Charlie's Requiem: Democide

by Walt Browning

  “Well then,” Grafton said. “Who won the right to the queen bed?”

  “He did,” Will said with some embarrassment, pointing at Trey.

  “I told Will he shouldn’t keep playing the same thing. Paper, paper, paper gets you some scissors in the end.” Trey said laughing.

  “I’m not good with those gambling games!” Will said back. “I just don’t do well. We should all just share the rooms and change them every week.”

  The three men smiled at Will’s discomfort. Trey slapped poor Will on the back and the two young men started to leave the fenced-in enclosure.

  “We’ll be back in a few minutes. We have to get our bikes.”

  “You have bikes?” Grafton asked, but they were gone, running into the tree line and disappearing.

  “Jeez, are we going to have to slow ourselves down so they can keep up on their bicycles?” He asked.

  “I don’t know,” Kramer said. “But can’t you come up with another vehicle for them?”

  “I suppose so,” Ed replied. “We need to hit the junkyards though and look for some older vehicles to salvage. I suppose we could…”

  Suddenly, they heard the high-pitched roar of small-engine motorcycles as Trey and Will shot out of the tree line, whooping and hollering as they took to the air at a small hill nearby. They tore up the dirt, kicking up rocks and debris, finally drifting to a stop just outside the gate’s opening.

  “Ready, Mr. Grafton!” Will said, his face beaming from the adrenaline of their race to get back.

  Both had camouflaged backpacks over their shoulders and their rifles strapped across their chests. Handguns were attached to their battle belts and their helmets were painted with a homemade pattern of forest green and dusty brown.

  Kramer smiled at Ed, whose jaw was agape at the boys’ antics.

  “Just what did you two boys do for a living?” Ed finally asked.

  “Well, sir. I hadn’t found a job yet.” Trey said with a bowed head.

  “I was doing lawns, sir.” Will replied as well. “I was just waiting for Trey so we could start our own company.”

  “Waiting for Trey?” Ed queried. “Waiting for him for what?”

  “For him to get out of the Corps. We were all together in the Marines. I got out first.” Will said.

  “Hallelujah,” Ed said, hearing about their military experience. “There is a God!”

  “Was there ever a doubt?” Kramer added.

  “Not for you!” Grafton respectfully replied, aware of Kramer’s devout loyalty to his religion.

  “Where are we going?” Trey asked, revving his bike’s engine.

  Both had vintage Yamaha XJ720 motorcycles. The early 80’s bikes had a 700cc engine, kick start ignition and carbureted fuel system.

  “How did you boys get those things running?” Grafton asked.

  “Well sir,” Will said. “I restored them while we were in the Corps.”

  “I was his C.O.,” Trey said. “The kid’s a natural mechanic. When I saw his bike, I had to have one of my own!”

  “What did you do in the Marines?” Grafton asked.

  “CLR-1, sir. Combat Logistics Regiment out of Camp Pendleton. I was a mechanic.”

  “That’s where we met,” Trey said. “Pendleton, sir.”

  “Adapt and overcome,” Will added. “That’s what we do. Trey just got out a few weeks ago and we were planning our future when things went south.”

  “What happened, anyway?” Trey asked. “How did we lose power?”

  “Plenty of time for conversation,” Grafton replied. “For now, let’s get back to our place and get you boys settled in. It’ll be dark in less than an hour, and I want to be home before then.”

  Ed gave them directions to the house, and both seemed to know where they were going.

  “Let’s move out, gentlemen!” Grafton shouted over the din of the motorbikes and the rumble of his old truck’s engine.

  “Copy that, sir!” Trey shot back.

  “Will, take point. 100 meters. I’ll take the rear.”

  Will shot off down the driveway and fishtailed into the street.

  Ed pushed his old truck to its limits as they carried the old pickup’s maximum capacity back in its bed. But the old stovebolt engine didn’t fail, its cylinders chugging and compressing like an old locomotive. Slowly but surely, they moved off of the main highway and back through Montverde; and by the time they made it home, the sun had dropped below the horizon. Beeping his horn before they got there, Grafton caught the two men’s attention and reminded them not to make too grand an entrance. The ladies and Rob weren’t expecting such a raucous group to be returning.

  Finally, Ed pulled the old truck into the garage and shut it down, while their new colleagues were introduced to some very surprised people. Ed sat alone in the garage reflecting on the day, shaking his head at the tremendous change in their fortune. From near death to a new life and an even safer home, the last 12 hours had been quite the rollercoaster ride. He crawled out of the driver’s side, having let Kramer out before parking the truck in the garage. He could hear the doctor introducing Carol and Rob to their two new Marine companions.

  He stopped and watched as Will and Rob came out of the house to examine the two older motorcycles. Will excitedly pointed to the engine, stoking Rob’s passion for all things mechanical. They then quickly returned to the dining room table, the smell of home cooking seductively wafting out from the open kitchen window.

  As the inside lights filtered out of the open front door, he could make out Barb and Caroline entering the house, having walked over when they heard the group’s return. Laughter streamed from within as the young men were welcomed to their new home.

