Martial Law

by Bobby Akart

  “Yes, sir,” he replied. “We were deployed two weeks ago as part of a special security detail. We’ve been instructed to cordon off the city. Please keep moving, sir.”

  Steven rolled up his window and gladly continued across the Potomac. He sat quietly for a moment to digest what he just observed.

  “I’ve never seen the military or the government move this quickly,” he said, breaking the silence. “They’ve closed off the city in less than five hours.”

  “And they used National Guardsmen from Mississippi, who were in place two weeks in advance.”

  Steven pulled off onto the George Washington Memorial Parkway and headed northbound along the river. “Do you know of any reason Washington was in need of heightened security?”

  “No, I would have been informed. Maybe the troop deployment was routine. They did expand the Jade Helm exercise into FEMA Region Three this summer. Their stated purpose was to avoid the 2015 debacle in Texas and across Region Nine, where armed citizens monitored their activities. I guess in this region, people might welcome a strong military presence in the event of unrest.”

  Steven thought for a moment about the public uproar during last year’s exercise. As he followed the news, he tried to differentiate between fact and conspiracy. Some aspects of Jade Helm always bothered him. “Have you noticed that the Jade Helm exercise has continued to expand every year?” asked Steven.

  “It makes you wonder if they’re planning for something,” replied Katie. “Nothing has ever crossed my desk that would indicate the government hopes to implement martial law, but most of what I do is international in scope.”

  People were fleeing the city, naturally. But no one, including a lawful resident, was being allowed back into the city. A National Guard detachment was a thousand miles from home, deployed just in time to secure Washington at the time of a catastrophic collapse of the nation’s power grid. Very interesting. It would take them days to travel to Boston, during which time there would be a lot to ponder.

  Chapter 39

  Sunday, September 4, 2016

  4:22 a.m.

  York, PA

  Steven and Katie swapped driving after passing Frederick, Maryland. Upon crossing into Pennsylvania near Gettysburg, they turned northeast towards York. They had less than half a tank of fuel and decided to turn off onto some rural roads to look for gasoline and sleep for a few hours. The small York Airport helped on both issues.

  “Turn here,” said Steven, pointing to the entrance to the York Airport on the right. “They might have some ninety octane fuel stored for the Cessnas or their groundskeeping personnel.” Katie cut the lights and made her way carefully along Airport Road. They reached the last building that had lawn-mowing equipment outside of it.

  “I bet there’s gas in there,” said Katie. She pulled the truck to a stop.

  “I bet you’re right, but do you want to climb the fence with the razor wire?”

  “No, smartass,” she replied jokingly. “But I do have bolt cutters in the back.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, and other essential burglary tools, including a lock-picking set and a four-way sillcock key.” Katie laughed because she’d walked right into Steven’s warped sense of humor.

  “A sillycock key? I can assure you, it’s not silly at all!”

  “You are so predictable. Get your mind out of the gutter. A sillcock key is used to open and close various types of water spigots when the handles have been removed. A lot of people remove the handles to keep thieves from stealing their water.”

  “Thieves like you.” Steven laughed.

  “Well, there’s a fine line between survival and looting when the shit hits the fan. But this is another example of where my bolt cutters and sillcock key trumps your nine millimeter.”

  “No argument there.”

  “So, Clyde Barrow, are you gonna do the B and E honors, or do you want a girl to show you how?” asked Katie.

  “I’ll do it, Bonnie. You keep the Edsel running.”

  A few moments later, Steven came jogging out of the building with a five-gallon can of gasoline and a machete. He quickly poured the roughly four gallons of gas into the Highlander and jumped in.

  “How many gallons did you score?” Katie turned the truck around and headed back for the highway.

  “Maybe four gallons—another eighty miles.”

  “What’s the machete for?”

  “Zombies.”

  Chapter 40

  Sunday, September 4, 2016

  12:35 p.m.

