Motivated by the thought, Charles returned to the Jaguar and started the vehicle. The 495-horsepower, V-8 engine sounded like a gasping lawn mower, sputtering and growling. The convertible convulsed and bucked, agitating his headache. The instrument panel was a tempest of blinking lights. Whatever had incapacitated the cars on Abbott Street had damaged his “baby,” albeit to a lesser degree. Did the six-story parking garage protect the Jaguar?
Unlikely, he decided, shifting into drive. This vehicle embodies superior engineering.
He exited the garage, his hundred-thousand-dollar car a jackhammer cutting through the twilight. Abbott Street appeared deserted, but fires still smoldered, spewing toxic spires of smoke. A traffic signal, felled by the gas station explosion, was lodged atop a minivan, blocking the roadway. Downtown was a war zone, a scene out of a movie.
After twenty stressful minutes, he had skirted around countless defunct cars; and now, a Ford Taurus and a pickup truck were blocking the ramp for Interstate 4. Charles braked to a stop, analyzing his predicament.
Look for another access ramp?
He dismissed the idea since his global position system was not functioning.
Move the Taurus? With what, telekinesis? My superhuman strength?
A bearded man wearing a sweat-stained T-shirt sprung from behind the pickup. “Could you give us a ride?” he shouted, sidling closer. “My family’s stranded.”
Three faces were peering at Charles from behind the bed of the truck—a disheveled woman and two filthy children.
Charles shouted, “Piss off,” and shifted into reverse.
The man ran toward the Jaguar, clutching a handgun.
Charles’ blood pressure spiked; it felt like a hemoglobin bludgeon against the fragile nerve endings in his brain. Agonizing pain radiated through his skull, and Charles wondered if he had been shot in the head.
“I’ll have to borrow the car,” the man shouted. “Get out!”
He surrendered the vehicle and watched the children pile into the backseat, grimy little germ factories contaminating his upholstery. The sniffling mother flopped into the passenger’s seat with the grace of a pachyderm, wiped a hand beneath her runny nose, then defiled the armrest—with said hand—to close the door. If the criminals failed to total the car, he would have to trade it in.
19
“MORNING, BRADLEY,” Gramps said as he stepped into the garage.
“Sleeping until 0700 hours? Never thought I’d see it.”
“Still a smart-ass, huh?” Playfully, Gramps shook a fist at him, the way he used to when Bradley was a kid. “I finally picked up an emergency broadcast on the radio.” Gramps held up a sheet of paper and donned his reading glasses, but his hands were too unsteady. “Here, you read it,” he said, handing it off. “My body isn’t following orders as well as it used to.”
The tremors are getting worse, Bradley thought, trying to decipher his grandfather’s deteriorating penmanship.
“Stay inside your home. Shelter in place orders and curfews are in effect. National Guard and FEMA are mobilizing. Power, Internet, and phone service will be restored within days.” Bradley let out a skeptical laugh. “Days? That’s a crock of happy horseshit.”
“They have to keep people calm and minimize chaos.”
“Sounds like your strategy. A generous dose of sunshine and rainbows. Then wait for everybody to realize they’re screwed.”
“My strategy,” Gramps said, swatting the back of Bradley’s head with a ruler, “is to divulge information on an as-needed basis. You got a better one?”
“Yeah, plan for the worst. Hope for the best.”
Gramps was studying Bradley’s project with a quizzical expression. “I give up. What is it—some newfangled weapon?”
Chuckling, Bradley extended his hand, requesting the ruler; then he slipped it through the plastic crate. “So, the rabbit comes in the door, here. Walks up the cutting board to get the food.” He used the ruler to mimic the weight of a rabbit, then a snap reverberated through the garage. “Triggering the mousetrap, and the door slams shut.”
“That’s a good strategy,” Gramps said. “Keep the rabbits out of Jessie’s garden. I can use the droppings to feed my fish. And if you catch a few, maybe we can breed them.”
“Now why would you consider breeding rabbits?” Bradley asked with a smirk. “If the power will be back in a few hours like Quebec?”
“Son, I said the Murphys couldn’t handle looking too far ahead. That doesn’t mean I’m not. You got plans for a rabbit hutch this afternoon?”
