Doomsday Anarchy

by Bobby Akart

  The group stared at Delta’s phone in disbelief until, simultaneously, they broke out in uproarious laughter.

  “This is a joke, right?” asked Cort, hardly able to contain himself. “I mean, you programmed that somehow.”

  Delta had a huge grin on his face. “Nope, all the iPhones do it. Try it sometime.”

  Meredith gave Hannah a high five. “Look at that, Hannah. You learn something every day.”

  Hannah, however, was still intrigued about the Little Red Schoolhouse.

  “That is cool. Hey, Mom, you’re a teacher. Can we go check out the schoolhouse later?”

  “Um, honey, we’ll need to—”

  Delta raised his hand and smiled. “Say no more. I’ll call Ryan and let him know you’re here. I’m sure he’d love for you to get started if you’re up for it.

  Meredith smiled and nodded. “You know, I think all of us are ready to put the events of the last few days behind us and get started on our new adventure. So, yes, if it’s okay, Hannah and I would love to invite Skylar to join us while we check out the school. We might even get things set up for the new school year so all the kids can have something to look forward to.”

  “Excellent,” said Delta, who offered a fist bump to Hannah. “I’ll make the calls. I assume you guys know where to go?”

  “I do,” replied Cort.

  “Good. Our cabin is to the left. Once you go through the roundabout at the fountain up ahead, take a left, and we’re down on the right. Our yard has a tire swing in the front.”

  “Cool!” exclaimed Hannah, who didn’t hesitate to tug Handsome back toward the truck.

  Meredith helped the stout pup into the backseat while Cort exchanged a few final words with Delta. “Is everybody here?”

  “Not yet,” replied Delta. “We have a regular meeting of the security team at the main barn in the mornings. Are you a part of our security?”

  “Not likely,” said Cort. “I mean, I can handle a weapon, but I’m not trained like you guys probably are. Are you ex-military?”

  “Nah, cop,” replied Delta. “Well, I’m sure Ryan has something in mind for you. I’ll make the call, and you guys get settled in. He’ll probably be around soon enough.”

  The men shook hands and the Cortlands entered the Haven, full of excitement.

  Chapter 19

  NBC Studios

  Temporary Studio Set

  Secaucus, New Jersey

  MSNBC host Craig Melvin shuffled through the notes just handed to him by one of the production assistants. He listened to the instructions being given to him from his producer as he shuffled through the pages, reading the text message stream between their reporter and Chepe. The PA had also printed a map of the downtown Richmond area so Melvin could have a visual of the major roadways and points of interest.

  He turned his attention to his producer. “They invited us to imbed with them?”

  “That’s right, Craig. As soon as Hallie closes out her segment, we’re gonna go to breaking news and throw it over to you. It may very well cover the entire hour.”

  Melvin was happy to oblige. He’d covered societal unrest for the network as a reporter in years past before making the leap into the anchor’s chair. When MSNBC approached its on-air talent about evacuating New York following the dirty bomb attacks at Times Square to a temporary studio setting across the Hudson River in Secaucus, New Jersey, Melvin was the first to volunteer.

  He had a sense that the attacks were part of something bigger, more sinister. As the news reports came in from around the country, he gathered his personal effects and was the first to arrive at the former New Jersey Motor Vehicle Commission facility. Until his co-workers were located and brought across the river, he stood vigil as the sole news anchor available to the network as events unfolded.

  Working with completely unedited, raw footage from news cameras and private cell phones, Melvin began to piece together a pattern to the attacks, one that troubled him deeply. He wasn’t quite prepared to voice his opinion to his executive producer, opting instead to be a constant part of the news coverage, which enabled him to gather more information.

  In his mind, the fact that Antifa was organizing to begin a series of protests and marches in Richmond, Virginia, of all places, was intriguing. He knew Antifa and their leadership. He also knew who pulled their strings. Melvin began to suspect something of a counterinsurgency operation. If he was right, all hell would be breaking loose very soon.

