World War III - Home Front: A Novel of the Next American Revolution - Book One – As Day turns to Night

by William C. Seigler

  Mel couldn’t remember ever hearing his son swear. “You haven’t seen the one yet where a transit cop shot a suspect in the back while the guy was face down on the concrete.”

  “Don’t know that I want to either. No wonder so many people are angry at the police. I don’t want to be associated with things like that, but it’s no good if people assume I’m guilty by association.”

  “The public, at least that girl at the convenience store, needed the police.”

  “Yeah, and did you notice it’s mostly black and Hispanic people who are getting beaten up or shot dead?”

  “Yes, I did son, but I don’t think there is anybody in this country they won’t beat up. Maybe they are more likely to start a fight with a black or Hispanic person, but I don’t think they play favorites. You understand now don’t you?”

  “Understand what?”

  “These sorts of things are why you get so much resistance from the public. I hope you don’t get offended when I say that many people consider the police just the muscle for corrupt government.”

  “Uh, what?”

  “Son.” Mel paused and took a deep breath. “I know what you think peace officers, cops, are supposed to be, but that is not often the reality.”

  “It’s just a few bad apples.”

  “Cy, you watched this stuff for two hours. How many bad apples before the whole barrel is rotten?”

  Cy didn’t answer. His recent experiences were too fresh, too sharp in his mind. The partner who wanted to frame two kids for dope, the Marine who needed help, the naked convenience store clerk, all that was too sharp and real in his psyche to be properly integrated into a whole. There was his reaction to the situation in the convenience store too, but that would need even more processing.

  Chapter 15 – Home is the Hero: The Sequel

  (Note: If left to their own devices, things will usually go from bad to worse. However, they don’t really go to blazes until government gets involved.)

  Phil stood; it was good to stand after the flight. He didn’t really like airline travel; he promised himself, again, he would check out rail transport. Dog gone if rail didn’t seem such a better way of travel, halfway between Conestoga wagons and airliners, he thought to himself.

  He had deliberately sat near the back in order to let other passengers off, so he could take his time fumbling with his cane down the narrow aisle. The flight had been crowded so getting off was going to be slow. In the distance he saw something odd.

  They looked like armored vehicles similar to some of the equipment the Marines had in Syria. He would have to get a better look.

  “Sir, are you having any trouble?” asked a young flight attendant. She was smiling at him.

  “No I was just looking at what appear to be armored vehicles. Do you know what’s going on?”

  “You’ve been out of the country?”

  “Yes, Jordan, then they sent us to Syria.”

  “Do you get much news?”

  “No, they clamped down on all electronic correspondence. Even our mail has been gone through. None of us were too happy about that. What’s going on?”

  She bit her lip then leaned close. “Things have changed; cops or soldiers are everywhere. I can’t tell the difference anymore. I’ve almost given up driving. I got tired of being stopped and having my car searched. I hear they’ve got the National Guard down on the border in order to stop people from getting out and weapons from getting in.

  “Recently, there was a mass breakout from a maximum security prison, or that’s what the news is calling it. Me and some of my friends think it was really some kind of concentration camp the government set up for dissidents.”

  “Dissidents? When did dissent become a crime in America?”

  “You know about the NDAA?”

  “Yeah, that’s how they fund the military.”

  “Well, a while back they’ve added some things to the bill that allow the government to pick up anyone they want and hold them for as long as they like, no charges, no trial, you just disappear. Another friend of mine, her dad disappeared.”

  An older flight attendant walked aft and asked, “Is something wrong?”

  “No, she was just helping me with my things. Thank you.”

  The flight attendants stepped aside, and Phil made his way off the airplane and into a nightmare. “Bye now, you guys take care.”

  “You too sir.”

  Once inside the airport, he had expected to see his family, but there was no one. He walked over to the big window. This time one of the vehicles lumbered close by. It was one of those mine proof, IED proof trucks. The windows could stop a fifty caliber round, and there were firing ports on the periphery.

  “What the devil do they need those things for at DFW?” he said aloud.

  Soon he was past security, and that’s where people were waiting for friends and family to get off the planes. The escalator was crowded, so he carefully let himself down the stairs. Wouldn’t do to break something now, he thought. He almost didn’t notice Miriam at first.

  “Phil, over here!”

  He looked up into the face of his little sister. She seemed to have grown.

  “Hey, Miriam!” He walked toward her. Then she saw the cane.

  “Phil, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m okay, I just got hit, that’s all.”

  “That’s all? Oh Phil, this is just terrible.” She flung herself at him and began to cry.

  An airport cop was watching them. “Come on, let’s go over here out of the way, and you tell me what’s the matter.”

  “Dad said not to tell you too much till you get home.”

  “Not tell me what? Where are Mom and Dad? Are they all right?”

  “Yes Dad’s okay, and Mom’s getting better.”

  “Miriam, what happened?”

  “They were hurt when the house was broken in.”

  “There was a break-in? What happened? Have the police caught anybody?”

  “It was the police that broke in and beat up Mom and Dad!” she cried hysterically.

