Charlie's Requiem: Democide

by Walt Browning

  I shook my head at the effort it was taking to stay off the radar. What a way to live, I thought. Actually, this wasn’t living, it was just surviving.

  As the days passed, we said very little because we had no new information to discuss. All we could do was quietly wait for John to visit tonight and plan accordingly. As it turned out, six more days went by; and those were the most boring of my short life.

  I am sure there will be times in the future when I wished life were this mundane; but in its own way, the inactivity and ignorance of what the outside world was experiencing created its own form of hell.

  “John should be here in a bit,” I said to no one in particular.

  It was nearing dark, and our standard daily get – together had recently turned into an every-other day meeting. John had been reassigned to escort postal census takers in an attempt to get a handle on how many people remained in the city. I had no idea that they had this power, but apparently there was some obscure law from the Kennedy administration that let the postal workers do census work to take an accounting of all citizens.

  John had described it as Executive Order 11002 – Assigning Emergency Preparedness Functions to the Postmaster General. I guess when we were concerned about a nuclear war, and the government needed to find out how many had survived, that made some weird kind of sense. But now it sounded like someone had figured out how to use this to Homeland’s advantage; and tonight would be John’s first meeting with us after days of census babysitting.

  It wasn’t too much longer before John appeared at our door. The evening sun had long since set, and the night sky was dark with clouds that threatened rain and blocked the quarter moon from giving us any illumination.

  I could tell from his demeanor that the last few days had not gone well. He was short with Garrett when first greeted and he insisted we all sit down and plan an exit strategy, the sooner the better.

  We made our way to the stairwell; and after closing the doors, Garrett used a battery-operated lantern to provide us with some light. We spread our maps on the cold, concrete floor and John brought out a notebook where he had taken notes and drawn his own diagrams. He took a marker from his pocket and outlined the areas where the DHS contractors had taken over.

  “OK, guys.” He started. “I’ve outlined all the no-go areas you need to avoid. The areas marked with cross hatches are out. They are saturated with these DHS goons, and there’s no safe passage in these areas.”

  Looking at the map, all of south Orlando was now out of bounds. The west side was close to being shut off as well, and areas of Apopka to the northwest and Union Park on the east side had tentacle – like projections enveloping these areas. It was like an Amoeba projecting pseudopods around an unsuspecting prey, enveloping it for eventual digestion.

  “My God,” Garrett whispered as we stared at the new map. “Where do we go?”

  “North,” John said with a sigh. “It’s the only way. DHS has hired, for lack of any better term, thugs and gang members to clear out these no-go areas. I’ve seen what they have left behind; and it’s genocide. I’ve escorted the postal workers into zones “cleared” by these people, and there isn’t a block or neighborhood where I haven’t seen entire families wiped out.”

  I put my hand on John’s arm and squeezed. How he could deal with this was beyond me, yet here he is persisting in helping us.

  “I am so sorry,” I said. “You must feel so powerless.”

  John smiled weakly at me and nodded. You could see the depression, the helplessness in his eyes.

  “You have no idea,” he said back.

  He got up from his kneeling position and stretched. He walked to the top of the stairs and stared into the landing wall. The Coleman battery-powered lantern cast a steady dull light that illuminated the landing around us, but quickly faded as it searched out the depths of the stairwell. A dark, uninviting abyss stared back at you when you looked down to its lower levels.

  I got up and stood next to him, staring at the wall in front of us. The silence was complete, only our light breathing breaking the stillness.

  “It almost flickers,” he quietly said.

  “What?” I gently asked.

  “The light,” he replied. “If you stare at the wall long enough, I would swear the light was dancing, almost like a flame.”

  I looked but didn’t see it. Something was deeply bothering him and I could sense that he didn’t want to give it up. His eyes betrayed a soul in turmoil, and his posture showed a man at war with himself.

  Finally, he turned to us and spoke of what had been happening. But best I let him tell that story himself.

  Chapter 14

  “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”

  — Friedrich Nietzsche

  John Drosky

  To say I was leery of the whole postal babysitting thing was an understatement. Aside from the fact that there were people out there hurting, putting our energy into what amounted to an executive protection racket was a double slap in the face. First, we are prevented from helping those that need it. I wanted to fight crime or at least mitigate some of the suffering. But to babysit these primadonnas, these “I am a representative of the federal government and you’re crap on my boots” jerks was just adding salt to the wound.

  At first, I kept an open mind. The night before our first full day together, we spent a couple of hours reviewing our projected goals. When I heard them talk about their mission statement, I was flabbergasted. I excused myself from the meeting to check with our captain. Sure enough, what they said was true.

  First, they were there to take a count of all the people remaining in the city. We were to mark the homes and estimates of people for future reference. Good enough, I thought. Makes sense.

  But, then it got weird. We were not only to ask about guns, but about supplies as well. They were to question people about how much food they had stored, how they were processing their waste and making clean water. We were to mark down what we thought they had and keep a record of our estimates to turn into DHS. When I asked what the feds were going to do with that information, they looked at me like I had grown a third eye.

