Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

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

  “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.”

  144G

  WALKING BESIDE KYLE, Bradley glanced back at Abby as he entered the woods, grateful that she would remain behind at Sugar Lake. Too bad her father wasn’t staying with her.

  Bradley had tried to apologize last night.

  “Don’t,” Kyle had told him. “I’m so angry right now, I’ll say something I’ll regret.”

  At least he’s not overreacting, like he did over Abby not shooting the intruder, he thought. Was that just two weeks ago? Hell, this silent hike already felt two weeks long. He could feel the pressure building 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, “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.”

  An awkward silence lingered; 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.

  “I still haven’t told Dave yet ... About the cannibals,” Kyle said. Guilt seemed to radiate from him, tangible and smothering, like smoke.

  Bradley drew in a breath, certain he was about to sink deeper on Kyle’s shit list. “Abby, she noticed your sudden paranoia over being outside. And at the time, I didn’t see any reason to lie to her.”

  “So my daughter knows it’s my fault that her aunt is dead? Thanks a fucking lot, Bradley.”

  “That wasn’t my intent. I just wanted to make sure she took the threat seriously.”

  So much for the truth setting me free, Bradley thought.

  Thirty yards south of a two-lane rural road, he 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.

  Dangling from the wooden beam was a man—gagged and hog-tied.

  145G

  RYAN ANDREWS’ HEAD FELT like it had ruptured, spinning off whirlpools of pain throughout his body. I’m alive, he decided, wondering if that was a good thing.

  With dogged concentration, he managed to lift his heavy eyelids. Sunlight rampaged through his skull, and immediately, he let them fall shut. Images darted through his mind, tumbling like leaves in the wind, a mangled Patriot battery, dead paratroopers, the downed C-130. Allahu Akbar chanted in a taunting refrain.

  DJ shot me, Ryan thought. But where am I?

  He parted his eyelids a fraction, minimizing the light, and realized he was sitting upright, arms bound behind the trunk of a huge tree, legs spread-eagle along the ground. Yellow ropes restrained his ankles, and Ryan’s gaze traveled along his camouflage pants toward his thigh, looking for a bloodstain that didn’t exist.

  If I wasn’t shot, what happened?

  Curious, he opened his eyes wider, teeth grinding against the biting ache. He was in a clearing with weeds rippling in the breeze, surrounded by a distant wall of green. A few fuzzy shapes flanked him, their boxy, light-colored outlines contrasted against a dark expanse of trees, too large to be cars, too small to be houses. Trailers? A campground?

  Ryan called out to Juan and Victor.

  “Morning, Andrews.” The voice was jovial and friendly, like a face full of battery acid.

  “DJ, you fucking traitor!” Ryan struggled against his restraints. “Where are Juan and Victor?”

  “Victor came crawling toward me. Plinked him in that ugly mug of his,” DJ said. “Then I killed Juan and put your ass down with a tranquilizer dart.”

  Through gnashed teeth, Ryan said, “I should’ve fucking shot you!”

  “But you didn’t have the balls, and now I’m in control. We both know this ends with you dead. The question is, how do we get there? A quick, painless bullet to the head? Or prolonged torture that’ll make waterboarding seem like a bubble bath?”

  “DJ, you are not gonna break me.” With bungling fingers, Ryan tugged at the binding on his wrists and discovered the nylon knot had been melted into a solid lump that could not be untied.

  “Oh, I know, Staff Sergeant. I’m just offering a professional courtesy. Answer my questions, and I’ll put a merciful bullet through your temple. Otherwise, I leave you with the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps. Those Shiites take torture to a new level.”

  DJ was probably lying, but Ryan couldn’t dismiss the possibility.

  “The black ops team that hit Astatula and Haywood Field,” DJ said, sounding like a prosecuting attorney. “Where are they based?”

  When Ryan refused to answer, the Corporal’s fist cracked against his jaw, the taste of blood moistened his mouth.

  “How did they find out about Haywood Field?”

  Ryan’s silence provoked a tantrum of punches that tenderized his chest and drove air from his lungs.

  “What do you know about Operation Sunburn?”

  Ryan had never heard of it. “Everything,” he said with a cocky grin. “So go fuck yourself!”

  Nostrils in spasm, jaw convulsing, DJ’s leg reared back as if to kick a soccer ball.

  Knowing the intended target, Ryan twisted like a contortionist, attempting to shield his groin. DJ’s boot clipped him. His strength evaporated, a drenching sweat coated his body, and he coughed, gagging on saliva.

  “Damn, that felt good,” DJ said as he walked away. “Been wanting to do that since the day I met you.”

  “DJ, I swear,” Ryan grunted. “I’m gonna snap your fucking neck!”

  146G

  A NAGGING FEELING WAS plaguing Abby. Initially, she’d assumed it was a mixture of anger with her father—over the cannibals killing Aunt Laura—and contrition for the incident in the lanai; but even after resolving to forgive her father and apologize to him, the carping sensation lingered.

