Charlie's Requiem: Democide (31 page)

Garrett produced a Coleman battery-operated lantern and switched it on. The light soon filled the room and we got around to updating each other in on what had happened these past few days.

Eventually, John got around to business, asking Jorge for his map of the area. John produced a marker and began to outline the areas of the city that we had to avoid.

“Oh my God,” I said after he explained our predicament. “Just how do we get out of here?”

“You need to find a seam,” John began. He took the map and drew a line from our building directly east. About a mile down Highway 50 he made a northern line up through downtown Winter Park, which cleared our group from the known areas where DHS had taken control.

“You need to move about a mile east then head north through Winter Park. The problem is that the areas of gang activity change daily, so I don’t know how long this data will be valid.” John said.

“We planned on leaving tonight anyway,” Jorge replied. “Nothing good can come from waiting. But we’re glad you showed up! We were planning on going east on Colonial Drive all the way to the 520. That should take us to my brother’s farm. Looking at the map, I think we would have run into some serious trouble if we had gone that way.”

“More importantly,” John said. “You need to stay off the main roads like Colonial Drive or Mills. The gangs are looting the stores and living in the restaurants along these major streets. You need to stay on the side roads where the pickings are slimmer. Right now, the thugs are picking the low hanging fruit. In a few more weeks, after all the stores have been emptied, they’ll move into the residential neighborhoods. Those neighborhoods are your sweet spot to get out of here.”

Working with John, we devised a route that would get us into Winter Park. From there, we would head north toward Maitland where my dad lives.

“We can stop at my dad’s house,” I said. “He’s not home but we might be able to pick up more supplies, and I know he has some guns we can use.”

“If they haven’t been stolen yet.” Garrett added grimly.

“Why aren’t these expensive homes already looted?” Janice asked, pointing to Winter Park. “The unmarked areas are in really high-end neighborhoods.”

“A lot of those folks haven’t left yet,” John said. “They have a lot to lose and they’re holding out for now.”

“You’d think the gangs would have hit them already.” Jorge replied. “There’s a lot of stuff for the taking there.”

“Yeah,” John said with a smirk. “But the residents also fight back. There are enough AR-15s in Winter Park to outfit a small army, and I’ve heard some reports of serious pushback by the remaining citizens against both the gangs and DHS. It’s significant enough that some helicopter gunships have been brought in and positioned at the airport.”

“It’s come to that now?” I asked, shocked at the level of cruelty that DHS had sunk to. “We’re killing our own people.”

“Think about it,” John said. “Who stands to lose the most if the country is transformed? Not the average Joe! They won’t fight the change as long as they have their DirectTV and beer. It’s the self-made people that will lose it all, and there are no rewards for hard work and sacrifice in a socialist state. The ones that are holding up in their homes are the ones with no place in the new world order. They have nothing to lose by fighting to the end.”

As we began to develop a specific route through town, stealth was given first priority.

“Why don’t we turn up Hampton,” Jorge asked. “That’s a straight shot north up to Leu Gardens.”

“I don’t think that’s going to work,” John contemplatively said. “If I remember, a lot of the homes to the west have walls along that road. You’ll end up having to walk through funnels of walls that would block any chance of escape if you were seen. If it were me, I’d take Altaloma Avenue, skirt around Fern Creek Elementary and continue up to the Gardens. From there, you have a few options.”

Pointing to the map just east of Winter Park’s downtown, he continued.

“I’d stay east of the city proper. There are too many high-end stores in the Winter Park downtown corridor, and I don’t have any information on what’s going on there.”

“I think we need to go here,” I said and pointed out the neighborhood where my dad lived, a dead end street on the north side of Lake Maitland. “It’s probably not too high on anyone’s list of places to loot, and it looks like it’ll take us most of the night to get there. It’ll be a good stopping point for us and we can push out of town tomorrow night.”

