Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  “I gathered up a bunch of airbags, sprinkled them with razor-sharp glass and metal, and rigged them to go off when someone opened the cross-bed toolbox. It’s like the Bible says, an IED for an IED.”

  “Are you crazy, pulling a stunt like this without telling me? There could’ve been a hundred savages in that warehouse!”

  “But there are only eleven,” Will said flatly.

  Seemingly unable to contain his anger, words spewed from Kyle. “And they know exactly where to find us! You and that damned truck are gonna get us all killed!”

  “That’s enough!” Bradley snarled. “Right now, we have a serious decision to make. Leave Sugar Lake before they can exact revenge? Or shoot ‘em all?”

  100C

  AT NOON, GRAMPS RELIEVED Abby from overwatch, and she marched down to the yard where her mother was playing Wiffle ball with Billy.

  The toddler dropped the bat and ran to her calling out, “Abby, Abby, Abby!”

  She swooped him off the ground, saying, “Billy, Billy, Billy,” and tickled him, earning a big hug.

  “You’re just in time,” her mother said. “We need a catcher.”

  Abby set Billy down and returned the ball. “Mom, you’ve got to talk to dad. He’s being ridiculous.”

  “Your father’s worried about consequences you probably haven’t considered.”

  Billy chopped at a pitch, missed, and giggled.

  “Mom, the only downside of kissing Bradley was dad wigging out.”

  “Well, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea—on your part—to let your father witness it.”

  She had a point. “But Mom, Bradley almost got shot.” Abby paused to steady her voice. “I never would’ve known what it was like to kiss him.”

  “I can understand that.” Her mother aimed for and connected with the toddler’s bat, inspiring him to take a victory lap around the garden. “You’re in love. That can be incredibly intoxicating, but promise you won’t rush into anything; you’re only—”

  “Sixteen, I know, but I may not live to see eighteen.”

  “Abby, don’t talk like that.”

  “It’s true. There are no guarantees anymore.”

  Irritation flickered in her mother’s blue eyes. “That’s no excuse to be reckless.”

  “Reckless? Compared to what? Standing too close to a four-year-old? Sleeping with Bradley wouldn’t be reckless.”

  Hearing the words spoken aloud, her mother winced. “Abby, what if you end up pregnant? There are no doctors, no hospitals. God forbid, if there were complications, you could die in childbirth.”

  Their eyes clashed in a fiery war of adolescent independence versus motherly protection. “And I could die in a firefight tomorrow, Mom. Which way would you rather go?”

  101C

  SIX MEN AND FIVE TEENAGED boys lay dead outside the warehouse, and Bradley’s thoughts wavered between anger at Will and frustration with Kyle.

  After observing the warehouse for over an hour, he stationed them both across the street from the gate. Since the M4’s shorter barrel would be more maneuverable inside the building, Bradley swapped rifles with Kyle.

  “If anyone approaches the warehouse—fire three quick shots to signal me then get out of here. You got that?”

  He ventured onto the property, wishing it was Abby outside watching his back instead of Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Scenarios played through his mind: Best case, the building was empty; average case, a frightened person was hiding; and worst case, someone was lying in wait.

  The building was massive, seventy feet wide by a hundred feet deep, and Bradley edged around the corner with his rifle, clearing the expanse a slice at a time.

  The left side of the warehouse was crammed with bedrolls, prayer rugs, and a few copies of the Koran. Hundreds of empty shopping carts lined the rear wall—S-Mart, various food stores, and wholesale clubs.

  Damn, he thought, they must’ve looted every store in the county.

  Bradley crept inside, advancing on a metal shipping container. Layers of copper sheeting and plasticized paneling lined the interior like a makeshift Faraday cage. Empty boxes formed a knee-high plateau, packaging for satellite phones, global positioning units, and solar panels—all bearing Asian markings.

  He entered a small office and sidled around a dented metal desk, gun trained on the cubbyhole between the drawer towers.

  Satisfied no one was lurking beneath it, he searched the room. Along the far wall, cases of Russian ammunition were stacked waist high and topped off with boxes of U.S. combat uniforms and propaganda flyers. A map of Central Florida hung like a cockeyed window shade, and Bradley noted that an agricultural airport had been circled with a red marker.

