by Joe Nobody
Slowly the gathering quieted down, and folks began taking turns holding the floor. Many passed without speaking, indicating their feelings had already been voiced. Most wanted it known that they were willing to do whatever was needed. Practically everyone wanted to stay together as a group.
When the last person finished speaking, Wyatt sought the closure they all so desperately needed. “Does anyone have anything else to add?” He was surprised when David took a step forward.
“I’m not a boat owner here, and I know most of you still think of me as a kid. I’ve studied at the army’s war college, and I have one thing I want to add – something I think all of us need to consider. My father is absolutely correct – we cannot defend this marina. There isn’t enough manpower or firepower to do so. Whatever all of you decide, you need to keep that fact in mind. There’s absolutely no way we can hold this ground.”
The reaction to David’s statement ranged from agreement to fear. Wyatt had mixed feelings himself, proud that his son had stepped forward to contribute, and yet unhappy with the timing of his delivery. Wyatt again raised his arm, asking for the floor.
“Folks, none of us have had much shut-eye. I suggest we reconvene this meeting later this evening, one hour before sunset. I suggest everyone try and get some rest and think about how we can fix this problem. All ideas will be considered, and everyone will get to speak.”
The group had been milling around, discussing options for over an hour. The initial excitement was now wearing off, everyone becoming weary of the topic. All quickly agreed with Wyatt’s recommendation and then began to disperse.
As Wyatt’s family headed back to Boxer, it was Sage who sparked an idea. “What we need is our own deserted island.” Her statement caused Wyatt to stop mid-stride and stare at her for a moment. “That’s not a bad idea, Sage. Not bad at all.”
Washington, D.C.
March 1, 2017
Reed peered out the window again, unsure of what else to do. Parting the drawn blinds ever so slightly, he scrutinized what could only be described as the surreal remains of chaos. The scene outside the window could’ve been Beirut in 1983 or London during the blitz. The once-pristine Georgetown avenue was littered with the debris of conflict, the scraps of war. The Texas congressman sighed, unable to reconcile the waste, and disappointed that nothing had changed.
Everything was still there, exactly the same as the last time he had checked. There sat the burned out postal truck, the police car with the broken windows, and the piles of shattered glass from the corner dry cleaners. Nothing had changed. The bullet holes in the police car looked as though they had rusted a little more, but perhaps that was a trick of light. The carcass of the policeman’s German shepherd looked a little more deflated. Just the sight of the dead animal made his nose crinkle with imagined stench.
The thought of odor prompted him to smell his own armpits, and the results weren’t daisy fresh. If it rained one more time, he might have enough water for a sponge bath. Reed sighed at the thought. That would probably be the biggest decision of his day – bathe…or save the water to drink.
At least the burning and looting had stopped. Several times during those first few nights, he’d seriously questioned the chances of his survival. Hiding in the apartment, he’d observed mobs of angry people parading up and down the street. Some carried homemade torches, others toted armloads of bricks and stones – all of them boiling mad, a lust for violence in their eyes. The rioters set about destroying anything they couldn’t eat. Before the power failed, the D.C. police had made a valiant attempt to maintain order, but they were vastly outnumbered.
The first night, scattered news reports flashed video, featuring lines of officers with riot shields and helmets. Initially, Reed believed the trouble to be just another series of protests that had somehow gotten out of hand. The first hint that something more serious was underway came when the scope of the unrest was reported. Reed had watched with despair as one station used a city map plastered with red lightning bolts, each small icon indicating a problem area. It wasn’t long before the map was completely covered.
Washington’s local news stations began airing footage of tear gas canisters arching into the throngs of citizens. Before long, those attempts to disperse the crowds were answered with waves of rocks, bottles, and eventually gunfire. Once the bullets started flying, any hope of containment was lost. The nation’s capital became a full-fledged battlefield.
Glued to Brenda’s television, Reed’s initial perspective of the entire affair was limited. Watching the clash unfold on the small screen was more akin to attending a Hollywood disaster movie than a real life catastrophe. It just didn’t seem real. The local stations dispatched reporters all over the city, zipping around in logoed vans mounted with satellite dishes. The footage flooded in, crews rushing from one hot spot to another while transmitting their signals back to the parent station.
Initially, there seemed to be a competition for who could report the most atrocious story – or uncover the most horrific images designed to shock the viewers at home and increase ratings. As Reed viewed the broadcasts, he realized the media was feeding the frenzy – throwing fuel on the fire. At first, Reed screamed back at the yellow journalists, demanding the editors and producers realize they were making things worse. After a while, he sat back quiet and helpless, observing the entire city spiral into the deep abyss of anarchy.
In previous political disturbances, the press had been a neutral bystander. During the civil rights protests, Vietnam War demonstrations, and harsh labor disputes, reporters operated with impunity. In those days, people, no matter how motivated, angry or partisan, respected the press.
This time, it was different. Government, police, press, and even private citizens were caught flatfooted by how quickly things escalated - the population rapidly moving from rage to desperation, the final destination being a place where there was a complete disregard for rule of law.