“Not exactly. I was gonna do a little scouting.”
“Unarmed?”
That was a dilemma. Although Bradley could legally transport a handgun while inside a vehicle under Florida’s Castle Doctrine, he couldn’t walk the streets without a concealed carry permit.
“Actually, I was thinking about borrowing your 1911.”
He watched Gramps pinch his lower lip between his thumb and index finger, the way he always did while deliberating. “Go ahead.”
“Really?” Bradley was surprised.
“Yee-yup. I’d rather bail your ass out of jail than bury it.”
20
WILL GLANCED FROM THE truck’s fuel gauge to the road ahead, an unending junkyard of mangled and dead vehicles.
Why the hell did I agree to this? he thought. Charlton County, Georgia, was two hundred miles away; and after driving eight hours through the night, they had yet to reach Ocala—fifty measly miles. The truck was out of fuel; and Will was out of patience, out of energy, and out of his mind.
They had left in a rush, motivated by a rifle round that had penetrated the apartment and scattered a cloud of drywall over the kitchen before burrowing into the refrigerator.
What if it had come through the bedroom? What if it hit the kids?
Recurring “what ifs" and sleep deprivation were maddening; and he checked the rearview mirror again, not for traffic, but to glimpse his sleeping angels. Those kids were his world. Somehow, he had to keep them safe.
Spotting a new Ford Super Duty, Will swerved across three lanes. His shotgun slid from its perch atop the dashboard, and the butt stock slammed into Heather’s lap, rousing her from sleep.
“Damn it, Will. Get this thing away from me,” she said, her tone a hybrid of bullying and bitching. She swiped at the gun; and in her effort to push it away, her ring finger plunged through the trigger guard.
Exasperation billowed through Will. “Heather, get off the trigger,” he said, grasping the barrel, directing it toward the windshield. “The gun’s loaded.”
“Loaded? What is wrong with you?” she shouted. “You’re gonna get us all killed.”
You’re the dumb ass with your finger on the trigger. He gritted his teeth to keep the words from forming, then he jerked the gun away and shoved open the driver’s door. Will was trying to be patient with his wife. She’s scared; she’s seen people get shot, he told himself, but the truth was undeniable. Heather was just as obnoxious last week.
After walking to the front of the truck, he raised a foot onto the bumper, climbed atop the hood, and leaned over the windshield, lying prone against the roof.
“What the hell are you doing?” Heather shouted. Their infant daughter began to wail. “Are you happy now, Will? You woke Suzanne.”
He muttered, “I’m not the one yelling,” and removed a screwdriver and a hammer from his stainless-steel, cross-bed truck box, barely accessible now that the bed was crammed with their essential possessions. Will returned to his feet, jumped down from the hood, and approached the tailgate, searching for a plastic container.
He located a pink one-gallon kitchen bucket packed with hair-care products. Really? A hair dryer and curling iron when there’s no power? Three cans of hair spray? Disgusted, he inverted the bucket, scattering the contents between boxes and suitcases.
Heather hopped down from the cab, nursing Suzanne with a blanket draped over her shoulder, and intercepted him at the Fo
rd Super Duty. “Did you just dump my stuff?” she asked, incredulous.
With a remorseless nod, Will squatted beside the rear tire, aligned his screwdriver with the gas tank, and struck the handle with his hammer, perforating it. Gasoline began squirting out.
“Vandalism and theft,” Heather said. “Our kids will be proud.”
“What do you want me to do? Push the truck to Georgia?” He poked his head beneath the vehicle. As he moved the catch bucket into position, the stream hit the edge and deflected, spitting fuel into Will’s face. His eyes stung; tears welled. A pungent oily taste filled his mouth. Fire scorched his sinuses, his throat; then his lungs ignited. Gasping and coughing, he lost balance and plumped onto his backside.
Heather doubled over, laughing harder than Will could ever remember, a cutting, derisive sound more offensive than the gasoline. As Will stood upright, something within him splintered. “From now on, you can clear the roadblocks, find the gas, and drive.” He spat onto the ground and dragged the bottom of his shirt across his face. “While I sit on my ass and take a nap.”
