chico and shrugged. “I’m going to have you take that up with her. And she’s a busy lady right now. Until we get the order from her, I’m afraid we’re here.”
“I know Clarissa.” Jenny whipped around, looking at the catering tables as if she’d already forgotten the conversation. “She’s probably fit to be tied right about now. Just stay out of the way until I find a good time to talk to her.”
There was a commotion in the hallway.
“Station yourself in that corner,” Shakespeare whispered to Chico. “I want to know anything they mention about the threat. Page me if you need me. I’ll be floating.”
“Didn’t Clarissa want us both here?” Chico’s dark eyes were huge.
“Don’t worry. When Sterling gets here, I’ll be here.”
Shakespeare stepped into the hallway. Coming toward him was an entourage of people led by Jack and Sid. Shakespeare felt a tinge of pride and nostalgia when he saw Everett Lester and his wife. Their handsome son was with them too. He had long brown hair and, even though he was adopted, looked exactly like his dad, minus the tattoos that crept up and down Everett’s forearms and neck.
Shakespeare backed up against the wall. “Jack, how goes it?”
“All good so far,” Jack said with a mixture of confidence and nerves. “You?”
“Nothing new. Where you headed?”
“5-A,” Jack said. “We’re gonna be neighbors.”
“Sounds good.” Shakespeare acknowledged the guests. “Hello, Mr. Lester, Mrs. Lester. Good to have you here this evening.”
“Thanks. It’s good to be here … we think.” Everett chuckled. “I’m sure you guys have everything under control, right?”
Shakespeare could only think of the lack of police support he’d seen so far, but he gave Everett and Karen a thumbs-up and said, “Absolutely.”
Shakespeare’s radio sounded in his earpiece.
“Okay, all EventPros, listen up. We have a SWAT team arriving by bus at the cargo entrance.” Clarissa sounded relieved. “They are in dark blue and black from head to toe. Each of them is wearing a dark helmet and shield. They are armed with nine-millimeter submachine guns and Glock handguns. Several have sophisticated rifles.”
Probably M14s, Shakespeare thought. His best friend during Desert Storm and one of the weapons in his Get Home Bag.
“So far, that is all of the excess staff we have on duty,” she continued. “We hope more are coming. But in the meantime, these are the only people besides EventPros and arena staff that you should see in uniform.”
“How many are there? Over. Sorry … this is Shakespeare.”
“Eight to twelve,” Clarissa said. “I’m not sure where they’ll be stationed yet. That’s up to their commander.”
“This is Steve Basheer to base.”
“Go, Steve,” Clarissa said.
“I’m at the club level. Nothing doing here. I have not seen Charlie. Have we heard from him?”
“Not yet.” Clarissa paused. Static. “Charlie Clearwater, if you can hear this, please respond. Steve, keep going up to the press boxes, then the Sky Zone. Let us know ASAP.”
“Ten-four,” Steve said.
Charlie could be silent for any number of reasons—bad radio or batteries, out of range, heart issues … He had to be in his midsixties.
But Shakespeare didn’t like it.
He glanced at his watch. The doors would be opening soon. He had all that artillery at home. But it was too late to call Sheena and ask her to lug it down here. She would never get near the place, anyway. If it came to it, the Get Home Bag in his truck was going to have to do.
It was time for a ceasefire in the war at home. He needed to let Sheena know what was going on. He got out his phone and quickly typed a text message to her.
Hey. Terror threat at arena. SWAT here. Watch news. Let me know of anything else going on. Thx.
8
Downtown Columbus, two months earlier
Lunch with Derrick Whittaker, Jack’s best friend and former colleague from the Trenton City Dispatch, was just what Jack had needed. They met in downtown Columbus at Katz’s, a dark deli that smelled like kosher pickles and served mouthwatering corned beef piled high on rye with homemade potato chips. It was close to the city newspaper where Derrick had landed a job as a reporter after the debacle at the Dispatch.
“I’ve mentioned you to each of these guys. You need to call them.” Derrick pushed a napkin toward Jack. On it he’d scribbled the names of three editors from his new employer, the Columbus Gazette. “Ask if you can come up for five minutes to say hi, and bring your portfolio. You need to meet face-to-face. They’ll love you. We need you. We’re so short, it isn’t even funny.”
“What do they have you working on these days?” Jack said.
