Charlie's Requiem: Democide

by Walt Browning

  By the time they arrived in Winter Garden, their street had undergone three name changes as it passed through different boroughs. What was Rt. 455 in Montverde, had become “Old Hwy 50”, then Oakland Street (as it passed through, wait for it… Oakland) and now was called Plant Street in Winter Garden.

  Throughout their travel, usually at 25 mph, they saw a few people staring at them longingly from yards and driveways.

  “Hey, before we hit the cell tower,” Kramer said. “Let’s stop at the Seed and Feed store.”

  “You need something for the horses?” Ed asked.

  Winter Garden Seed and Feed was an equestrian’s heaven, with tack and feed supplies galore. When Kramer explained his desire to start a garden, Grafton readily agreed. The Feed and Seed story may not have the heirloom seeds they were looking for, but the owners lived in a home nearby, and they should be able to direct them to an appropriate source.

  “Can we trust them?” Ed asked Kramer as they drove into the small town.

  “Yeah,” Kramer replied. “Chris Newsome is a straight up guy, and if anyone I know is riding this out, it’s him. Now, turn right up there on Park Street. I don’t want to drive through downtown.”

  After turning off the main road, Kramer guided him down the two-lane side street, passing a large public baseball complex. After passing the final baseball field, he had them turn left, bringing them parallel to their original path. As they drove through the residential neighborhood, the found yet more empty houses. Most homes, one-story 1950’s block structures, looked abandoned. Many were closed up tight with their shades drawn, while some had their front doors kicked in or left open to the elements, a sure sign that not everyone in town was trustworthy.

  “Turn left here on Main,” Kramer said.

  Travelling a few blocks up Main street, the doctor pointed to a quaint old brick building that had been plastered over and whitewashed. Its green awnings still snapped in the breeze and several people were milling about at the open front door.

  If you wanted to have a postcard made of Old Florida, you needed to look no further than Winter Garden. It had once been a dying old citrus town, but the city had been purposely developed into a quaint destination for people wanting a great meal in a town with a last-century feel to it.

  An old railroad track ran directly behind the building, so Kramer had Ed stop short of the tracks, leaving a good 30 or 40-yard buffer between them and the half a dozen or so people watching them from the front of the building.

  “Wait here,” Kramer said. “Guard the truck while I head inside.”

  “Is it worth it?” Ed asked with genuine concern.

  “I want some answers,” Kramer replied. “All this talk about the government and our little meeting with Bragg have me upset. If anyone knows what’s going on, Chris will.”

  Kramer walked across the tracks; and as he approached the door, he saw that several of the men were indeed armed with AR-15 style rifles. None of them pointed his weapon at him, but they did maintain a “low-ready” stance with rifles pointed out front but slightly down. They quietly spread out, putting some distance between themselves, which would make it harder for any single shooter to hit them all.

  Kramer made sure his hands were out where they could be seen, and made it to the front door without incident.

  “Can we help you?” One of them said. He was a large, bearded man with tattooed arms the size of a ham who presented a fearsome sight.

  “I’m here to see Chris!” Kramer confidently announced.

  “And just who would you be?” A second man asked. This one was a smaller version of the first, thick and not someone you’d want on your bad side.

  “Let him know that Dr. Kramer’s here to speak with him.”

  “Is that you, doc?” came a yell from inside.

  A moment later, Chris Newsome stepped out of the shop wearing his garden apron. He removed his leather work-gloves and offered his hand.

  “Glad you’ve survived!” He said.

  “You too,” Kramer added.

  “We’re good, boys!” The older Newsome said.

  The big man, the first one he had come across, lifted his right arm in the air in front of him and, turning to the west, made a side-to-side waving motion. Looking down the alley where he had directed his signal, Kramer saw another man with a rifle move back behind a dumpster; and off in the distance about two blocks away, he saw a man in the city’s water tower wave and disappear among the metal girders underneath the giant metal tank.

  The big guy then turned up Main street to the north and waved side-to-side again. Looking closely, across the street was a one-story block building with an herb shop tenant. The building next to it was a freshly painted gray two-story building that had a red canvas-covered fire escape running above the roof of the herb building. Looking closely, Kramer could just make out another sniper waving back at the man.

  “Just how many men do you have out there?” Kramer asked incredulously.

  “Enough, doc. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Come on in,” Chris said. “And tell your buddy that he may as well come in too. No one will touch your truck.”

  * * *

  “Bring it up here,” Kramer called back to Grafton.

  Ed jumped in his Chevy and drove it to the front door.

  “Nice truck, doc.” The big man said admiringly.

  “Thanks!” Ed replied, getting out of the old vehicle.

  “Sweet!” One of the others said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Chris started. “Dr. Kramer, this is Jack Cunningham. He owns The Armorer, the gun shop down on Highway 50.”

  “Call me Gerry,” Kramer said, offering the giant man his hand.

  “Pleasure’s mine, doc!” Cunningham replied.

