Alan nodded, taking in everything. He stared off contemplatively. “You know, I’ve done everything I’ve known to do over the years to prepare her for the end of the world as we know it,” he said. “I’ve tried to do the same for myself, although I think Lauren actually might have a better grasp on the premises than I do. For a long time I’ve had a premonition things would eventually get bad and a change was coming. I’ve considered hundreds of possibilities of how things would end up, but I never once considered the likelihood of an actual war. If that’s what’s coming, it only serves to further solidify my decision to bring her here.”
“It has been coming for a long time,” Woo Tang said, an eyebrow raised. “Dave has even decided to entitle it Zero Dark Armageddon. You might have even heard him mention the term before.”
“That’s an interesting dub. Lots of syllables. A little too scriptural for a man like Dave Graham, if you ask me.”
Woo Tang shrugged, leaning his head to the side. “When I posed the question as to why he used that particular phrase to describe it, he said it was because he did his best work in the dark. Also, he said he did not have a choice. The name American Revolution was already taken.”
Alan snickered. “Now that definitely sounds more like a Dave proverb to me.”
Woo Tang’s face tightened. “So it is your belief that Dave was correct, then? To invite you and your teenage daughter here, to partake in preparations for and knowledge of what is to come?”
“I believe Lauren can handle just about anything,” Alan said. “She’s proven it to me many times. She’s not like most young women in the world. In fact, she’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met before. She’s a true individual and she believes in herself.”
“How sure of herself is she?”
Alan thought a moment, turning his head away. “If she knew she could extinguish it, even if everyone else in sight was screaming bloody murder and running for their lives, Lauren would grab a pack and an armload of gear and run headlong into a forest fire.”
The Korean-American snorted. “I see. Your daughter is a brave one, then.”
“Yes. And she can think her way through almost anything,” Alan said. “The future is becoming more uncertain by the day, and I want her to be ready for it—no matter what happens. I owe it to her. What’s in store for her and her generation was in many ways precipitated by decisions and perpetrations made by my generation.”
Woo Tang cocked his head. “Generations before ours are just as much to blame. We are all culpable for fostering apathy, and that has only served to fuel inaction. Nothing good can come from those things.”
Alan nodded. “Lauren deserves better. She deserves to perceive, identify, and experience true freedom. Something we, as citizens of this country, never had…and don’t know anything about.”
Woo Tang nodded his recognition. “Alan, I believe we see eye to eye on things.”
“I think we do, too.”
“For certain. Let me ask this, though. Are you familiar with the term force multiplier?”
Alan shook his head. “I can’t say I’ve ever caught wind of it before.”
Woo Tang squinted. “That is okay. We are here to educate one another, after all. In warfare, a force multiplier is a capability, or a combination of capabilities, that can increase the combat potential and overall effectiveness of a group, in some cases, exponentially. It is a precept that has existed for a great deal of time, even before it had a name. By following the laws of force multiplication, it is possible to fight and win even when resources are very limited. Morale, training, and experience can be force multipliers. Having a reputation that invokes fear or use of certain tactics, such as war by attrition, can be force multipliers. And in certain contexts, a person—even a young person—with the right mindset, courage, combined with a specific skill set, can be a force multiplier.”
Alan turned to face him. “I think I get what you’re saying.”
“Are you certain?” asked Woo Tang. “Because it is truly why you and your daughter are here with us right now.”
Alan didn’t respond. He pushed his hands into his pockets, waiting for the man to expound.
Woo Tang’s eyes narrowed while pulling together a smile. “That is what Dave referred to you and Lauren as…when the topic was broached about you joining us here.”
“Dave told you that?”
Woo Tang nodded. “In particular, and this is in no way a slight on you, he was more so referring to your daughter. He was…closing a deal that day, and the topic of discussion caused the conversation to run amuck. Things got rather heated.”
“Okay…now you’ve lost me again,” Alan admitted.