“Dude, don’t you read my paper? They’ve got me covering the senator,” said Derrick, pushing his retro black glasses up on his nose.
“Martin Sterling? Get out,” Jack said.
“No joke.” Derrick squeezed a glob of ketchup into his basket. “It’s a total blast. I’m on the campaign trail. We’ve been to Rochester, Philly, Chicago … Can you believe it? That’s why it’s taken me so long to hook up with you. Me and old Martin are like this.” He crossed two fingers.
Although Jack had at least five years more journalism experience than Derrick, the Gazette hadn’t looked twice at him. He guessed it was because he had more experience and they probably thought he would be too expensive.
“Have you been able to get to know Sterling?” Jack said.
“Oh yeah. We stay at the same hotels, cover all his rallies—”
“Who’s we?”
“Me and Daniel Woodhouse, photographer. Remember, from the Dispatch?”
“Yeah. Good shooter.”
“Dude, you look down,” Derrick said.
“Just frustrated.” Jack shook his head. Here he was, basically out of work, eating the cheapest thing on the menu, working nights as an usher. “I’ve got to find a decent job. Pam and I are running on empty. She’s working all the time and isn’t happy about it.”
“Dude, I’m treating today.”
“No, you’re not. Thanks anyway. Come on, tell me more about Sterling. He’s going independent, isn’t he? You think he’s got a chance?”
“Heck, yeah. Are you kidding me? He’s a smart guy. He’s got specific ideas on how to get us out of this economic rut. I think he’s gonna kill it in the debates.”
“Will you cover those?”
“Oh yeah. The first one’s at Lee University, down in Tennessee. Then San Antonio … and someplace else. He’ll be stumping in Ohio big-time over the next year. It’s one of the top three swing states.”
“He’s pretty rad on the whole terrorism thing.”
Derrick stopped eating and leaned across the booth. “We need that, dude. It’s a true threat. Nobody realizes how serious it is. These extremists are infiltrating the country. Sterling knows what he’s talking about. The guy is ruthless, too.”
“He wants to put an end to mosques being built on US soil.”
Derrick’s eyes opened wide. “That’s just the one everyone knows about. He also wants to quadruple spending on the National Counterterrorism Center in Virginia. He wants to partner with a bunch of top intelligence agencies to neutralize terrorist cells and operatives in the US. He wants to get on top of cyberthreats. Do you realize President Brumby finances the Iraqis and others under the table, which nobody seems to care about? Sterling’s going to stop all that nonsense.”
“Sounds like he’s made you a believer.”
“He has.” Derrick looked around and lowered his voice. “We�
��ve got to crack down now, before it’s too late. Otherwise our kids are going to be living in a war zone—right here on our streets.”
Jack told Derrick about Brian Shakespeare and his extreme preparations in anticipation of a catastrophe.
“Dude, he’s a prepper. There are a lot of them out there—and they might not be too far off,” Derrick said. “I know Zenia and me aren’t prepared for anything like that. I’m just a city boy.”
“Me, too, but my mother-in-law’s a different story.”
“Margaret? She still living with you guys?”
Jack gave a slow nod.
Derrick laughed. “Man, it’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
“More than six months.”
“Ouch.”
“Actually, it’s a good thing. With Pam back to work, Margaret can take care of the girls after school. But we made the mistake of taking her to a picnic at Shakespeare’s place, and she’s been stockpiling food and supplies ever since.”
Derrick’s roaring laughter was contagious, and it felt good for Jack to join in.
“And she’s fallen in love with Sterling,” Jack said. “Overnight she’s turned into a political activist.”
“Well, Sterling sure beats the alternative,” Derrick said. “I don’t think we can endure four more years of what we got.”
“I agree with that. But, dude, Sterling wants to arm teachers. What do you think about that?”
“I … I just don’t know what I think about that. I’m telling you, he’s rad. Zenia thinks it’s nuts.”
“Wait till you have kids,” Jack said.
“Oh, I can imagine.”
“Let’s change the subject. How is Zenia, anyway? How’s married life?”
Derrick shook his head and smiled. He was wearing his afro about two inches long and had put on a few pounds since his wedding in the spring, when Jack served as his best man. “Better than I ever imagined. We’re having a lot of fun.”
“She still working for parks and rec?”
“Yep. Trenton City’s been good to her.”
“You guys must be doing okay financially.”
Sky Zone: A Novel (The Crittendon Files) Page 4
