by Lars Teeney
“Everyone, it’s okay! It’s me, Jamal Nubia! Just stay down. I’m here for ammo!” Jamal Nubia tried to reassure the group. He was a tall, shirtless man, with very dark skin and long, thick dreadlocks cascading from his head. He wore a bandana over his mouth. As he ran over to a stack of crates in the corner, Kesha Nubia jumped up from under the wet blanket tent.
“Jamal! What’s going on upstairs? Is everything okay?” Kesha asked, grabbing his arm.
“It’s bad! Don’t tell the others, Johnny Nubia has been shot, but he’s alive! We’re doing what we can, but the pigs ain’t gonna let up! The one advantage we have is the bunker on the roof, they can’t get to us there!” Jamal said excitedly, in a hushed tone.
“I want to fight! Let me have a gun!” Kesha demanded,shakinghis arm. He jerked away and picked up a crate of ammunition.
“No, you can’t fight! Stay here and keep the children safe! I gotta go!” With that Jamal rushed off carrying the crate of ammunition, and the door slammed behind him. Birdie was relieved to see the return of him mother underneath the blanket.Heembraced her.
“Momma! What’s happening? Is everything okay?” Birdie sobbed.
“Baby, everything is gonna be alright because Johnny Nubia is with us!” Kesha smiled at Birdie and brushed her hand through his tightly-curled hair. He buried his face in the nape of her neck. The gunfire became sporadic and soon dropped to an occasional pop. Kesha and the other women continued to lead the children in song and attempted to distract their minds with games. Birdie seemed to lose track of time in their blanket prison. The water that had been pumped into the house had collected in the basement, and the floor drain had backed up. As a result, the women and children were forced to sit in several inches of water. Soon, there were no more sounds of battle and the police blowhorn had gone quiet. Kesha speculated out loud that it may be a miracle that Johnny Nubia had made happen. The women began to cry in happiness because of the potential deliverance. The torrent of water that was being pumped into the house had also stopped. It seemed to the beleaguered blanket refugees that they had been saved. Suddenly the door to the basement flung open and Jamal Nubia had returned.
“I think we won! The pigs are backing off! They are moving their vehicles back. It was too much for ’em!” Jamal Nubia was dancing and yelling. The women and children emerged from under the blanket and cried thanks to Johnny Nubia. The children embraced each other and their mothers. Birdie sat silently. The entire situation seemed so anti-climactic to him, even at such a young age he realized this. Kesha Nubia looked to her son, kneeling over him.
“What’s wrong, baby? Let’s get you out of this water and filth!” she said, beckoning her son to get to his feet.
“Momma, are the pigs all gone?” Birdie asked for his mother for reassurance.
“Yes—baby, everything is fine now. Johnny Nubia—what’s that sound?” Kesha Nubia questioned the new sound that by now everyone heard.Thesounddrew closer.
“It sounds like a ‘ghetto bird’! Motherfucker’s are probably going to land a S.W.A.T. team! I gotta go!” Jamal Nubia picked up his weapon and rushed out the door, en route to the rooftop bunker.
“Kids! Get down—stay down!” Kesha yelled. She corraled them back toward the blankets. Birdie helped gather up the younger children. The roar of the helicopter rotors shook the house, seemingly right above the house now. Then, nothing, the circling helicopter rotors faded as it flew further from the house. The women and children started to smile to one another as salvation had been delivered once more. That was the last pleasant thought that Birdie remembered before the massive explosion rocked the very foundation of the ‘Action’ house. Timber splintered, plaster crumbled and glass shattered all throughout the house. The overall structure had held, but the house had taken punishment.Thewomenshrieked and the children wailed with fear.
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Commissioner Rodrigo watched the smoke rise in silent awe. The explosion that had just occurred had sent a pressure wave that brushed through Rodrigo’s hair like an ocean breeze. He was content in that moment.
“Commissioner Rodrigo! The detonation was successful—” Sargeant Zhukov reported loudly, interrupting Rodrigo’s zen-like moment.
