Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Like crawling over a cactus, she told herself.

  Her eyes scanned west, then she checked the houses across the street for telltale changes. Ignoring the assault of wrathful insects, Abby gazed to the east, the parade’s direction of origin. Would another convoy come along?

  A movement caught her eye, a shadow sweeping across a broken window. Her rifle sights settled on a blue curtain whipping in the breeze.

  Tenacious ants continued charging up her calf, turning more square inches of skin into a fiery, itchy sock of misery.

  Bradley snagged the flyer, and Abby’s eyes circled again. She spotted another movement, this time a plastic bag skirting atop swaying weeds, propelled by the breeze.

  Damned wind. She knew it could alter a bullet’s trajectory, but today it was jamming her senses.

  Finally, Bradley returned; and as he sat down to examine the flyer, Abby flopped beside him, pulled her pant leg above her knee, and began mashing the little pests into paste. Red, swollen bumps peppered her leg from ankle to calf.

  “Oh shit!” Bradley fumbled through his backpack for the first aid kit and handed her a tube of cortisone.

  The cream started out as a glaze of fire and turned to ice before the itching and pain began to ease. Pulling her pant leg back down, she perused the flyer.

  It looked like a newspaper with four prominent color photographs. The first depicted the Golden Gate Bridge, a support pier pulverized, its cables and road deck mangled and drooping into San Francisco Bay.

  Another showed a naval base with fires raging amongst partially sunken ships, evocative of Pearl Harbor with fallen Sailors floating like driftwood.

  The third was an aerial photo of Times Square with skyscrapers stripped of upper stories, standing like broken teeth. Ghostly wisps of smoke rose from the rubble, the entire scene shrouded by gray dust reminiscent of 9/11.

  The last picture was a theme park. Its steely blue iconic castle walls were charred, its lofty spires snapped off like a child’s toy. Corpses paved the entrance, and in the foreground, a child lay facedown, a ribbon tied to his wrist anchoring a smiling character balloon.

  It’s not real. It can’t be.

  Abby swallowed hard to derail her emotional reaction. “Those women are transporting supplies for the savages, aren’t they?”

  “Yee-yup.”

  “What are we going to do about it?”

  Frustration and regret smoldered in Bradley’s eyes. “Nothing. It’s a bunch of unarmed women—”

  “The boys were armed—”

  “They’re kids, for God’s sake.” He hesitated, eyes panning the area. “Like it or not, there are rules of engagement.”

  “So let me get this straight. American women and children can get raped and murdered, while theirs have immunity?”

  Bradley took a deep breath and exhaled, air vibrating his pursed lips.

  “Don’t you get it?” she demanded. “They’re using our morality against us.”

  “We are not shooting women and children. You’re probably right about the supply line, but what if you’re wrong? Snipers have to justify every shot they take. Make a mistake and you go to jail for murder.”

  Abby’s fingers curled into fists and dug into her palms. “Bradley, do you really think innocent civilians would be plastering this psyops bullshit all over?”

  “You know about psyops?”

  “World War II term paper,” she told him. “The Nazis dropped these ‘While You’re Away’ flyers on our Soldiers, implying their wives were whoring around back home.”

  Momentarily speechless, a bemused smile softened his expression.

  “Shouldn’t we at least follow the parade?” Abby asked.

  Bradley sighed as if conceding the point. “When you’re with me, you’re bound by my rules of engagement. Understood?”

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “Then let’s get moving. They’ve got a good head start.”

  “You do realize,” Abby said, “that if we play by the rules and our enemies don’t, we’ll ultimately lose to them.”

  “And if we stop playing by the rules, we’ll ultimately become them.”

  75A

  GLIMPSING A RED PICKUP truck headed east toward Summit Springs, an opportunistic smile warped Reza’s lips. He was thirteen years old, bored and belittled by his current mission, cattle driving a herd of females and supplies between outposts. Reza yearned to wage jihad alongside his brothers, two of whom had achieved the greatest honor—dying for the sake of Allah. How was Reza ever going to become a martyr babysitting beans, bullets, and bitches?

