Charlie's Requiem: Democide (9 page)

Chapter 10

“I would ask myself, ‘What’s going to kill me first, and what’s going to kill me next?”

— Alan Kay: Survivalist

“W
ow,” John groaned after sliding out of the Oshkosh M-ATV. “I forgot how uncomfortable these things are! My spine is jacked!”

“Come on old man,” Bru replied. “You can’t be that out of shape!”

John just smirked as he glimpsed the younger agent quietly stretch his legs on the other side of the massive machine. John shook out his arms from driving the large and totally uncomfortable vehicle.

“It wouldn’t be so bad,” John started, “if it had some darned armrests.”

“No kidding.” Bru replied. “Those mesh nets they stick on the door frame are worthless. The net’s gauge is so big, everything falls right through the openings.”

The only good thing about the M-ATV, John mused, was that a lot of the interior had not been loaded up with electronics and other large fixtures that took up most of the front seat room like the one he drove back in the sandbox. With a full military loadout strapped to his body and a military-issued sidearm on his hip, he could never really get comfortable on the dusty, hot Iraqi roads. At least now he could holster his sidearm on a chest-mounted holster. The military would never let them do that, afraid that an accidental discharge would injure or kill the soldier to his side. At least with a leg-mounted holster, an A.D. would put a bullet in the floor, or at the worse, in the idiot’s own leg. From a practical standpoint, the chest-mounted holster made the most sense. While sitting in the driver’s seat, he could draw and fire in half the time it took to try and access his sidearm if it were strapped to his hip. Ammo magazines, along with map, handcuff and other utility pouches riding on his battle belt prevented him from twisting his body to get at his sidearm. It was also terribly uncomfortable on his hip, the gun’s grip constantly digging into the fleshy opening under his armored chest rig and over top of his battle belt holding the rest of his gear.

Unfortunately, the military-issued front seats were installed in the M-ATV. They resembled the old Air Force jump seats you could find bolted to the walls of the cargo hold in the transport jets like the C-17 Globemaster III. They were thin, straight-backed and had no cushion.

His gunnery sergeant used to joke that the military made any form of transportation painful so the grunts wouldn’t get used to it. “The Marines didn’t hire you to sit on your ass,” he used to yell. “You grunts were made to run to the enemy, just so you can look at them in the eyes when you slit their throats!”

John, for his part, thought they made the front seats uncomfortable so that the driver didn’t fall asleep.

“I’m going to look for a cushion tonight,” John quipped. “My ass feels like I’ve been bodyslammed.”

The two men met at the back of the truck where an open bed with metal bench seats were bracketed in by a metal mesh panel. A large spare tire was mounted in the center of the opening, but both could reach past it and into the rear flat bed to get at their ammo cans. These held anything combustible other than the ammunition magazines that were strapped to their bodies. Some spare ammo, a couple of flash bang and colored smoke grenades. The red smokers were to mark spots for either emergency retrieval or an enemy combatant’s location. Their gear bags had been stashed in the back seat and would stay there locked up in the vehicle for the night.

“Hey,” Bru countered. “Why don’t you check out the stockyard.”

“What’s that?”

“Down in the basement of the tower,” Bru continued. “Some of the guys have set up a trading area. I think they sell stuff they found while they were cleaning out the buildings. Some of it is crap they brought with them and don’t need anymore. Some of it looks like it was lifted from liberated buildings.”

“Looting?” John shot back. “I don’t think so.”

“Aw, come on. No one’s coming back for any of it.”

“Says who?” John angrily replied. “That’s someone’s property.”

“Hey,” Bru countered. “I’m uncomfortable with it too. But the brass doesn’t mind, and all the DHS guys are involved. From what I hear, any residence in the downtown area is now the property of the federal government. At least until the crisis is over.”

“Jesus,” John said to no one in particular.

He turned to speak to Bru and looked over his partner’s shoulder. There, on the pillar, was a white chalkmark “J”.

Crap
, John thought.
What happened now? Can’t those clowns just live quietly for a day and not get into trouble? I mean I promised to get there by 8:00 tonight.

