Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) (5 page)

“
Dammit
John, I know I’m on the air, but this is getting out of hand.  Yeah, I know—look
get the interns working on it, then.  I don’t care—send someone out to get a
remote setup or something.  This is bigger than the FCC!
”  The host
appeared more concerned with talking to people in his studio than to the
listening public—or, at least those who had batteries.

Erik looked
into his wife’s beautifully slanted eyes and changed stations a few times.  Her
lightly tanned skin took on a creamy tone darker than normal in the subdued
light of the dim bedroom. 

More
reports of the same bad news filtered in over the radio.  Nervous announcers
reported on a half-dozen incidents of jetliners falling from the sky, major
cities losing power and no explanation. 

He glanced
at his watch.  It had taken roughly half an hour for all hell to break loose. 
He sat back in his chair and already noticed the fact that the air conditioner
was off.  Not that it was hot yet, only that the absence of cool air blowing
around was conspicuous.  It was only an hour or so after lunch and the heat
would peak quickly .          
Is this it?
He asked himself.  

Has the
shit finally hit the fan?
 

Out the
window, all was quiet and peaceful and normal.  He got up, went into the closet
and pulled out his bug-out-bag.  Brin followed him to the doorway, her bare
feet softly padding across the tile floor.  She said nothing, but moved quietly
into the room and hugged herself as she watched her husband. 

Erik took a
quick glance and figured she must be a little cold in that tiny bikini at which
a part of his mind was screaming for him to examine further.  The rational,
calculating part of his mind though was in firm control.  Something major was
going down and his ‘lizard brain’ had kicked into to survival mode.

After he
opened the zipper, it only took a second to find his Grundig FR200 emergency
radio.  He zipped up the bag but left it on the spare bed, ready to go.  Next
he unplugged the battery from the little radio on the desk—he wasn’t sure when
the power would be back on, but he figured it’d be better to conserve
batteries.  On that thought, he removed the batteries from all but one of the
clocks in their apartment.

Then he
went into the kitchen and brought the emergency radio with him.  He set the
radio on the counter, unlatched the dynamo hand crank and set to work ‘winding
up’ the radio.  After about a minute or so, he figured the battery was fully
charged and he extended the antenna and turned it on.   He quickly found the AM
station he wanted and left the radio to run in the background.  It give them
news updates while he set out to write down everything they had in the freezer
and fridge.  Brin just watched, dazed, still in her bikini.  She sat by the
breakfast bar on a stool and watched the odd activity of her spouse.  He moved
in silence and did not offer explanations for his actions.

Erik opened
the freezer door for a few seconds, took a quick look then shut it securely to
keep the cold air in.  He carefully wrote down everything that he saw, then did
the same for the fridge.  Then he posted the list on the fridge door with a
magnet. 

She could
not stand it any longer.  “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice
surprisingly loud in the tomb-like apartment.  She looked around as if she
suddenly found herself in a different world.

“I’m taking
inventory,” he said with a glance over his shoulder as he finished the fridge
list.  “We should eat the stuff that would spoil fastest first.  Gotta come
from the fridge first, then the freezer.”  He patted the list.  “Knowing what
we have inside will mean we won’t have to look and waste what cold is still
inside now that we don’t have power.”

“Oh,” she
replied in a neutral tone.  She got up and moved to the fridge.  “How did you
know to do this?”

“Remember,
I did this when we lost power during Hurricane Frances?” he asked gently, hands
on her shoulders as she looked at the fridge.  Her skin felt cool to the
touch.  He was starting to sweat.  Before his hands started to warm her up, he
had another thought streak through his mind like a meteor across a clear night
sky.

“Damn…we’ve
got to get to the store,” he said.  “We might be able to get a little more food
while people are still at work.”  He walked over to the porch door and glanced
outside, left the radio on the counter.  Brin stood next to him, hugging
herself again.  Erik glanced at her again.  She was unusually quiet.  Brin had
a smart comment to make about…well, just about everything.  It was one of the
reasons he fell in love with her. 