  Crop duster planes?

  The question solidified into an aching knot. Are the savages planning to disperse chemical weapons? A biological agent? Radioactive materials?

  102C

  EYES PANNING OVER DEAD bodies, Kyle felt his moral compass spinning out of control, vacillating between the ethical man he had always been and the unrecognizable man he was becoming.

  Teenaged boys had been killed, sons and brothers, innocents infected by their parents’ ideology, bred to kill, aspiring only to death. Guilt morphed into a binge of justification. What about American kids? Suzanne? The girl at the swing set? The boy with the furry blue bomb? And God only knows how many others?

  Kyle rubbed his temples, head aching, unsure what to think, how to feel. The sharp line between right and wrong had become a murky, meandering valley, and he was lost.

  Bradley emerged and collected weapons and ammunition from the dead guards. He made several trips into the warehouse before pushing a shopping cart full of rifles across County Route 561. “We need to take a little detour before heading home.”

  Kyle and Will helped drag the cart a quarter mile west to the shore of Little Lake Harris. Bradley grasped the barrel of an AK-47 like a baseball bat and hurled it into the lake. Kyle propelled his three times farther, into deeper waters.

  “I think we should leave this to the professional athlete,” Will said, settling onto the grassy bank, and Bradley followed suit.

  After the last rifle splashed into the water, Kyle sunk down between them, sweaty and spent, with a newfound sense of accomplishment. Those weapons would never be turned against Americans again.

  All three men sat in contemplative silence. Sparkling slivers of sunlight reflected the lake’s choppy surface like twinkling camera flashes at the ballpark. Kyle smiled at the memory, for the first time looking back with gratitude rather than grief.

  “Ready to head home?” Bradley asked, rising to his feet.

  After walking in silence for nearly an hour, Kyle heard a dull thump. A bush with tiny orange flowers was swaying.

  “Bang. You’re both dead,” Bradley told them.

  “Did you just throw something over there?” Will asked.

  “Yes. And when you see movement, you’d better get your rifle on it.”

  Kyle challenged the Marine’s intense stare. “You could’ve at least warned us.”

  “Hey, Infidel!” Bradley snickered. “We’re here to execute you. Is this a good time?”

  He felt his face flush. Why was it so difficult for him to perceive threats?

  “You guys see that orange tree in the clearing?” Bradley asked.

  It had three discolored, drooping oranges that had yet to fall to the ground. “Yeah?”

  “Kyle, distance and elevation?”

  He judged based on the baseball diamond. The distance between bases was thirty yards, and he estimated it was three times farther. “About ninety yards and level?”

  “Good.” Bradley turned in the opposite direction. “Will, how about that pine tree at the top of the hill?”

  “Around sixty yards? Elevation plus fifty feet?”

  “Close enough. Now both of you run up the hill, circle the pine tree, bust it back down here, and shoot one of the oranges off the tree.”

  Is this his wa
y of getting even? Kyle wondered.

  Sensing his skepticism, Bradley said, “You’re working in the garden when you spot a wild turkey across the lake. You run up the hill to get your rifle and back down to take your shot. And you have to hit the turkey in the head, because if you hit the body with these rounds, there won’t be much left. Go!”

  Feeling foolish, Kyle took off running. He reached the top of the hill twenty strides behind Will, out of breath, legs burning. Down was easier, but he was still huffing as he raised his rifle.

  Will fired and missed wide by a foot.

  In response to Kyle’s hesitation, Bradley began a countdown. “Five ... four ...”

  He couldn’t steady the barrel.

  The sights were bouncing all over.

  “... Three ... two ...”

  He squeezed the trigger, missing all three oranges.

  “I guess Jessie, Abby, and Billy aren’t eating tonight.”

  ( ( ( 52% Complete ) ) )

  ( ( ( DAY 15C ) ) )

  Friday, February 28th

  103C

  AT 0700 HOURS, BRADLEY trudged from Gramps’ house toward Sugar Lake Road, backpack and rifle dangling from his shoulders. He yawned, blinking at a dingy fog hanging over the lake. The sky felt claustrophobically low, and gray streaks of moisture were obscuring the treetops, creating a prolonged twilight.

