He didn’t respond immediately, letting her words and tone sink in. She was agitated, and in full conspiracy mode. There was no point fighting against this tide. “I can’t imagine any scenario requiring us to flee, but I’ll get our bug-out gear ready,” he said. “After work.”
“I’d feel better if you took some time this morning to pre-stage everything.”
Nathan hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “That’s fine. I’ll make sure everything is where it needs to be—just in case. I’m still getting coffee, by the way.”
“Thank you, Nate,” Keira said, sounding less troubled.
“I promised you I would get you coffee.”
“I meant for putting up with me,” she said.
“It’s all good, honey. It can’t hurt to take a few precautions. That’s why I insisted on going to the beach this morning. Just in case.”
“I just have a bad feeling about the assassination. Someone has taken the secession issue to the next level. I’m worried it won’t stop there.”
“Either way, we’re in good shape. We can pack up and be on the road in an hour. We’ll be out of the populated areas a few hours after that.”
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you more,” he replied. “See you in about eight minutes.”
“See you then.”
He turned into the second of four Starbucks shops lining the five-mile stretch of Mira Mesa Boulevard, settling into the drive-through line behind three early-morning commuters. After ordering two grande cappuccinos, he swiped his California Resource Card (CRC) over the self-pay scanner, followed by his debit. The CRC recorded everything a California resident purchased and was mandatory for every transaction, no matter how trivial. All retailers, from flea market vendors at Kobey’s Swap Meet to high-end art dealers in Hillcrest, were required to sell through CRC-connected, point-of-purchase devices—including cash purchases. Online transactions required a valid CRC number, regardless of the transaction’s fulfillment location.
The CRC program had met with considerable protest when it was implemented in 2030, solidifying the California Resource Protection Act’s nickname as the “Anti-Hoarding Act.” With every Californian’s detailed purchase history in the state’s closely held possession, citizens waited for the hammer to drop on overconsumption. Instead of black helicopters dropping Resource Card SWAT teams into backyards to seize excess food and consumables, the hammer came in the form of an individualized grade sheet. Each household received a CRC-generated sustainability statement, analyzing consumption habits and comparing them to neighborhood, city, and county averages.
No late-night door kicking, flash bangs, and reeducation camps in the desert like many had suggested. Just good old-fashioned behavioral modification, pitting neighbor against neighbor, neighborhood against neighborhood, city district against city district—with small perks for the winners. Extended water-use hours. Added time out of residential districts. District-wide discounts on consumable purchases. Small things that everyone mocked at first, but not anymore. The California Resources people knew exactly what they were doing when they started mailing statements.
The program had achieved a 32 percent reduction in consumption averaged across all categories. They even managed to squeeze a 5 percent reduction in the water-use category—a small miracle, given the fact that most families were living close to their “water breaking points,” an artificially determined level of water use, beyond which a family might experience “water hardship.” That’s what state water officials liked to call dehydration.
The barista handed him two piping-hot to-go cups, forgetting the insulated sleeves he’d splurged on. Tops and sleeves were extra, and from what he could tell by the weight of each drink, getting a full cup of coffee was extra, too. Served him right for ordering cappuccinos. The barista had opted for the drier version. Now his sustainability statement would reflect thirty-two ounces of “liquid consumables,” when the drinks couldn’t possibly contain more than twenty between the two of them. He stifled a laugh as he lowered the coffees into the center-console cup holders. That was the kind of nonsense rattling around every Californian’s head, every minute of every day, thanks to the monthly sustainability statement.
His house was less than five minutes away from the Starbucks, buried in a maze of bungalow-style homes valued between $1.2 and $1.5 million, depending on upgrades. On average, $950 per square foot, nearly five times the national median price per square foot—not that anyone was selling. Property was passed down from family to family these days. Nobody got rid of California real estate anymore.
Few could afford to buy it, and even fewer could afford to sell it. Most Californians had exhausted the equity in their homes to refit them with solar panels, solar batteries, water-reclamation upgrades, and hundreds of sleek, eco-friendly options required to survive. Families were stuck in place, unable to move up, and unwilling to move down. Only people leaving the state sold their homes—to highly paid tech-industry immigrants. The concept of upward housing mobility had dried up along with the reservoirs and rivers.
