by Bobby Akart
“This is where shared sacrifice comes in. Driftwood Key contributes the food it would ordinarily feed to its guests. Otherwise, it might just go to waste, right? Meanwhile, that food goes to all of these families, which keeps them alive and, more importantly, content, so they don’t do something rash like attack your precious inn.”
She allowed her arms to wave up and down until they eventually balanced out. She adjusted herself in the chair and then gently folded her hands in her lap.
“Are you getting the picture, Hank?” she said with a toothy, disingenuous grin. “And let me make it just a little clearer for you. The president’s declaration gives me the absolute authority to make it happen by whatever means necessary.”
The conversation was over.
Chapter Thirty
Sunday, November 3
Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center
Northern Virginia
As predicted by some in the Helton administration, China invaded North Korea. Following the near total destruction of Pyongyang and strategic DPRK military bases by U.S. nuclear missile strikes, the Beijing government ordered troops to the North Korean border. With South Korea in disarray as it tried to recover from the North Korean attack on Seoul, China saw an opening.
From a geopolitical perspective, China could never allow the U.S. to hold influence over the North, whether it be through improved relations with Pyongyang or the takeover of the Korean peninsula by Seoul.
The Chinese military incursion into North Korea occurred with remarkable swiftness. There was little left of the North Korean military, so they were unable to mount a defense. After the Chinese tanks crossed the Yalu River and their Chengdu J-20 fighter jets strafed the countryside to eliminate any pockets of resistance, they were welcomed by the North Korean people with open arms.
Chief of Staff Chandler had been a constant fixture by the president’s side since those first few hours at Mount Weather. Now he was surrounded by a steady stream of aides who relayed messages to the president from world leaders. The two men cleared the president’s office to speak privately.
“They’ve got to be out of their minds,” the president lamented as he read the communiqués from world leaders. They want us to order the Chinese to stand down. I’m forced to beg them for parts to fix the damn power grid! I’m in no position to move on them militarily. And for what purpose? Defend North Korea?”
Chandler dropped the rest of the messages on the president’s desk in front of him. The president swiped them to the side and began wringing his hands.
“Carter,” began Chandler, who remained on a first-name basis with his friend when out of earshot of others, “in case nobody’s noticed, we’re screwed on our own. I don’t see any of these nations shipping humanitarian aid or relief workers to the U.S. Where’s the UN? Nobody is stepping in to bail us out. They always take from us, but now we need them to return the favor, and it’s crickets on the other end of the line.”
“Yeah, well, you’re right, and the world will soon see what I think about fighting everyone else’s battles,” added the president. “Have you confirmed that the secretary of defense has recalled all of our military personnel except for the bare minimum necessary to defend our assets abroad?”
“They will be returning home within days. Now, are you okay without making a formal announcement? Normally, these things require press releases at a minimum.”
“Screw ’em,” said the president as he pulled the messages into a pile and dropped them into the trash can next to his desk. “Transparency is overrated. Let’s talk about Texas.”
Chandler plopped into the chair in front of the president’s desk. He loosened his tie and glanced over toward the bar. This conversation required a drink. He glanced at his watch and thought, It’s five o’clock somewhere. It was a phrase referencing happy hour, although it was used to justify having a cocktail prior to five in the afternoon. He got up from the chair, removed his jacket, and poured them both a scotch whisky, neat.
“Texas?” the president repeated as he stared at his old friend over the rim of his glass.
“Texas has taken the bold step of closing its entire state line, or border, if you will, to Americans traveling south.”
“Harrison, yesterday that was rumor. Today, it’s fact?”
“I’m afraid it’s been confirmed. Their grid survived the cascading failure, and the EMP generated over Colorado barely reached the Panhandle. After Mexico closed its border with the U.S. to prevent an influx of our refugees, Texas stopped the flow of people crossing the state en route to Central America and even South America.”
The president took another swig of his drink and winced. He remained calm as he spoke. “They can’t do that. Do I need to personally call the governor and straighten her out?”
“Yes, I believe you should try. You know Texans. They’re fiercely independent. They’ve managed to keep their power grid separate from the Eastern and Western Interconnection. As a result, they’re positioned to recover from all of this faster than the rest of the nation.”
“Maybe so, but that doesn’t give them the right to reject American citizens in need. You can bet your ass they’d have their hand out if Dallas took a direct hit. They’d be begging for FEMA to send MREs and build tent cities.”
Carter stood and refilled their glasses as he relayed more information to the president. “Apparently, this independent streak is contagious.”
“Oh?” said the president in a tone reflective of his curiosity. “Is Hawaii threatening to secede?”
“No,” Chandler replied as he got settled into his chair once again. “Monroe County, Florida.”
“Where the hell is that?”
“The Florida Keys, mostly. Parts of the county extend on to the mainland, but it’s the Keys that have pulled another one of these closed-borders stunts.”
“How?”