“Alan, men like us, soldiers of regular military, do not usually partake in what you see here. Several men in the original unit parted ways and never returned once Dave informed them of his intentions.”
“Wait…what intentions?”
“To train with certain civilians,” Woo Tang said. “More specifically, but not necessarily limited to, a female juvenile civilian.”
Alan bristled. “Men were opposed to that?”
“At first, we all were. But Dave managed to convince most of us otherwise. Some were pushovers; others chose to give it a chance and see where it goes. I told you, the man is a mastermind.”
“I guess I don’t understand why it’s that big a deal,” Alan said.
“It is a major undertaking, Alan—an enormous one. But not so much for you and your daughter as it is for us,” Woo Tang explained. “You see, the men you just met, including myself, are all either current or former members of the military—a regular army empowered by and under contract with our country’s government. What we are doing now could technically be considered treasonous, whether officially or unofficially. We could be recognized as irregulars or even a rebel army, entities that governments are not particularly fond of.”
Woo Tang paused and sighed. “Each of us swore oaths to the Constitution, and while risking our lives to defend it and our nation, we watched as the words within were disregarded and trampled on by those in power. Along with our loyalties, our mental discipline has changed, and we have a modified primary objective. It could make us targets should our former employer take action on us. If our proposals were ever exposed, even in normal times, we would most likely be court-martialed under the Uniform Code of Military Justice for any number of crimes, all punishable by death.”
“That explains the use of nicknames,” said Alan.
“Anonymity can be a force multiplier, too,” Woo Tang said, reaching down to gather his belongings he had placed on the ground earlier. He started in the direction of the range, where echoes of sporadic gunfire could be audibly detected in the distance. “Alan, are you coming along? Lots of stuff to shoot at down there.”
Alan nodded. “Yeah, I wouldn’t miss it. But first, would you mind if I asked you a personal question?”
“It is only fair. They call that quid pro quo, I think,” Woo Tang said, squinting his already narrowing eyes.
“That they do. You mentioned your—I mean, the unit’s primary objective and the fact that it had changed. What exactly is it now?”
“That is simple—support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic.”
Alan smirked. “I don’t want to sound too presumptuous, but isn’t that a lot like the previous one?”
Woo Tang shrugged. “Our allegiance is to a different form of government now—the one originally intended to remain in power. Before things got all…messed up.”
Alan took a few steps closer. “A different form of government?” he asked. “What exactly does that mean?”
“Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. That whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it,” Woo Tang said, quoting the Declaration of Independence word for word as his voice grew de
eper and more succinct. “Our ultimate objective now is taking our country back, Alan. We are no longer inclined to serve the government as it currently exists, because it does not serve, nor does it represent the people as it was designed. We do not live in the republic the forefathers envisioned and put into place. It has malformed into an elitist oligarchy, where only a small group of rich, dominant citizens rule over all the rest. And, I am sorry, but that is just not good enough for us. We have had our fill of the tyranny that has ruled unjustly for generations, and we are going to put an end to it once and for all, I promise you. And I will stand by idly when it is over, and watch when those guilty of breaching their oaths to the Constitution are consumed by a sea of their own blood. The time has come to make ready, Alan Russell. We are going to restore the republic.”
Chapter 2
FEMA Resettlement Camp Bravo
Woodstock, Virginia
Thursday, October 21st
After devoting several frustrating minutes to her struggle with a rusty, corroded lock securing the doors of the shipping container designated ‘Conex D’, Beatrice Carter managed to force it open. The lock had required more effort than she had anticipated, and now, as she struggled to open a similarly oxidized steel outer door, she thought back, wishing she had accepted her husband’s offer to accompany her.
Prying the door open just enough to allow her slender body to slip inside, Beatrice was struck hard by the rancid bouquet of human waste, nearly succumbing to it. Wincing, she rebounded backward, nearly tripping over her own feet. She turned, fell to her knees, and regurgitated onto the ground until her body’s response to the attack on her senses had converted to dry heaves.
