Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  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, and Kyle’s thoughts reverted to Jessie, to happy times spent on the water—cruises, water skiing, surfing in Hawaii, snorkeling the Great Barrier Reef. He smiled at the memory, for the first time looking back with gratitude rather than grief.

  I’m still luckier than most, he thought. I had twenty wonderful years with the love of my life.

  “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 way 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 Abby and Billy aren’t eating tonight.”

  ( ( ( 52% Complete ) ) )

  ( ( ( DAY 15D ) ) )

  Friday, February 28th

  103D

  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! If I’m adult enough for overwatch and shooting savages, I’m adult enough to have a relationship with Bradley.”

  Kyle stopped abruptly. “Abigail, this 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 George with the garden.”

  “He’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?”

  Kyle muttered, “God, I wish her mother was here,” then glanced at Bradley. “Isn’t Will coming?”

  “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.

  104D

  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 reconnaissa
nce 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 bottom 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.”

  105D

  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?

  The teen forced a four-inch blade into the dead woman’s thigh. A hooked notch in the knife carved through flesh and fabric with one smooth motion, the visual equivalent of fingernails on a chalkboard.

  “If this was a drug gang? Or convicts?” Kyle’s hoarse whisper fractured and resonated in the air like the sooty ash particles. “But father and son cannibals?”

  Bradley’s head was shaking, a pendulum swinging between disbelief and disgust. “And they’re too nonchalant about it—like it’s routine.”

  Kyle stared at the pine needles beneath his knee, his mouth filling with bitter saliva. “I can’t watch this. Let’s go.”

  “These cannibals are mobile, barely two miles from Sugar Lake. Do you want to worry about this every time Abby goes to the lake for water?”

  Kyle breathed in rapid pants. No air seemed to permeate his lungs.

  “You need to make a decision,” Bradley whispered. “Eliminate the threat? Or live with the threat?”

  The sound of human flesh sizzling turned Kyle’s stomach. “Why do I have to decide?”

  “Because I’ll be gone soon. Take them out? Or take your chances?”

  * Moral Dilemma 3D *

  Path D: YES, try to eliminate the threat.

  Path H: NO, try to live with the threat.

  I don’t want to decide.

  At the end of “Day 17,” a link will allow you to return to this Moral Dilemma and change your mind—if you must.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  ( ( ( PATH 106D ) ) )

  106D

  “I DON’T WANT TO CHOOSE who lives and dies,” Kyle said, burying his face in his hands, terrified of making the wrong decision. “I wish we’d never stumbled across them.”

  “Even if you were blissfully unaware of the cannibals, the danger would still exist.”

  Kyle’s mouth dropped open as if to speak, venting only an anguished sigh.

  “You can’t wish it away, and you can’t ignore it,” Bradley told him. “And the truth is, you’re gonna have blood on your hands no matter what you do. Your only choice is whose blood. The cannibals? Or all their future victims?”

  A numbing sensation settled over Kyle.

  Do I want to bear responsibility for killing the guilty? Or for the deaths of innocents?

  Unable to rally his voice, he lifted his chin and gave a nod.

  Bradley said, “I’ve got the teenager.”

  Father and son bounded against the ground, and the nearly concurrent gunshots reverberated around them like a prolonged groan.

  Then a haggard, fortyish woman with sunken eyes scrambled from the tent. She drew a trembling hand to her mouth. Head shaking vehemently, her voice raw with grief and desperation, she shrieked, “No-o-o!”

  She snatched the bolt-action rifle, the barrel sweeping wildly as if tracking the flight of a honeybee, then she staggered and fell onto her backside, shuddering. She turned the rifle around, butt stock braced against the ground, forehead against the barrel.

  Kyle reached out, fingers grasping air as if he could seize the weapon from yards away.

  She pulled the trigger, but the gun did not fire.

  Unaware the bolt needed to be cycled in o
rder to load a new round, she chucked the rifle and crawled toward her teenaged son. Her expression mutated from grief to revulsion, and her sobs escalated as if his death had been forgotten and rediscovered.

  She retrieved the knife. Another tortured scream escaped, then she aligned the tip of the blade to her heart and fell forward, using the ground to plunge the knife deep into her chest.

  107D

  PUFFY CLOUDS PROJECTED islands of darkness onto Lake Apopka, and the shadows skimmed the water’s surface, propelled by a lazy breeze. A belt of saw grass straddled the boundary between land and water, swishing softly like whispering voices at a wake.

  Bradley had been sitting along the shore for half an hour, cloaked behind a tangle of wild bushes, lost somewhere between remorse and a gnawing sense of worry.

  Unintended consequences, he thought. Yet on some level he understood that even the right decisions were never painless, never without a vein of regret.

  Kyle hadn’t spoken since the incident, eyes fixed and unblinking, skin so pale it seemed nearly translucent. Occasionally, his face contracted like a bellicose fist, as if reliving the grisly event, then relaxed back into detached neutrality.

  Lousy timing, Bradley thought. He had deliberately cornered Kyle, forced him into an untenable choice. The wisdom of Gramps’ gentle, diplomatic approach was becoming evident—a little too late.

  “For what it’s worth,” Bradley began, “even if you’d chosen to walk away, I would’ve come back and ... taken care of it.”

  Kyle’s head tilted. His damning glare bored into Bradley. “Then why did you make me choose? Was this a game to you? Some kind of perverse test?”

  “Hell yeah. I wanted to know if you had the balls to protect Abby.”

  The words fell in a downpour then mutely sunk in, penetrating imperceptibly like a puddle seeping into earth.

  Did I just say protect Abby? Instead of protect everyone at Sugar Lake?

  Inexplicably, Kyle began to laugh, an unnerving, inappropriate cackle that made Bradley nervous.

  “I ... am such ... an idiot,” Kyle mumbled. “My daughter is surrounded by sharks, and I’m worried about the lifeguard.” He paused to draw in a deep breath. “Girls Abby’s age are being raped on playgrounds; cannibals are butchering people; and I’m worried about my daughter sleeping with you.”