by Benton, Ken
Chief Justice Wallace fidgeted, but his expression softened.
“In my pressured opinion,” he finally replied, “in the absence of further case details and without having time to properly contemplate a full spectrum of potential extenuating circumstances, I do not believe the spirit of the U.S. Constitution as written gives the President alone the power to institute martial law. I would further offer my position that I do not believe even Congress has the authority to suspend habeas corpus. This is one man’s view.”
“Thank you,” the President said. “I appreciate that more than you know.” He turned to the others. “So there is one man’s view. There are eight more of you, and I would also appreciate hearing from each of you. Shall we start on the … left side of the room.”
At that moment Janet realized the President was in the middle of orchestrating a brilliant maneuver. The conservatives were congregated on the left side. Since the Chief Justice had conceded to offering an opinion, the others would likely follow suit, especially those of an opposing stance.
It went as expected. The next several justices gave the opposite opinion of the Chief Justice. And, exactly as Janet feared, she was in position to go last when the vote, so to speak, had split down the middle.
Janet would now be the political scapegoat for the decision to institute martial law on a national level, or, just as potentially damaging, the decision not to. For some reason her thoughts drifted to her clerk while she stalled on the answer. What had happened to him? She hoped he was okay.
“Justice Peterman?” the President repeated. “Can I have your take please? Time is of the essence.”
Janet threw down her pen. “Screw it,” she said, raising some eyebrows. “Declare martial law. That is to say, yes, I believe the Constitution gives the President the authority.”
* * *
Tacoma, WA
Vic watched Tracy hurry back along the docks of the beautiful Breakwater Marina. It was a shame to leave this place. Tracy produced three scribbled notes upon his return, including one on the back of a dog food label.
“Here are their applications,” Tracy said. “The Hamans, the ones standing at the entrance, just came from Seattle. They say it’s really bad there already, and even the marinas aren’t safe. Boats burned, others looted, some bodies found floating. Hard to believe.”
“Not if you understand the Seattle crime rate,” Vic replied. “Why we’re getting the heck out of here.” He took the notes from Tracy’s hand.
Somewhere the sound of two seagulls fighting echoed in a haunting way. They only made that noise when one was trying to steal food from another.
“Applications, huh?” Vic said skimming the notes. “You’re trying to be cute?”
“That’s what they are, don’t you think?” Tracy answered.
Vic sighed. “Unfortunately. I hate to refuse good people, but we need to be smart. Not sure how I became the captain of a makeshift marine community. It was just supposed to be four of us going.”
“It was your idea, Vic. You organized it. This is what you get for being a visionary. How many boats are we up to?”
Vic didn’t answer right away. First he finished perusing the lists, finally pulling his own notebook and pen out of his shirt pocket and making a few addendums.
It was true. The armada had been Vic’s idea, albeit in a much smaller form. All the sailboats had desalinators aboard, which meant an endless convenient supply of drinking water, and the original four were equipped with a decent stock of fishing tackle. The others who subsequently joined all had something to contribute, so were difficult to refuse. A couple, admittedly, Vic conceded to mostly out of sympathy, but this thing was getting too big. At some point you had to say stop.
“Fifteen now,” Vic answered, “including this new sloop here. You want to be the bearer of good news or bad?”
Tracy laughed. “If you’re offering me a choice, captain, I prefer to deliver good news.”
Vic handed him one of the notes back. Tracy dutifully ran off with it towards the sloop.
Vic’s own pace was slower, seeing the concerned expressions on all four faces of the Haman family from afar. Might as well start with them.
“I’m sorry,” Vic said handing the dog food label back. “We simply cannot accommodate you. But I wish you the best of luck.”
The man responded with a look of total indignation, from his face to his feet. The woman burst into tears and hid her face. The daughter, of middle-school age, hugged her mom. The son, slightly older, looked to his dad for guidance. The dog, from the confines of the boat, must have sensed the stress from its family. He barked.
“Why?” Haman demanded. “Is there not enough stuff on here for you? Did you see the six cases of canned food I have?”
“You’ll need that to feed your own family,” Vic replied. “And to be honest, this is really a sailboat community we are trying to form. Please understand it is nothing personal. Our little fleet has blossomed into far more than we intended.”
Haman pointed to the harbor. “I happen to know you have at least two other powerboats going with you.”
“True,” Vic said. “One is piloted by the owner of the plot of land on Waldron Island we’ll be mooring off of. The other is owned by a vitamin wholesaler who has a sizeable stock of products with him, and adds only one additional mouth to feed. I don’t like turning you guys down. You are, honestly, a few hours late. We are simply too big now. Maybe you can hook up with one of the other groups forming.”
“I asked about those,” Haman said. “The only ones I can find are sailboat groups, heading to open ocean. I have a near-full tank of gas, but that’s it.”
“Sir, I’m sorry.”
Haman shook his head. “Waldron Island, huh? Suppose I happen to show up and anchor among you? What’s to stop me?”
