Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) (3 page)

For now
, Erik
thought again.   He put the heavy Hurricane Bag back in its place in the spare
bathroom closet.  Once stowed out of the way, he looked in the mirror and
thought,
Guess I’ll get on-line and check in with the preparedness boards. 

Erik sat
down at the computer with a sigh and checked for new messages, half listening
to the last of the crickets and cicadas and God knew what else that lurked
outside in the steamy, tropical night.  In a few more months he figured, those
pests would be gone for the winter.  Another plus for leaving Florida.  The bugs. 
He hated bugs.  Especially spiders and fire ants.  Florida was crawling with
both and many things in-between.  He shuddered at the thought and looked at the
computer screen. 

Something
new…from someone named
Transplant
.   Looked like a new guy in Florida. 
“Well…let’s see what you’ve got to say, Transplant,” said Erik thoughtfully as
he clicked his way to the new message, entitled
Can’t shake this feeling
…

“Twenty-five
replies already…this must be good.”  

Erik read
the message. 
Transplant
was a Georgia boy who had just moved to
Florida.  He had been reading the boards for about a year, never posted. 
Prepping for disasters since Y2K and September 11th…the usual intro.  Erik
skimmed down and looked for the meat of the message.

Evidently,
Transplant
got a little spooked after the Blackout and looked over his supplies again and
again, trying to optimize everything.  He had been at it for years.  Erik
chuckled. 
This guy must be looking to get flamed by the old pros.  Don’t
you know, trying to get the perfect kit is a never ending battle?
 

Transplant
went on to
explain his irrational, or so it seemed to him, fear that
something
—he
wasn’t sure what—was just over the horizon and it wasn’t going to be pretty.

There were
the usual suspects who replied right away that they’ve been worried about
TEOTWAKI for years; even some nut that said the Jews were behind everything. 
Another added something about building a tactical assault-wheel barrow.  Erik
rolled his eyes. 

From peak
oil, to a depression, to the devaluing of the American Dollar, to famine, two
overseas wars, and the rampant spread of diseases, and terrorism, most of the
members of the forum had a healthy respect for the unknown.  Many of the
replies were from people scattered all over the country who agreed with the
newbie and were glad to know they weren’t crazy.  The general theme was—except
the real screwballs—that no one really knew what was coming, only it was
something bad.  No one wanted to say it was TEOTWAKI.

Erik sat
back with a sigh and backed out of the message.  That hadn’t helped at
all
. 
Now his imagination was running wild.  He moved on to other topics he’d been
following lately. 

There was a
lot of concern about how dry the western states were.  Some talk was about the
current hurricane season and how strange it was to be in July and only have one
storm so far.  It was eerily reminiscent of the disastrous ’04 and ‘05
seasons.  Erik looked up at the framed Hurricane Tracking Map that showed the paths
of all four monsters that hit Florida in 2004.  The most powerful: Charley. 
The largest and slowest: Frances.  The corkscrew path that looped back on
itself: Jeanne.  And then Ivan the Terrible flattened the Panhandle cities. 
Where the storm paths converged was a star.  That was where he and Brin had
lived then.  It was his constant reminder to be ready. 

He sighed
and glanced over at to his video game station.  He slid the rolling desk chair
over to the TV and powered up
Modern Warriors
, one of the most popular
military simulation first person shooter games on the market.

Erik felt
confident that if 'the end of the world as we know it' happened, his education
would get him through the rough waters.  After all, there have been many Dark
Ages in history.  Man survived all of them.  History was a great teacher, Erik
knew.  And great teachers sometimes have to repeat themselves.

That was
the future, though.  For now, the online world was buzzing, he saw.  He
selected a match and joined in the virtual mayhem.  After a few moments to warm
up, the kills began to rack up in his favor.  Bullets shrieked across the
digital landscape and opponents around the world began to curse as their
virtual representations were shredded by Erik.  He focused everything on the
game and slowly his fears and anxiety began to fade into the background, pushed
aside for another day.