A deluge of tears extinguished his wife’s laughter. Driven by postpartum hormones, she had vaulted the entire emotional spectrum at Mach 2, and a sonic boom of guilt and regret battered Will’s composure. He raised his eyes skyward, praying for God to grant them safe passage ... praying for more patience with his wife.
21
EXHAUSTED AND APPREHENSIVE, Jessie gazed into the pantry as though it were a crystal ball revealing her future. Haunting realizations materialized, uncertainty, anguish, and hunger.
A dozen times, she had taken mental inventory, engraving it into memory: five cans of soup, a box of macaroni and cheese, two pounds of pasta, two boxes of cereal, a jar of peanut butter, a box of crackers, and a bag of potatoes already sprouting eyes.
That won’t last long, she thought. A week, maybe?
What will we do if the crisis outlives our resources?
Behind her, Kyle entered the kitchen, and Jessie felt his protective arms encircle her waist. His unshaven face reassuringly caressed her cheek.
“We don’t have much food,” she said. “What are we gonna do?”
Kyle’s embrace tightened. “Too bad it’s not hurricane season.”
Each May they restocked their virtual basement—a windowless storage room on the lower level of the house surrounded by earth on three sides—with food and precautionary supplies; and each November, at the close of hurricane season, they donated the food to charity.
Why didn’t we maintain it year-round? she chided herself.
“Maybe we can expand that garden of yours,” Kyle said. “And maybe George can teach me how to fish—”
“Fish? You hate fish.”
“E-e-w-w, gro-o-oss,” he said, mimicking their teenaged daughter’s voice and inflection. Kyle shuddered playfully, rocking Jessie side to side until she laughed. Somehow, her husband always knew how to lift her spirits.
“On the bright side,” he continued. “We’ve got four cases of bottled water and fifteen thousand gallons in the pool.”
Until it turns green. Jessie stifled the thought. “What do you want to do about Abby’s birthday?”
“Celebrate as best we can,” he whispered into her hair. “In retrospect, I guess the caterer wasn’t such a good idea.”
That was an understatement.
“I was thinking we could barbecue the hodgepodge from the freezer,” Jessie said, attempting to sound upbeat, despite the meager menu—a package of boneless chicken, three steaks, four hamburgers, a bag of microwave vegetables, and two containers of ice cream that would be milk by party time, yogurt by breakfast.
Kyle kissed her cheek, letting his arms fall to his sides. “At least we still have a violent and deadly gift for her.”
After a monumental effort, Jessie had convinced him to buy Abby her own rifle for NRA competitions. She turned to face him. “Kyle, we really should invite George and Bradley to dinner.”
His head was shaking. Worry glinted in his green eyes. “Come on, Jessie, the guy is twenty years old—”
“Well, George was already invited to the party. And he has a gift for Abby. Not to mention that he was gracious enough to feed us yesterday.” Jessie stepped closer, massaging her husband’s broad shoulders, now straining to bear the weight of circumstances beyond his control. “It would be rude not to invite them.”
22
BRADLEY ADVANCED THROUGH the wooded hillside, each step falling silent, eyes scanning the environment for anything out of place, his Sniper training ingrained in everyday behavior.
The sky was a deep vibrant blue. Glaring shafts of sunlight sliced between scraggly pines and moss-draped live oaks, projecting patches of dazzling brightness amidst the shade. The stark contrast was a boon for concealment and a curse for spotting because the human eye, like a camera lens, needed time to transition.
He reached Fern Ridge, a residential development three miles from Sugar Lake, and paused atop the hillside to survey the newly completed neighborhood. Terraced homes with pristine yards traced the hilly contour of the land and formed two concentric rings with a community pool and clubhouse at its center. Children were riding bikes and playing soccer; neighbors were congregating on front lawns and around picnic tables as if it were a perfectly ordinary Saturday.
Are they resilient? Bradley wondered. Or oblivious?
He continued south toward Summit Springs, a small town six miles from Sugar Lake. Bradley knew the area well, having graduated from Summit Springs High School two years earlier. Would the local sheriff have information? Bradley shook his head, chastising himself for the thought. It was a bad idea to knock on the sheriff’s door carrying a handgun that was not exactly legal.