  What else could it be?

  Abby paced through the house, around the yard, lap after lap as if she might find the answer behind an armoire or a hibiscus bush. Bradley’s words drubbed through her mind. I’m counting on you to keep everybody safe.

  She shivered, realizing she had experienced this before, minutes prior to being captured at Haywood Field. A tremor burrowed into her stomach, an unwelcome confirmation. Was her intuition shifting into overdrive or just her fear?

  I need to do s
omething constructive, she thought, but what?

  Memories played like a three-dimensional movie: the exploding stuffed animal, bullets pinning down Bradley at overwatch.

  We need an alternate location, she decided.

  Abby walked the ridgeline behind the Levins’ property searching for an optimal vantage point. None felt right. She crossed the street and bypassed the large green electrical box where she had duped the savages with her fake grenade. An unconscious smile curled her lips, and she patted the pocket of her cargo pants. Now, she was armed with the real thing.

  Scouting the crest of the northern ridge, she paused near a cluster of flowering bushes. Behind her, a mature oak would prevent her silhouette from sky lining. Abby squatted gauging the view. She could see all of Sugar Lake Road, the southern and eastern ridges, the lake, and a hundred yards behind her. Mentally, she began computing distances and elevations.

  From here, the guy who almost shot Bradley would’ve been an easy target, she thought. This is it.

  Abby walked down the hill and into the house, fabricating a plan and a checklist of tools and supplies. Lost in thought, she opened the garage door then stopped as though she had smacked into a wall. There, in the middle of the floor, was the infamous chaise lounge.

  147G

  BRADLEY SHADOWED THE strange convoy to a small campground, a maze of abandoned trailers surrounding Lake Halona. Two were ripe with the fragrance of death, most likely snowbirds from the North on ill-fated vacations.

  He crept between a telescoping camper and an RV, jettisoned his backpack, then shimmied beneath a Heartland fifth-wheel trailer.

  Along the lakefront, foot-high tufts of grass and weeds were freckled with sagging wooden picnic tables; and in the center of the clearing, a majestic oak dripped great beards of air moss.

  The seven savages were securing their listless prisoner to the tree’s twenty-inch trunk.

  “He must be alive,” Bradley whispered to Kyle, “or they wouldn’t bother restraining him.” He focused his binoculars on the man who appeared to be in charge. Military-grade night-vision gear was attached to his helmet. The name Al-Zahrani was visible on his U.S. Army uniform, adjacent to a Corporal’s rank insignia; and a yellow and black Ranger patch graced his shoulder.

  Three others also donned helmets with night-vision units, two wearing Army camouflage, one in jeans and a polo shirt. Was the gear stolen like the Patriot battery? Did these men ambush and kill the real Corporal Al-Zahrani? And who was the poor schmuck tied to the tree?

  The prisoner’s uniform identified him as Staff Sergeant Andrews, Army Ranger; and when he regained consciousness, Al-Zahrani marched toward him.

  “The black ops team that hit Astatula and Haywood Field? Where are they based?”

  Bradley’s eyes closed for a split second. Had he heard right?

  “Is he being interrogated because of us?” Kyle asked.

  The question settled like burning coal in Bradley’s gut. “Sounds like it.”

  He observed a volley of questions and escalating physical punishments that ended with a vicious kick to the groin; and Bradley winced, feeling both sympathy pains and responsibility.

  “This is our fault,” Kyle whispered. “We have to help him.”

  Bradley examined the trailers sprawled like a miniature aluminum village. Were more savages inside? Did they have weapons beyond rifles?

  “DJ, I swear,” Andrews grunted. “I’m gonna snap your fucking neck!”

  Al-Zahrani sneered and walked off to the east.

  Kicking violently, Andrews managed to dislodge the metal tent stakes restraining his ankles, and the yellow ropes arched and curved like agitated cobras. The civilian-clothed savages scrambled to anchor them and pulled like a tug-of-war, sadistic puppeteers spreading his legs until he was subdued.

  The prisoner was now sandwiched between the two camouflage-clad captors.

  “Where is the black ops team based?”

  Andrews cocked his head as if trying to recall the information then shrugged.

  “If you don’t cooperate, we’ll castrate you with this,” the savage said, brandishing a knife. “Your own weapon, yes?”

  The puppeteers yanked the ropes, spreading Andrews’ legs well beyond ninety degrees, and a tidal bore of adrenaline swamped Bradley. He wiggled backward beneath the fifth-wheel trailer; and after Kyle emerged, he whispered, “Go left. When you hear me fire, shoot the guys holding the ropes. And stay down.”

  Bradley crept around the end of the trailer.

  Two rapid shots neutralized the interrogators.

  The savages released the ropes, drawing rifles from their shoulders. Bradley took aim, squeezed, and ...

  Nothing.

  His rifle jammed.

  Then four AK-47s opened fire on him.

  148G

  THE IRON SIGHTS ON Kyle’s rifle were on his first target when he heard Bradley fire two quick shots.