“I think that’s a good plan,” John replied after a moment or two of thought. “Give me his address and I’ll see if I can give you some help. With my new job, I have a heck of a lot of latitude and mobility. If it’s safe, I’ll try and get to you. If not, maybe I can keep DHS from looking your way.”

We all agreed that this was a good start and thanked John for his help.

“I’ve got to go,” John said. “Keep your eyes and ears open and don’t take chances. Better to arrive late than not at all.”

John wished us all luck, and quietly slipped out the front door.

“Well,” I said. “No time like the present. Let’s move out in five minutes. We have a long walk ahead of us.”

Fifteen minutes later found our group slowly moving east on Hillcrest Street, just a block south of Highway 50. The night was once again illuminated by the rising moon, and the temperature had cooled a bit, but hadn’t fallen to a point where I needed a sweater. In fact, as the “point man” in our group, the stress had me sweating rather than shivering as the evening progressed.

With my Hi-Point 9mm in hand, we moved in stages from home to home. The restored Chicago-brick-covered street was clogged with abandoned cars and household trash. A mixture of single-story professional buildings and residential houses, it was a transitional neighborhood trying to hold onto its former domestic life. Several majestic homes had been converted into attorney’s offices, with brick knee-walls abutting the sidewalks, and formerly manicured lawns now littered with paper and trash. The blue glow of the moon bathed these brick and plaster homes with an unnatural pall while casting ghost-like shadows on the ground at my feet as it was filtered through the hanging Spanish moss which had infested the neighborhood’s oak trees.

Being one street off the main thoroughfare had definite advantages. The homes were not a likely place to find anything worth stealing. Non-medical professional offices had nothing to offer, so they were quickly looted and left empty as the more lucrative buildings on the major road to the north were torn apart. The only thing to really worry about was that the gangs might retreat to one of the unoccupied houses to sleep for the night.

Sounds of strife could be heard as it echoed down the road. Occasional gunfire seemed to bounce down the now-empty streets, making it hard to triangulate where it had come from.

Finally, after a few minor deviations from our planned path to avoid a couple of occupied homes, we took an alleyway north from Hillcrest and hid in the shadows between two buildings. I crept to the corner of the Korean restaurant we had found ourselves next to, and looked down the major thoroughfare.

Colonial Drive, also known as Highway 50, is the main east-west artery in Orlando. The six-lane concrete road was full of stalled cars and a few busses. John had warned me about these obstacles since they provide a perfect spot for someone to lie in wait.

So far, we had travelled for a little over an hour. Now, I knew I might have to give myself at least that much time to scout our crossing. I crept back to the others and had us all return down the alley to Hillcrest road. Behind the restaurant was the backyard for a house that had been converted into a professional business, a psychologist’s practice. The house had been ransacked as the looters looked for drugs that the practice never had access to. A PhD in psychology didn’t confer a license to dispense drugs, but whoever had raided this house obviously didn’t know that. Survival supplies such as food and water had been left undisturbed in the office’s kitchen while every drawer and closet had been torn apart.

We all moved through the destroyed building, grabbing snacks and water while passing through. In the backyard, I had everyone settle down for a short stay, then I returned to the Korean eatery. A long handicap ramp extended from half-way down the alley, along the side of the restaurant and up to the front entrance of the building. A sturdy railing ran the length of the ramp, allowing me to squat-walk up to the corner of the business, and its metal tubing camouflaged me as I lay on my stomach. I spent over 40 minutes watching the area, searching for any signs of an ambush or other activity. Finally, satisfied that a safe crossing could be accomplished, I returned to the group and gathered them all together.

“Let’s go,” I started. “I haven’t seen anything, so I think we’re safe.”

We quietly slinked up the alley and waited at the corner.

“You guys go first. Run over to the corner of the building on the other side. I’ll follow when you’ve made it safely.”

Janice and Garrett moved from cover onto the street. They were quickly followed by Jorge and Maria, the four of them stopping when they came to a Suburban that was stalled in the eastbound lane. They gathered themselves and sprinted through the rest of the six-lane thoroughfare, passing several cars and a van, and finally ending up at the corner of the building across from me. They disappeared around the side of the two-story structure, and as John had suggested, I planned on waiting for at least two minutes before I followed them.

