Charlie's Requiem: Resistance

by Walt Browning

  “My God,” the colonel gasped. “What the hell is DHS doing?”

  “I don’t know, sir. But I mean to find out,” Jeb said.

  Dixon sat quietly as the two men talked, their voices raised as they discussed the possibility that the people of Tennessee were being enslaved by those in charge in Washington D.C. It was too fantastic to consider, but after a few minutes of debate, they all felt that further information needed to be obtained.

  “I want your Comspecs to monitor the airwaves, especially the HAM frequencies. If anything’s going on out there, that’s where you’ll get the unfiltered but unverified truth. We’ll use that information to direct our next mission.”

  The colonel got up and began to pace behind his desk. As he spoke, it was almost as if he was talking to himself, rattling off a laundry list of things he had to get done. It was going to fall on his son and Dixon to complete that list.

  “We need to build some QRTs to respond to anything that needs investigating. Dixon, with your birds down, your men have nothing to do right now. Organize at least three squads of your most trusted soldiers and begin training them on intel gathering techniques. You know the drill.”

  Who, what, where, when and how. Critical thinking in a formula that they could train the soldiers to use when gathering information.

  “I want this on the QT. No hint to anyone that isn’t fully cleared and trusted. This can’t get back to DHS or FEMA.”

  “Understood,” both men replied.

  “Make it happen, men. This is not what we volunteered for, but if true, it’s what we will fight against. I want a report tomorrow by 1400, and I want your QRT’s organized and training by the weekend. Is that clear?”

  “Yes sir!”

  “Then dismissed,” the colonel said. As the two men turned to leave, he called to his son, “1730 dinner?”

  “Yes sir, Colonel, sir,” Jeb replied with a smile.

  “See you there. And make sure my grandson knows his Papa is coming.”

  After leaving the office, Dixon and Jeb each went their separate ways., mentally creating a list that had to be completed before 1400 tomorrow. Meanwhile, Cooper’s new E-2 secretary, Wright, knocked on the colonel’s door and stuck his head into the room.

  “Colonel, is it alright if I use the head? I’ve been holding it for a while.”

  “No problem, Wright. I’m sure I can handle myself while you’re gone.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the young man replied.

  Exiting the outer office, Wright walked passed the men’s room and entered an empty office. Dusty furniture sat in the unused room as he strode to a locked metal cabinet. Producing a key, he quickly opened the cupboard doors and pulled out a nylon sack. Unzipping it, he produced a satellite phone. He punched a button on the keyboard to dial a preset number.

  “Wright, here,” Wright said. “You asked me to report anything out of the ordinary.”

  The young man repeated the conversation he’d overhead at his boss’s door. He told of the failure to get any of the Apache helicopters functional as well as the plan to investigate the camps.

  “I want to know what and when they are planning on sending out their men,” the voice on the other end of the said once Wright was done. “I want to know everything.”

  “Will do,” the young traitor replied. “You’ll take care of me, then?”

  “Like my own son,” the voice said back. “Keep me informed.”

  Wright disconnected the call and hid the sat phone back in the nylon sack. He stepped into the men’s room and relieved himself.

  Stupid Guardsmen, he thought.

  He hated Tennessee. His family had moved here from California when his father took a job at a bank in Nashville. Joining the Guard was his dad’s idea of giving him some discipline—and as long as he had played that game, he was given access to his father’s money.

  When “the darkness” hit, money held no more sway. After befriending a DHS agent in Nashville, it was clear to Wright who had power in this new world. Wright was now in the secret employment of the men from Washington.

  When he was asked to keep an eye on Colonel Cooper by his handler, the order came from DHS. Technically, he was just following his commanding officer’s orders since DHS was now in charge of the Guard. What was it to him if there was intrigue in the castle, as long as he got his just dues in the end?

  Back in Nashville, McCain put down his satellite phone and congratulated himself on seeing the potential of one E-2 Guardsman Wright. Having a direct backchannel into Colonel Cooper’s headquarters was critical in keeping control of the area.

  The poor colonel, McCain thought. He really has no idea of the layers of deceit and misdirection in today’s political world.

  “One can never have enough knowledge,” McCain said to himself.

  The DHS assistant director punched a button on his intercom system.

  “Yes sir,” a crackly reply came back over the ancient, but still functional, twentieth century device.

  “Get me Washington,” McCain demanded.

  If Colonel Cooper was going to make trouble, he needed to let his superiors know about it. Letting the man command a regiment of functional and deadly Abrams tanks was a good way to lose control. And McCain, like his bosses at DHS, were all about control.

  CHAPTER 8

  VANDERBILT MEDICAL CENTER

  NASHVILLE, TN

  “Common sense is instinct. Enough of it is genius.”

  — George Bernard Shaw

  A FEW WEEKS AFTER K.T. DIXON gave his grim report to Colonel Cooper, Dr. Claire Kramer flopped onto an uncomfortable plastic couch and slowly closed her eyes for the first time in almost thirty hours. Since her chronic kidney patients had been moved out of her care late last year, she had become one of the few remaining emergency room physicians at the city of Nashville’s only level 1 trauma center. In fact, with only six such centers in the state, Vanderbilt’s medical center was the de facto destination for almost all life-threatening injuries in central Tennessee.