“Let’s see.” Vic pulled his notebook from his pocket. “Seven bolt-action rifles, two lever-action, two semi-automatic shotguns, four pump action, and, most significantly, three AR-15s, along with a boatload of ammo—if you’ll pardon the pun.”
* * *
Port of Savannah, GA
Major Tillman spotted the company name Siemens painted on the side of the large container ship entering the river mouth. He checked the photos included in his printed orders.
“That has to be it,” the major said to his lieutenant. “Only half a day late. Get the team moving.”
The lieutenant seemed annoyed at having to put out a cigarette he’d just lit and responded slowly, perhaps from the sun sickness that was affecting some of the men today. But he did his job. The team mobilized, climbing into their three gray Jeeps and then following the ship upriver along the port authority road. The assigned dock workers waved the ship into a space. The docking process took half an hour.
The merchant marines aboard the vessel jabbered in German when Tillman’s squad boarded her with weapons unshouldered.
“Where is your captain?” Tillman asked several of them as soon as he was up the gangplank. “Who here speaks English?”
“I am the captain,” a tall middle-aged man responded in a thick German accent, appearing from among the foremost load of containers. “We lost all communication, media, and navigation controls at sea yesterday. I assume it is the result of the space weather we heard about on the news? I had to bring her in by eyesight alone. Are your soldiers here to congratulate me?”
Tillman dispensed with the pleasantries and got straight to business, asking to see the ship’s cargo papers in order to verify that this was the correct vessel.
It was.
“Your cargo is desperately needed, Captain. We are certainly glad you arrived safely. Where are the highest-capacity LPTs located?”
The captain frowned. “The heaviest transformers are in the bow and the stern. But—”
“Thank you. Your crew will be escorted to a local army base to be given safe quarter, and provided for, until such time as normal shipping traffic is able to resume.”
“I don’t understand,” the captain replied. “Are you taking us prisoners? And confiscating half a billion dollars in cargo?”
“Of course not. You are our guests. The President of the United States himself arranged your accommodations. Your safety and comfort are important to us.”
“Then we will be free to go whenever we want?”
Tillman pointed at the smoke rising from the burning buildings in the city. “As soon as there is someplace to go, or whenever the martial law order is lifted.”
“Martial law?” the captain took a step backwards.
“Yes, as ordered by the President a couple hours ago.”
“What happens to my cargo? I am responsible to my company for delivering it.”
Tillman shrugged. “I really don’t know. I only hope we can put it to good use fairly quickly. And I would add that whatever monetary value you estimate this ship’s cargo to be is much, much, too low. In the last 24 hours it has become priceless.”
* * *
Ft. Lauderdale, FL
“This doesn’t look good,” Dan said. “I’m not waiting outside. Maybe we should go home and sit in the RV so we can run the air conditioner. ”
Charlotte blinked at the sun, and then at the crowd outside the emergency room.
“We’ll burn up all our gas,” she replied hobbling at his arm.
“Just for a bit,” Dan said. “Maybe that’s all I need. I’m feeling a tiny bit better. And maybe the gas lines will go back to normal in a day or two.”
“Not likely.” Charlotte stumbled and steadied herself, pulling Dan off balance in the process. “Sorry. They say we have the only working gas stations anywhere, and folks are coming from two states away to try to fill up. Besides, we drove here and had to walk all this way now. Might as well see what they have to say.”
As the two of them approached the emergency room entrance, they discovered they couldn’t even go inside. Dan and Charlotte waited in line at a folding table to report Dan’s symptoms to someone who wrote them down with pen and paper on a clipboard. The pages of the clipboard were many, as were the people waiting both inside and out, mostly seniors like themselves.
Poor Dan. Charlotte could tell her husband longed to enter the air-conditioned waiting room. She suspected some of the others may have come today for that sole purpose. Perhaps the staff suspected Dan of the same, as his symptoms apparently didn’t warrant being placed anywhere but the very back of the line. The first wait of the day would be just for a couple of folding chairs to become available in the shady area outside.
Meanwhile, they found room to sit on the ledge of a concrete planter in the covered ambulance bay. But it was hot in that spot, as the breeze couldn’t reach it, and staying balanced on the ledge became challenging after a while.
“Unseasonably warm today,” a bald man with a cane said leaning on the wall next to them. “Not many eighty-seven degree days in early April. Being a snowbird isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be, wouldn’t you say?”
“No,” Charlotte replied. “Nothing ever is. But we don’t qualify as snowbirds.”
“Retired in Florida, then?”
“Almost. We have another home in Phoenix.”
“Heavens,” the man replied. “You must really enjoy the heat.”
“We used to,” Charlotte said. “But not today. My husband is feeling sick from it.”
“So as most of the people here are, ma’am. So as most of the people here are. It’s only going to get worse if the power stays off, I fear. And I imagine Phoenix will be deserted in a couple months’ time.”
“You mean if the power stays off?”
“Yes that’s what I mean. From what I hear, it could take months or even years to fully come back. They should have thought of that before building up a place like Phoenix, don’t you think? Hard to believe such metropolis could exist, which depends on electric power in order to be habitable three months of the year.”