Like a dome of magma exerting pressure on a mountaintop, the frustration, anger, and general discontent had been building for years; an eruption was inevitable. It wasn’t the lack of electricity or the government’s announcement that initiated the final release. Those events were merely the catalysts, only serving to unleash an already existing, pent up flood of rage.
The outburst wasn’t isolated to any one segment of the population or specific silo of society. Affluence didn’t make any difference; age wasn’t a factor, and race played no role. It didn’t matter if the discord was due to a threatened foreclosure, the price of milk, a scheduled IRS audit, or frustration with government regulations. The root cause might have been the recent loss of employment, a deep-seeded fear of global warming, or the ban on assault weapons. Government infringement was as much a contributor as government inaction. Those who believed in the redistribution for equality were just as motivated as those who despised redistribution of wealth. Progressive left and conservative right both joined the rampage, equally contributing to a caldera of violence.
The reporters were unprepared for both the intensity and longevity of the collective fury. As society fell off the cliff, many of them lost their lives in the ensuing turmoil. In the hours leading up to the final power outage, fewer and fewer live reports were transmitted. One of the last involved a female reporter broadcasting live in front of the Channel 31 news van. Four men casually approached, nonchalantly watching as one guy opened the van’s door while another pulled a pistol and fired inside. In the ensuing chaos, the cameraman was knocked down, but his camera kept filming. The last sideways images were of the attractive newswoman being dragged off, desperately kicking and pleading for her life. The picture went dark shortly afterwards, her screams echoing through the television’s speaker.
Reed rubbed his temples, trying to ease the memories of those first few nights. Stumbling back to the kitchenette, he reached for the pantry door, subconsciously rummaging for something to eat. He stopped himself, realizing it was just as barren as the last time he
’d checked. He had consumed the last packet of instant oatmeal - two days ago? Or was it three? His stomach chimed in with a vote for three days without food. I wonder if having a conversation with your stomach is a sign of starvation, he thought.
Representative Wallace began questioning the election and his motivation of revenge. Was his current predicament some sort of karma? A punishment from God?
The members of his household should be safe back in Dallas, or at least that’s what he hoped. Thinking of his family, Reed’s throat began to tighten, and his eyes became moist. The constant conjecture about the safety of his loved ones was torture. His last cell phone call had been to his wife and children. They were heading to her parents’ home in rural Texas. What he wouldn’t give right now to be there with them, or at least know they were secure.
An unusual noise outside prevented a deeper dive into the pool of despair. It was a grinding sound that he hadn’t heard in days – a car engine. Reed sprinted to the window and peeked around the blinds. Yes, there was an SUV and a car outside. He rushed to the other side of the window for a different vantage, still too frightened to peel back the vertical slats. There was a military Humvee as well. Four soldiers with black rifles piled out of the Humvee, quickly followed by some serious-looking gentlemen exiting the cars. The civilians were all very clean cut, with short hair and pressed shirts. As one man moved to shut his door, Reed noticed he was wearing a handgun under his coat. One of the men was holding a piece of paper in his hand, looking at the street addresses and then referring back to the paper. Reed almost jumped for joy when the fellow pointed at his building. The soldiers immediately double-timed in the direction indicated, and in a few minutes, a knock sounded at the door.
The congressman ventured to the threshold and answered, “Who is it?”
“We are looking for Congressman Reed Wallace. This is Lieutenant Thornton, Virginia National Guard.”
Reed opened the door, smiling at the soldiers. “You’ve found him, Lieutenant, and none too soon, I might add.” Ten minutes later, Reed was being hustled to Fort Meade, the capital policemen not seeming to notice his slight body odor.
The United States House of Representatives was going to convene and conduct official business of state. The new capital of the United States of America was temporarily going to be the Maryland army base, a facility named after the Union general who defeated Robert E. Lee at Gettysburg – George Gordon Meade.
Reed wondered what his colleagues from south of the Mason-Dixon line would think of that.
Southland Marina
Kemah Bay, Texas
Morgan knew Wyatt hadn’t slept well. She didn’t need her intuition or the intimate knowledge that comes with over 20 years of marriage to reach such a conclusion. The fact that he had either thrashed about wildly or remained perfectly still throughout the night was proof enough.
She didn’t bother asking him about it. The last few years of struggle had worn out what little complainer existed inside of the man. She decided the best cure was to spoil her husband just a wee bit, so she went about making a cup of coffee and his favorite breakfast sandwich. She did manage to slide in a few comments about the importance of a good night’s sleep while she flipped the fried eggs.
While Morgan was busy fussing over his lack of rest, Wyatt climbed to the bridge and retrieved a set of Texas coastal charts. After thanking his beloved, he got comfortable and began pouring over the waterway maps while consuming the excellent meal.
He startled Morgan when he suddenly jammed his finger onto the map and declared, “That’s it! That’s it, right there!”
Morgan peeked at the chart over his shoulder, slowly pronouncing the words, “Matagorda Island.”
The rest of the afternoon was spent scouring guidebooks that covered the Texas coast and finding out if any of the neighboring boaters had recently visited the island. Wyatt had formed the foundation of a plan when he realized it was almost time for the meeting. He really didn’t want to attend, thinking it more important that he continue and finish his work.