  “Okay, Craig,” said his producer into his earpiece. “You’ll be live in thirty.”

  Melvin prepared himself and opened his segment as always. As instructed, he prepared himself to go live to Richmond, where an NBC news video team from their Washington, DC, bureau was in place to provide footage and a report.

  After they dispensed with the preliminaries and set the scene for their viewers, the reporter relayed what he knew.

  “Craig, when the march began, it seemed aimless. The group meandered through the streets of Richmond, stopping to chant and raise their fists in the air, but mostly gathering steam with random additions to their growing throng.”

  The reporter paused as he ran to keep up with the black-clad protesters, who began to move forward at a slow jog. Running backwards with a cordless mike, the reporter periodically glanced over his shoulder to avoid stumbling.

  He continued. “However, all of that changed about ten minutes ago. The group seemed to coalesce around a goal as it became clear they were headed toward Interstate 95. As you know, I-95 is a major north-south thoroughfare that runs along the Atlantic Seaboard from Maine to Florida. The highway splits Richmond in two and is the most heavily traveled stretch of interstate in Virginia, especially now, as it’s packed with motorists fleeing the carnage in the northeast.”

  Melvin interrupted, asking a question to allow the reporter to catch his breath. “Do they have a recognizable leader? And also, do you know why they’re headed for the interstate?”

  The reporter held his fingers to his earpiece and nodded. “Craig, I was invited by an anonymous text signed by Sabokitty. Because I’ve covered these types of organized protests in the past, I am familiar with the moniker. Sabokitty is the organizer, although I have no idea which of these individuals he or she is. I do know this, however. They intend to take the interstate.”

  “Wait. What was that? What do you mean by take the interstate?” asked Melvin.

  “That’s the exact question I asked when I was told why we’d changed direction. At first, I began laughing, trying to visualize what that meant. I imagined General Patton standing on top of a tank with his field glasses, surveying the French countryside. When the protestors didn’t laugh along with me, and I could see the resolve in their eyes partially obscured by bandanas and masks, I realized they were serious.”

  Melvin interrupted again. “As we watch your footage, we can see people at the front of the pack begin to separate their rather large group into a series of smaller ones. What do they have in mind?”

  “I’m told that this is the next step in their operation. They plan on crowding the on-off ramps and moving onto the overpasses. The goal is to disrupt traffic but spread out so the police can’t contain them.”

  “How many protestors are there?” asked Melvin.

  “Craig, it started with about a hundred. As the group passed Gilpin Court, a low-income housing project near the highway, its numbers swelled by more than double. The group includes men and women. Children, too. All ages are represented. Frankly, Craig, many of the new participants don’t know why they’re marching or what they’re protesting. They just want to be a part of something.”

  Melvin leaned back in his chair as the producer indicated the camera was going to focus on him and pull away from the live feed. His facial expression became serious as he quickly transitioned from news anchor to opinion contributor.

  “Well, I must say this is indicative of what we’ve been reporting to you from around the country. New Year’s Eve created a
night of fear for many as the terrorist attacks struck all walks of life. What we are seeing now are pure acts of defiance.

  “None of these marchers appear afraid. To the contrary, they have a steely resolve to make their message heard. Their march may not change the world, or even the city of Richmond, but it will serve to put many on notice that this nation is about to undergo a radical transformation.

  “New Year’s Eve lit a spark in the hearts of many people. What we are seeing manifest itself in Richmond is a grassroots effort by the people to let their voices be heard.”

  Chapter 20

  U.S. 301 at I-95

  Near Richmond, Virginia

  Hayden was making her way up the interstate on-ramp when her phone rang. The display read Blair Smart. She’d tried to call Blair an hour ago after she’d crossed the Potomac from Maryland into Virginia. The two exchanged pleasantries before getting down to business.

  “Foxy, tell me you’re on your way to the Haven,” said Blair in a serious tone.