“Dammit, man! I already know that! Tell me something I don’t know,” Commissioner Rodrigo complained. Sargeant Zhukov collected himself, taken aback by the Commissioner’s lack of compassion.
“Sir, it appears that the bunker on top of the house is still partially intact. But, I think that the defenders are probably incapacitated. Based on surveillance team intelligence who have been watching the house we believe that all the women and children are hiding in the basement. If we storm the house now we can most likely secure them, and move upstairs to engage the defenders,” Sargeant Rodrigo suggested, He thought his course of action was very prudent.Commissioner Rodrigo gazed at the trail of smoke ascending to the sky.
“No. It’s still too risky. I don’t want to lose men in a bloodbath. I believe that they would use the women and children as human shields. No, they were given plenty of chances to surrender,” Rodrigo said, assured of himself.
“Sir! I beg to differ. Do you see that smoke. There’s a fire starting. We have to storm the house before the fire gets worse, or at the very least we should use the water cannons to put it out!” Zhukov was close to raising his voice, but he knew that one did not yell at Commissioner Rodrigo.
“Fire? Well, all the better. You yourself said that the bunker is still intact. This fire will do our work for us,” Commissioner Rodrigo proclaimed with a spark in his eye.
“Sir? You can’t be serious—” Sargeant Zhukov was cut off.
“Don’t you presume to question me! You have never met the Mayor, Sargeant! He gets never-ending complaints about the blight and crime in this neighborhood. The ‘Action’ organization has been a thorn in his side for far too long. I intend to make this the ‘answer’ to the Mayor’s question,” Commissioner Rodrigo announced with resolve. He turned to watch the smoke rise once more.
“So, we just let everyone die in the fire then?” Zhukov asked coldly.
“C’mon Sargeant, you know as well as I that no one in their right mind would remain in a house on fire. No, we let the fire burn,” Commissioner Rodrigo said with amusement. Sargeant Zhukov realized that he would get nowhere with the Commissioner.
“Sir,” was all he said and then he stormed off. Commissioner Rodrigo, in his moment of clarity, had realized the fire would solve all of their problems. The fire was a force of creative destruction that would wipe the slate clean. Why do things ‘by the book’ when you could bend the rules a bit and save the taxpayers millions of dollars?
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Evan become increasingly upset the further he dug into the story. To him, it cast light on the nature of ‘Old World America’. Graham Wynham had represented America before the Schrubb Administration as a veritable paradise, but the further he dug it seemed that not much had changed since then. To Evan, it appeared that John W. Schrubb had nothing but rebranded the country with a dash of ‘theocracy’. He didn’t like to think this pessimistically, but the evidence was mounting. He felt like he had to take a break from scouring the files. Evan picked wood up the pile he had made from old furniture, and placed it in the metal barrel that they had salvaged, and started a fire. He proceeded to boil water to make instant coffee that the Neo Railroad had provisioned. After the water boiled he poured himself some of the black, opaque liquid into a dented, tin cup. The acidic bitterness did more than the caffeine to reinvigorate him. Evan looked over at Consuela who was sleeping soundly and looked at peace by the firelight. He was surprised that she slept through all the racket he had made rummaging through all the files of the archive. Evan remembered a time when Consuela had been known as ‘Angel-Seraphim’. The crazy code-names that they had assumed during their time with the Apostates were hard to shake off. He, himself sometimes would think of himself as
‘Hades-Perdition’, but what was his true identity?
Evan thought about the Neo Railroad and Greta Sanchez. He wondered what she had been doing this last year? Had she been living the European high life in some fairytale realm? He speculated what her child must look like by now, if in fact the child had indeed survived. Evan wished he could ping her and have a conversation, but the [Apostate-Net] had gone dark, and he felt incomplete without it. Also, it certainly was a change not having the muscle of the Apostate fleet’s firepower to rely on. In a way, he had grown lax, and now all he could do was rely on his own skill with a sword to keep himself safe—just like old times.