“They’ve sent armed personnel to block the two bridges that connect the Keys to South Florida. First, they evicted any nonresidents. Then they established roadblocks to prevent any refugees who couldn’t prove residency from entering. As a result, Miami has been inundated with homeless and stranded travelers, and the mayor is having a hissy fit.”
“What’s the Florida governor say?”
“He’s just like his counterpart in Texas, complaining that he has a duty to protect the lives and property of his residents. He’s considering similar measures at his state line at Georgia and Alabama.”
“Geez,” said the president, who shook his head in disbelief. “I’ll reach out to him as well. He needs to be reminded the federal government and his fellow Americans are there for Floridians during hurricane season. He needs to be open to accept Americans who are trying to survive. And he’d better straighten out those people in the Keys, or I will.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Sunday, November 3
Central North Carolina
“Let’s do this!” shouted Greyhound as he exchanged high fives with his portly brother. The younger man drove off with his grandfather, leaving Greyhound to drive the military cargo truck and his dad to navigate. The father and son had made this trip once before, attempting to use the interstate to travel. It had been a frustrating drive as they dodged gas-thirsty, stalled cars and people running along trying to climb into the cargo box. This trip, they’d take back roads.
Once they were on their way that afternoon, the paid passengers breathed a collective sigh of relief. The group was packed together on wooden bench seats with slat rails for backs. Their feet were buried under luggage. They huddled within themselves, partly out of apprehension surrounding the treatment by their escorts but mostly because of a chilling wind that began to blow from the north.
Peter sat next to Rafael and his family at the rear of the cargo box. There were a dozen others on board, including a family, several couples, and some single riders. They were a hodgepodge of refugees across the demographic spectrum. After twenty minutes of exchanging names and des
tinations, they began to tell their stories. Most were seeking warmer climates and rumors of fully functioning electricity. Others, like Peter, were hoping to reunite with family.
Only one person, Peter, had witnessed one of the warheads detonating in Washington. Everyone wanted to hear about it. Yet they didn’t. Peter could see it in their eyes and changed demeanor as he continued. An overwhelming sadness seemed to come over the group as the realization of what had happened to America soaked in.
The cargo truck rumbled along through the small community of Hildebran before approaching the underpass at Interstate 40 west of Charlotte. The group was silent as they watched thousands of people walking toward the mountains. Some pushed shopping carts while others pulled luggage on wheels. They were all seeking refuge away from the cities.
The truck chugged along down Henry River Road when it suddenly slowed. The passengers became nervous, and Peter eased his hand into his backpack to get a grip on his pistol. He was relieved that Mr. Uber and his dimwit son hadn’t confiscated all of his weapons.
On the left side of the truck, a tall wooden fence appeared along the roadway. Through the heavily wooded forest, a smattering of buildings could be seen. Then a gated entry came into view with several armed guards patrolling behind it. A long gravel driveway led up a hill through a canopy of oak trees.
“What’s this place?” asked one of the passengers.
“That’s where they filmed the Hunger Games movies,” replied an older man.
“Really?” asked a child who was sitting next to him.
The old man explained, “This was once Henry River Mills Village, an old ghost town that used to be a yarn factory. This part of Carolina was booming back then, and little communities like this sprang up everywhere. When the big factories moved into Charlotte, the people left the village for the city.”
“You said something about the Hunger Games movie,” interrupted the child’s mother.
“Yeah, right. Anyway, the place was abandoned, and the folks who bought it years ago allowed it to be used as a movie set. This was used as the setting for District 12 where the start of the movie took place.”
“It doesn’t look like a movie set now,” mumbled Peter.
“Those guys were ex-military,” whispered Rafael as he leaned into Peter. “They were disciplined and carried themselves like they were well-trained operatives.”
The older man continued. “Anyway, recently, the place was bought by a couple out of Florida. Supposedly won the lottery. They fenced the entire place like a fortress or some such.”
The truck slowly rumbled across a bridge high above the Henry River. Two more armed guards were positioned on the other side behind concrete barriers. They never blinked as their eyes scanned the cargo truck and its passengers. They held their weapons at low ready, just in case.
Peter craned his neck to study the compound from the south side of the river as they continued up a hill. Eventually, the former movie set turned haven, for some, disappeared from sight. He got settled in with the others as the monotonous drone of the diesel engines began to put nearly everyone to sleep.
Their trip took them through the heart of the Old South. Towns like Gaffney, Saluda, and Barnwell in South Carolina were encountered without incident. Once in Georgia, they drove through Statesboro toward Jesup.
They’d been on the road for nearly eight hours, and the passengers were getting antsy. Mr. Uber had only afforded them one pit stop, as he called it, to stretch their legs and relieve their bladders in a looted Huddle House. He and his son swapped driving duties, during which time a passenger overheard them say they planned on stopping near Jesup, Georgia, to refuel and sleep.
During the ride, Peter struck up conversations with every one of his fellow passengers. Some were more open than others about their destination and the price they’d paid for inclusion on the trip. Most had traded guns or silver coins. The elderly couple had given up their wedding bands. One family had turned over the keys to their vacation home outside Asheville, North Carolina.
