Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Zaakir nodded, his sunken brown eyes dewy with gratitude. “I wish I could thank him. He saved my family from starvation and kept terrorists from slaughtering us. He is quite the marksman.”

  Dave said, “Thank God for the Sniper of Sugar Lake.”

  Kyle scowled at him. With eight words he had blurted their address and outed Bradley, who was risking court-martial to keep them safe.

  Deliberately changing the subject, Will pointed to the family’s suitcases. “Where are you headed?”

  “Tavares.” Zaakir removed rolled up sheets of paper from his back pocket, unfurled one, and handed it to Kyle.

  “Federal Emergency Management Association opens Refugee Camp, Tavares Medical Center, Route 441.

  “Three meals a day.

  “Hot showers, housing, and medical teams in standby.

  “Survivor database to locate missing family.

  “Facility is under the prevention of the U.S. Army.”

  His jaw dropped, optimism and skepticism dueling inside him. Kyle wanted to believe this nightmare was a thirteen-mile walk from being over, but the wording troubled him. Medical teams in standby? Under the prevention of the U.S. Army? Taking a deep breath, he said, “Where’d you get this?”

  “Near Lake Apopka. I was hunting yesterday, and they were falling like giant snowflakes from an old biplane. I gathered a few dozen, so I could spread the news along my way.”

  This wasn’t right. Kyle could feel it. “This may sound crazy, but I think you should wait—”

  “What on earth for?” Eliza asked indignantly.

  “To make sure this is legitimate,” Will told her.

  Zaakir’s brown eyes hardened with a defensive and resentful anger, the expression of a man being stripped of hope. “Why wouldn’t it be legitimate?”

  Kyle said, “I know FEMA has been inept in the past, but I doubt they’d get their own name wrong. It’s Federal Emergency Management Agency. Not Association. And yesterday, foreign paratroopers landed just south of Tavares. There was a wicked firefight, planes blowing up—”

  “That’s what all the explosions were?”

  Kyle nodded. “Please, Zaakir, wait. If it’s legitimate, our families can make the trip together. Just two days.”

  “Agency? Association? Who cares?” Eliza said. “Raeleah has asthma. She needs a new rescue inhaler, and I need real food and a hot shower.”

  “Listen, if Kyle’s wrong, you’ll get to Tavares two days late,” Will told her. “But if he’s right, your family could be killed. Is it worth gambling their lives?”

  Zaakir’s gaze tarried over each of his children, bypassed Eliza, and returned to Kyle. “Thursday at sunup. We’ll meet right here.”

  Eliza began ranting at her husband.

  Eager to hear what Bradley and George thought of the flyer, Kyle turned for home. He charged up the hill alongside Will with Dave huffing and chugging behind him.

  “Murph, did you ever think that maybe the guy who printed those was just an idiot?” Dave asked, frustration bubbling in his tone. “You’re turning a couple of typos into a damned conspiracy theory.”

  “Two more days, Dave. It won’t kill you.”

  “Well, I hope to God you’re wrong.”

  So do I, Kyle thought. He wanted to live without fear; to eat three meals a day; to reunite with his parents and sister.

  He opened the screened-room door. “What the hell?” He averted his eyes, but couldn’t erase the image—his daughter’s legs wrapped around Bradley’s bare ass.

  “Dad? You’re back?”

  Dave and Will started laughing hysterically.

  Livid and embarrassed, Kyle stomped out of the screened room shouting, “Bradley, go home! Now!”

  “Come on, Murph,” Dave said, cackling as he chased after him. “You said, ‘Whatever it takes—duct tape, glue, nails.’ So he nailed her on the chaise lounge.”

  140C

  BRADLEY YANKED UP HIS shorts. Humiliation blazed like a wildfire inside him, its scorching heat radiating from every square inch of skin. “Sorry,” he whispered, kissing Abby’s forehead.

  “Don’t be. I’m the one who talked you into it.”

  And I’m the one who promised your father discretion, Bradley thought, trudging out of the screened room. He was anticipating a verbal ambush, a well-deserved tirade, but the yard was empty. His relief turned to foreboding, realizing this was merely a stay of execution.