JUST OUTSIDE FLAGSTAFF,
Arizona, the sun was starting to disappear over the mountains to the west. 
Hakim shrugged under the weight of his backpack.  He looked around.  No one was
nearby.  He had not expected to run into anyone, but he had to be cautious. 
His car remained on the shoulder of the road, parked and locked.  Technically,
he was breaking the law by leaving his vehicle on this high mountain pass.  An
abandoned car along the narrow road as it wound its way around the top of the
valley could cause a fatal accident.

Hakim
smiled as he climbed up the steep embankment away from the road and into the
pine trees.  He was headed up to the top of the mountain.  Absently, he
realized he did not even know the mountain’s name.  He shrugged under the
weight of his backpack.  It didn’t matter.  He knew he was supposed to be on
this road and drive south to mile marker 56.  There he was to park his car,
climb to the top and rendezvous with his as yet unknown partner.  While he
didn’t know it, sleeper cells such as his were being activated all across
America this night.  The time had finally come.  It had been almost a year
since he had passed on his idea and the tree was finally bearing fruit.

The
Thousand, full of righteous anger, as Hakim, had received instructions for this
night.  This was the night they had dreamed about for years.  The night for
which they had trained, prepared, watched, and waited.  This was the night all
the suffering of their brothers and sisters in Islam would be avenged.  This
was the night Hakim paid America back for destroying everything it touched with
its foul corrupting influence.

And it
would all start with his car bomb.  He smiled and relished his little moment of
pride.  His handler had advised him not to deviate from the plan put in place
by the Fist leadership, but Hakim figured it was Allah’s will that the idea
came to him in the first place.  Best not to go against Allah’s will.  Besides,
the car bomb would start off the night on a good note.  A bloody note.

Operational
security dictated he could never know the identity of his handler.  Even the
handler did not know who Hakim really was, though the handler knew he was
responsible for three sleepers, such as Hakim.  Such it went, up the chain of
command.  That way, if one cell or handler was captured by the Americans,
interrogated and then talked, at most only four operatives would be lost.  No
one knew the person above or below them.  They only knew that there
were
operatives above and below.  It was simple and effective. 

The classic
terror-cell.  It had worked on 9-11 and it would work now.  The Americans were
too soft; they valued their rights and liberties to the point of absurdity. 
Tonight, Hakim resolved, they would pay for their naivety.  He banished a
thought that popped into his head which proclaimed America’s strength was due
to those rights and liberties he sought to exploit.  After tonight it would
matter little either way.

Hakim began
to sweat as he climbed.  His twisted path through the whispering mountain pines
took him further and further away from booby-trapped car.  He smiled again,
thinking about the surprise anyone would find should they tamper with his car. 
Chances are it would be a police officer, sent to investigate an abandoned
vehicle.  The driver’s side door was wired to a rudimentary homemade explosive
fitted to the underside of the car in and around the chassis so it would be
invisible to the casual observer.  To see it, one would have to jack the car up
first, then know right where to look.  He hoped it
was
a cop who tried
the handle.  He hated American police officers.  They were the enforcers of
America’s perverted and immoral laws.  In his mind, there was no law besides
Allah’s.  Islam is Islam and everything else is corrupt.

Hakim had
taken care to go to great lengths to cover his tracks.  He paid for the car in
cash.  He bought it used from someone who had just finished college and was
looking to unload a beaten up old clunker, cheap, no strings attached, no
questions asked.  Hakim paid an extra thousand to keep the deal quiet.  The kid
didn’t know or didn’t care about title and registration—more the better for
Hakim.  If traced, the car would still be listed under the name George
Humphries, of Topeka, Kansas.  He figured George would get a rather unpleasant
wakeup call sometime tomorrow morning.  He smiled as he climbed ever higher
through the pine trees, his footsteps muffled on the carpet of fallen pine
needles.

