Charlie's Requiem: Democide (23 page)

“Makes sense.” Kramer said, adding, “Are you sure it’s not gone further?”

“As sure as I can be,” She replied. “I do trust her to tell me the truth; but she is 18, and I guess she’s an adult now.”

“Not in my house she isn’t!” Kramer shot back. “My house, my rules!”

“And it isn’t like she could just get up and go somewhere else right now.” Barb added. “I know she’ll say that I’m being unfair.”

“Life isn’t fair!” Kramer said. “Remind her of that. The last thing we need is a pregnant daughter.”

“She gets that now,” Barb assured him. “We had a nice, long talk last night.”

“Sounds like I need to have the same with Rob.”

“Sounds like it!” Barb replied, and they both went back to finish their delicious bowls of chili.

After lunch, Kramer decided to walk over to Ed’s house in the hopes of talking with Rob. His steady temperament had quickly returned, and finding Rob still hard at work and alone in the garage, he firmly but kindly explained his position as Caroline’s father to the young man. Kramer never raised his voice, but left the boy with no doubt that he would completely regret crossing any lines with Caroline.

After receiving assurances that Rob totally understood where he stood and what was expected, Kramer walked over to the Grafton house and arrived just as Ed was leaving the front door.

“What are you doing here,” Ed congenially asked.

Kramer explained the situation, finding out that Ed had quietly given Rob the same admonition earlier that day.

“Between the two of us,” Ed said. “I think the kid gets it.”

“I hope they both do,” Kramer said shaking his head. “But in this world at this time, you just don’t know.”

Ed led Kramer back to the garage, and yelled to Rob.

“Hey, are you done with the torch?”

“Yes sir,” Rob said, looking apprehensively at the two older men.

“Load it up in the back of the pickup. And put my bolt cutters and a siphon back there as well.”

The young man had the truck loaded within a minute, moving faster than either of them had ever seen him move. After closing the pickup’s drop-down door, and securing the large torch with bungee cords, he scurried out of sight back into the garage.

Ed started up the truck and began to pull away. Once out of the driveway, both men turned to each other and began to laugh. From the poor kid’s reaction, it was plainly evident that he had gotten the message.

“I think we got to him!” Ed said with a grin.

“Yeah,” Kramer said. “But hormones are constant. We need to stay vigilant and not let up.”

They drove on in silence, passing once again through the Academy’s property as the road took them south toward Winter Garden.

They kept their eyes out for other vehicles but saw none as they passed through the Oakland area. Suddenly, Kramer pointed to their front as a large bus crested over a hill about a half a mile down the road.

“There!” Kramer said, pointing out the advancing vehicle.

Quickly, three more busses appeared, all following the first.

“What do you think?” Ed asked.

“I don’t think we want to run into them right now!” He replied. Then, pointing off to the side of the road where a driveway led up to a small church, he said, “Let’s move off over there and get behind the building.”

Ed quickly turned into the church’s drive and pulled around back. Turning off the engine, they could hear the sound of the four busses as they rumbled up the tree-lined two-lane road.

The sound of the engines maintained their steady hum, and soon they passed by, leaving the men grateful that their encounter had occurred where they could see far enough ahead. Much of the road contained curves and wooded areas that made advance warning impossible.

Returning to their previous route, they quickly made their way out of town.

About two blocks after leaving the church, they saw some police officers walking away from the road, heading back down the side street that they had obviously just come from.

Hearing their approaching pickup, the three cops turned as one and began running back to the road.

“Hit it,” Kramer said, as he watched two of the men pulling their service weapons from their belted holsters. All three men had abandoned their full length pants, opting for shorts. But they wore the short sleeved shirts of the local police department, and the “Batman Belts” that held their pistols and other police gear.

Ed floored the old truck, its old engine not up to modern standards but efficient enough to push them past the oncoming men.

Once they were well beyond the three cops, Ed turned to his friend.

“What was that about?” He asked.

“Well,” Kramer started. “I’ve been thinking. We can’t trust anyone now. First, if they were cops, they probably would have demanded we take them wherever they wanted to go, or just taken the truck and left us high and dry. Secondly, we don’t even know they are real cops. Anyone could get those shirts and cop gear and pretend to be law enforcement.”