It was a
weekday, so there was little activity outside except for the noises coming from
the back half of the complex where construction workers continued to work.  In
the distance someone was mowing a lawn with what sounded like a Sikorsky, but
the echo of the lawnmower sound was hard to pinpoint.  Evidently the power loss
hadn’t affected everyone yet.  Or they hadn’t realized it yet.  Erik suppressed
a rueful grin at the thought of the poor guy finishing up his yard work, only
to come inside looking for air conditioning and a cold beer and finding
neither.

“How much
cash do you have?” he asked as he peered across the small pond to the other
side of the apartment complex.  Erik had suddenly discovered a major flaw in
his preparations.  He didn’t have more than $10 in his wallet, cash.  Their
savings was safely unreachable in the bank.  He only hoped Brin had enough cash
for them to get food to top off their supplies.  

I should
have thought of this!  I should have had a cash reserve somewhere in the
apartment…without power, the ATMs won’t work.  I can’t get anything.  Wait…how
much gas do we have in the cars?

IN CHICAGO, ALL was
chaos.  First, the power mysteriously winked out with no sign of a summer storm
for a hundred miles.  Then, in a matter of minutes, a large plane screamed in
above Southside.  It left a trail of flame and debris to rain out of the sky. 
Police cruisers raced about, lights flashing and sirens wailing as they tried
to get to strategic points in the city to direct the already panic-fueled
traffic. 

The city
planners had taken note of what had happened a few years back when New York had
lost power.  If that were to happen to Chicago, they realized there were going
to be an awful lot of people hitting the streets in an attempt to get home. 
The first responders had to be ready.  They had trained for every contingency,
including terrorism.  The police were prepared.  However, an emergency of this
magnitude was off the charts.  They could
not
be ready for a
fully loaded 747 raining destruction down out of the sky onto the city’s
congested streets.

Millions of
people at work saw what looked like a missile collide with a plane in the sky
south and east of Chicago.  The plane was obviously on approach going north to
O’Hare; the missile streaked south riding atop a thin tendril of curling
smoke.  It had happened just after the power flickered and went out. 

Most people
in the office buildings began to speculate that there were two planes and they
had lost radar or navigation instruments when the power went.  Others, that
terrorists had hijacked one plane and ran it into the other.  Or that terrorists
had hijacked both planes. 
Or
, that it really
was
only one plane
and it really
had
been shot down. 

The panic
spread.  It boiled down to the fact that no one knew what was going on—but
everyone knew it was time to move.  It was as if there was a communal instinct
inherent to commuters from the suburbs.  They could tell when something bad was
going down, like rats on a sinking ship.  The first thought was to get out of
the city.  Rumors that the plane had carried deadly chemicals spread like
wildfire and the mobs swelled.  Everyone struggled to get to cars and fight
already heavy traffic to escape the city.  No decent person wanted to be
trapped in Chicago in the middle of the summer, at night, without power.

Malcolm
Abdul Rashid, formerly Jamal LeRay, stood quietly along with his group of
eleven Black Muslims.  They all suffered in the stagnant humidity of the living
room of his mother’s row-house.  The rowhouse was poorly ventilated in the best
of circumstances.  Without what functioning air conditioning it did have, the
house turned into a sauna.  Fast. 

“Brother
Malcolm, this is the sign you spoke of, is it not?” asked one of the older men
after their opening prayer and a respectful silence.  He went by the name
Elijah.  He was one of the Elders of the local Black Muslim community.  Old
Elijah had been around during the ‘60s, when the movement started.  He was
proud to have been a member of the Fruit of Islam, the semi-military “community
self defense force”, second in prestige only to the famous Black Panthers.   In
fact, the two groups had often trained together, ostensibly to promote
togetherness among the inner city urbanites.  As the tumultuous decade wore on,
however, rumors had spread that the Fruit of Islam was really just training
young black militants for a racial war.  When nothing came of it for more than
thirty years, the Fruit of Islam was largely forgotten by the rest of
America.   Not by Abdul.