By the time the assembly was convening, Wyatt had done as much research as possible. Two other boaters had visited the isle, and confirmed the information in the guidebooks. The original agenda of the gathering had been for everyone to take turns presenting solutions or strategies. Excited by Wyatt’s idea, one of the captains immediately superseded the proceedings.
“Wyatt has a plan, and I think it’s a good one. I suggest we hear him out first and then go around and see what everyone thinks.”
The reaction from the gathered boaters left a surprised Wyatt with no alternative.
A wave of doubt swept Wyatt’s mind. He hadn’t expected to be leading the ordeal. He was just trying to do his part, secretly hoping someone else had a better plan. Being in the spotlight suddenly became uncomfortable. Didn’t these people know his ideas didn’t typically work out?
Wyatt pushed down his welling insecurity, taking a moment to organize his thoughts. “Let me start off by repeating what I said this morning - I don’t think we can stay here. I would like to…I really want to, but I think David’s right. So if we can’t stay, where would we go?” Wyatt scanned the assemblage, verifying he had everyone’s attention.
“I’ve thought about Galveston, floating around the bay, heading out to the gulf – I’ve thought about a lot of different destinations. All of them have deal-breaking issues. The city of Galveston is probably just as bad off as our neighbors – maybe worse. Floating around the bay isn’t going to work. The first storm that came along would scatter us all around, and we will need land-based resources at some point in time.”
One of the men at the back of the crowd interrupted Wyatt by yelling out, “Wyatt, did you buy a Caribbean Island and not tell anybody?” Everyone laughed, and Wyatt felt a sense of relief. At least they’re not taking me too seriously, he thought.
Waiting until things settled down, Wyatt’s response surprised many of the listeners. “Well, not exactly, but I do know where there’s something almost as good.”
Now he had their attention. “You’ve all heard of Matagorda Bay, and the town of Matagorda, but has anyone other than John or Ross been to Matagorda Island?”
Several people started commenting all at once. Wyatt heard people say things like, “I’ve cruised by there on the way to Corpus,” and “We used to fish around there when I was a kid.” One man stated his father had been stationed at the old airfield after WWII.
Wyatt held up his hands, again requesting quiet. “The island is a little over 38 miles long and for the most part over a mile wide. There are no permanent residents other than a few million birds and some deer. The only way to get out there is via boat. There aren’t any roads. There is a small marina with a few docks and bulkheads called ‘Army Hole.’”
Wyatt gauged the group, observing several heads nodding in agreement. Others were hanging on his next words. “I think we can form up a flotilla and head down there. We can fish and hunt on the island and even plant some crops if it looks like society isn’t going to recover quickly.”
More people were grasping the concept, but the vast majority remained silent, trying to absorb the idea and anticipate the ramifications of the plan. Wyatt expected some people to immediately declare him a lunatic and lobby against the idea, but no one did. There were, however, some questions.
“Wyatt, what if those park rangers don’t want us occupying their territory?” someone asked.
Before Wyatt could answer, another woman asked, “What if some other group has beaten us to it? What if we go all that way, and the place is already full of unwelcoming people?”
Wyatt held up his hands, “I know it’s not a perfect plan, folks. There are a lot of things that could go wrong. But when I compare this strategy to the certain danger of staying here, I think it’s the better option. We’ve got some people here who are really experienced seamen. We have all kinds of vessels at our disposal, including jet-skis, motorized launches, and dinghies.
The small harbor at the park’s marina is sheltered. We’ve got Matagorda Bay for fishing. I think it’s at least worth thinking through.”
Morgan had brought the charts showing the island and surrounding waters. As Wyatt spoke, the oversized maps circulated through the crowd. One of the boaters noted, “I see inland lakes depicted here on the island. Does anyone know if those are freshwater?”
As the meeting progressed, more and more of the crowd engaged with the idea. Questions and concerns were raised by several people. As the sun began to set, Wyatt was pleased that so far no one had raised any issue that was insurmountable. As the light dimmed, everyone’s attention reverted to protecting the marina and appointed the security patrol for the night.
The gathering dispersed, with the determination that everyone was going to consider the plan and talk it over. Several people approached Wyatt, shaking his hand and patting him on the back. Morgan noted that he was becoming the de facto leader of the group, and that concerned her. Once, he had been the sort of man who would accept that role and take it seriously. She had hoped their new, simplified lifestyle would reduce his stress and allow some time to heal after all they had been through, but that was clearly not going to be the case.
As Morgan meandered back to Boxer, the thought occurred to her that in reality, she couldn’t think of anyone else she would prefer to be leading the group. Perhaps this new responsibility would be a better therapy than idleness and relaxation. Maybe some of his old self-confidence and swagger would return.
The poolside at Southland Marina was converted from a place of recreation and tanning to command central of a sizeable naval campaign. Over a dozen boaters arrived with charts, guidebooks, portable GPS units, and pads of paper.
While the route was important, it was the formation of the boats that received the most attention. Since the flotilla would include vessels of different sizes, speeds and rough water capabilities, the planning wasn’t simple.