  And boy, was there was a lot of trauma out there. Gangs had taken control of much of the area. The roaming bands of thugs were responsible for any multitude of criminal offenses. Murder, robbery, and rape were at epidemic levels. About the only thing that Claire could think of that hadn’t become an item of value was gasoline, even as the older vehicles that still ran had become a prize that the criminals would kill for. There were plenty of idle vehicles with full tanks of gas that were easy pickings for anyone with a siphon or someone that could drive a pick into a tank and catch the fuel with a bucket.

  Her first gun-shot wound patient had been from a local junk yard where spare parts for the older, computer-free automobiles could be had. Criminal chop shops were springing up all over the city as crime lords sought control of the streets, and with a minimal presence of either police or the military evident outside of the university grounds, the gangs had free reign throughout the city.

  Reports of neighborhoods coming together to create safe zones were also filtering into the emergency room. Wounded civilians were occasionally brought in as fire fights between the gangs and the various clusters of citizens became more common. Supplies were rapidly dwindling, so food and ammunition were now at a premium in the metro area. This brought the innocent and the criminals together with more and more frequency.

  With the Vanderbilt medical center providing both primary care and emergency services for the new government, Claire found herself in something of a gilded cage. She had all the luxuries that one could want during an apocalypse, yet she was also a prisoner to a system that seemed to be slowly losing the battle to provide for its citizens.

  She lay quietly in the lounge, grateful for the lights that shone above her and the cool breeze that she felt on her cheeks. She didn’t know the time because she had stopped checking her watch. All that mattered was being available when the need arose. It didn’t really matter what time it was when a person was dying. She often didn’t know wh
ether it was day or night outside, so that knowing it was 3:30 meant nothing. She slept when she could and ate when she found herself in front of some food.

  Claire had abandoned her apartment and now slept in the bunkroom attached to the lounge. The men and women “hot bunked,” sleeping in whatever bed was available when exhaustion finally overwhelmed them. Bathrooms were attached to their sleeping quarters, giving the residents and nurses a place to shower and private toilets to use. She knew that the rest of the country was experiencing a much more perilous situation, but Claire still resented being stuck here.

  At first, after she was pressed into service in the E.R., they would see maybe one or two patients a day. Most of the injuries were burns from fires made for heat and cooking. A few accidental lacerations or the occasional traumatic amputation showed up as people, used to pushing a pencil or working a cash register, were now trying to build shelters and perform other manual labor projects they had never tried before.

  But now, with spring’s arrival and the summer heat occasionally threatening to break through, fire injuries were less common. Instead, groups of survivors were bumping into each other as they sought out the ever-dwindling resources of a dying city. Knife wounds had replaced accidental lacerations, and gunshots had become the number one injury she treated.

  As she began to sink into a light slumber, she felt the air move near her as one of her fellow workers walked by. Claire smelled the generic antiseptic odor of the person, giving her no clue whether it was a man or woman. She heard the distinctive clanging of a coffee mug and the ritualistic sounds of cream and sugar being added to the ceramic cup. Claire snuck a peek, lifting her heavy eyes just enough to recognize Rachael Mason, one of the best trauma nurses she had ever worked with. Rachael had taught Claire more than any of the emergency doctors she had shadowed. Given that the trauma nurses were often the first in the hospital to triage the patient and begin their care, Rachael was a wealth of life-saving information and critical care tips.

  “Did I wake you?” Rachael asked with a distinctive lack of sympathy.

  “Like you care,” Claire mumbled to her friend.

  “You need to ask?” the nurse replied with a smile.

  Claire heaved herself up from the furniture and stumbled over to the coffee pot.

  “Why is it so quiet out there?” Claire asked as she poured coffee into an old beige mug. “Did they finally run out of bullets?”

  “No,” Rachael said. “It’s close to five.”

  “I’m assuming you mean morning and not dinner time.”

  “You assume correctly. Even the gangs need some sleep.”

  Claire sat down at the table with her friend, both women savoring the brief moment of calm as they sipped their whitened and sweetened coffee.

  “How’s your family doing?” Rachael asked, breaking their trance-like state.

  “Fine, I guess. I haven’t spoken directly with them in a while, although I still get updates from that HAM radio guy. He sends me notes occasionally with a message for me from my dad or mom.”

  “That sucks,” Rachael said. “But I guess it’s better than nothing.”

  Claire had no good reply to this line of conversation. She knew that Rachael’s parents had been killed early on in “the darkness” when they were ambushed by escaped inmates while driving their old pickup truck from the farm they owned near Ashland City. With so much confusion in those early days, their bodies had been recovered and cremated before Rachael had heard they were dead. She hadn’t been back to their farm since they were killed, which was now likely occupied by squatters or just falling into disrepair.

  Hoping to deflect the conversation in a more positive direction, Claire asked, “How was your last visit to Smyrna?”

  “Well,” Rachael said with a sly grin. “It was very productive.”

  “Do tell! And don’t leave out a single detail. How’s your beau?”