  Kyle was sprinting up and down the hillside, retraining out-of-shape muscles, extending his endurance. He had understood part of Bradley’s message, but the physical training would be the easiest for a former Major League Baseball player. The challenge would be in training his mind to perceive threats and react decisively.

  Abby stood at the base of the hill, hands on hips, talking to him during each pass. Neither looked happy; and Bradley stopped ten feet back, safely outside the cross fire. He felt a twinge of guilt, knowing he was the source of tension between them.

  “You can’t have it both ways, Dad! I’m adult enough for overwatch. And shooting savages. And when Mom has a freaking gun to her head. Who was the adult that night? And who was blubbering like a child?”

  Kyle stopped abruptly. His gaze dropped to his feet. “Abigail, it is not up for discussion. You are going to stay away from him.”

  Uncomfortable, Bradley forced a cough to announce his presence.

  “Bradley!” Abby said with an enticing smile. “You are so thoughtless ... having a firefight without inviting me.”

  Anger was fluttering like a warning beacon in Kyle’s eyes. “Abigail, go help your mother with the garden.”

  “She’s at overwatch until noon, Dad.”

  “Then go to your room!”

  With a glare as potent as a directed-energy weapon, Abby started toward the house; and as she passed behind Bradley, her hand dramatically groped his backside. He flinched. His mouth fell open then eased into a chagrined smile.

  “Abigail Margaret!”

  “What are you gonna do, Dad? Ground me from overwatch? Take away my rifle so the savages can shoot me?”

  Bradley watched her enter the house and slam the front door, then he said, “Ready to head out?”

  “Isn’t Will coming?” Kyle asked.

  “Negative. He’s got overwatch at noon.”

  They hiked north, paralleling the western shore of Lake Apopka. The fog was dissipating, and sunlight wrestled between tree branches, warming the breeze and turning the woods into a backdrop of contrast and movement. Bradley removed an acorn from his pocket and tossed it low, striking a fan palm.

  Kyle’s rifle targeted the leaf.

  “Much better,” Bradley said, impressed by his focus, especially after the argument with Abby.

  Kyle stopped midstride. Something bright white had crossed forty yards in front of them.

  Crouching lower, Bradley took the lead and waved for him to follow.

  It was a thirtyish woman with long brown hair woven into a braided ponytail. Dirty clothes hung two sizes too large, and pressed tightly to her chest, she carried a five-gallon white bucket.

  “She’s getting water from the lake,” Bradley whispered. “Wait here until she doubles back.”

  She squatted and scooped water into the bucket, swiveling it to maximize her catch.

  Is she alone? Bradley wondered. Or does she have children? He couldn’t decide which was more heartbreaking.

  A gunshot resounded.

  The woman dropped onto the ground.

  She wasn’t a threat. Why would somebody shoot her?

  Two men converged on her body, one toting a bolt-action hunting rifle.

  “That one’s just a kid,” Kyle whispered. “About Abby’s age.”

  The sentiment struck Bradley like a double tap, first a shot to the heart, the second smiting much lower.

  The teen corralled the floating bucket and filled it with lake water; then the older man handed off his rifle and hoisted the dead woman onto his shoulder.

  “What the hell is he doing?”

  Bradley didn’t respond.

  He was praying his gut instincts were wrong.

  104C

  RYAN EXITED THE SOOT-FILLED warehouse, aggravated that terrorists had managed to abscond with the Patriot missile battery—again. A convoy had been hijacked concurrent with the drone attack on Camp Sunshine, yet another blue-on-blue attack.

  Ordinarily, satellite reconnaissance would have tracked the Patriot battery in real time, but a sneak attack had pulverized dozens of military satellites. His team was already feeling the effects—GPS malfunctions, intermittent communications, and less than timely intelligence.