To get the
cash to pay for the car, Hakim used America’s media yet again.  He had been
watching a news program about identity theft when the idea came to him.  Hakim
figured if he really wanted to, he could make quite a living off of the
criminal ideas broadcast by the media in America.  He was intrigued when the
reporter explained how credit cards could be stolen out of trash cans. 

"People
receive pre-approved credit card offers all the time.  Anymore, you just throw
them in the trash as more “junk-mail” and forget them," the reporter had
explained with a somber face.  He arched his eyebrows for dramatic effect which
caused Hakim to laugh.  "The criminal," the reporter continued,
unabated, "then comes along in the middle of the night and digs through
your trash.  When he finds the credit card offer, he fills out the information,
puts his address down and gets the card in someone else’s name.  Now he’s free
to spend and when he doesn’t pay the bills the victim’s name comes up and it’s
their
credit that is ruined.  With a little thought, even the paper trial will lead
back to the victim.  Most identity thieves will never be caught—there are just
too many of these criminals out there and law enforcement resources cannot
match the number of credit offers sent out on a
daily
basis."

Hakim had
wondered about collection agencies, though.  The reporter on the television
appeared to read his mind, for the bald man suddenly said, “The heartbreaking
part of all of this is when the authorities go to the address listed on file
for the card, they find nothing—by then the criminal has already moved on or
changed names.  If the identity thief knows what they’re doing and is cautious,
it’s
very
hard to catch them.” 

Hakim
remembered thanking the reporter before he turned off the TV that night and
went out looking through the communal dumpster.   About an hour and a half
later, he had hit pay dirt.  The older lady down the hall had received a credit
card offer and thrown it out after recognizing it as junk mail.  Hakim took the
offer back to his place, filled it out, and a week later, had a brand new
$5,000-limit credit card.  He promptly asked for checks drawn on the credit
line, ostensibly for a balance transfer.  The credit card company was only too
happy to oblige, no doubt thinking of the interest charges they would accrue.         Hakim
then used the checks to obtain cash in order to pay for the car. 

He very
quickly got a few more cards the same way and used them to buy his supplies
before anyone got suspicious.  After all, his plan was never to return to
Chicago.  The things he had set into play would make Chicago very…he thought
for a moment as he caught his breath and leaned against a pine tree.  What
was
the word? 

Unpleasant.
  Yes, that
was it.  He shifted the weight of the backpack a bit and continued further
upslope.  The going was a lot rougher now that he had left the car far below. 
He could barely make out its small shape on the black ribbon that was the
road. 

Hakim knew
he probably would not live to see the final victory over America, but he knew
it would happen.  That was no small comfort.  And in the meantime, he and his
new, as yet unknown partner would have enough cash, supplies, and equipment to
last a long time during the coming chaos.  He smiled at the feeling of pride
that surged through his chest. 
Allah will be proud of me.

He finally
broke through the pine trees and into a somewhat level clearing.  Hakim took a
moment standing in the shadows to catch his breath again and look down the
dizzying slope he had just ascended.  He couldn’t make out his car so far below
through the dense trees, but he knew the bomb waited patiently. 

Beyond the
clearing, the mountain continued upwards into the darkening sky.  It was a
massive silhouette.  His eyes—and burning lungs and legs—told him he had better
find his partner soon.  He was a warrior, not a mountain goat.  He paused again
behind one of the last scrawny pine trees.  In the dim light, he looked around
for people across the clearing.  Still nothing.  Just some tough grass, lots of
pine needles and a handful of scraggly scrubs and weeds. 

When he was
halfway across the tiny alpine meadow, he could make out the outline of a car
sitting on the access road—little more than a dirt path, really.  In the dim
starlight, he couldn’t see the driver, if there was one.  It was an older car,
big.  He paused, about twenty yards away.  The headlights blinked on, then
switched off.