  “Blair, I wish you guys wouldn’t call me that,” said Hayden half-jokingly. “I happened to be the sixth in line on the security team, but I honestly believe Alpha labeled me Foxtrot, or Foxy, on purpose.”

  “He’s got the hots for you, Hayden.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Not interested. We don’t need that kind of soap-opera drama at the Haven.”

  Blair laughed. “Oh, girl, we’ve got drama. Don’t you worry about causing more. You know, Ryan and I’ve talked about this. There are some pretty nice single guys roaming around the Haven. Why don’t you consider—”

  “No.”

  “But you haven’t met—”

  Hayden was emphatic. “Blair, no. I don’t need the aggravation of a boyfriend.”

  “Don’t you get lonely?” asked Blair.

  “No, I have Prowler,” replied Hayden.

  “He’s just a cat. You need someone to talk to. Share your day with.”

  Hayden shook her head vigorously. “Listen, I’m all about my career and I have Prowler to share my day with. I don’t need some guy to monopolize my time or vie for my attention when I’ve got a lot going on.”

  The traffic slowed and then sped up in spurts as she continued the conversation. She changed the subject away from her love life, or lack thereof. “To answer your question. Yes, I’m on my way. I had to wait on the president to declare martial law.”

  Blair interrupted her. “I’ve been glued to the news today while dealing with other things. I haven’t seen anything about his making it official. Oh, did you catch the scrap on CNN?”

  Hayden chuckled. “Yeah. Prowler did too. He said it was lame.”

  Blair let out a hearty laugh. “I miss that cat, and so do my girls. Who knew they’d get along?”

  “The three of them see each other as equals,” replied Hayden.

  “That’s because they’re about the same size, lol,” added Blair before going back to the issue of martial law. “He hasn’t officially declared martial law. Do you know something I don’t?”

  “Yeah, sort of. Let’s just say it’s in the works and an announcement will be made before the end of the day, most likely.”

  “Good to know,” said Blair. “I’ll pass it along to the guys. I’m glad to hear you’re on your way. I tried to reach you after the attacks.”

  “Um, I know, and I apologize for not getting back to you. I had my own aggravations to deal with on the Metrorail. I’ll tell you about it when I get there.”

  “Where are you?” asked Blair.

  Hayden looked at her navigation screen on the Range Rover’s dashboard and then glanced at an upcoming sign suspended across the six-lane highway. “I’m near the merge lanes of I-95 and I-64 just north of downtown Richmond. It’s slow going, but steady. I expect it’ll clear out on the other side of the city.”

  Blair hesitated before she spoke. “People are bailing out of New York and any parts of the northeast where their cars are still working. They all wanna come south. What makes them think we want them?”

  “Beats me. I’m glad I found you guys and have a place—” Hayden stopped speaking as traffic came to an abrupt halt. She was underneath an overpass and glanced to her right. The same graffiti was painted on the concrete abutment holding up the road above her.

  “Blair, what do you know about graffiti or artwork that looks like a fist holding up a black rose? I saw it in DC and now it’s spray-painted here by the interstate.”

  “A black rose? I really don’t know, Hayden. I can ask around. Describe it again.”

  Hayden put Blair on speaker and navigated through her iPhone to the camera app. She took several pictures of the graffiti with plans to compare this image to the one seen near her home.

  “It’s a fist held straight up, clenching the stem of a black rose. They’ve sprayed red paint to outline the image, almost like the color of blood.”

  “And it’s the same in both places?” asked Blair.

  Hayden took Blair off the speaker before responding, “Yeah, almost identical. Obviously, two different people did the work, but the design is nearly identical. It has to be related.”

  “I agree,” said Blair. “I don’t believe in coincidences. Hey, let me mention one more thing. Like I said, I’ve been monitoring the newscasts and going online to local news websites to get updates for people. You need to be careful going through—”

  Hayden never heard Blair say the word Richmond as a cinder block came crashing down on the hood of her Range Rover, startling her and causing her to drop the phone.