“Gosh, I never thought about that.” Ed admitted. “But if we can’t trust the government, and we can’t trust cops, then what?”

“Then we don’t trust anyone, just each other!” Kramer finished. “Let’s just keep going and get this done.”

Grafton slowed his vehicle down, both lowering the sounds coming from the engine, and allowing them more time to see advancing vehicles. Once, they saw an older dump truck shoot across an intersection a few hundred yards to their front. But the old beast was moving so fast, that their driver never saw Ed’s truck off to its right.

By the time they arrived in Winter Garden, their street had undergone three name changes as it passed through different boroughs. What was Rt. 455 in Montverde, had become “Old Hwy 50”, then Oakland Street (as it passed through, wait for it… Oakland) and now was called Plant Street in Winter Garden.

Throughout their travel, usually at 25 mph, they saw a few people staring at them longingly from yards and driveways.

“Hey, before we hit the cell tower,” Kramer said. “Let’s stop at the Seed and Feed store.”

“You need something for the horses?” Ed asked.

Winter Garden Seed and Feed was an equestrian’s heaven, with tack and feed supplies galore. When Kramer explained his desire to start a garden, Grafton readily agreed. The Feed and Seed story may not have the heirloom seeds they were looking for, but the owners lived in a home nearby, and they should be able to direct them to an appropriate source.

“Can we trust them?” Ed asked Kramer as they drove into the small town.

“Yeah,” Kramer replied. “Chris Newsome is a straight up guy, and if anyone I know is riding this out, it’s him. Now, turn right up there on Park Street. I don’t want to drive through downtown.”

After turning off the main road, Kramer guided him down the two-lane side street, passing a large public baseball complex. After passing the final baseball field, he had them turn left, bringing them parallel to their original path. As they drove through the residential neighborhood, the found yet more empty houses. Most homes, one-story 1950’s block structures, looked abandoned. Many were closed up tight with their shades drawn, while some had their front doors kicked in or left open to the elements, a sure sign that not everyone in town was trustworthy.

“Turn left here on Main,” Kramer said.

Travelling a few blocks up Main street, the doctor pointed to a quaint old brick building that had been plastered over and whitewashed. Its green awnings still snapped in the breeze and several people were milling about at the open front door.

If you wanted to have a postcard made of Old Florida, you needed to look no further than Winter Garden. It had once been a dying old citrus town, but the city had been purposely developed into a quaint destination for people wanting a great meal in a town with a last-century feel to it.

An old railroad track ran directly behind the building, so Kramer had Ed stop short of the tracks, leaving a good 30 or 40-yard buffer between them and the half a dozen or so people watching them from the front of the building.

“Wait here,” Kramer said. “Guard the truck while I head inside.”

“Is it worth it?” Ed asked with genuine concern.

“I want some answers,” Kramer replied. “All this talk about the government and our little meeting with Bragg have me upset. If anyone knows what’s going on, Chris will.”

Kramer walked across the tracks; and as he approached the door, he saw that several of the men were indeed armed with AR-15 style rifles. None of them pointed his weapon at him, but they did maintain a “low-ready” stance with rifles pointed out front but slightly down. They quietly spread out, putting some distance between themselves, which would make it harder for any single shooter to hit them all.

Kramer made sure his hands were out where they could be seen, and made it to the front door without incident.

“Can we help you?” One of them said. He was a large, bearded man with tattooed arms the size of a ham who presented a fearsome sight.

“I’m here to see Chris!” Kramer confidently announced.

“And just who would you be?” A second man asked. This one was a smaller version of the first, thick and not someone you’d want on your bad side.

“Let him know that Dr. Kramer’s here to speak with him.”

“Is that you, doc?” came a yell from inside.

A moment later, Chris Newsome stepped out of the shop wearing his garden apron. He removed his leather work-gloves and offered his hand.

“Glad you’ve survived!” He said.

“You too,” Kramer added.

“We’re good, boys!” The older Newsome said.

The big man, the first one he had come across, lifted his right arm in the air in front of him and, turning to the west, made a side-to-side waving motion. Looking down the alley where he had directed his signal, Kramer saw another man with a rifle move back behind a dumpster; and off in the distance about two blocks away, he saw a man in the city’s water tower wave and disappear among the metal girders underneath the giant metal tank.