  Opening the screen door, he could see Trey and Kramer sitting side-by-side. They were immersed in a light-hearted discussion that elicited smiles and a couple of chuckles between them, while Will and Rob began speaking mechanic language and reveling in their common knowledge. A moment later, his wife was doting over the young men, putting plates of steaming stew in front of them while Caroline and Barb sat quietly at the table’s end, smiling while everyone enjoyed their home-cooked meal. This is my new family, he thought, feeling even more content with his life since all the trouble began.

  Chapter 17

  “Omnes feriunt, ultima necat” (All hours wound, the last hour kills)

  – Seneca the Elder

  Charlie

  It’s been too long, I thought. We have been stuck here in this god-awful apartment building, waiting for John to figure out a safe route for us to take out of a rapidly deteriorating Orlando. John asked for one more day of intelligence gathering after showing us on a map where the gangs and criminals were active. That was days ago. I am so tired of hiding at night and living quietly during the day. Our lives are restricted to this 4-story tomb, reinforcing my belief that prison or a resettlement camp would likely drive me insane.

  However, a couple of good things have come out of this delay. The first was that Janice was recovering well, her depression over Brie’s death was finally lifting. The other benefit was that we were getting to know Jorge and Maria a lot better.

  Jorge is fast becoming an asset to our group, and it will be a real loss when he goes his separate way. He is tough, but fair and has a good head on his shoulders. Maria is more emotional, but just as strong as her boyfriend. And it is obvious that they are both totally in love.

  It is several hours into the morning, near 10 AM by our best guess. Jorge and Garrett are out on the streets right now, scouting the area around a backup location we found just two streets down. We discovered an old two-story office building there that had been abandoned weeks ago. Its primary asset is that it has several avenues of escape out the back, all paths leading to different multi-story buildings that we could get
lost in if a quick retreat were needed.

  After some debate this morning, we decided to move at nightfall, assuming John didn’t return with a final recommendation on a path out of here. His plan is to come by just after dark, and we have waited many nights with no visit from him. If he were caught helping us, we could expect a visit from DHS at any time, so leaving tonight makes the most sense. Our fallback position in the 2-story structure was just located and cleared last night, so this evening will be our window to move.

  “I see them coming back!” Janice said as she peered out the window onto the east side of our apartment. “And they’re moving fast!”

  Maria and I rushed to her position and watched as the two men sprinted through the street and disappeared to the side basement entrance.

  Within a minute, the two of them came bursting through the stairwell door and down the hall.

  “We have to move!” Garrett said as he sucked in large gulps of air.

  “There is a crap-load of agents and workers coming up Orange from the south.” Jorge panted.

  “Are they coming here?” I asked with fear.

  “Who knows, but they’re passing by all the office buildings, and it looks like they’re towing some generators. And this is the closest apartment building, so I don’t want to risk it.”

  We quickly gathered our gear, all of which we stored in our backpacks. Ready to go at moment’s notice, our kit was never more than a few yards from us and always prepared for a quick departure. Within thirty seconds, we were strapping them to our backs and moving to the basement door.

  “Let me go first,” Jorge said. “I’ll signal when we are clear. Then run like hell and stop at the next intersection.”

  Jorge sprinted south to the corner of the next apartment building. He stared south toward the coming soldiers for just a moment, then motioned us to move. The four of us ran east across the road and down Concorde Street. Taking a quick peek to my right, I could see the line of workers and some vehicles as they moved up toward us. All lanes were filled with dozens of government workers as they hauled several generators behind large delivery trucks. Multiple troop carriers were scattered among the group but I couldn’t make out who or what was in them, given that they were a couple of blocks down and there was no way I was going to slow up to get a better look.

  We made it to the opposite corner and continued to the next block. We waited until Jorge caught up with us, and after a moment to check our surroundings, be beat a path into our new home.

  The second floor of the building was used for administrative work, the downstairs being an insurance sales office. The old building was a gentrified home, its old Florida brick and block structure was pushing a hundred years old. The house had been restored within the last decade; its oak floors were refinished, but a layer of dust coated its lacquered sheen. The stairs to the second floor were tucked in a back hallway with an old pine door standing open, allowing us access. The feel of the building was distinguished but warm. The windows had been mostly replaced by modern double-paned, energy-efficient glass. But I was glad to see that in one of the back rooms, likely an old den or library, the original wood paneling had been sanded, stained and polished. The office had an old bay window as well, with the original stained glass insert flanked by old leaded glass. The morning sun cast through the pink and ocher pane of the stained glass, casting warm brown and rose streaks across the wall and floor. The light danced as the oak tree outside gently moved and its leaves swayed in front of the sun’s rays.

  The room had an old oak desk with a luxurious leather swivel chair behind it, and there was a matching leather couch against the far wall.

  The others moved about the building, getting their bearings and finding a comfortable place to spend the day; but as soon as I saw this room, I knew I wasn’t going any further. I dropped my backpack and flopped onto the couch. The leather was forgiving and I lightly sank into the soft, dark brown material. It was way too comfortable and would be perfect until we made our final push out of the city.

  I quickly got up and relieved Jorge, who had stayed at the front door as a sentry.