  “Well,” one of the census workers said condescendingly, “We’re going to go and take it. We can’t have some people hoard what they have at the expense of the rest of the community.”

  “But what if they saved it up themselves?” I asked stupidly. “They earned it and saved for a day like this.”

  “Who is this cherry?” The other bureaucrat snidely replied. “Obviously they were the lucky ones. After all, the poor didn’t have that opportunity to save up food and other supplies. Why should they suffer at the hands of the greedy who selfishly took these supplies from the rest of society?”

  Right there, I learned two things. First, I wanted to punch them both between the eyes. Second, socialism had come calling and no one was there to fend it off.

  I remembered back a few years ago, when the president dismissively claimed that business owners hadn’t built their own companies and then later said his words had been taken out of context. Looking back at that day, I realized that his words were exactly how he felt. His attitude that the rich had stolen or cheated to get where they were reflected the attitude of the country’s present recovery efforts. It was a government nanny state being conceived in front of my eyes, and I instinctively wanted no part of it.

  But I didn’t want to be shoved aside into some dark and forgotten hole, so I swallowed my reply and eagerly nodded, feigning agreement with his answer.

  Mollified, the two men finished their review and we went home for the night. After that meet and greet, I decided to privately call them Beavis and Butthead.

  The next day at roll call,
the captain informed us all that the census workers were to be considered our immediate supervisors. Whatever they wanted was what we were to give them. It was only a matter of how high we jumped when they commanded us to leave our feet. I felt like a recruit entering basic training.

  The first few days went by as well as could be expected. We covered a lot of ground as I stood guard at our vehicle, usually at the entrance to the neighborhood they were canvassing.

  Yesterday, Bru had been tasked to escort them as they walked the streets in search of any remaining people. Although Bru didn’t mention anything bad, I got the feeling that he wasn’t all that happy about the situation either. At the end of his shift, he was called into the agent in charge’s office for a debrief. I waited about 30 minutes, and when he still hadn’t returned, I left and went back to my apartment. I never saw him again that night.

  Then today, he appeared right before roll call, and our census agents appeared immediately after that, preventing me from grilling him about his experience.

  “Are you ready to go, Agent Drosky?” One of the census workers, whom I had labelled Butthead, asked.

  “Affirmative, sir.” I replied.

  The man cracked a slight smile and turned away. We got in the M-ATV that Bru and I had been issued and journeyed to the Apopka area where our next round of canvassing was to take place.

  “Agent Drosky,” Beavis said. “Today I’d like you to come with us. Agent Bruner will stay with the vehicle. Is that understood?”

  “Yes sir,” I replied.

  I checked my M4 and made sure a round was chambered and that the safety was on. I did a press check of my Glock to verify it had one in the pipe, and waited for our first stop.

  Our journey found us near the intersection of Hiawassee and Clarcona Ocoee Roads, a middle class section of town with a mixture of Latino and white families. In this case, the two groups were getting along as well as most, both races working difficult jobs for too little money. They shared the same backbreaking work and the same meager income. Their peaceful coexistence was proof that a common enemy such as poverty, could bring any two people together.

  It was around mid-afternoon when we came to our first real impasse. The subdivision we were canvassing was a typical modern row-house community. Zero acre lots were stacked with modern, cookie-cutter homes. Stacked side-by-side, they were, for the most part, abandoned. Most houses showed signs of vandalism with broken windows, smashed-in front doors and garbage strewn about the yards.

  But on the periphery of the housing project, the homes lining the outer edge of the community faced a green space, their backyards abutting up against a state-owned park. It was here that we ran across a couple of families that had stayed with their homes. As we drove down the street, it was more than apparent which houses were still occupied. The only two homes that had not yet been abandoned were side by side and were the only ones with intact doors and windows as well as having trash free lawns. When we walked up to their houses, both families came out to greet us. Both homes had a mother and father with three young kids in the white family’s house, and his Hispanic neighbor couple with four youngsters. None of the seven kids had seen their tenth birthday yet.

  A quick glance in the back yard showed a new large garden having been tilled, and rows of new raised beds with stakes and markers, indicating which vegetable or herb was planted there. These folks were here for the long haul, and they were preparing to take care of themselves.

  I accompanied the two government agents up to the families and stood back as they began their census.

  “Hey,” the white father said as the two men approached, clipboards in hand.

  “Sir, we are from the government. We have a few questions to ask you.”

  “Fire away,” The relaxed, young man said.

  After getting their names, those of their family members and verifying their addresses, the two agents got down to the real reason for their visit.

  “Sir, do you have any food in the house. We are looking for any supplies that would be considered excessive.”

  “Well, what the hell would you consider excessive? And why is that any of your business?” The white dad asked with indignation.