  “What!” He heard her words, but they sounded far away as if not real.

  “What are you saying?”

  She continued to cling to him and cry. Two airport cops came up behind Phil. “What seems to be the problem here?” one of them asked.

  Phil half turned. “I’m not sure yet. My sister says that the police broke into my parents’ home, and beat them up.”

  “Well, you better move along.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got to pick up my duffel bag.” With that he limped away with his left arm around his sister’s shoulders.

  It took longer than usual for the bags to come out. They got a pushcart, and she helped him get the duffel bag on it.

  “You going to be okay to drive?”

  She nodded but did not speak. He could not get over the level of police presence. They were everywhere, but instead of regular police uniforms, they were in black with bullet proof vests and helmets. In the distance there were others dressed the same way, but it was camouflage.

  He remembered what the flight attendant had said, how she couldn’t tell cops from soldiers. Now he understood why. What has happened? Mom and Dad beat up by the cops; the airport looks like an armed camp?

  Phil deliberately didn’t say anything else to his sister on the way home. Helicopters and roadblocks were everywhere. Once he had to get out of the car while they searched it. Miriam was sobbing.

  “You want me to drive?”

  “No you’re hurt. I’ll be all right.”

  While they waited two cops dragged a guy out of a car and started beating him up. “Who’s in charge here?” he asked the nearest officer.

  “What’s your problem buddy?”

  “I would like to speak to whoever is in charge here.”

  “What we got, a trouble maker?” asked another officer with two stripes.

  “Are you just going to stand around and let them beat that guy to death?”


  “He shot off his big mouth. Now get in your car unless you want some of the same.”

  “You would actually beat up an injured Marine who just got back from a combat zone.”

  “You don’t know what’s been happening do you?”

  “No, what’s going on? Why are there roadblocks everywhere, choppers flying low all over the place?”

  “They’ve been killing cops and federal agents.”

  “They, they who?”

  “I don’t know, some kind of terrorists or something. Now, we got work to do. You better move along.”

  “Yeah sure.”

  After Miriam pulled away he said, “That’s twice today I’ve been told to move along. I don’t like the sound of it.”

  He sister did not respond. Whatever has happened, she is not dealing with it well. Phil had seen that in basic, some guys were just too brittle. Then others couldn’t fathom how places like Jordan and Syria could exist.

  To make matters worse there was talk of Army troops who refused to go to Syria to help the terrorists who attacked us on nine eleven. He didn’t know. He just followed orders and tried to keep from getting shot.

  There were protesters at almost every overpass. He didn’t understand what was written on most of the signs. He glanced at Miriam. She seemed to be concentrating awfully hard on her driving. Possibly that was best for her.

  They pulled into the drive. From the outside, everything looked normal. As he approached the house he could see damage to the door facing. It had not been repaired or painted over. Apparently the door had been replaced though.

  He waited on Miriam, then he opened the door and stepped in. The broken glass had been cleaned up, and most things had been put away. The frame with his dad’s silver star lay flat on the end table next to the picture of him in his dress blues. The glass was broken on both.

  Bill Prost came from the kitchen with a tray. He smiled and sat it down. “Phil,” he said and went to hug his son.

  He stopped short when he saw the cane. He reached up and took his son’s arm. “Phil, what happened?”

  “Guess I zigged where I should have zagged.”

  “Son?”

  “I got hit Dad, and you know the funny thing, they were still using AK-47s.”

  “Oh son.” Bill Prost hugged his boy long and hard.

  “That’s the same thing I got shot with.”

  “You were hit?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where?”

  “In Vietnam.”

  “On your body, you never told us you had been wounded.”

  “I got shot in the ass,” he said leaning back to look at his son, “not something to talk about. I got one in the upper right leg too, and picked up some shrapnel.”

  “Is that where you got your silver star?”

  “No, that’s where I got my purple heart. I asked the LT if they had a purple rectum. He said no the Purple Heart was the best he could do,” Bill said with a laugh.

  “It’s probably a lot funnier now than it was then. Now what’s happened here? Miriam told me you and Mom had been hurt.”

  Bill looked sternly at his daughter and was about to scold her till he saw the look on her face. He turned back to Phil.

  “Let’s take this coffee in to your mother; then we’ll talk.”

  “Sure Dad.” Phil picked up the tray and stopped to knock at the door.

  “Mom?” he called out.

  “Phil! Oh Phil, you’re home! Don’t look at me; I look a mess.”

  “Hi Mom.” He sat the tray down and leaned over and hugged her. She kissed him on the cheek.

  “I’m so glad you’re home. Are you all right?”

  “Yes Mom, I’m fine.”

  “Oh, thank God. I’m so glad your home.” She squeezed her son as hard as she could and held on for a long time. Finally, she let go. Why don’t the rest of you run back to the kitchen, and I’ll fix myself up and join you in a moment.”

  “Okay Mom. Did Dad make the coffee?”

  “Yes, he’s been so helpful.”

  “Well, I don’t know if it’s up to Marine standards.”