Malcolm
nodded solemnly.  “It is, Elder Brother.”  Elijah was an old man to Malcolm,
crusty and set in his ways.  He was a relic of the ‘60s, when the brothers and
sisters had come so close to realizing their dream of a truly equal society,
only to hand it over to the White Man in the later half of the 20
^th
Century.  Malcolm considered that story, one of weakness and failure.  To come
so close, only to stand aside and lose all the ground they had gained. 

It was a
story Malcolm would not repeat.

“We have
been given the opportunity, my Brothers, to finally free our people from the
yoke of the Man’s oppression,” intoned Ali Majdy, from downtown.  He was a bear
of a man, tall, strong and imposing, made to look even more dangerous by his
tailored trendy-looking dark suit and glasses.  Outside their meeting, on the
street, he was known as “Big Al”.   He was Malcolm’s right-hand man.  His
enforcer.

“Brother
Malcolm led us to join our Brothers in Islam from the Holy Land.  While we may
not agree with all our little Brothers have to say, they feel the same way
about America that we do.  The Whites in this country have been too long in
charge—they have forced us to become soft and corrupt.  They lack discipline
and religion.  With the help of Allah and our Middle Eastern Brothers, we will
return America to glory.  We will ensure our People turn from the current path
leading back towards slavery of the mind, and head towards the light and
knowledge of freedom.”

Several
other men nodded and murmured thanks to Allah.  Two of them stared at Malcolm
with tight lipped grimaces.  They were from back east, and not so easily moved
by speeches and well-wishing.

“Brothers,
why do you look at me so?” asked Malcolm, beginning to pour water into glasses
for his guests.

One of the
dissenters adjusted his bow-tie before he spoke.  “Malcolm, Samir and I agree
with you, about most everything.”  His voice was strained with worry.  The
others grew quiet in order to hear.  They were very polite, despite differing
opinions on the matter at hand.        

“And those
Brothers and Sisters I represent in New York are with Allah and with
you
. 
Even now, I expect they have already mobilized, if the lights are out there as
well.  However," he glanced at his partner for support.  The other man
nodded.  The speaker continued.  "I cannot go forward without voicing my
sincere concerns.”  He looked around the gathered faces, clearly hoping  
someone else besides would back him up.  No one showed the slightest bit of
sympathy.  All the various dark skinned, sweaty streaked faces were set in
stone.  

Raheeb
Turner looked around and his spirits fell.  He took on the visage of someone
who wished he were anywhere else but there he was at the moment. Malcolm
considered this man from New York.  He had explained to Malcolm that he had
never left New York before this trip.  Malcolm knew.  He had coordinated the
meeting earlier in the summer.  Black Muslim men from every state had been sent
to Chicago, where they had gathered as a sort of Congress.  A Black Congress.

Malcolm
smiled.  After the struggle, when the White Man was overthrown, this group of
men in a Chicago row house would be the new Government.  A Black Government. 
Not for the people, but for
his
People.  They would be the core that
would start over and bring racial
justice
, not equality, to America. 
Malcolm would lead them to glorious freedom.  The other man from New York
brought Malcolm back to the reality that the great struggle had literally just
begun.

Raheeb’s
friend from Brooklyn, Samir, chose to speak.  “Malcolm, Elijah, everyone—“
began Samir, spreading his hands to include the group.  “What Raheeb is trying
to explain is simple."  He paused and adjusted the glasses on his sweaty
brow.  "Quite simply, brothers,
we are afraid
.  We have many
supporters who are not black and we do not wish to alienate them.

A few of
the others nodded.  It was true, they were not a simple race based
organization, as their forefathers had organized in the 1960s.  But to the
hardcore faithful, it was still a Blacks Only club.  The way it
should
be.

Elijah
smiled, the way only old men can, in a gentle fashion meant to reassure youth. 
“My Brothers, be not afraid, for we walk the path of the Prophet, in Allah’s
Grace.  Allah is with us.  We shall fear nothing.  If your white friends truly
support us, they will not abandon us in our hour of triumph.” 

Several men
whispered, “Allah is merciful, Allah is good…” in response.