Almost immediately after New Megiddo City had been destroyed he had heard reports that Regime forces had been ordered north to regroup at the border fortress wall that New Megiddo had shared with Canada. He could only speculate who had issued the order. Most Regime officials had perished in the detonation that destroyed the capital. ‘Pride-Swarm’, which was Jaspar Wynham’s Apostate name, had told Evan that during his battle with Arch-Deacon von Manstein’s forces, that the Arch-Deacon had suddenly fled and disappeared from the battle. Evan wondered if it was the Arch-Deacon leading ‘Remnant Regime’ forces. And what of the Prelate Inoguch—the force of nature that had claimed so many of the Apostates’ number? Was she truly dead or was she skulking in the shadows somewher—waiting to strike at the most opportune moment to exact revenge? Prelate Inoguchi was really the only individual that Evan actually feared, now that Inquisitor Rodrigo was dead. Then, Evan had remembered the ‘Societatum Pentagram’. He realized that they had not confirmed that all members had been killed. The Apostates did not have time during the fighting in La Chorrera, Panama to confirm the Orders’ demise. He sighed to himself with the realization of so many lose ends.
The wind howled through the exposed metal girders on one corner of the building. He could see that the sky was starting to receive the glow of the morning sun. He figured that Consuela would be awake soon so he decided to get back to sorting through the ‘Action’ Organization files. Perhaps he could get another couple of hours in before she woke then the two of them could have breakfast. Evan recognized the need to wrap up his search for his identity soon, as there were more dire issues that required his attention. Evan downed the last of his coffee in the tin cup, set it aside, and walked back over to the file nest that he had fashioned for himself to continue the story of the ‘Action’ siege of 1985.
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NO PLACE FOR GRAIN OR FIGS
Ukiah had been converted from an abandoned ghost town to thriving village within the last year. Thanks to the leadership of Ernest and Gertrude Greenbaum, most of Ukiah’s pre-war facilities had been restored or even improved upon. The town derived most of its power from a solar energy farm, and from panels that were installed on each roof. The solar array was hodge-podge and far from uniform, but it did the job. The town supplemented its power needs from small, hydroelectric generators that had been installed in key locations on the Russian River and had been constructed as to not obstruct the spawning routes of what little Salmon were left in the river. Where many rivers in California had dried to a trickle, the Russian River still managed to be a force of nature. Being in such a prime location had undoubtedly led to conflict with neighboring villages, who felt entitled to some of Ukiah’s self-sufficient resources. However, all comers failed to breach the mighty walls that had been constructed at Ernest’s behest. Though after enemies had been defeated he would always send terms of mutual support for rivals to consider. Within a year, three other towns, El Roble, Calpella, and The Forks had all confederated into what was loosely termed as the ‘101 Alliance for Friendship and Economic Development’, or ‘101 A.F.E.D’. In exchange for a portion of their population to be levied into a volunteer militia and taxes to support the alliance, Ukiah provided the protection of the militia, and technological consultation in development, and surplus power. Because of Ernest and Gertrude’s successes Ernest had won, by a landslide, the first official elections that Ukiah had held. He appointed his wife his Vice President, and the people didn’t mind. Sometimes, Ernest would ponder why the people were so insistent upon political status quo, and why he had been able to hold onto power. Aside from his string of successes, he speculated that most people craved a “tyrant”, in the original Greek definition of the word, and not what it had come to mean in later ages.
Ernest sat at his large wooden-planked picnic table, which faced his urban farm. The farm had given forth a bountiful harvest this past season. It was the beginning of October and the surpluses had been collected and stored for the coming Fall and Winter. The tomatoes had been smashed to a paste and stored, the potatoes had been cleaned, the broccoli had been processed, among many other summer crops. In their place was planted kale, cabbage, leeks, beets, and a variety of beans. On top of the fertile soil that would bear crops this winter, he had augmented it with a rudimentary greenhouse that the local horticulturalists had helped him fashion. Ernest was certain that his family would be well-provisioned this Winter. Gertrude exited the house through the sliding-glass door, bearing two glasses of iced tea. She set one in front of Ernest on the table and took a sip of her own across from him.