  “Oh poo, Miriam will you get me my hairbrush dear?”

  “Sure Mom.” She went into the bathroom.

  “Now run along, both of you.”

  “Okay Mom.” He kissed her on the cheek.

  He got up with difficulty, and as he stepped away, Bill handed him his cane. “Phil, why are you walking with a cane?”

  “It’s just a sprain Mom, it’s nothing.” They left.

  After Miriam had returned she said, “Phil is no better liar than your father.”

  Miriam grinned, “No I guess not.” She began to brush her mother’s hair.

  Once outside the door, Phil grabbed his father at the elbow. “What’s with the stitches in her head?” he demanded.

  Bill was not accustomed to this from one of his children. He did not speak but looked down to where his son held him.

  “Sorry,” apologized Phil.

  “Don’t worry about it. We can talk in the kitchen,” Bill’s voice low and gravelly.

  Phil sat in the small kitchen at the table and remembered how it used to seem so big. He suddenly remembered how good it felt to come inside and smell pinto beans cooking in his mother’s kitchen, especially in winter.

  Bill found his son’s favorite cup and filled it with coffee. Cream and sugar were already on the table.

  As he sat the cup on the table he said, “I hope this is better than what the Marines have been giving you.”

  “Yeah, let’s hope so,” he said with a little chuckle.

  Bill sat down and both had their coffee. Bill liked his with lots of cream and sugar. The Marines had taught Phil to take his black.

  After a long pause Phil began, “What’s going on Dad?”

  “I don’t know; the whole country’s gone crazy. After Israel bombed Iran, things started blowing up. There were electrical outages, buildings destroyed, attacks in malls, and even a couple of bridges knocked down. Oil refineries and power plants have been a favorite target.”

  “Who Dad, who’s doing this?”

  “What I’ve described so far has been sleeper cells that Iran and probably al Qaeda have inserted into the country under the government’s nose. Maybe some others from the Middle East, anyone with a beef against America might be getting in on the act.”

  “Why did the cops barge in here and hurt you guys?”

  “Don’t know. I’ve got a lawyer, but I don’t know how much longer I can afford him. It might take years before I get a day in court.”

  “Miriam said something about a prison break.”

  “Oh yeah,” said Bill who then drained his cup. He got up and went for the pot.

  “Here, take a warm-up,” he said and poured for both of them.

  “What happened and why, now that’s a good question.”

  “Dad, as someone used to tell me, ‘Let’s take it from the top’.”

  “Smart guy.”

  Bill took a deep breath and began.

  Chapter 16 – The Organic Fertilizer Striketh the Rotary Device

  Cy’s arms were limp at his sides; he could not move them. A cop hit a guy with his club, while he was lying on the ground, then went to dance the minuet with another cop. He was replaced with another who beat the man then went off to dance.

  Wallace, his old partner, leaned over in front of him and smiled broadly, “Hey kid would you like to dance. Just hit the guy; then we can dance.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Wallace went off to dance with his old captain. He called back over his shoulder, “Hurry before they ring the bell.”

  He heard a bell ringing, close and insistent. He wished it would stop.

  Cy’s eyes popped open. He had been asleep, and his cell phone was going off. He reached over.

  “Hello,” he answered sleepily.

  There was an angry stream of words from the other end, none of which made sense. �
�I think you’ve got a wrong number.”

  “Are you Cy Blackwell, the airport policeman in New York?”

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “Phillip Prost.”

  “I’m sorry, who?”

  “Were you asleep, man?”

  “Yeah, who is this?”

  Phil took a deep breath and let it out. “Remember today at the airport in New York, you helped a Marine who was having trouble with TSA.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You gave me your phone number. Now do you remember?”

  “Yeah, hold on a second.” Cy threw off the covers, and swung into a sitting position. He got up, stumbled to his desk, turned on the desk light, and flopped down in a chair. He looked at the clock; it was after midnight.

  “Okay, you’re uh, Phil right?”

  “Yeah, I’m the Marine you helped out today, and you gave me your cell phone number.”

  “Yeah okay, are you still in New York? What’s the problem?”

  “No, I’m back in Texas, but there’s a problem. Really there are several problems, but I’m calling about the police kicking my parents’ door in and beating them up.”

  “What, where did this happen?”

  “This happened recently down here in Texas.”

  “Where?”

  “My parents live between Dallas and Fort Worth.”

  “Okay, this has nothing to do with your run-in with TSA today, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  Cy wondered for a moment what this had to do with him. He thought about asking, but that was no way to treat anybody who had called you for help. Was he calling for help? Why was he calling?

  “Give me a moment man; I was asleep and having the weirdest dream.” He blinked away the sleepiness, rubbed his face hard, and took a few deep breaths. Okay now, something was wrong. What was it?

  “Phil, what’s gone wrong?”

  “When I got back, I found that the police had broken down my parent’s front door and knocked them around. My mother has a huge gash on her head.”

  “Are they all right? I mean do they need medical attention?”

  “They already had that. My mom was hospitalized, but she’s home now.”

  “You say the police did this?”