  He introduced his friend, and after Ed was brought into the mix, the three of them went into the shop, leaving Cunningham and his men outside to continue their overwatch.

  The store was almost completely empty, with only a pile of supplies stacked neatly at the back loading dock.

  “Leaving?” Kramer asked sarcastically.

  “Should have left sooner,” Newsome replied. “Had to deal with DHS, and I wish we had bugged out before that.”

  “What happened?” Ed asked.

  “Well, let me tell you!” He started.

  Newsome went on to detail his run-in with DHS. The city had been paid a visit by a number of DHS agents distributing fliers which told the residents to begin their journey to Orlando and the Fairgrounds camp. With the promise of food and water stations along the route, most of the population had quickly volunteered to make the 10-mile walk down Highway 50.

  “Most were gone within a day, with no food or safe water.” Newsome said. “But I have a group of friends that would prefer to stay. Cunningham and his boys are part of that group. We have a place down south of here, and we’re holding up there till this blows over.”

  “So what’s the problem with DHS?” Kramer asked.

  “I had two guys show up at my front door,” Chris began. “There were dressed as postal workers of all things. They had some candy-ass DHS agent with them acting like some kind of hotshot SWAT operator. They demanded that I leave and that my store was now the property of the government. I told them I would be out of here by that night, but got in touch with Cunningham. He and his boys scared them off when they returned that evening. That was two days ago and I’ve been running supplies out to our spread since yesterday. This,” he said pointing to the pile in the back, “is our last run.”

  Kramer filled him in on what he had heard from the people at the Academy and from Bragg.

  “Freakin’ Government!” Newsome said with disgust. “I always knew we couldn’t trust that lot!”

  “HEY CUNNINGHAM!” Newsome yelle
d. “DOC’s GOT SOMETHING TO TELL YOU!”

  The big man entered the store, moving with remarkable grace given his huge size. Kramer filled him in on the information they had gathered, and the doctor watched as the big man’s face slowly turned red with rage.

  “Bastards!” He finally said. “Leaving kids to rot while they run their little errands.”

  “What are they doing, do you think?” Ed asked the group.

  “No idea,” Newsome. “But it sounds like prison busses. You know that the Lake Correctional Facility is up there.”

  “And Coleman,” Cunningham added. Coleman was a medium security federal prison located northwest of them.

  “Yeah,” Kramer replied. “But they’re taking people in that direction, and not bringing any back. Could they be taking looters there?”

  “Anything’s possible,” Newsome said. “But who knows with those pricks.”

  “Anyway,” Kramer said. “I came into town to get some batteries for my solar panels and try and find some seeds to plant.”

  “Well,” Newsome said. “I can help you with the seeds. The herb shop across the street is abandoned, and with the men here, no one’s messed with their shop. The owner left the keys with me and walked to Orlando. But with me leaving, I don’t see the value in holding on to them. Here you go!”

  Newsome reached behind his wooden counter and gave Kramer a set of keys.

  “Big one is the front door, the small one, I have no idea about.”

  A large engine vehicle could be heard in the distance.

  “And there’s my ride!” Newsome said as a dump truck rumbled in front of the store and turned behind the building, pulling up to the rear loading dock that sat next to the old railroad tracks.

  “Used to get railroad deliveries in the old days!” Newsome said. “Now, those days are gone.”

  “The way the world is now,” Kramer replied. “The “new days” are gone too.”

  “That’s the truth!” Newsome said back. Two men jumped up onto the dock and began to load the remaining supplies into the back of the dump truck’s enclosed bed.

  Newsome turned back to Ed and Kramer.

  “Hey, doc,” he said. “I’ll leave some feed and a salt block for your daughter’s horses. She still has them, right?”

  “I’d appreciate it!” Kramer said. “And since you know where I live, if you run across any problems I can help you with, just stop on by.”

  “Thanks, but unless we need trauma care, I should be able to handle most anything else. We have antibiotics and pain killers.”

  “How did you get those?” Kramer asked.

  “The vet!” Newsome answered. “Other than dosage, they’re the same for them as us.”

  “Well, I’ll be there if you need me.” Kramer finished. “And thanks for the feed. Caroline will appreciate it. We owe you!”

  “That’s the idea, doc!” He replied with a smirk.

  Ed and Kramer left the supply store and went across the street to the herb shop. Most everything there was already processed leaves and seeds, and were not adequate for planting. But the supply of medicinal herbs would be welcome if and when their pharmaceuticals ran out. They pulled the pickup truck up to the store and emptied the shelves. Taking several reference books with the load of supplies, Kramer smiled at the thought of all the nights of reading that were ahead of him. He had always wanted to learn about these medicinal plants. With more and more of his patients taking alternative medications, it had been on his list of things to do for a while. Now, it was even more critical that he learn about them.

  “What’s the second key for?” Ed asked.

  “Let’s find out!” Kramer replied.

  Searching the store, they found nothing that would accept the key. Giving up, they exited the front door and pulled back to the Seed store. As they exited the truck, they looked across the street at the herb shop and saw a second small door, which was separate from the main entrance.