“I know you
do not trust our new Arabic friends with your whole heart.  After all, did they
not slay many of our Brothers and Sisters on September 11
^th
?” 
Elijah said gently.  Then his voice grew stronger and seemed more like an Imam
than a militant.  “But those Brothers and Sisters were
there
because the
Man oppressed them; wouldn’t let them have any other jobs—forced them to be the
janitors and
servants
!  Our little brothers had the courage to fight back
where we have just rolled over.”  More heads nodded around the circle.  “The
time for that is over.”

Elijah was
on a tear now.  He was beginning to feel like it was the ‘60s all over again. 
“My friends, we have been blessed by Allah to have another chance at
greatness.  In my time, we were given an opportunity to free our Brothers and
Sisters.  Sadly, we failed.  I have held shame in my heart every day for
decades because of that missed opportunity.  Now, we have been given another
chance…Allah is truly merciful.  This time, we will
not
miss that
chance!”  The old man’s passion was heartening to the others.

“But
Elijah, the Arab Brothers want to
destroy
America…I fear they are only
using us!” protested Samir.  His New York accent became more acute the more
agitated he became.  “Not all whites are evil…” he muttered insolently.

“Brother
Samir, be at peace,” said Elijah.  He waved his hand as if to dismiss the
younger man’s concerns.  “As I said, Allah is with us.  You are afraid our new
friends want only to lay waste to our country—a country built on the backs of
slaves!  Built on the backs and the blood and the sweat of our ancestors.  If
this land belongs to anyone, it belongs to
us!
”  Someone clapped in
approval.

Elijah put
his hands together and looked pious.  “You think they are using
us
—why
do not
we
use
them
?  They will be the instrument of our rise to
greatness.  We will join them in tearing down the Establishment.  We will let
them kill themselves and take the blame.  When our new friends leave after the
Man falls, we will remodel this country to suit our People and let the White
Man and the White Woman be
our
servants!  Then the infidels will take
the place that Allah has accorded to those who do not convert!”  The rest of
the group cheered, clapped and praised Allah, drowning out the protests of
Samir and his fellow dissenter.  Old Elijah settled himself in a chair. 

“Samir…Raheeb…do
you not see, we are all in this together?”

Raheeb
slowly shook his head.  “I see, Elijah, I see.  But still I worry.   What if
our Arab Brothers do
not
leave?”

“They do
not want to
live
here…” offered Malcolm’s Mountain with a voice deep as
thunder.  “They want to
die
here.  They want to punish the white man. 
They like their deserts.”

“You will
be with us then…as agreed?” asked Malcolm.  He spoke up again.  His voice held
a dangerous edge.   All questions were stifled.  The time for doubt and
questions was over.  He had planned for this moment for years.  Ever since that
first meeting with Hakim.  They had made great strides in recruiting other
radical elements to their cause.  It was a great alliance, but a tenuous one. 
Without ironclad unity in their own movement, Malcolm and Hakim couldn’t hope
to hold together the continent-wide agenda.

“As I said,
Malcolm, our Brothers and Sisters in New York are with you regardless of what
happens.  That is not a question.  I…” Raheeb faltered and placed  a well
manicured hand on his own chest.   “I alone had doubts.  But when I see the
resolve of our esteemed Elder, Brother Elijah," he smiled at the old man,
who nodded graciously.  "My spirit grows strong with the strength of
Allah.” 

“Good. 
Because the hour of action draws near, my Brothers.  Our liberation is
waiting.  My friend Hakim said that we would know when his people launched
their attack. 
The war will begin on the White Man’s government when the
streets became dark
.  That is the sign for our Brothers and Sisters to rise
up and join our friends from the Holy Land.”

Elijah
looked at the few weak candles that lit the room.  They had been lit by Malcolm
when the power went out.   A sinister smile spread across his dark face, making
his teeth stand out even whiter than normal.   “The streets are become dark,
Malcolm.  At last…at last our People will be free.”

“Brothers,
the time has come.  You have prepared.  You have trained.  Allah has shown us
the way.  We need only to reach out and take what is ours.”  Malcolm slowly
looked around the room, let the tension build until it was a palpable force. 
He looked every man among them in the eye, saw the conviction, the pride
reflected back.  “Go to your men.  Spread the word.  The war begins tonight.”