  He ordered an early break, despite afternoon prayers being an hour away, and corralled his mules into the garage of an abandoned house. Leaving his younger brother in charge, Reza set out on a reconnaissance mission. Ferreting out a functional vehicle, especially a pickup truck, could earn him a position among the men—Allah willing.

  A meter-high masonry wall separated the house from County Route 455 and Reza sprung over the barrier, likening it to an Al Qaeda training obstacle he had seen on the Internet. He jogged north, the truck’s direction of origin, and stumbled across a development called Fern Ridge.

  Maybe it came from here, Reza decided, wedging himself behind a bushy magnolia tree at the gated entrance.

  Doubt began creeping into his thoughts. What if the truck was on a one-way journey? It could be miles away. Was this a foolish waste of time?

  He was about to give up when a whooshing murmur rose above the swish of trees. The red truck rolled past, windows pulverized, honeycombed with bullet holes—a tactical treasure. Salivating, Reza watched the vehicle turn left. He darted across County Route 455, weaving through a grove of pine trees, forging a shortcut, desperately trying to maintain visual contact. His thighs ached, a thorny pain stabbed his side; still, Reza kept running.

  Two hundred yards ahead, the pickup was shrinking into the horizon, a speck of red disappearing along with his chances of joining the mujahideen. Then a blessed miracle happened. The truck slowed and turned right. Reza sprinted up a steep hillside, another shortcut. Brush and weeds slowed him.

  Straining to hear the engine, he pushed his inflamed leg muscles harder and clamped a hand over his side, squeezing a painful cramp. The hill’s summit didn’t seem to be getting any closer.

  Then the truck noise ceased.

  Did it move out of range?

  Or did it stop?

  Reza panted, forcing air into his broiling lungs. Holding his side, he reached the crest and collapsed onto the ground. Three villas fanned out below him, and in the driveway of the yellow house, he saw it.

  The red truck—Allahu Akbar!

  76A

  RYAN WAS UNIMPRESSED with Camp Sunshine. The temporary Army base, situated south of Gainesville, was a patchwork of olive-drab tents and metal shipping containers arranged in a horseshoe, an American flag at its center, flapping in the breeze.

  Crossing the compound, he saw DJ greeting a Corporal named Al-Dossari; and the overly affectionate, cheek-kissing, backslapping reunion sparked an irrational sense of suspicion. Ryan had always had a keen ability to read people and decipher their intentions, a skill that had saved his life in the past, one he was now questioning.

  Is DJ really untrustworthy? Or is my perception jaded because of the demotion?

  Hearing a shriek, he turned toward the security checkpoint at the main gate. A Private had picked up a five-year-old girl, and she exploded into a panicked rage, kicking and screaming. A tiny fist pounded against the Soldier’s face while her other arm possessively hugged a teddy bear that was nearly as tall as she was. Her matted blonde hair hung in ponytails, her clothes were tattered and filthy, and blood oozed from a gash above the girl’s eye. Dark blotches marred her angelic face. Dirt or bruises? Either way, the sight stoked both anger and compassion.

  Ryan started toward the gate and shouted, “Put her down.”

  Grappling with the hysterical child, the Private said, “She needs medical at
tention, sir.”

  “Return to your post. I’ll take her.”

  The Private complied, his confusion morphing into relief. “Thank you, Staff Sergeant.”

  A pair of terrified little eyes stared up at Ryan, tears streaking over angry purplish welts that glowed against her pale skin.

  “Your bear’s been injured,” he said, pointing to a furry ear missing its stuffing and dangling by threads. “Why don’t we take him to the hospital and get him fixed up?”

  She positioned the bear in front of her like a protective barrier, mouth and nose ducking behind the dirty brown fur, suspicious eyes watching him.

  “It’s right over there.” Ryan indicated a tent twenty yards away then began walking. Reluctantly, she followed. “Does your bear have a name?” he asked, spinning around into a backward walk.

  “Bear-Bear,” she replied in a suffocated whisper.