  Rachael took another sip of her coffee, primarily to hide the growing flush that was developing on her cheeks. Claire was enjoying her friend’s discomfort as Rachael struggled to decide just how much to disclose.

  “Billy’s…fine. He’s just fine.”

  “Just fine?”

  “No, he’s quite fine.”

  “Come on,” Claire begged. “Details! You know I have no life. I need a good story to get me through.”

  “Oh, alright,” Rachael said, and the two women began gossiping like two teenaged girls. Billy Sims was Rachael’s boyfriend. A private pilot before “the darkness,” he was now with the Tennessee National Guard. At first, Rachael had been upset when the Guardsmen were relocated from the nearby airport to Smyrna. It was only fifteen miles away, but it might as well have been a thousand with gangs and criminals a constant threat. Recently, a regular convoy was established between the Smyrna National Guard Base, the Nashville airport, and the hospital, moving supplies between those three key areas. Rachael could hop a ride with the supply convoy and get back to the hospital within twenty-four hours.

  “So what does Billy have to say about all this?” Claire asked.

  “He can’t be specific, but I got the feeling that the Guard isn’t too happy with how the government is handling the recovery.”

  “Heck, I could have told you that,” Claire said. “Our government has no control at all.”

  “No, it’s worse than that. Billy says that some of the officers are starting to think that what’s going on is exactly what the government wants. They’re sending out men to investigate some pretty crazy stuff they’ve heard about.”

  Rachael scooted herself closer to Claire and spoke in a whisper.

  “Remember what you told your dad? How all your long-term patients just disappeared?”

  “Yeah, of course,” Claire murmured, troubled.

  “Well, some of the Guardsmen that reported for duty are talking about work camps with forced labor. And a few survivors have said that there are a bunch of people unaccounted for after a visit from Homeland.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Nope. Two of the Guardsmen from the Memphis area had to threaten DHS with their machine guns to get family out of the Memphis relocation camp. The place is a jail, and a lot of the men and some of the women that check in often go missing after a while. There was even a farm set up by DHS outside Jackson that refused to let the Guardsmen in. Said they didn’t have the security clearance.”

  Claire’s brain was too tired to process the information, she decided to visit the local HAM radio operator named “Slack” and get in touch with her father. He’d know what to do.

  “Hey,” Rachael said after a long pause. “You’re drifting off.”

  “Just thinking,” Claire replied. “I need to talk with my dad about this.”

  “No, the first thing you need to do is get some rest. I came down here to let you know that you’re officially on weekend leave and don’t have to report for ER duty for forty-eight hours.”

  “How…?”

  “They have an Army doc here for the weekend, getting some real-world trauma experience. You are officially not needed, so get some rest and have fun for the next two days.”

  Claire slowly got up from the table and stretched her back. “It’s been so long since I’ve had a day off. I hardly know what to do with myself.”

  “Get some rest,,” Rachael said, nodding to the bunkroom door.

  “Thanks. Let’s talk later.”

  “I’ll be here, just get some rest. I have a feeling we’re going to need it.”

  Claire took the bottom bed on the last of the five bunkbeds. Hanging her lab coat on the wall hook next to her, she fell on top of the covers, too tired to pull the cotton blanket and sheets back. The last thing that Claire remembered was the cold, stiff pillow hitting the back of her neck as she fell into the deep abyss of a sleep long past due.

  Twelve hours later, Claire finally pulled herself out of the lower bunk and stood and stretched. She went to a rack of fresh scrubs and found a set tha
t fit, then grabbed her flip flops from her locker. A long, hot shower left Claire invigorated.

  Afterward, she went to the hospital’s cafeteria and got in line with the rest of the staff. The sight of baked chicken and mashed potatoes set her empty stomach growling, and she loaded her plate with more food than she could ever remember eating. She also grabbed extra chicken for the HAM operator, remembering her mother’s penchant for sending food as a token of thanks. Embarrassed at the heavy tray, she rushed past the empty cash register. At least she didn’t have to pay for anything; since money wasn’t around anymore, the food was a perk for the hospital workers. She found a table well away from prying eyes and began the assault on her meal.

  As she attacked a particularly delicious bowl of carrots coated in brown sugar, Claire felt rather than saw someone sit down next to her.

  “Rachael?” she guessed.

  “Were you expecting someone else?” her friend asked.

  “Prince Charming. Note the spare chicken I brought for him.”

  “Never met him, though he must be a big guy to need that much food.”

  Rachael reached her fork over to the still-overflowing plate in front of her friend but received a dog-like growl from Claire for her efforts.

  “Really?” Rachael asked. “You have enough to kill a horse.”

  “Probably, but I haven’t had a hot meal since…what day is it today?”

  “Good Lord, woman. It’s Saturday.”

  “Then I haven’t had a hot meal since Wednesday’s breakfast.”

  “Living on protein bars?”

  “And coffee, lots of coffee.” Claire took a big bite of chicken breast topped with cheese and gravy, wrapped in a slice of white bread.

  “They had ham sandwiches,” Rachael said, eyeing the strange concoction with curiosity.

  “No pig products unless it’s an emergency. One of the forbidden foods.”