He continued to stare at the marking, wondering what he had gotten himself into. The four of them had been on his mind all day. John kept reviewing what they had told him and tried to punch holes in their story. Quite frankly, if it hadn’t been for Beth, he would have turned them all over to DHS for refugee processing. Who would have believed their story about the gang members and their flight from the roadblock? John had heard plenty of tall tales during his stint with OPD, but knowing Beth, and listening to big Mike, he knew they were telling the truth. Beth’s tale of Mike’s heroics was both awe inspiring and a bit over the top. John had to wonder if the situation wasn’t quite as bad as they had made it out to be. After all, John’s only contact with Beth had been during suspect processing at the jail. What did he really know about the two of them? He realized that he needed to be very careful with whom he trusted and what he did. Seeing the mark, John began to regret getting involved.

I need to verify some of these facts!
John thought.
If half of what they say is true, then this country has more problems on its hands than the EMP. The wrong people are rebuilding the country and that can’t be good.

“HEY!” Bru said as he poked John in the vest. “Wake up. I want to check in, get out of this gear and get back to the tower.”

“Sure thing,” John replied.

The end of the shift at DHS headquarters felt a lot like the end of the day at the old-time factories found in the Midwest during the height of America’s economic dominance. During the 1970’s, huge numbers of employees were entering and leaving the factories as the day shift left and the next shift took over. Homeland Security didn’t have the manpower to cover the second and third shift with any level of competence. Most importantly however, their mission didn’t seem to require any evening work. However, every agent could be seen coming back “to the barn” between four and six o’clock.

As far as the agency’s mission was concerned, DHS wasn’t concerned with the safety of the citizens. It was tasked with rounding them all up and putting them into a controlled environment where their safety could be best monitored and enforced. At least, that’s what his shift supervisor had proclaimed that morning. Thus, second and third shift work was considered unnecessary. It was far easier to find and relocate people during the day. Safer as well.

“Find ‘em and bring ‘em in!” The tall, lanky supervisor said in his Alabama drawl.

John and Bru were given pamphlets that morning which explained the facilities and services DHS offered at one of their “premier citizen camps.” The brochure described an idealistic tent city with hot running water, three meals a day and activities to keep the people informed and entertained. It promised medical and dental care as well, all in exchange for a citizen’s participation in the recovery.

John was amazed that such a polished piece of propaganda was produced so quickly, but most of the rapid response to the crisis belied his prior experiences with the federal government. The Marines had been considered unusual in that they did things with an efficiency that rivaled most of the largest private corporations. The rest of his experience with the federal government had always left him wondering how the country survived the incompetence and waste.

“We may be bad, but the rest of the world is worse!” He used to hear when he made such observations.

John’s first thought when hearing that rationale was that the U.S. government was simply a rubber life raft floating on top of the water in the commode. Whether floating or swimming in the cesspool, you were still in the toilet as far as John was concerned.

John quickly filed his end-of-shift report, including encounters with dozens of families or groups who were trying to make a go of it in the west Orlando neighborhoods. Handing out the pamphlets had been a God-send. Once the refugees saw the potential of the citizen camps, they were all in. A regular bus route had been created with pick-up points at various landmarks and businesses. Instructions on what was and was not permissible to bring were included with the information John and Bru had passed along. A single “carry-on” sized bag was recommended as a good size to bring. The instructions also warned the refugee that their suitcase/baggage would be disposed of if it exceeded the 10 x 14 x 24-inch limit. Although that caused some issues, John simply referred them to the camp director when they arrived.

“I’m just a cop,” he would say. “Not my department.”

“You heading back to the tower?” Bru asked.

“Yeah,” John said. “But I want to run some additional brochures out to the M-ATV before I head over. Why don’t you go ahead and I’ll see you there!”

“Sounds good. I’ll be in my apartment. Stop by if you want some company for dinner.”

“Copy that!” John said back.

John grabbed another box of the pamphlets and headed to the vehicle. After depositing the material in the back seat, he re-locked the door and casually strolled east to the apartment building where he had directed Charlie and her friends.

As he approached the apartment complex, he studied the cluster of buildings where Charlie had taken refuge. The muted pastel concrete rectangular boxes were reminiscent of some of the more mundane government buildings he had seen on one of his trips into Washington. The apartments reeked of efficiency and uniformity, their façade broken up with off-white triangles arranged in patterns that he could only describe as a geometric, post-modern mess. They were placed with no discernable meaning or structure. Had you told John that the large triangular tiles had been put there by a child, he would not have been surprised. As far as John was concerned, the “City Beautiful,” as Orlando had called itself, deserved a better looking addition to its growing skyline than these glorified boxes.