  “Hey,” Ed said. “Let’s try that one.”

  They left their truck by the Newsome’s place and walked across and down the side street.

  Sure enough, the second key opened the small door and they entered the dark, cool room. The storage room was lined with heirloom seeds. Herbs, spices and basic food seed were catalogued and stacked on metal frame shelving units.

  “Holy mother of God!” Ed said out loud.

  “Jackpot!” Kramer added. They found a couple of large plastic bins in the main store and returned to the storage room. Packing the thousands and thousands of seeds into the bins, they realized they had far more than they could ever use.

  Hearing the dump truck starting up, Kramer jogged down to Main Street and saw Cunningham and his men jump in the back bed. The back swing gate had been removed, and four men sat on the back ledge, their legs hanging over the street and rifles at ready.

  Kramer flagged them down before they could leave, letting them know about their haul.

  “I think we’re alright,” Newsome said, sitting in the middle of the of the truck cab’s bench seat. “But we know where you are if we need more.”

  “Don’t spread the word unless you are sure the people you send are trustworthy.”

  “Hey, I know all about OpSec,” Cunningham added from the passenger seat. “We’ll come ourselves if needed. No one else should know about either of our groups. Got that, doc?”

  OpSec referred to Operational Security, a military term that basically meant how to keep a secret.

  “Copy that!” Kramer replied, earning a thumbs-up from the large ex-military operator.

  “Let’s move!” Cunningham called out, and the dumper slowly built up speed as it turned left and moved south down Main Street. Within a minute, they had disappeared.

  Kramer and Grafton returned to the store, finding feed and a salt block sitting by the front entrance. After loading it into the back bed, they surveyed the space left and determined that they could fit at least ten batteries in the back.

  “Let’s go,” Ed said. “It’s going to be dark in a few hours.”

  The old pickup fired back up and they quickly turned around and followed the dump truck south.

  “Where are we going?” Kramer asked.

  “I didn’t want to worry you,” Ed replied. “But we need to hit highway 50 and turn right. It’s about a quarter of a mile west from there.”

  Kramer was silent. If Grafton made this decision, he would live with it. They hadn’t seen any significant threat other than Cunningham’s crew, and Ed knew the risks.

  Ed did a couple of quick turns to get them closer to their destination before hitting that major thoroughfare.

  Finally, they could see the large 6-lane road up ahead, the new residential construction they were passing giving way to a looted Aldi and an equally decimated Harbor Freight Store next to it.

  Grafton brought the truck to a stop, turning into the back of the abandoned shopping plaza.

  “We turn here, and I want to sneak a peek down the road to make sure no one is around.”

  Grafton exited the truck, his AR-15 slung over his shoulder with a retention sling. He hugged the side of the looted grocery store and disappeared to the right. Kramer sat in the truck, spinning the chamber of his snub-nosed revolver. A minute later, Ed quickly returned and jumped into the driver’s seat.

  “All clear!” He stated.

  Ed pulled behind the plaza, slowly making his way around the loading docks and rear entrances. He eventually pulled down the far side of the giant shopping center.

  “Just cut about a quarter of our exposure on Highway 50,” he said, explaining why he had circled around back of the stores.

  He quickly pulled onto the major thoroughfare and rushed down the street. Passing several businesses and the entrance to
yet another housing subdivision, he yanked the truck right into the large parking lot of an excavator company. At the back of the property stood a nearly 300-foot-high tower, separate from the rest of the business and surrounded by a chain-link fence.

  “Buddy of mine owns the auto body shop next door,” Ed stated. “I noticed the tower a few years ago and asked him about it. Seems that the guy who owns the excavation company gets almost two thousand bucks a month to let the big antenna sit on his property.”

  Kramer whistled. “Not bad,” he said.

  Anyway, no one’s here and you can see that outbuilding inside the chain-link fence. That must be where the backup batteries are stored.

  They drove to the back of the property and up to a hinged gate, secured by a clasped lock.

  Ed backed the truck up to the gate and jumped out. One look at the Masterlock confirmed that his bolt cutters would do the trick.

  After clipping the lock, they swung the gate open and backed up next to the metal outbuilding.

  Grafton looked over the door, and saw that it was solid metal and had a key lock securing it.

  “Help me with the torch,” He said.

  Rolling the acetylene torch and its tanks to the door, Grafton put on his face shield, and snapping his flint spark torch igniter, he lit the flame, adjusting the gas levels to give him just the right mixture of oxygen and fuel.

  Once he was satisfied with the flame, he made quick work of the lock. Kicking open the door, they were met with a series of huge batteries, all standing in a row.

  “My God,” Kramer said. “These are huge. We’ll never be able to pick up one of these.”

  “Well, those will!” He said, pointing to what looked like a walk-behind forklift.

  “That Zorin should do the trick!”

  Sure enough, the powered portable stacker’s forks fit under the palate that held a single large battery. Maneuvering the palate to the bed of the truck, Grafton lifted the large battery and centered it over the rear axle.