  “And do you have a name?”

  Leeriness and distrust shined in her eyes, but she said, “Maddie.”

  He tugged open the infirmary door, and the little girl dashed toward a female Corporal, strangling the woman’s thigh, shielding herself from Ryan. Sour thoughts coursed through his mind, traumatic scenarios that could inspire a little girl to fear men.

  “I think Bear-Bear needs a few stitches,” he told the Corporal, scratching his own forehead to reference Maddie’s gash.

  She nodded and lifted the child onto her hip with Bear-Bear pressed between them. Ryan watched Maddie pass through a set of doors and fade from sight.

  Are orphanages being set up? he wondered, exiting the hospital. Who is going to care for—

  He was thrown forward, driven by a blast of air.

  A deafening sound roared through his body.

  It echoed through his brain, disorienting him as shrapnel pierced and slashed and shredded the tent behind him.

  77A

  HEATHER DEPOSITED THE baby carrier atop the table in the lanai. Suzanne had just fallen asleep, and Billy was dragging her back to the rabbit hutch. “Gunnies. Gunnies,” he prattled excitedly.

  Where is Will? She had been dealing with both kids all afternoon while he and Bradley were probably lounging by the lake under the pretense of fishing. The thought roused the bitter resentment percolating inside her. Since the EMP, Will had only watched Billy once, resulting in a life-threatening injury.

  The kids are safer without him, she decided.

  Heather heard a male voice say, “What the hell were you thinking, Son?”

  She peered around the side of the house. Will was pushing a pink bicycle, and George shuffled after him, reprimanding her husband with that know-it-all tone. He was almost as obnoxious as Bradley.

  “A running pickup will attract attention we don’t want.”

  “I needed Abby’s bike.” Will’s apologetic deference made Heather’s blood boil. He never showed her that level of respect.

  “I was going to connect it to the shower pump,” Will continued, “but then I thought, screw that! I can rig it to the well pump.”

  The old man’s demeanor relaxed. “You think it’ll pull water up a hundred feet?”

  “Worth a try. Especially with the pool getting so low.”

  George ran a hand over his white buzz-cut hair as if trying to massage a thought into existence. “Anybody see you?”

  “Didn’t see a soul,” Will told him.

  “All right, then. But next time, we talk before you drive off.”

  What an ingrate, Heather thought. He should be praising Will’s bravery and mechanical know-how, not scolding him.

  “Billy!” Her husband entered the screened room and swept the toddler into an elated hug.

  “Gree gunnies,” Billy said, holding up three fingers.

  “Where have you been?” Heather demanded.

  “I went to McDonald’s for a burger.”

  Great, she thought. George gets respect, and I get sarcasm.

  “Well, since you brought up food,” Heather said, her voice honed with contempt. “You need to explain to Bradley and George that I need a bigger ration than everybody else because I’m nursing.”

  “Not happening,” Will said, curtly. “Everybody else is working their asses off while you sit on yours.”

  “Then at least give me the air-dropped food.”

  “I told you, I gave it to Bradley. He says we need to ration all the food.”

  “I’m starving, and you don’t even care!” A swell of outrage culminated in a spate of postpartum tears, but Will remained indifferent.

  It’s not working, she thought. He should’ve caved by now.

  “Listen, Heather, why don’t you check out the house at the end of the street? Kyle says we can move in there.”

  “Our own house?” Lugging both kids, Heather hurried up the hill. Maybe the previous owners had left some food behind.

  ( ( ( 42% Complete ) ) )

  ( ( ( DAY 12A ) ) )

  Tuesday, February 25th

  78A

  ABBY WAS SITTING IN THE lanai at seven a.m., rifle resting across her lap, watching pastel shades of strawberry and orange melt the sky. She hadn’t slept much. Memories of the propaganda parade continued to zip through her mind. The savages had to be stopped. But how could you defeat an enemy that refused to play by any rules?

  A sound outside the screened room caught her attention, and Abby raised her rifle before realizing it was Bradley.