After closing within two miles, he heard a sequence of soft, popping sounds. The noise originated from the south; and his first thought was gunfire, although it could have been kids setting off fireworks.
Keeping low to the ground, he moved toward the staccato bursts that now peppered the silence at random intervals. As Summit Springs came into view, the noises grew louder. Possibilities crackled in his mind. Gangs? Looters? Vigilantes?
The wooded cover of the hillside ended behind the high school, giving way to an open meadow where cows typically grazed. Someone had spitefully slaughtered the livestock, squandering a valuable food source, leaving the carcasses to rot in the sun.
What a waste, Bradley thought, removing Gramps’ old binoculars from his backpack.
The gunfire continued to emanate from the opposite direction, and he crawled upward to the hill’s crest. The elementary school across the street teemed with men dressed in jeans and polo shirts, sporting long rifles. Bradley counted thirty-four of them milling about the grassy play area, some eating, some reloading magazines. Who were these guys? Some kind of civilian militia?
The gunfire, however, stemmed from an adjacent neighborhood. Bradley checked the sun’s position to avoid a reflective flash that would telegraph his presence then raised the binoculars.
Five additional assailants were storming a green one-story house. A homeowner staggered out the front door and was forced to his knees, the barrel of an AK-47 thrust against his temple.
Bradley’s eyelids snapped shut, clenched, then flew open as if to reboot his vision.
Two more gunmen were hauling a woman from the house, presumably the man’s wife. Head curled into her chest, arms limp, legs dragging, she could have been unconscious or even dead. They flung her onto the lawn as if discarding trash.
A young girl emerged next, flanked by two gunmen struggling to control her thrashing arms. The teen had fiery-red hair and a personality to match. She was kicking her captors, throwing elbows into their sides. The girl arched her back and extended her legs in front of her, jamming her feet into the ground as if she could stop what was happening.
They dropped her within six feet of her father. Then four of the gunmen began pawing at her, tearing chunks of clothing from her body.
Unable to bear the sight, the father lunged to her aid.
A gunshot rang out.
Then a desperate, blood-chilling scream.
The shooter stepped over the father’s dead body and strolled toward the mother, who was lying facedown in the grass. He rested the barrel of his AK-47 against the back of her head, glanced toward the teen to be sure she was watching, then shot the mother. The red-haired girl crumbled, her fighting spirit extinguished.
Bradley’s jaw locked.
Every cell in his body was shrieking at him.
Do something.
Help her.
But realistically, what could he do? The handgun was useless at this range; and even if he charged down there, he only had fifteen rounds against thirty-nine men with semiautomatic rifles.
Every muscle contracted. A deep guttural snarl surged through his core, a truncated growl of frustration. He couldn’t take them on; it would be a suicide mission.
The savages were dragging the teen, now acquiesced to fate, toward the elementary school. Cheering men converged around the swing set and bound her to the steel A-frame.
Bradley considered running back for Gramps’ rifle, but even the AR-10 and five magazines would be no match for thirty-nine men with AK-47s. They would pin him down with suppressing fire and flank him.
A savage began raping the girl. Bradley turned away to shut out the sickening image, but her screams still resonated through him like a shock wave. His teeth ground together. He couldn’t save her. Even if he laid down his life, he could not change the outcome for that girl. He felt powerless.
Aggravated, face drenched with sweat, he pushed himself to a standing position. Then a new realization struck. These savages were barely six miles from Sugar Lake. How could he protect Gramps? Then five terrifying words began chanting through his mind.
That could have been Abby.
23
KYLE FORCED A SMILE as everyone sang Happy Birthday to Abby. Although it was not the lavish celebration they had planned, his wife had managed to conjure a festive atmosphere with paper chains made from leftover Christmas wrapping paper and an improvised birthday cake, thanks to George’s Tastykake addiction. Seven crumb-topped cupcakes formed a circle, and miniature red-ribbon pom-poms plugged the gaps like dabs of icing. The middle cupcake held a small candle and a rose with petals made from pink camouflage duct tape.
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 4