The two people he was most concerned about were a mother in her late thirties and her daughter, who appeared to be college age. They were closed off about where they were headed and why. Plus, they shut Peter down when he asked what they’d had to barter to get a ride on the truck. The daughter closed her eyes and hung her head low. Her mother shed a tear and looked away as she wiped her face with her sweater sleeve.
Peter had heard rumors of women being forced to trade sex for food, gasoline, and, apparently, a lift to Florida. It angered him that the two men sitting in the heated cab, laughing and swapping a bottle of whiskey, had enticed these two women with a ride by demanding them to humiliate themselves that way.
At one point toward the end of the ride, murderous thoughts crept into his head. He replayed the events in the CVS pharmacy that night. Was that murder or self-defense? Or was his shooting of the four men in rapid succession a preemptive first strike? A kill-or-be-killed scenario that required him to murder others to protect himself.
Then he took his analysis further. Did he have the right to take the lives of Mr. Uber and his ingrate son because they’d asked for, and received, sexual favors in exchange for an uncomfortable seat on this truck? Had America descended into a level of lawlessness where killing could be justified on moral grounds?
Peter grappled with these issues for miles, and as a result, the time flew by as Greyhound slowed the cargo truck at the entrance of the aptly named Motel Jesup. The twenty-two bungalow-style units were arranged in an L-shaped structure connected by covered walkways. The affordable accommodations were the epitome of the quintessential, roadside motor court of days gone by. Before the nation’s interstate system provided travelers the opportunity to zip from one point to another at seventy-plus miles an hour, state and federal highways had connected small towns together. Within each small town, there were motor courts.
Many had been built in the late forties as soldiers returned from war and families reconnected by taking long driving trips. The freestanding buildings were quaint and modestly furnished in order to keep the nightly room rate low. Most had a bed and foldout sofa.
The Motel Jesup had plenty of vacancies that night. As in, all of the rooms were empty. Looters had broken into them to take the bedding. They’d stolen the remaining complimentary bottled water and Lance crackers. The toilet paper and towels had been removed, as were the trial-size toiletries. All that remained were the mattresses and perhaps a few pillows.
The cargo truck rumbled to a stop, and Mr. Uber stumbled out of the cab. He reeked of liquor as he waddled to the back gate.
“All right, people, this is where we’ll hole up for the night.” His words came out slowly and slurred.
His son, Greyhound, was less inebriated and began to order everyone out of the truck. “You heard him. Let’s go! It’ll be dark soon. And cold, too.”
Peter had been the last to be loaded into the cargo compartment, so he was the first to be removed. He tossed his duffel bags out first and began to climb out of the back when Greyhound interfered.
“Hey, let me give you a hand.”
Instead of helping Peter, he tugged on his pants leg, causing his foot to slide off the steel bumper. Peter slipped and lost his grip on the back gate. He struck his chin hard on the metal and landed flat on his back with a thud, reinjuring the bruises he’d received days before.
Had he not lost his breath momentarily, matters might have escalated. That, and Rafael’s quick actions saved a life—either Peter’s or Greyhound’s. He jumped out of the truck and helped Peter sit up. He turned and faced Greyhound.
“We’ve got this,” he snarled.
“Good for you, beaner,” hissed Greyhound, using a derogatory slur often associated with people of Mexican descent.
Rafael was undeterred. “I’m Cuban,” he fired back although he didn’t expect the racist to understand why the beaner reference was misdirected.
Greyhound sneered at Rafael and s
aid, “No matter. My precious cargo is the last to unload. Move it!”
The rest of the group made their way out of the cargo hold. Peter lagged behind while everyone else chose a cabin. He watched as the mother and daughter hesitantly exited the truck. They knew what was in store for them, as did Peter. The question was what, if anything, would he do about it.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sunday, November 3
Jesup, Georgia
The Federal Correctional Institution located just south of Jesup was a medium-security prison that housed male inmates primarily incarcerated for drug and white-collar crimes. During the rolling blackouts that swept the southeast, state and federal prison officials were faced with a significant challenge. They were responsible for tens of thousands of inmates who’d been incarcerated for a wide range of crimes from petty offenses to capital murder. As the grid failed, they found themselves unable to perform the basic functions required to house the inmates. So they turned to the courts for guidance.
Like most governmental agencies, the United States court system was in disarray following the nuclear attacks. All hearings were cancelled. Judges and their staffs remained home as the blackouts began to occur. The Department of Justice offered little in the way of guidance as the entire federal government adopted a wait-and-see approach.
Then the temporary rolling blackouts became permanent. As a result, prison administrators began to make judgment calls. With their correctional staff operating at a bare minimum, they were unable to control, much less feed, their entire populations. Their solution was to review the case files of the inmates and release them from prison based upon their level of offense. Short-termers and nonviolent offenders were sent out in the first wave. The medical inmates with harsher sentences were next. Then on day eight following the nuclear attack on the U.S., the floodgates were opened.