  “Yeah, really!” The Hispanic man added. “We’re doing just fine, so you don’t have to worry about us. Just put that down on your chart and you can be on your way.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. But I wasn’t talking to you. Please stay out of this. We will get to you shortly.”

  “The hell you will!” He replied. “Just leave us alone.”

  With that, the man turned and started back to his house.

  “SIR!” Butthead yelled. “DO NOT TURN YOUR BACK ON US!”

  The angry man continued to stomp up his driveway, his worried wife holding a young child no more than a year old. Her face revealed her fear as her husband strode toward her.

  Beavis checked his paperwork, and after verifying his name, shouted out to him.

  “Mr. Torres! I can and will have you arrested. You don’t want to leave your wife Sofia and your four children here without you, now do you, Mr. Torres?”

  The man stopped in his tracks and froze. His fists clenched and his shoulders narrowed. He was livid at these men. Looking back at it, he was livid at us all, including me.

  His wife gasped, seeing her husband coiled with rage.

  “Bobby, please stop him!” She pled to the white neighbor.

  “Come on, Miguel,” Bobby asked his friend. “Let’s answer his questions and get this over with.”

  “Alright,” he finally relented and strode back to our group.

  I released my grasp on my weapon, realizing that I was gripping it tightly in anticipation of some kind of confrontation.

  “So, Sir!” Agent Butthead sarcastically asked. “Do you have any excess food in the house?”

  After a second, Bobby answered. “No sir, we don’t. We have just enough to feed our family for a short period of time.”

  “And define a ‘short period’ if you would,” the agent said back.

  Bobby and Miguel exchanged glances and both answered at the same time.

  “A week’s worth,” Bobby answered, while Miguel replied “A month or two.”

  “Well,” Agent Beavis said. “I think we have a discrepancy, and an inspection of the house is in order.”

  “The hell you will!” Bobby replied. “You don’t have the right to enter my house!”

  “I’m afraid we do,” Beavis replied. “Martial law has been declared, nullifying your Constitutional rights.”

  The two civilians looked questioningly at each other, unsure what was true and what wasn’t.

  “I’m sorry to tell you this,” Butthead continued. “But you have no rights. In fact, let’s get this out on the table. We have records that both of you are gun owners. Do you have any firearms in the house? Because the president has decreed that all firearms are to be turned over to us.”

  “For the safety of us all, you understand.” Beavis added. “It’s just for your safety.”

  The two fathers looked once more at each other and turned and ran back into their homes.

  “Agent Drosky!” Beavis ordered. “Go arrest those men.”

  “Seriously?” I asked. “You want me to go up to their house and ask them to turn over their firearms.”

  The two census workers looked at me, incredulous that I had questioned their sanity. Interestingly, that’s just what I did.

  “Does your little electronic pad tell you what firearms they own?” I asked sarcastically.

  Amazingly, they replied immediately.

  “The white man owns an M&P Sport AR-15 and several handguns, including an M&P Shield and a .22 caliber Ruger semi-automatic pistol.”

  “Oh, is that all?” I asked, sarcasm
dripping from my words.

  “Isn’t that enough?” Beavis replied, totally incapable of understanding the cutting remark. I quickly learned that both of them lacked any sense of humor or compassion.

  “The other man, the Mexican, owns a shotgun and a revolver.” Butthead added.

  “Then I’m outgunned,” I replied. “I guess we need to pass on by and let them be.”

  My hopes were quickly extinguished however, when I saw Beavis grab his radio telephone and hit a button, connecting him immediately with DHS headquarters.

  “This is worker D-12.” He started. “We are at the following address and request an immediate reaction team at our location. We have a “starburst” incident unfolding and need backup.”

  The response was too muted to hear, but it didn’t bode well when the sadistic piece of crap smiled at his partner.

  “Our first “starburst” call in,” Beavis said with excitement.

  “This should be good,” Butthead replied. “I spoke with workers from “F” section and they had a successful interdiction yesterday.”

  “Did they recover any assets?” Beavis inquired.

  “No,” Butthead replied. “But the fireworks were worth the loss.”

  The two workers and I wandered up the road, then about a fifty yards up they turned to me.

  “Agent Drosky,” Beavis said. “Hold your position and you will notify us if anything changes, won’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” I replied with some trepidation. Then they continued further toward Bru and our M-ATV.

  A few minutes went by until I heard the sound of a large military vehicle whistling down the road toward us. The high-pitched rumble of the machine’s diesel engine was unmistakable; and as an ex-Marine, I had heard it enough to know what it was.

  I turned in time to see an LAV-25 come shooting down the street. The open hatch on top had a black uniformed DHS agent manning a 7.62 mounted machine gun while its 8-wheel drive engine slowly downshifted and finally stopped about a hundred yards short of the two homes with its 25mm Bushmaster cannon pointed ominously at the two houses. Like a prizefighter waiting for the bell to ring, the driver revved his engines while keeping his brakes engaged. The lunging and restraint of the gunning engine against the heavy brakes made the machine appear alive.