  Allentown, PA

  Katie and Steven took the opportunity to sleep in the car for several hours before continuing east towards Allentown. The gasoline they acquired would advance them closer to the Connecticut state line, where they planned on taking backroads to avoid Hartford. Once off of the major interstate system, they hoped to encounter less traffic and locate another can of fuel to move them that much closer to Boston.

  “Mother Nature doesn’t stop calling just because the world came to an end,” said Steven as he returned from his morning constitutional.

  “It feels weird, doesn’t it?” asked Katie rhetorically. “Waking up in the car, in BFE Pennsylvania, was an additional reminder that our lives have changed forever.”

  He replaced the toilet paper in Katie’s version of a bug-out bag and rummaged around in the back of the Highlander to find them something to eat before they hit the road. He slammed the hatch shut and jumped in the driver’s seat. “It could be worse.”

  “How so?”

  “You could’ve woken up with a hangover next to a naked Mets fan!”

  Katie gave him a well-deserved slug. “Let’s go, asshole. If we hustle, we can make the four hundred miles or so to Boston by tonight.”

  Steven wheeled the Highlander onto Route 30 and set his sights on Allentown. In this new world, he couldn’t focus beyond one hundred miles at a time. Lancaster and Reading were the next two towns on the map. As America learned about the extent of the collapse, travel would become more precarious.

  “Seriously, the concept of a country with no power is just now settling into my brain,” started Steven. “You want to believe that the utility companies can send out their repair crews and make it better.”

  “We saw the transformers on fire. Some of the substations were still smoldering as we drove through northern Maryland. If this has happened all over the country, there aren’t enough parts to put our Humpty Dumpty power grid back together again.”

  Steven laughed. “Yeah, it may take a year or more to repair the entire grid. I wonder who gets first dibs on restoration.”

  “There’s no doubt that someone will make a fortune deciding that,” replied Katie. “We are a nation totally dependent on electricity and advanced communications. This collapse of the grid is going to be brutal on the country.”

  “Especially on those who haven’t prepared,” added Steven. He looked around the countryside and realized they were approaching Lancaster County—home of the second-largest Amish population in the world.

  There were nearly three hundred thousand Amish in America, the majority of which resided in Pennsylvania, Indiana, and Ohio. This area, known as the Pennsylvania Dutch countryside, was revered for its relaxed, slower-paced lifestyle. Most Americans had limited knowledge of the Amish religion but were very much aware of the Amish limited use of electricity.

  Amish did not use electricity due to their religious belief that too much reliance on worldly influences tied them too closely to the secular world. However, the Amish approach to power was somewhat complicated. Almost all Amish forwent power from the public grid, but the use of batteries, liquid propane, and diesel generators, for example, had become accepted. Many states required the Amish to illuminate their horse-drawn buggies that dotted the landscape of the Amish communities. In Pennsylvania, battery-operated lights were deemed acceptable. But in Nebraska, the much more conservative Amish used kerosene lamps hung on the side of the carriage.


  Steven slowed as he passed a black Amish buggy carrying two men. The wooden wheels bounced on every crack in the road, but they carried on at somewhere between five and eight miles per hour. The large quarter horse seemed to nod his head as Steven passed—show off.

  “These guys don’t give a rat’s ass about electricity,” remarked Steven.

  “They are entirely self-reliant. I’ve studied the Amish, as well as the Mennonites and the Latter Day Saints—LDS. Each of these religions practices self-reliance and preparedness. I’ve never been religious, but now I have to wonder if they had it right all along.”

  As they passed the rows of corn, Steven wondered if the average American was capable of going back to this nation’s roots. They’d been thrust into the nineteenth century and were now on the same level as the Amish. Can a typical family adapt to growing their food, hunting their meat, or healing their sick without the aid of doctors or pharmacies?

  “US 222 takes us straight to Allentown,” said Katie, looking at the map book. “Take the right fork up ahead.”