  He settled onto Gramps’ deck and gazed at the lake, berating himself, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when libido had overpowered common sense. His grandfather’s warning rustled through his mind. You crossed a threshold that changes everything.

  Behind him, he heard Gramps call his name. What now? he thought. Bradley didn’t feel like talking to anyone. He just wanted to find a hole and slither into it.

  Passing through the glass sliding door, he swore under his breath. Dave, Will, and Kyle were sitting at the kitchen table.

  “Your face is redder than a communist flag,” Gramps said, motioning him toward the only available seat, directly across from Kyle. “What in the hell were you up to?”

  Will proffered an empathetic head shake, Dave snickered, and Kyle initiated a death stare. Bradley sunk onto the chair, fighting the urge to bolt from the room. Slowly, he forced his gaze upward, prepared for a withering glare or a wrathful outburst. The quiet disappointment in Kyle’s eyes was much worse.

  His grandfather finished reading a sheet of paper then slid it across the table to Bradley.

  “According to Zaakir, these flyers were air-dropped near Lake Apopka,” Kyle said.

  “Who’s Zaakir?” Bradley asked.

  “You left rice and beans on his doorstep, and you don’t know who he is? And where the hell are you getting all this food?”

  The family from Fern Ridge, Bradley thought. He began reading the FEMA flyer, leaving Gramps to furnish the explanation.

  “I bought a bunch of supplies for the annual Easter food drive at church. Didn’t get to drop them off before the EMP—that was God’s favor. And sharing the food was the right thing to do.” Gramps’ attention returned to the flyer. “Sounds like the FEMA camp on that radio broadcast, doesn’t it, Bradley?”

  “Since when do you have a working radio?” Kyle asked, flustered. “Damn it! How many freaking secrets are you two keeping?”

  “We’ve only heard a few broadcasts,” Gramps told him. “Most were dangerous propaganda. But let’s not get off topic. This camp in Tavares needs to be checked out.”

  “Well, my daughter isn’t leaving Sugar Lake,” Kyle said.

  Bradley agreed wholeheartedly. He wanted Abby out of harm’s way.

  “Then it’s settled,” Gramps said. “Dave, you’ll stay here with me and the girls. The rest of you will leave tomorrow at first light—”

  “Kyle and Will don’t need to go,” Bradley said. A twenty-six-mile roundtrip walk would be a long time to endure the silent treatment or worse, an interrogation. “I can handle this myself.”

  “No,” Gramps told him. “You can’t afford to march in there and get caught with your pants down.”

  Dave threw back his head and howled with laughter.

  141C

  RYAN ANDREWS SCOURED the crash site of the American C-130. The intensity of burning jet fuel had destroyed sensitive technological equipment inside the cockpit; and blackened, branchless trees stood like spikes, puncturing the heavy odor of damp soot.

  He poked his head inside a ten-foot section of the fuselage, wondering if the drop crew knew a traitorous Pilot had hijacked their plane. Did they warn their commanding officer about suspicious behavior only to be rebuked?

  A gunshot rang out.

  Ryan dove behind the wreckage, unsure where it had originated. Juan and Victor reported in, followed by a somber quiet.

  “DJ, what’s your status?” Ryan asked over his tactical headset.

  A faint, wheezing reply came back. “I’m hit.”

  Poetic jus
tice, Ryan thought. DJ shot by one of his own.

  “I can get to him,” Victor said.

  A long, eerie silence set like cement around Ryan.

  Why only one shot? Jihadists usually wielded AK-47s like fire hoses, dousing targets. He had barely finished the thought when another shot resonated through the fuselage. This one sounded like an M4.

  “Anybody see where that shot came from?”

  As if in response to the question, AK-47s unleashed a bombardment centered on Juan’s position. Ryan returned fire, killing two gunmen then a sharp, piercing pain made him gasp.

  It morphed into a blunt ache then a fiery burning sensation. The back of his right thigh felt like it had exploded.

  Ryan became light-headed. Did the bullet hit an artery? Was he losing blood? It was getting harder to concentrate. Control over his body was slipping away. His arms and legs ignored commands.