Less than 30 seconds after I saw them disappear from sight, I saw movement to my right. Down the road, about a hundred yards away, two men appeared from inside of a stalled bus, and began to stealthily move in their direction. I lay still on the wooden ramp, my right hand clutching my Hi-Point 9mm, as they made their way to the road in front of me. Stalking my friends, they stopped at the corner and I saw one of them peek around where the other four had disappeared.

A flash of moonlight glinted off their weapons, and my stomach dropped as I recognized that they were toting rifles. Within a few seconds, they disappeared down the path my four friends had just taken.

There was no time for stealth now. I sprinted after the two thugs, but before I could get across the highway, gunfire erupted.

I dropped to my belly as I approached the far curb. Peeking up from the road, I heard a couple of bullets zinging over my head. I rolled to my right, putting the building between me and the gunfire that was coming back at me, and sprinted off the street and against the office’s front wall.

The sound of Garrett and Jorge’s handguns was overwhelmed by the high-pitched cracks coming from the two men’s rifles. Rapid shots from the rifles finally suppressed any return fire, and all I heard was the sound of death spitting downrange at my friends as the attacker’s bullets looked to end the gunfight.

With no shots coming back my way, I brought my pistol up and spun around the corner, searching for the riflemen that were trying to kill my companions. In the shadows of the building, the sight of the two rifles firing downrange was momentarily overwhelming. Tongues of bright flame erupted from the end of their barrels, briefly lighting up the shooters’ faces. Without a clue to my presence, they concentrated their fire at a block retaining wall at the end of the office building.

One of the men broke cover and moved to the right, hugging the wall of the big two-story structure. Facing away from me, he kept his rifle pointed at my friends, and slid into a recess in the side of the building.

His friend continued to lay down suppressive fire, keeping Jorge and Garrett pinned down. If I were going to save them, it had to be now.

I moved quickly to my left, angling in on the rear shooter, who was changing his magazine. As I approached him, his companion began to shoot from his position on the right, giving the man in front of me a chance to advance himself.

As he started to stand up, I arrived behind him. Taking my heavy pistol, I whipped my hand back and clocked him at the base of his neck. The results were instantaneous. He dropped to the ground as the nearly two-pound chunk of metal smashed into the back of his head, right where the spine meets the skull. I didn’t hear him utter a word as his body flopped down and lay still.

With his friend firing rapidly, I walked quickly to the right and came in behind the shooting man. He was in a recessed entrance to a travel agency’s side door; and with no way to get directly behind him, I raised my handgun and pulled the trigger.

My first shot went wide, missing his head as I fought to control my emotions and stress. With more rounds in the magazine, I dumped the rest of my bullets at him, aiming for his body where I had a better chance of success.

How many shots actually hit him is still a mystery to me, but the man dropped about half way through my magazine dump. When my pistol went empty, I ducked into the building through a shattered picture window and fumbled with my spare magazine as I tried to reload. I couldn’t be sure whether more were following, and I had to get my gun back in the fight. The adrenaline coursed through my blood, making my hand shake and my thumb quiver. Finally, I dropped the empty clip and slammed the new one into the pistol’s magazine well. I racked the slide and I was finally armed and dangerous once again.

Peeking back the way I came, I waited for more to follow. Just when I thought it was clear, another person slunk from around the corner, his rifle up to his eyes as he searched for his friends and for me. With a lull in the gunfight, I heard Jorge rally the others. Suddenly, the third attacker heard his voice and started shooting once again down the side of the building at the group. With no return fire, the man sprinted toward my companions while I waited for him to come lateral to where I was hiding.

He finally saw the downed man a doorway further down from my broken window. He moved to the side of the office building, following my footsteps. I retreated a bit into the darkness and raised my handgun, pointing it out the shattered window’s opening.