  As they drove along without incident, Steven checked the fuel gauge from time to time. They would run out of gas on the other side of Allentown. At some point, they would have to turn north to avoid New York City, and gas would become a priority again. Fuel was a problem, but it was manageable. Steven was glad the human element hadn’t reared its ugly head—yet.

  “If the satphone is charged, try to touch base with Sarge and Julia.”

  “I will. The cell phone is totally worthless at this point. Sirius/XM is the same story.”

  Katie placed the call and got through to Julia. They both expressed surprise at the relative calm on both ends. Julia confirmed the status of the nationwide power outage, adding the caveat about the Texas grid being untouched by the attack. Katie assured them not to worry, but that it would most likely be Monday night when they arrived in Boston. Katie promised to call at the same time Monday morning to give them an update.

  “Everything cool?” asked Steven.

  “Oh yeah. Julia is getting 100 Beacon ready for guests.”

  “Oh, of course—our friends and benefactors,” Steven added sarcastically.

  “They’ve been good to us, Steven. It’s our job to protect them.”

  “I know. But as I’ve said before, Mr. Morgan sent me on some dubious missions. I always question his motives, but somehow the results work out.”

  “That’s why you’re a soldier, G.I. Joe.”

  “Very funny, Katie. We’ve learned in the military that the generals, and the politicians who pull their strings, are aware of the bigger picture. We’re supposed to focus on our jobs. But I still get curious about the intent.”

  Katie ran her fingers through his hair, which needed to be cut. “We’ve analyzed the aftermath of your missions for the last year or so. Haven’t we always concluded that the ends justified the means?”

  “Yes,” replied Steven, with a shrug.

  “Then let’s continue to trust in Mr. Morgan and the rest of our friends to make the right choices for our country, and us.”

  Steven slowed as they approached the intersection of Interstate 78. “Look over there, Katie, we must be getting closer to home!” They both laughed. The Samuel Adams Brewery rested quietly to their left.

  “Not quite home, but a taste of home. Boy, could I use a taste of a Sam Adams!”

  “No drinking and driving, sir.”

  “Who’s gonna stop me?” asked Steven as a Camaro swung around them, almost clipping their fender, and roared toward the interstate on-ramp. Steven blared the horn and applied his middle finger for emphasis. “Asshole!”

  “Wow, that was close. Do you think he was late for work?”

  “Screw him. So I hop on I-78?” asked Steven.

  “Yes, and we take it around the Allentown-Bethlehem metropolis.”

  Steven drove a short distance, but the exit ramp to I-78 was blocked by a stalled eighteen-wheeler and a bread truck. “Now what?”

  Katie thumbed through the map and replied, “Maybe we could go ahead and turn north now. The Pennsylvania Turnpike will take us to Scranton, and then we could avoid any traffic coming out of New York.”

  Steven stayed in the right lane and took the ramp. They passed the Camaro that cut them off earlier.

  “Hey, asshole!” said Steven as he gave the driver a long glare. He slowed the Highlander as they approached a line of cars passing through the toll lanes.

  “Surely they’re not collecting money, right?”

  “No kidding,” started Steven. “I guess the state never stops collecting money from—”

  Suddenly, the rear window of the Highlander exploded, sending pieces of glass into the backseat. A gunshot rang out as a bullet flew between them and blew out the windshield.

  “Holy fuck!” screamed Steven. “Get down!” Katie sank below the seat and drew her weapon. Steven pulled out his as well.

  “Who is it?” Katie yelled as Steven veered the Highlander toward the concrete barriers lining the toll lanes. Another shot struck the side of the truck.

  “The Camaro. Two guys, firing out the window. Hold on!”

  Steven tried to navigate the truck through a gap in the barriers. More shots were fired, and one struck Steven in the right shoulder. Another hit his seatback and lodged in his back. The impact of the bullets slammed him against the steering wheel. He screamed in pain but kept driving into the grass. The Highlander came to a stop sideways in a ditch along a fence row. Steven slumped over the steering wheel—his head bleeding from embedded glass. His shirt was soaked in blood.