  “Juan? Victor?”

  “They’re dead, Andrews.”

  Ryan squinted at a blurry shadow hovering above him. The last thing he heard was a garbled, hollow voice, saying, “Allahu Akbar! Asshole!”

  ( ( ( 71% Complete ) ) )

  ( ( ( DAY 20C ) ) )

  Wednesday, March 5th

  142C

  SUFFERING FROM INSOMNIA, Dave gingerly climbed out of bed, wary of waking Laura. He lifted a flashlight from his nightstand and tiptoed into the bathroom to relieve himself. After marveling at the functional toilet, he continued into the walk-in closet that was part of the Murphys’ guest suite.

  Jessie and Kyle had apologized three times for meager food rations and the absence of pillowcases, which were now serving as sandbags. They couldn’t seem to comprehend that he and Laura had been resting their heads on dirt and grass each night while mosquitoes and chiggers feasted on them.

  They don’t know how lucky they are, Dave thought.

  Inside the closet, he switched on the flashlight. The shelving was empty except for two tuxedos, six formal gowns, and an arrangement of dress shoes, overflow from the master bedroom closet.

  Dave began sorting through a suitcase of clothes Bradley had scavenged from a nearby neighborhood. Anything that looked like it might fit went into the laundry pile, mostly bulky sweat suits, T-shirts, and gym shorts.

  If someone had told me a month ago that we’d be homeless, scrounging through old clothes, unsure where our next meal was coming from, I would’ve laughed in their face, Dave thought. How could this happen to us?

  He gazed upward as if demanding a divine answer and noticed two overstuffed white bags on the top shelf. Brown cardboard boxes jutted from the top, and a few corners poked through the plastic.

  Dave reached for one then mumbled, “Meals ready to eat?”

  The box was heavier than expected, packed with laminated pouches.

  Ratatouille? Man, I hope that’s not what the name implies. Although, it can’t be much worse than squirrel.

  The smaller pouches contained crackers, powdered drink mix, peanut butter, and a small chocolate bar. Just reading the labels was enough to make him salivate.

  I should put this back, he thought, fingers tearing open the chocolate. He inhaled the sweet scent of cocoa, and the seductive aroma seemed to inject thoughts directly into his mind.

  There are so many boxes, who would miss one candy bar? And I deserve it, given everything I’ve had to endure ... But it doesn’t belong to me, he told himself. Am I really going to steal from the people who are saving my ass?

  The internal debate abruptly ended when melting chocolate began oozing over his taste buds.

  143C

  HAVING COMPLETED HER midnight-to-sunrise overwatch shift, Abby flopped onto a chair in the lanai. A rechargeable lantern filled the room with a somber light, illuminating a void where the chaise lounge had stood.

  Did he throw it into the lake? she wondered.

  Abby knew her father was mad as hell. So why was he acting so calm? No lecture. No rant. It was unnerving; and further compounding the issue, her mother had refused to play peacemaker.

  “Adults don’t ask their mommies to intervene,” she had said. “You made the mess; you’ll have to clean it up yourself.” Abby harrumphed, still agitated by the blame the statement assigned to her.

  Toting a rifle and backpack, her father entered the lanai. His eyes skirted past her as if she were invisible.

  “Dad, will you please just yell at me already?”

  Frowning, he stared into the layer of fog obscuring the lake. “Abby, what do you want me to say?”

  “How about one of your usual lectures? Responsibility? Trust?”

  “You’ve heard them all. Evidently they haven’t done a damned bit of good.”

  “Come on, Dad. It’s not my fault that you came home early.”

  His lips pursed, his eyes briefly shut, and he mumbled something indistinguishable. Abby couldn’t decipher the emotion. Was that anger or disappointment?

  “Abigail, I shouldn’t have to knock before entering my own house because my daughter—” He stopped, unwilling or unable to complete the sentence, then walked away.

  Arms folded across her body, she followed him outside. The sun had yet to breach the hills, but it was illuminating a band of high-altitude clouds, making them glow like neon tears against the morning sky. She watched her father’s gaze sweep the yard and cross Sugar Lake Road, toward overwatch where her mother stood guard.