  “Good-morning to you too,” he said, entering the room. He placed a mil-dot scope on the table and sat down. “I want to put this on your rifle.”

  The thought of using a scope made Abby nervous. She knew damned well what she could hit with iron sights. The scope would be like starting over. “Is it a good idea to switch now?”

  “You have to learn to engage moving targets on these hills. Holdover and lead will be much easier with the scope.”

  Abby had read extensively about mil-dot scopes, which featured dot markers placed along the vertical and horizontal crosshairs, allowing distance or object height to be calculated quickly and without trigonometry. The visual grid also enabled more precise measurements for holdover and lead; holdover being gauged by the vertical axis, with up or down adjustments for distance and elevation; and lead, the horizontal axis, with left or right adjustments for wind or moving targets.

  Although Abby understood the concept, she knew the gap between book knowledge and practical experience was immense.

  “What kind of mount does the scope have?” she asked. “Could I switch back to iron sights?”

  “Sure,” Bradley told her. “But once you get used to the scope, you won’t want to go back.”

  Reluctantly, Abby removed the magazine then relinquished her rifle. He yanked the charging handle to be sure the chamber was empty.

  “Don’t trust me, huh?” she asked, sarcasm spilling from her tone.

  “If I didn’t trust you, you wouldn’t have any ammo,” Bradley said as he attached the scope.

  Abby’s father joined them in the lanai, face rumpling in displeasure. “Is that really necessary?”

  “Yes, sir.” Bradley removed a bipod from his backpack. “We’re going to head out to zero the scope.”

  Distrust flickered in her father’s eyes; Bradley’s countered with indignation; and Abby watched the silent duel, knowing it was not entirely about the scope.

  “You zero it here,” her father barked. “No more all-day patrols.”

  “Fine.” Bradley finished attaching the bipod, returned her rifle, and said, “I’ll be right back.”

  Abby gave her father a reassuring kiss on the cheek and whispered, “Get some sleep, Dad. You look exhausted.”

  Bradley returned, carrying a plastic kitchen trash can with a wooden handle jutting from the top, and Abby followed him down Sugar Lake Road to the ninety-degree bend at the foot of a century-old oak tree. He removed an adhesive target from the trash can, then handed her a shovel.

  “Go ahead and fill it with sand.”


  After she completed the task, Bradley attached a black circular bull’s-eye to the trash can and positioned it against the tree trunk. He marked off a hundred yards and inserted a boresighter—a bullet-shaped laser that projected a line from barrel to target—into her rifle.

  Bradley dropped to a prone position and took aim several times, making a series of scope adjustments before ejecting the boresighter like a spent shell.

  “Fire two shots,” he told her.

  Abby slapped the magazine into position, pulled the charging handle, and settled onto her stomach, legs splayed. At ten times magnification, the target seemed huge, and the bipod provided effortless stability. She squeezed off the first round, which struck at seven o’clock, six inches below the bull’s-eye. Her second round hit a quarter inch farther left.

  “Okay, we need to move up and to the right.” Squatting, Bradley adjusted the elevation and windage dials. “Two more.”

  Both shots hit too low. Abby reached for the elevation dial.

  “You know which way to turn it?” he asked, seemingly pleased by her initiative.

  “Same way you did, about half as much?”

  With an approving nod, he said, “Go for it.”

  Abby’s last two rounds struck the orange bull’s-eye, the glancing holes creating a sideways figure eight. She switched back to the iron sights and said, “Damn. That’s a hell of a difference.”

  “Now comes the tough part.” Bradley reached into his back pocket and removed a small booklet along with an index card. “I mapped distances and elevations from overwatch to locations of probable attack.” He turned over the index card. “This side is from your house to those same locations. You need to memorize them and calculate each holdover.”

  Abby paged through the booklet. It was the owner’s manual for the mil-dot scope.

  “Final exam is at three o’clock.”

  “Three o’clock? I’ll be at overwatch.”

  “I know.” Bradley flashed a devilish grin that sent a pitter-patter of uneasiness marching through her.

  79A