Beatrice slowly rose from her knees and recovered her composure while rubbing dense tears away from her now swollen, bloodshot eyes. She then hobbled away to a safe distance where she could no longer sense the intolerable stench emanating from inside the container. As she moved away, she searched for witnesses. “Well, that was a little embarrassing, wasn’t it?” she ruminated aloud, a delicate Southern veneer coating her voice.
Beatrice turned to look at the crack she had made in the door, imagining for a moment the smell wafting out was potent enough to be visually perceptible as it sliced its way through the surrounding fresh air. She shook her head and mumbled to herself, “Bea, you dumb ass. This new phase of employment is making you soft. For the love of God, get your shit together, already.”
The lean, Georgia-born chief correctional officer removed a small vial of camphor ointment from a pack hanging from her shoulder and, opening it, placed a small slathering of the cream under each nostril with her index finger. In doing so, she recollected the autopsy scene in The Silence of the Lambs, when Clarice had done the same to mask the smell of human decomposition. Beatrice had always been a fan of Jodie Foster and thought she reminded Beatrice a bit of herself, both in appearance and mannerisms—with the exception of her role in the movie Nell.
Beatrice inhaled through her nose, wondering if the concoction would be potent enough to thwart the vicious stench that had almost sent her into oblivion moments ago. Clearly, whatever latrine the detainees had been using had not been tended to in some time and had, therefore, been stewing for days or even weeks. Thinking about it was making her sick to her stomach, and she had yet to go inside.
Beatrice pushed the crass thoughts away as best she could and turned her attention to her uniform, a garment she guessed would now require hazardous material disposal, or incineration. She was certain there would be no other feasible way to eradicate the lingering smell.
Returning to the door, Beatrice reached for her sidearm, sliding it up and out of the unsnapped duty holster on her hip. Pressing the slide backward with a skilled index finger, she confirmed the glint of a nickel-plated round in the chamber, then flipped off the Beretta’s safety, pulled the hammer back with her thumb, and worked the door with her other hand.
She took a deep breath and slid through the opening, reaching for the light switch on the wall, but stopped short of it. Instead, Beatrice opted to ignite the Surefire torch mounted to the picatinny rail of her Beretta, and the high-intensity LED responded, illuminating the obscurity of the container’s interior.
“Well, let there be…light,” she cooed.
Beatrice had only expected to see a single captive inside, but soon found the actual number to be a half dozen. Five partially clothed men and women sat huddled close together, shivering, their hands bound in restraints, their ankles secured in shackles moored to the floor. While their movements were restricted, the moorings appeared long enough to permit them access to a row of five-gallon buckets they had evidently been using as privies.
While the quivering occupants cowered, trying desperately to shield their eyes from her flashlight’s pitiless stream of light, Beatrice lit up each occupant’s face one at a time to see if she recognized them, but not one in the group jarred her memory.
While pointing her beam along the wall toward the rear of the container, Beatrice noticed a mass huddled on the floor a distance away from the others. She pranced toward it, careful to keep her distance from those nearest her as she sidestepped past. Two wool blankets, their colors and textures being only slightly dissimilar, lay in a pile on the floor, and upon further inspection, it was evident that someone or something was nestled beneath them.
Beatrice pulled her sidearm close to her chest, rested her finger on the trigger, and placed her non-shooting hand where it would support the other. “Augie said you’d be here,” she whispered. “I guess the time has come to see what’s under blanket number one.”
With her weak hand, Beatrice reached down and yanked one of the blankets away, tossing it behind her. She backed away swiftly and stood silent for a moment, halfway expecting the creature hidden under the remaining coverlet to respond in defense.
After several seconds of zilch, Beatrice shook her head, chiding herself. “Come on, Bea. Stop being such a wussy. She’s no threat to you.”
Beatrice closed the distance again and tugged off the second blanket, sending it flying backward into the waiting arms of one of the spasming detainees to her rear. Two others nearest him felt the commotion and reached in, and a fight over the possession of the rare comfort item ensued.