  “Abby, have you seen Uncle Dave?”

  “Not since last night. But Aunt Laura’s in the kitchen. You should check with her.”

  He stormed back into the house, passing Bradley with a terse good-morning.

  “Your dad’s still pissed?”

  “That’s an understatement,” Abby said, a huffy sigh blending into the swish of the breeze. “Why does he have to make such a big deal out of everything?”

  “It is a big deal. Imagine if you had walked in on your parents—”

  “E-e-w-w—Oh my God!” Abby shuddered. She would sooner take a cheese grater to her eyeballs than see that. “Don’t even say that—”

  “Good. Now you understand how your dad must feel.”

  She bowed her head, remorse supplanting teenaged selfishness.

  Bradley whispered, “I have to go,” and kissed her forehead.

  Abby draped her arms around his neck, already dreading their next good-bye. “I should be going with you.”

  “Not on that ankle—”

  “My ankle’s fine!”

  “I need you here. I’m counting on you to keep everybody safe.”

  144C

  WALKING BESIDE KYLE, Bradley glanced back at Abby as he entered the woods, wishing he could stay at Sugar Lake today. How much tragedy could a sixteen-year-old bear? She had lost baby Suzanne to a preschool suicide bomber and now Uncle Dave to a tainted chocolate bar in an MRE.

  Kyle had found his lifeless body an hour earlier inside the guest room closet, a chocolate bar still in his hand. Although Bradley’s suspicions had been proven right, he felt trepidation rather than vindication. Was there any tenet of human decency this enemy wasn’t willing to violate?

  Dave’s death made today’s hike to Tavares even more urgent.

  I have to get everyone to safety, so I can get out there and help end the carnage.

  His mind drifted to the security implications of the unexpected tragedy. Jessie and Abby would surely be distracted. Will had stayed behind, but he wouldn’t be able to focus on anything besides his own culpability; and then there was the widow. Would she buoy the others? Or drag them into her misery?

  “So how did Laura take the news?”

  “I think she’s in shock,” Kyle said. “She told me they spent weeks living from minute to minute. And that last night was the first time she went to sleep confident that she and Dave would both be alive come morning.”

  Bradley shook his head at the irony. “Will feels awful.” His best friend was reeling over Dave’s death because he had collected the air-dropped food and hidden
it in that closet—to make sure Heather and Billy couldn’t get to it.

  “It’s not Will’s fault,” Kyle said. “We all knew the MREs were in there, and none of us thought to mention it to Dave.”

  An awkward silence lingered. Bradley could feel the undercurrent of tension pulsing like a ticking bomb, and the only way to neutralize it was to detonate it himself. Peeling his parched tongue from the roof of his mouth, he said, “In addition to offering my condolences, I want to apologize for ... For yesterday in the lanai.”

  “Definitely not the discretion you promised.”

  “I’m not going to make excuses or try to justify it. I exercised lousy judgment, and I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry doesn’t change the fact that I can’t stand to look at that chaise lounge. I can’t even walk into my own lanai without thinking about it.”

  Bradley met his damning stare. “I’ve apologized. At this point, what more can I do?”

  Kyle’s cheeks puffed, and a slow, hissing sound escaped. “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

  The uneasy quiet resumed, and as they moved north of Astatula, the forest floor became a swamp. Leafy vines blanketed bushes like rolling green waves and stymied their progress.

  “We need to find a better route,” Bradley muttered.

  Although County Route 561 would have been more efficient, concealment trumped convenience, and he headed east until the terrain became passable.

  Thirty yards south of a two-lane rural road, Bradley halted and signaled for Kyle to listen.

  Someone was approaching from the east.

  Civilians headed to the refugee camp?

  Bradley counted seven armed men, carelessly walking down the middle of the road. Three wore military battle dress uniforms and carried American-made M4s. The other four, dressed in jeans and equipped with AK-47s, were hauling a miniature utility pole, the ends resting atop their shoulders, the center bowing toward the ground like a deranged smile.

  Bradley let out a groan.