Drosky approached the front door, suddenly realizing that he had no way of entering the structure and thus, no method to contact the group. He began to circumnavigate the apartment, heading south to see if he could be noticed from whichever apartment the four of them had decided to hold up in.

“John!” A woman’s voice whispered from a stairwell that dropped down to a service door.

Charlie’s head popped up from the recessed steps. She waved him over and disappeared into the sub-level entrance.

John entered the dark room, struggling to see as the door closed behind him. Within a moment, a flashlight illuminated the floor at his feet, and Charlie appeared along with another man John didn’t recognize.

“Hello,” John said to the new man.

“Hello to you,” he replied.

“Well,” John continued to the pair. “What’s the emergency?”

“Just follow me,” Charlie said. “We’ll explain everything upstairs.”

John followed them up the stairwell and to the third floor. They made their way down the hallway until they approached an apartment where there was muted conversation coming from within. Charlie nodded to the man and he went ahead into the occupied room. Charlie put her hand on John’s chest, preventing him from entering the room.

“I need to let you know what happened last night,” she started.

“Will it explain why you had me come now instead of in a few more hours? I’m starving and could use a shower.”

“Yeah,” Charlie replied. “You’ll get it when I’m done.”

John sat in disbelief after Charlie had related their plight the past night and day. He could see that Janice was suffering from some level of P.T.S.D., but seemed to be functioning. Whatever she was experiencing, John knew from his training in the Marines that it could resurface at a later date. Discussion of Brie’s body in front of Janice was off limits, so he directed his attention to their most immediate problem, the security of the building.

“I’m so sorry about the agents you had to hide from today,” John started. “I had no idea they did that.”

John went on to explain that the downtown buildings, especially residential structures, were being searched and cleaned for eventual repopulation. John had seen a list of apartments that had been deemed clear and complete, so he helped himself to one of the dozens of front door keys that was stored in a box labelled with the building’s address.

“With a long list of apartments still needing to be processed, I didn’t think they would be putting people into this building for a while. In fact, we were told that the people being processed at the Orange County Fairground wouldn’t be returning downtown for many months.”

“Then who are they prepping these buildings for?” Jorge asked.

“I have no idea,” John replied. “I’ve been so busy patrolling and getting my feet wet with the organization, I haven’t even thought about it.”

“The Fairgrounds,” Jorge said as he leaned forward towards Agent Drosky. “My girlfriend used to be in this building. I need to find her and take her back with me.”

“And you are?” John queried.

“Jorge. Jorge Vasquez.”

“Well,” John said. “I’m glad you showed up, Jorge. Sounds like you saved three lives last night.”

Jorge smiled humbly and stayed quiet.

“Can you help him?” Charlie asked. “I told him to wait until you showed up and maybe had a chance to look into where she is.”

“Can you do that?” Jorge asked, his eyes pleading with John to help him locate the young girl.

John sat back, thinking of how he could find out where Maria was located.

“You know,” John finally said. “I don’t know where that list might be.” But then he thought of Natasha and smiled, realizing that the administrator would have a pretty good inclination on where to find Jorge’s girlfriend.

“What’s the smirk for?” Charlie asked.

“Just had an idea on how to help,” he said. “I’ll work on it tomorrow.”

It was pushing past 5:30 and the sun was dropping quickly over the horizon.

“It’s going to be dark soon,” John said. “I would suggest you stay here for the night. I can tell you that if they are going to do another sweep of the building, it won’t be until after breakfast tomorrow. So you should be fine until then. We just don’t have the personnel to do much patrolling other than during the day; so wake up at dawn and have your things ready to move.”

“We can hide in the storage room below,” Jorge added. “There are plenty of spots to stay concealed.”

“Good,” John replied. “I’m going back to the tower and wash up and get some chow. Sorry you guys are stuck without running water for now. I know they’re working on restoring water service to the area. But before they do anything like that, they will be sending utility crews around to prep buildings for renewed service. They want to make sure nothing is already broken or will break when the power or water is suddenly restored. That’ll be your cue to hide or move on. You won’t be able to miss that.”

“John,” Charlie said. “I just want to thank you, but don’t take this wrong. We don’t want to stay here any longer than we have to. If you could just find out about Maria and let Jorge know where she is, then we will all be on our way. We’re staying with him until then. I know we all want to get out of downtown as quickly as we can.”