  “Steven. Steven! Are you all right?” Katie was frantic. More bullets riddled the driver’s side of the truck. She rolled out of the passenger door and took a position at the rear fender. Two men were approaching the truck, and she fired at them. One went down instantly. The other turned to run.

  Katie returned to the truck to see about Steven. He was alive.

  “Fuck me,” he groaned his typical Stevenism.

  “Where are you shot?”

  “Back and right shoulder.” He wiped the blood off his face and looked out his window. “They’re coming back, Katie.”

  Katie looked up as two of the men approached the truck with guns drawn. The third man, only wounded, was making his way to his feet.

  “Come on, we have to go. Can you crawl across the armrest?”

  “Yeah.” She helped Steven out of the front seat, and they crossed through the ditch into the trees.

  “Wait here,” instructed Katie as she ran back towards the truck. She fired in the direction of the assailants to slow their progress toward them. She reached into the back of the hatch and grabbed a bag before turning back towards Steven. Two more warning shots gave her the time she needed to bound through the ditch into the woods. Steven lay motionless in a pile of blood-soaked leaves.

  Chapter 41

  Sunday, September 4, 2016

  4:01 p.m.

  Allentown, PA

  Katie held Steven’s wounds to reduce the bleeding and did her best to keep him calm. As he slipped in and out of consciousness, he tried to muster the strength to go after his attackers. She kept him quiet and still. Fortunately, the shooters didn’t pursue them into the woods, electing instead to loot her truck.

  After they had left, Katie assessed Steven’s wounds. It was dangerous to return to the truck with the shooters approaching, but Katie had the presence of mind to grab her medical bag from the backseat. The contents of the bag and Katie’s self-training would save Steven’s life.

  She quickly picked the bits of shattered glass out of his face and forehead with a sterile forceps. She cleaned the facial lacerations with Betadine using Steripad wipes. She avoided using hydrogen peroxide, which could cause damage to the skin. Together with the use of triple antibiotic ointment, she cleaned the wounds and bandaged his face where necessary.

  The bullet wounds were more complicated than the facial lacerations. A .45 caliber slug was embedded
in Steven’s back. Fortunately, it was slowed by the impact against the window and its route through his driver’s seatback. It was visible and not deeply embedded, which would have required a surgeon—if there was such a thing anymore. Contrary to popular opinion, typically formed by movies, not all bullets needed to be removed. It made for high drama on the big screen, but was not always necessary in practice. In the case of Steven’s back, the bullet was visibly bulging just under the skin and causing him pain.

  Katie pulled another sterilized forceps out of her medical bag. She told Steven to bite a broken tree branch while she separated the skin. She was able to remove the slug with the other forceps. She bandaged up that wound and turned her attention to his shoulder.

  Again, luck was on their side, to an extent. The entry wound was small in comparison to the hole left by the .45 round. It was possible Steven was only shot with an ordinary .22-caliber bullet. It carried only a couple of hundred foot-pounds of energy compared to the .45-caliber round that impacted its target at nearly five hundred foot-pounds.

  Katie’s first thought was relief that he was shot in the shoulder and not near his vital organs. But she also knew the shoulder was a dangerous place to get shot. It contained vital arteries that fed the arm and parts of the back. There was also a significant nerve bundle that controlled arm function. Again, it wasn’t like the movies where the hero takes a bullet to the arm and still manages to hold onto the airplane wing during takeoff.

  Katie cleaned the entry and exit wounds thoroughly and then bandaged him up. She pulled a bottle of electrolyte water out of her medical bag and gave Steven several Advil. She also started a dose of Fish Mox—a standard form of amoxicillin used to treat bacteria in fish, but commonly used by preppers to stock their medical cabinets.

  After another gulp of the electrolyte water, Steven was becoming more lucid. “So, Doc Holliday, am I gonna live?”

  “Maybe,” replied Katie as she suddenly became overwhelmed with emotion. She began to cry and muttered, “But only if you pay my bill.”