The man looked at the sky and added, “Of course, it ain’t gonna be no picnic for some folks around these parts, either.”
* * *
Las Vegas, NV
The lights dimmed. Oh, no. Tony quickly checked to see what his Keno game results were before the display blinked out. It wouldn’t happen to him again, would it? Not twice in two days!
The Keno game hit 5 out of 8 on two cards, an okay result but nothing to get too upset about if he were robbed again. The game stayed on this time.
Tony decided to switch to beer. He’d had more than enough cheap vodka for the day. When the waitress returned with his drink, the glass sorrowfully only three-quarters full, he tipped her a dollar and asked her a question.
“Why is it so dark and stuffy in here today?”
“There’s a big power outage,” she replied. “Don’t you know about it? Been going on since yesterday. We are running on backup power. So we need to try to conserve it. That’s why they turned off some of the lights, and the ventilation system.”
“Thanks. Please bring me another beer next time you come by.”
The waitress shuffled off.
Her explanation made sense. Come to think of it, the city did seem a lot less bright last night when Tony slept in the back seat of his car. He decided to go back to video poker.
* * *
Holmes County, OH
The horse stumbled at the same spot again, jostling the cart. Levi turned to check the buggy bed. The milk containers remained upright, and the hay beneath them still appeared dry.
“No spills,” Levi said. “We’ve got them strapped tight.”
“That’s good,” Aaron replied. “Glad this is the last load of the day.”
Micah, the owner of the cheese store, came out to greet them on their arrival this trip.
“There’s a small problem developing in our parking lot,” Micah said. “A bunch of city folks and stranded travelers are hanging about and not leaving.”
“Why won’t they leave?” Aaron asked.
“I guess there is some kind of problem in the city, and on the highways. Their electricity is all out, their cars are running out of gas, and a lot of their gadgets stopped working. To hear the way some of them tell it, you’d think the devil himself was attacking these poor folks.”
“Not surprising,” Levi said. “Seeing how easy they make it for him in the way they live. Honestly, depending on complicated machines in order to have food and shelter.”
Micah nodded. “Amen, brother. Still, I can’t help but wonder if this is a test to see if we will be good Samaritans?”
“Well,” Levi said sticking a hay straw in his mouth. “I suppose we have room for a few in our barn, assuming they are baptized, don’t mind sleeping on hay, and are willing to help with the morning milking.”
Chapter Fifteen
Joel could tell something wasn’t right a quarter-mile before reaching his long gravel driveway. Call it a feeling, call it providential knowledge, call it educated paranoia. But he knew his property wasn’t secure from the moment he first saw it through the trees along the final stretch of still-unimproved road.
“Are we there?” Jessie asked. “All this bumping is bothering me.”
Joel hesitated to answer. He regretted switching passengers at the rest stop. To be sure, Archer wasn’t great company either, and not a terribly efficient ally in an emergency. But at least he wasn’t annoying.
“Almost,” was all Joel could think to reply.
“Joel, I know we haven’t been getting along. But can we get past it now? I think it was just the road affecting me, you know? And all the things that happened on it? I guess what I’m saying is, I want to make up.”
At the next break in the tree line, Joel saw someone coming out of his shed with an object in his hand that looked like a crowbar.
He picked up the walkie-talkie. “Debra?”
“Debra,” Jessie said. “Great. When I’m trying to—”
“Here,” Debra’s voice came back.
&
nbsp; Joel ignored Jessie and spoke to the walkie-talkie.
“This is my place on the left, but someone is in my yard, possibly trying to break in. The driveway is about a hundred yards long. I want to pull up fast to try to scare them off. But if they’ve gotten inside, it could be a dangerous situation.”
“Right behind you,” Debra crackled.
“Oh no,” Jessie cried. “When will this end?”
Joel traversed the last section of dirt road at the same speed, but as soon he turned up his driveway he floored it.
Dust and gravel kicked up behind him in a great cloud. That would probably force Debra to stop, but it couldn’t be helped. It took ten seconds to come out through the small grove of trees at the head of his driveway, with Jessie bumping into the seatbelt restraints emitting muffled shrieks.
When he swung right into the open patch of ground before his covered front porch, he spotted two—no, three of them: one at the bedroom window, another in the shed poking around, and the man with the crowbar now at the front door. No damage was visible from the outside of Joel’s beautiful red half-log sided cabin. By great fortune they appeared to have arrived in time to keep it that way by mere seconds.
Joel lay on the horn and drove at the porch. The invader turned, froze for a second, dropped the crowbar, and ran off the front deck towards the driveway.
Joel swung left for the man at the window, but that guy already bolted across the open field of Joel’s seven-acre property, leaving a Panama hat on the ground behind him. So far, so good.
Joel turned towards the shed. The intruder there still stood in the opening, watching everything, but suddenly came shocked to life. He sprinted out and around the back of the shed, stumbling to clear the tarp-covered woodpile next to it.
Debra’s horn blaring from behind caught Joel’s attention. He checked his mirror. The one from the porch must have run straight into her, and was now being chased back in this direction.