“What a splendid operation our farm has turned into. I am proud of us, Ernest,” Gertrude said, flashing a smile across the table to him.
“We make a great team, Gertrude. What we have built here in Ukiah is a fluke; some would say a miracle,” Ernest confessed to her. He always kept the threatening possibility in the back of his mind that Regime forces still lurked somewhere.
“It is a miracle! I only wish—we hadn’t paid such a high cost...” she trailed off, looking down into her drink. Ernest knew what she spoke of.
“Hey now! We both miss Jacob, but you need to take comfort in the fact that his soul resides in ‘Shamayim’ with his Maker, and his body lives on through the bounty of our farm; as we did spread his ashes among the earth,” Ernest reiterated that their son continues on in another form.
“Yes, he has returned to the dust, and in a way is a part of us, now,” Gertrude confirmed as she reached across the table to place a hand upon his. He grabbed her hand with his and squeezed, looking deeply into her eyes. They maintained eye contact for what seemed to be an eternity. Ernest gave thought to the coming Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashanah, and the festivities that would follow. That thought was cut short.
“Ernest, Ernest Greenbaum! I bring urgent news!” a man yelled out from the front of the house. Upon hearing the summons, Ernest jumped up as fast as he could, rushed through the house, and exited onto the front porch to recieve the messenger.
“Hi! How can I help you, sir? Easy! Care for some tea?” he said to the man who was out of breath.
“No time. Sentries have spotted an armored column approaching! They bypassed Calpella. We don’t have the means to repel them!” the messenger warned Ernest in a frantic tone.
“Calm down. I will head for the north gate of the town. Surely they have not come to conquer, otherwise they would have laid siege to Calpella!” Ernest theorized. The messenger just offered a tired, slack expression.
“I donno, sir. They look like they mean business,” he said.
“Did you see any markings? Regime? L.O.V.E.?” Ernest picked the man’s brain.
“Nope! Just a red star,” the messenger recounted.
“China!” Ernest exclaimed. He remembered the markings of New Megiddo’s old adversary, being a veteran medic of the ‘Holy War’. He hurried back into the foyer of his house and retrieved an assault rifle from a utility closet, He checked the sights, ensured a full magazine, and slung it over his shoulder.Gertrudeapproachedhim with concern.
“What is it, love?” Gertrude tugged at his arm.
“An armored column approaches. I’m off to the North Gate. Please see what you can do to gather the women and children to the town hall!” he instructed. He kissed his wife and was off w
ith the messenger to receive the column at the North gate.
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“President Greenbaum! The armored column is halted but arranged in a battle array. If they wanted to they could have shot down our walls and steamrolled into town. They have not yet tried to make contact,” a stocky sentry reported to Ernest while standing at attention.
“Thank you. May I borrow your field glasses?” The sentry handed them over, and Ernest climbed a ladder connected to the timber and corrugated steel wall to reach the parapet. Once in place he peered through the field glasses. He counted twenty armored vehicles, half tanks, half A.P.C.s, there were also a number of supply trucks further back. It was enough of a force to take Ukiah, easily. He spied the Red Star markings that meant China. Though he noticed that it was too small to constitute an invasion force, so he surmised that it was for reconnaissance in purpose.
“What do you think, sir?” the sentry asked nervously.
“I’ll go out to meet them,” he said nonchalantly.
“But, sir! They could kill you out there!” the sentry warned hesitantly.
“They could just as well kill me right here on this wall,” he concluded. Ernest handed the field glasses back to the sentry, “You can accompany me if you’d like,” Ernest suggested.
“Yes, Mr. President!” the sentry confirmed. They descended the wall and instructed guards to unlatch the North Gate. President Greenbaum and two armed sentries emerged from the gate, setting foot onto the old route 101. In front of them was the line of Chinese armor, sitting silent and menacing. Ernest and his sentries paused once they had reached fifty yards away from the armored column with not a hint of any reaction.Then, finally a loudspeaker broke the chilly silence.