  “Anything?” I asked.

  “Nope,” he replied. “Not a peep. I think we made it without being seen.”

  “Go find a place to bunk down,” I said.

  “Maria’s doing that now,” he replied. “Why don’t you get some rest.”

  “I’ve been resting for a week. I’m done resting.”

  “I feel the same way. I think we just need to make a push out of the city tonight and take our chances.”

  “Let’s see if John tries to contact us tonight; otherwise, we can hit the road after dark.”

  “Agreed,” he replied.

  We all gathered in the main conference room in the downstairs part of the building. We marked our position on one of the maps John had given us and discussed two alternate rally points if we had to bug out quickly. Then, we settled down to relax and wait for the sun to set.

  John Drosky

  Ever since the incident with Nixon, John and Bru had been relentlessly worked by their supervisor. They were split up and each assigned their own pair of postal workers. For the next few days, they were out on patrol from dawn until dusk. Then, after they had returned, they were assigned to the armory to break down and clean all of the surplus battle rifles and service pistols in their inventory. The last two nights found both of them dragging themselves to their apartments near midnight.

  John worried about Charlie and the group, but their new assignment made contact with them impossible. Now, walking over from the tower and into headquarters, John found himself dragging as the stress from the day’s work and the tedious labors in the evening were finally catching up to him. He didn’t know when he would be able to touch base with them again. Further, he hadn’t had a chance to learn anything new about the deployment of the gangs throughout the city.

  “DROSKY!” Came a yell from down the hall.

  Their shift sergeant was striding toward him, a load of manila folders wedged under his left armpit and a Styrofoam cup of coffee in his right hand, its brown liquid splashing over the top and onto the waxed, tile hallway floor.

  “In my office.” He said with authority. “And bring your partner too.”

  The obese agent barely broke stride as he barked out his orders and passed John by on his way to the bathroom.

  Coffee must have kicked in! John thought to himself, as he continued to the locker room to get dressed for the day.

  He told Bru about his encounter with Agent Jabba the Hutt and the two of them finished donning their load-out and went to their supervisor.

  The two men strode into the sergeant’s office and stopped 18 inches from the front of his desk. They smartly saluted the man and John belted out, “Agents Drosky and Bruner, reporting as ordered. SIR!”

  “At ease,” the porcine man said with satisfaction as the two men executed their entrance with military precision.

  John and Bru were decked out perfectly, their uniforms crisp and their gear flawlessly squared away. While cleaning weapons during their evening punishment assignment, they had both taken advantage of the armory’s facilities to polish their shoes and belts with an electric lathe and leather polishing wheel. The black rawhide had been shined to a glassy, mirror-like finish; and their belt buckles were shined until they practically glowed on their own. Both men were over six feet in height, and both were in good physical condition and their uniforms fit them perfectly. If there were an audition for agents to put on a recruitment poster, John and Bru would have been perfect models. They were both handsome and frightening at the same time, and they had shown the fat sergeant a level of respect that stroked his ego.

  “You boys have done well!” He started. “Good reports from the armory.”

  The big man shuffled some paperwor
k that was haphazardly stacked in front of him, taking his time to rearrange things while John and Bru stood ramrod straight, their arms crossed behind their backs and staring at a point just above the fat man’s head. It was a power move designed to let the two men know that he was in charge. Neither John nor Bru moved as they waited for the sergeant to continue with his orders.

  “I have been given a new assignment today. I need two agents to go to the airport and retrieve a high value asset. You two look the part and you’ve proven yourself these last few days. So I’m giving you some paperwork to draw a new vehicle from the pool. You’re to be at Orlando International by 9 AM and report to the head of security there. You will need a full kit, so draw a battle rifle and sidearm along with a full loadout. Only what you can carry on your belt. You will have luggage to bring as well, and I don’t know how much. Now, here are your specific orders,” he finished and handed John a paper with two more carbon duplicates underneath.

  “Sign at the bottom and I’ll take the top original sheet. Take the other two with you. One for the motor pool, and the other for OIA security when you check in.” He finished.

  John began to read the paperwork, and finding it acceptable, signed where indicated above the line marked “Agent 1.” He handed Bru the triplicate form and he quickly signed above “Agent 2.”

  The big man tore the top original off and stuffed it into one of the manila folders on the desk and looked up at the two men.

  “Any questions, gentlemen?” He asked.

  “NO SIR!” Both agents replied.

  “Excellent,” the sergeant barked back. “Dismissed! And report back here when your assignment is completed.”

  John and Bru saluted smartly and, spinning on their heels, marched crisply out the door, leaving the slovenly administrator with a bloated sense of power while he watched them exit his office.

  “I love this job!” The fat man said to no one in particular. He reached into the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a napkin-wrapped Danish roll. He took a massive bite of the fruit and cheese pastry, its sticky confectioners sugar icing smearing his mouth and lips with a gooey glaze. He slurped his cream and sugar-laced coffee and let out a contented burp. After wiping his mouth and fingers with the coffee-soaked napkin, he still felt some crumbs sticking to his hands, so he brushed them clean on his pants.