  AK-47s erupted in a ballistic drumroll. Bullets bored through the aluminum trailer, adding metallic pings to the deadly symphony.

  Kyle pulled the trigger, and the nearest savage collapsed.

  Peeking above a boxy, compacted pop-up camper, an AK-47 fired blindly, the shooter hidden from view. Kyle had no shot at him.

  He pivoted right, and a stark black fear twisted around his throat like a tourniquet.

  Why did Bradley stop firing?

  Did he get shot?

  The nearest puppeteer was assaulting Bradley’s position, his back angled toward Kyle.

  He aimed, squeezed the trigger, and a round drilled into the man’s back and exited the chest, expelling a mist of blood.

  A rifle swung toward Kyle.

  Time decelerated, elongated, distorted.

  Dozens of thoughts formed between thudding heartbeats.

  Rounds began striking the contoured end of the fifth-wheel trailer directly above his head.

  He’s shooting at me!

  The simple realization jolted him. Shocked him. Kyle felt like he was neck deep in mud.

  If he had bothered to drink water that morning, he would have pissed himself ... or worse.

  149G

  AMIDST A SWARM OF bullets, Bradley dove for cover behind the trailer’s dual axle. Lying on his back, head resting against the tire’s steel rim, he yanked the charging handle of his rifle to eject the wayward shell.

  Bradley hunched his shoulders inward and positioned his rifle atop his chest to make himself a smaller target. Bullets were piercing the trailer, spitting bits of insulation, wood, and plastic into the air. Thorny folds of aluminum protruded like serrated wreaths, indelible records of each strike—to Bradley’s left. To his right. Above his head.

  He had no room to maneuver, even less than when he had been pinned down at overwatch. He thought of Abby, wishing she were here, then grimaced. He couldn’t have it both ways.

  Do I want her in the fight? Or home, safely out of danger?

  Bradley realized the tunnel of supersonic lead whizzing past him was dwindling. A barrage of rounds had been diverted to the front end of the trailer, Kyle’s position.

  He had to move. Bradley planted his left hand on the ground, bent his right knee, and started to lift himself in a twisted pushup when he felt the bullet strike.

  150G

  “IT LOOKS LIKE A SHALLOW grave,” Abby muttered to herself. The thought transformed blood vessels into icy needles that clawed her from the inside. Why couldn’t she shake this horrible feeling?

  With her tactical folding knife, she had cut a seven-foot gash into the ground, in the shape of two football uprights joined at the base. She had sawed through roots, compressed leaves, and pine needles, then rolled back the forest floor in all directions as though it were a carpet. Abby excavated eighteen inches down, packing the sand into black plastic trash bags that now ringed the hole, molded and contoured to deceive the eye and provide bullet-proof protection. Then the natural ground cover was unfurled, camouflaging the plastic.

  Abby h
ad evaluated her new hide from multiple angles and elevations, adding saplings and branches until it blended in seamlessly; still, something was gnawing at her. She sighed and scanned again for potential weaknesses.

  Behind her to the north, she could see a hundred yards to the base of the hill with a peek-a-boo line of sight between the trees. At night, the savages could easily sneak in from that direction. Abby needed an early warning system that could function in the dark.

  A trip wire with cans? No, that would become a giant wind chime in the breezy Florida hills.

  There has to be a way, she thought, heading into the house in search of wire and inspiration. A flame? No, that could start a wildfire. A flashlight? But how could a trip wire activate it?

  She shoved open the door to her room and began rooting through a desk drawer for a lipstick-sized flashlight that clamped onto the bill of a baseball cap. With fumbling fingers, she switched it on and frowned at the feeble yellowish light.

  Dead batteries, she thought, tossing it back into the drawer.

  Anxiety was a winepress, slowly wringing away her self-control. For some unfathomable reason, Abby felt more afraid now than she had at Haywood Field.

  She ripped open another drawer. Her eyes glided over papers, pens, CDs, and a few foil-wrapped orange glow sticks, leftovers from a Halloween party. Abby was about to slam the drawer when the idea materialized.

  The glow sticks! She grabbed all four and hurried out to the garage. She used her knife to remove the male and female ends from an outdoor extension cord, and stripped away the orange skin, exposing a copper ground and two plastic-coated wires.

  She could already envision the finished project in her mind. Both ends of the glow stick would be attached to a tree with U-shaped nails, like the ones Bradley had used on the rabbit trap. The hundred-foot electrical wire would be tied around the middle of the glow stick; and a small rock would be wedged behind it, deliberately bending it close to the snapping point, creating a hair trigger.

  151G

  GRUNTING AND SWEARING through gritted teeth, Bradley forced himself to keep moving. He sprung into a crouched run toward the back end of the trailer, breathing rapidly, legs rubbery beneath him. A fierce pressure sensation mauled his left triceps, midway between the elbow and shoulder, then ignited as if a blowtorch had seared his skin. Instinctively, he flexed his fingers and gripped his rifle to test his motor skills. Thankfully, he still had control.