Beatrice smiled. The person she had come for was here, lying on the chilly bare steel floor. “Well, I declare. Wonders never cease. I have to say, it’s—well, it’s been quite a while, Karen,” she said, her Southern accent now conveying a mocking tinge. “So, tell me. How’ve you been?”
Karen Mitchell had become almost unrecognizable. She was emaciated, her skin pulled in tightly around her skeletal structure, almost as if a vacuum existed inside her. Her hair had lost nearly all of the red pigmentation that had once been one of her most striking features. Her fingernails had been gnawed on, some having been bitten off. She was half of the person she’d once been, appearing as though she was clinging to life by a mere thread.
Beatrice grimaced. “I guess Augie was right. There’s not much left of you now, is there?” She moved to within inches of her prey and placed the toe of her boot to Karen’s side, nudging her.
Karen’s body jerked. She began frantically flailing her arms in all directions, as if she had suddenly awoken from a coma. “Cold…so…cold,” Karen whispered, her body trembling, her voice barely audible. “Blanket…blanket. Please. So cold.”
“Oh, I am sorry now, Karen,” Beatrice said, shrugging indifferently. “But it’s gone, I’m afraid. The blanket has left the building. There’s no more blanket.”
Karen continued to flail, desperately attempting to locate something to cover herself with. Her body shook, and goose bumps began rising to the surface of her nearly transparent skin. She attempted to put her weight onto her arms and move into a sitting position, but her arms, riddled with atrophy, failed her.
“Now, I’m far from being a nutritionist, but it looks to me like you might be suffering from a severe vitamin D deficiency,” Beatr
ice mocked. “I suppose that can happen to someone who hasn’t seen the sun in a while. Ordinarily, a daily multivitamin would be in order, but regrettably, an item like that would be considered contraband for a detainee such as yourself in a place like this.”
Karen didn’t respond, only continued on with near-hysterical, involuntary movements while mouthing faint inaudibles.
Casting her light onto Karen’s feeble wrists, Beatrice’s sardonic smirk transformed into a frown, and her recently plucked brows drew closely together. “Why, your hands aren’t bound, Karen. Your cellmates’ hands most certainly are, yet yours remain mysteriously unrestrained. Now, how did you manage to be the only detainee in this container without wrist restraints on? Quite the brain-teaser…or conundrum—don’t you think?”
“Jason?” Karen asked, her voice weak and less than half its normal capacity. “Jason…”
“Jason?” Beatrice howled, her face twisting, her tone aghast. “I’m not Jason.”
Karen held up a trembling arm, her fingers extending and curling as if trying to grasp something. “Water…”
Beatrice scowled. “Oh, I think I know what’s been transpiring here. You’ve been getting yourself a little help from your friends, is that right? Tell me, Karen—has someone been providing you with…humanitarian assistance in the form of prohibited contraband during your stay here in the lovely Southern Annex? That is to say, have you been in receipt of charitable contributions?” The disdain practically dripped off her tongue.
With eyes still closed, Karen turned her head to face Beatrice, holding out a trembling hand in her interrogator’s direction. Beatrice pushed it away defiantly with the muzzle of her sidearm.
“You know, I gotta be honest with you, Karen. I don’t have a lot of time today, and I’m really not in the mood for this shit. I came here for an…unambiguous reason, and I don’t want to chance getting sidetracked, so I need you to listen to me, okay? There’s some information I require from you about your buddy Faith Gallo. You know, the nice old gospel-singin’ lady you helped go see her husband—the reason you wound up here, reeking like piss, shit, and dirty old blankets.” Beatrice took a quick whiff through her nostrils to verify the efficacy of the camphor ointment beneath them. “I have some questions I need answers to—sort of ‘fill in the blank’ questions.”
What's Left of My World (Book 3): We Won't Go Quietly Page 6