Is this it?
  Hakim
shoved his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out a heavy flashlight.  He
fumbled with it for a second, pointed it towards the car, then turned it on and
off.  He walked a few paces forward and winced at the crunching noise his shoes
made on the dirt and gravel path that served as a road.  The car’s lights
turned on again, stayed on for about ten seconds, then switched off.  Hakim was
about ten yards away and repeated his performance with the flashlight.  He
could see the glowing end of a cigarette in the car.  The driver was smoking. 
If this wasn't his partner he was going to feel very silly.

“That you,
Bob?” Hakim called in his flawless Midwestern accent.  He suppressed another
wince as he heard his voice carry in the night.  If anyone else was nearby,
they had just heard him.

“Yeah,
John, how ya been?” was the quiet reply from inside the car.  Exactly as
agreed. 

Excellent.
  Hakim
relaxed and walked to the car.

“In Allah’s
name I greet you, Brother,” said Hakim formally.  He sat down in the passenger
seat and put his fist to his chest in salute to his knew comrade.  The driver
replied in kind.

“I have
been waiting.  My name is Saldid Muhammad Rahman,” the driver said in Arabic. 
He had quite an accent.  He blew a last puff of smoke out the window and
flicked the glowing cigarette butt onto the pine needles that coated ground by
the road.

Hakim shut
the passenger side door and thought for a moment.  "Syria?"

"You
have a good ear my friend," replied Saldid with a grin.  "I wish I
were there now instead of freezing my ass off on the side of this mountain, but
such is life, no?"  He looked over at Hakim and smiled. 

“I am Hakim
Sharif Hassan,” Hakim replied.  It was so nice to hear a civilized language
once again after so long in the land of the barbarians.  Hakim also spoke in
Arabic, with a nod towards the car’s dashboard.  “I see you followed my
advice.” 

The car was
a big Buick, late 1990s.  He grunted his approval.  The car would serve them
well and attract not the least bit of attention from anyone, especially the
police.  The interior had seen some love of the decades.  Honestly, he was a
bit surprised the car still functioned.  He was well aware of the build quality
of American cars compared to their Asian competitors.  However, it only had to
last for a few days, a week at most.  Then they could have their pick of any
car on the road.

“The greedy
fools gave me a credit card, then I got the check from them just like you told
me, and now we have a car!  Is this land not great?” Saldid said in a mocking
tone.  He grinned broadly.  “I even cashed the check at a Bank of America!” 

After the
two men shared a good laugh and released some of the tension, Hakim informed
Saldid of the car bomb he rigged on the road down below. Hakim said, “Should
not we be going, Brother?  We have much work to accomplish this night.”

Saldid
grinned again.  His front teeth were yellow from the filterless imported
cigarettes he smoked almost constantly.  “Agreed.  We need not be here when the
infidels find your present.”  He looked at his watch.  “We are late, anyway.”

THAT IS GOOD news
indeed
,
my friend!  I will see you this weekend at our team practice session.  Say
hello to the Reverend for me,” said Hakim in his cheerful American accent over
the pre-paid cell phone.  He casually dropped the phone in the trash outside
the rundown gas station and got back in the car.  That was what, his fourth
phone in as many weeks?  

Saldid sat
patiently behind the wheel, focused on yet another cigarette.  They had been
driving for hours and the sun had finally breached the horizon and flooded the
evil land around them in the light of Heaven.  They had needed to fill up the
car and piss, so Hakim had checked in with his handler.

“What took
so long?” asked Saldid in his accented Arabic.  He took a long drag on his
cigarette and turned down the radio. 

Hakim
frowned.  He had come to realize in the long night that his new partner loved
the little false idol named Ashley Sword.  Hakim hated her and everything she
stood for: the excesses of America, drugs, liquor, sex, money, fame.  Saldid
hated those things too, but he could not hate her music.  He said it made him
want to stand up and dance.  He was the driver so he picked the music.