  This was just the beginning of the onslaught.

  Chapter 21

  Interstate 95

  Richmond, Virginia

  Hayden screamed, and Prowler angrily screeched as another large rock pelted her hood, which protruded just beyond the side of the bridge. Fortunately, her windshield wasn’t exposed to the people throwing the heavy construction materials over the side. The same could not be said for the cars in front of her.

  Windshields were shattered, rear windows were broken out, and one man emerged from his car with gashes in his face, causing his vision to be obscured with blood. Other drivers panicked, trying to force themselves forward to get out of harm’s way, or backwards, to gain protection using the overpass as a shield.

  The vehicle in front of her, a Mini Cooper, had been utterly destroyed by the blocks of concrete. All the windows, including the sunroof glass, were smashed. The back bumper of the Mini was only a few feet away from Hayden, so she could see the interior clearly. A woman was slumped over the steering wheel with a jagged piece of concrete embedded in her scalp.

  Hayden frantically looked in all directions. She was in the far-right lane, having just entered the interstate. This gave her the opportunity to use the hard shoulder to move forward. However, there were several cars already scooting over to make their way past the bridge. Hayden inched backwards and received an angry blare of a horn for her efforts.

  “Thanks a lot, buddy!” she shouted, waving her fist in her rearview mirror. She ignored his horn and relied upon the backup camera on her Range Rover’s dashboard to avoid hitting the hostile driver.

  She was able to create enough space between her truck and the Mini to turn her steering wheel and navigate toward the shoulder. Now she needed a little polite help from her fellow motorists. She kept inching the front of her truck into the traffic, hoping someone would allow her in. Just as a car slowed, the vehicle that passed by her suddenly veered left and careened into the Mini Cooper, adding insult to injury. The resulting crash caused the sedan to block most of the emergency lane and immediately subjected the driver to a barrage of concrete debris.

  “Are they going to run out of crap to throw at us?” A frustrated Hayden yelled her question as she leaned forward to determine if there was sufficient room to squeeze by the wrecked truck. Another chunk of concrete came hurtling down from above and broke out her left headlight. Frustration grew to anger that quickly changed to fear.
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br />   Suddenly, a dozen people dressed in black clothing and wearing masks similar to the way the graffiti artists had been dressed the day before appeared at the chain-link fences guarding the interstate from pedestrians. They were using bolt cutters to create openings.

  All of them were carrying aluminum baseball bats, tire irons, or large pieces of concrete. Hayden immediately reached into the back of the passenger seat and felt for her loaded handgun, which was stashed in a pouch behind the seat back.

  “Prowler, backseat. Now!” The Maine coon sensed danger and jumped into the backseat on top of a duffle bag.

  Hayden pulled the slide on her gun to load a round into the chamber but not before one of the attackers smashed the passenger side of her windshield with an aluminum bat. Another crawled onto her hood and jumped into the air, waving a club over his head like a lunatic.

  With the cars ahead of her disabled, Hayden was cornered, and her attackers knew it.

  Chapter 22

  Interstate 95

  Richmond, Virginia

  Tom had sensed danger as he saw chunks of cinder blocks and concrete flying downward from the overpass in front of them. He instinctively looked up through the glass sunroof to determine if he and Donna were in danger of being struck, comforted by the span of steel beams and concrete above their heads. He checked his mirrors and turned in his seat to see if the vehicles behind him were being attacked. They were as well.

  “We’re trapped!” he shouted as the blaring of car horns reverberated off the steel and concrete that surrounded them. Tom quickly weighed his options. He didn’t have any.

  They were in the far-right lane, and the guardrail pinched the shoulder of the highway, so the oversized Yukon couldn’t fit through. Vehicles succumbed to the debris both in front and in back of their position. In a frantic attempt to escape the barrage of debris, vehicles crashed into one another. Some drivers were badly injured as the rocky materials broke through windshields and sunroofs.