  Yesterday, his Ranger team had shot down an enemy aircraft, a knockoff of a C-130 that was disseminating toxic relief supplies over Gainesville. Like the others the Army had shot down in recent days, this one had been traced to an Iranian base deep in the jungle of Venezuela—a base that no longer existed, courtesy of the U.S. Air Force. He gave a wistful sigh, regretting that they hadn’t captured all of the poisoned cargo, yet grateful the toxin was tanghin, and not some highly contagious biological agent.

  Inwardly, Ryan was worried. How long could the military wage a multifront war and prevent nuclear meltdowns while suffering continual insider attacks? How long could the Armed Forces survive with no means to draft replacement Soldiers, no refineries to convert crude into diesel, no economy, and no civilian workforce to replenish supplies?

  He followed Mike toward a battered pickup truck and began searching the dead for identification. “Interesting fashion statement. U.S. Army BDUs coupled with IRGC headbands.”

  “Yeah, it’s weird.” Waggling a satellite phone, his team leader stood. “Maybe this will point us toward that Patriot battery ... Yo, DJ!”

  The Corporal trotted toward them, eyes locked on the phone as if it were a bomb.

  “You speak Arabic, right?” Mike rotated the phone toward him, displaying a text message.

  “Yeah, but that’s not Arabic. It’s Farsi.”

  The tiny hairs at the nape of Ryan’s neck prickled.

  An Iranian sleeper cell on U.S. soil?

  “Freaking rednecks and their guns,” DJ said, frowning at the carnage. “Killing a bunch of unarmed people.”

  Rage and outrage jockeyed within Ryan. “Whoever shot the guards confiscated their weapons and destroyed the ammo.”

  Cases of ammunition had been loaded into shopping carts and stolen combat uniforms had been set ablaze beneath them, using the fire’s heat to warp the lead and render the bullets unusable.

  DJ’s eyes bulged, two bloodshot balls of contempt lunging at Ryan. “So all these dead kids? They’re just my imagination?”

  Ryan matched his scowl, the tension between them building like an electrical charge.

  “Those teens were trying to turn airbags into an IED. It detonated prematurely and they bled out. They weren’t shot. And where was all this indignation and empathy for the families slaughtered on their front lawns?”

  Head cocked to one side, DJ angrily chewed his bott
om lip. “Americans are supposed to be better than this. We don’t kill innocents.” His gaze traveled amongst his teammates as if assessing where each man stood. “They do it; they’re terrorists. We do it; you look the other way. You’re all a bunch of hypocrites.”

  The two new team members, Juan and Victor, traded uneasy glances.

  Ryan knew he should let it go, but couldn’t curb his frustration. “You didn’t answer my question.” He stepped toward DJ, and Mike’s hand dug into his shoulder, a subtle restraint. “Why does this horrify you when bodies across suburbia didn’t faze you?”

  “You are losing it, Man.”

  “I saw the warm-and-fuzzy greeting you gave your buddy, Amed Al-Dossari, the traitor who attacked Camp Sunshine with a drone and delivered that Patriot battery into the hands of terrorists ... Are you one of them? Just waiting to make your move?”

  DJ’s eyes burned with something beyond anger, a genuine hatred, dark and consuming; then in an instant, it was gone. “I hadn’t seen my cousin Amed in almost ten years. I had no reason to suspect that he’d been radicalized.”

  Mike stepped between them. “All right, enough. We’ve got a job to do.”

  105C

  KYLE AND BRADLEY TRACKED the murderers back to a campsite. Camouflage netting concealed a green tent, a canvas-domed Floridian igloo, and its entryway was flanked by umbrella chairs. Kyle watched the older man lower the woman’s lifeless body into a seated position. Neck rolled back, arms twisted and hanging limp, she looked like a mannequin.

  Why the hell did he shoot her? And why did he bring her back here?

  The father dumped twigs, dried leaves, and branches inside a cluster of four blackened cinder blocks, stirring a gray powdery ash that swirled through the sunlight. Watching him start a fire and crown it with a stainless-steel grate, Kyle felt a surge of empathy for the man—driven from his home, trying desperately to care for his son.

  And I thought I had it rough, he thought. Sleeping in a bed, showering, using toilets, eating a meal every day, with a Marine Corps Sniper keeping us safe—even in this shitty new world, Kyle was immensely blessed. Why didn’t he realize it before?