The big guy then turned up Main street to the north and waved side-to-side again. Looking closely, across the street was a one-story block building with an herb shop tenant. The building next to it was a freshly painted gray two-story building that had a red canvas-covered fire escape running above the roof of the herb building. Looking closely, Kramer could just make out another sniper waving back at the man.

“Just how many men do you have out there?” Kramer asked incredulously.

“Enough, doc. Don’t worry about it.”

“Come on in,” Chris said. “And tell your buddy that he may as well come in too. No one will touch your truck.”

* * *

“Bring it up here,” Kramer called back to Grafton.

Ed jumped in his Chevy and drove it to the front door.

“Nice truck, doc.” The big man said admiringly.

“Thanks!” Ed replied, getting out of the old vehicle.

“Sweet!” One of the others said.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Chris started. “Dr. Kramer, this is Jack Cunningham. He owns The Armorer, the gun shop down on Highway 50.”

“Call me Gerry,” Kramer said, offering the giant man his hand.

“Pleasure’s mine, doc!” Cunningham replied.

He introduced his friend, and after Ed was brought into the mix, the three of them went into the shop, leaving Cunningham and his men outside to continue their overwatch.

The store was almost completely empty, with only a pile of supplies stacked neatly at the back loading dock.

“Leaving?” Kramer asked sarcastically.

“Should have left sooner,” Newsome replied. “Had to deal with DHS, and I wish we had bugged out before that.”

“What happened?” Ed asked.

“Well, let me tell you!” He started.

Newsome went on to detail his run-in with DHS. The city had been paid a visit by a number of DHS agents distributing fliers which told the residents to begin their journey to Orlando and the Fairgrounds camp. With the promise of food and water stations along the route, most of the population had quickly volunteered to make the 10-mile walk down Highway 50.

“Most were gone within a day, with no food or safe water.” Newsome said. “But I have a group of friends that would prefer to stay. Cunningham and his boys are part of that group. We have a place down south of here, and we’re holding up there till this blows over.”

“So what’s the problem with DHS?” Kramer asked.

“I had two guys show up at my front door,” Chris began. “There were dressed as postal workers of all things. They had some candy-ass DHS agent with them acting like some kind of hotshot SWAT operator. They demanded that I leave and that my store was now the property of the government. I told them I would be out of here by that night, but got in touch with Cunningham. He and his boys scared them off when they returned that evening. That was two days ago and I’ve been running supplies out to our spread since yesterday. This,” he said pointing to the pile in the back, “is our last run.”

Kramer filled him in on what he had heard from the people at the Academy and from Bragg.

“Freakin’ Government!” Newsome said with disgust. “I always knew we couldn’t trust that lot!”

“HEY CUNNINGHAM!” Newsome yelled. “DOC’s GOT SOMETHING TO TELL YOU!”

The big man entered the store, moving with remarkable grace given his huge size. Kramer filled him in on the information they had gathered, and the doctor watched as the big man’s face slowly turned red with rage.

“Bastards!” He finally said. “Leaving kids to rot while they run their little errands.”

“What are they doing, do you think?” Ed asked the group.

“No idea,” Newsome. “But it sounds like prison busses. You know that the Lake Correctional Facility is up there.”

“And Coleman,” Cunningham added. Coleman was a medium security federal prison located northwest of them.

“Yeah,” Kramer replied. “But they’re taking people in that direction, and not bringing any back. Could they be taking looters there?”

“Anything’s possible,” Newsome said. “But who knows with those pricks.”

“Anyway,” Kramer said. “I came into town to get some batteries for my solar panels and try and find some seeds to plant.”

“Well,” Newsome said. “I can help you with the seeds. The herb shop across the street is abandoned, and with the men here, no one’s messed with their shop. The owner left the keys with me and walked to Orlando. But with me leaving, I don’t see the value in holding on to them. Here you go!”

Newsome reached behind his wooden counter and gave Kramer a set of keys.

“Big one is the front door, the small one, I have no idea about.”

A large engine vehicle could be heard in the distance.

“And there’s my ride!” Newsome said as a dump truck rumbled in front of the store and turned behind the building, pulling up to the rear loading dock that sat next to the old railroad tracks.

“Used to get railroad deliveries in the old days!” Newsome said. “Now, those days are gone.”

“The way the world is now,” Kramer replied. “The “new days” are gone too.”