Nathan turned north onto Camino Ruiz, a perpetually busy six-lane thoroughfare, and cruised through a crowded block of strip malls and apartment complexes. Beyond the business district, tall sand-colored stucco walls lined the broad street, marking the start of the residential neighborhoods. Built and maintained by the town, the walls provide a modicum of privacy and sound reduction to the residents backed up against the road. He and Keira had considered a few homes along busy roads when they’d first arrived in California, but had passed on the lower price. During rush hour, Camino Ruiz sounded like a Grand Prix speedway at their current home, more than two blocks away. He couldn’t imagine how it sounded directly behind one of these walls.
Nathan eased right onto Hydra Lane and navigated a few turns to arrive on Pallux Way, a street indistinguishable from the hundreds of streets crammed in the one-by-two-mile residential area. Most of the homes on his block were tidy, well-maintained one-story structures jammed onto lots barely ten feet wider than the house itself. With backyards featuring less square footage than the homes, you could watch and listen to your neighbors’ TVs if they left the shades open. Only in California.
With the sun still lingering a few degrees under the horizon, the ugly zero-scaping remained shaded, and mercifully invisible. Crushed rock. Hardened dirt. Red-and-brown mulch. Pieces of driftwood. Decorative fieldstone boulders. Antique wheelbarrows. The occasional zero-water cactus. Everything carefully arranged in the front yard to resemble the kind of perfect high-desert scene you’d expect to find in a natural history museum display—minus the rattlesnakes and scorpions.
The Fishers hadn’t bothered with the faux panorama. Hardened dirt was the order of the day, much to the dismay of a few neighbors. Nathan wasn’t sure why any of them cared. The yards looked like shit, regardless of how much they spent at Home Depot, and the packed dirt didn’t absorb as much rain—resulting in a higher neighborhood water-reclamation score. Nathan was taking one for the team.
The zero-scape effect was bad enough observed at street level. From the air, on approach to San Diego International Airport, the sight made you wonder why anyone would choose to live here. The city and its surrounding communities looked dead, compounded by dried-up canyons and browned-out parks that seamlessly morphed into the dull gray asphalt jungle. Golf courses resembled tan Rorschach scars. Even Mission Valley, once prominently recognizable from the air, barely registered to the casual window-seat observer. The Golden State was more on the light-brown side these days.
“Open garage door,” Nathan said, receiving a courteous, affirmative reply from the car.
A double bay door two houses down on the left started to rise, signaling his imminent arrival to anyone watching. He pulled the car next to his wife’s jeep and stopped the engine, turning off the vehicle’s headlights.
“Close garage door, please,” said Nathan, grabbing the two coffee drinks.
He made his way to a door in the right corner of the garage, which led into the laundry room adjacent to the kitchen. A second door, located in the middle of the garage’s back wall, was hidden from street view by a row of steel-backed industrial shelves placed several feet forward of the wall. The concealed door led to an unused bedroom he and Keira had converted into their readiness workshop. After he delivered the coffee, he’d head there with the full water bottles to start the desalination process and ready their mobile supplies for Keira’s benefit.
CHAPTER 10
Waiting patiently for Nathan to get home required every ounce of restraint Keira Fisher could muster. Gut instinct told her it was time to pack up the cars and take a long trip out of the state—a permanent trip. The assassination had changed everything.
She’d closely monitored the secession issue since they’d moved from Tucson, watching it grow from the Northern California fringe movement she’d remembered as a teenager in the Bay Area to a strongly supported statewide campaign. The rhetoric on both sides had intensified as California’s Twenty-Year Self-Reliance plan entered its final years and the idea of an independent California started to look more viable—and more appealing—to a growing number of Californians. A scary thought for supporters of the One Nation Campaign. Scary enough to brazenly murder an influential public official.
Almeda had been instrumental in the construction of the Del Mar desalination plant and the reactivation of the San Onofre nuclear power plant. She must have been on the cusp of unveiling a new project, or possibly pledging her support for California’s independence. Whatever the reason behind the desperately violent move, California Liberation Movement activists were sure to retaliate, possibly igniting a civil war within the state.
As much as she supported the concept of an independent California, Keira had no intention of letting the situation deteriorate around them. They’d been through that once, and once was enough. She just needed to convince Nathan. Easier said than done. He’d watched the news and left to collect seawater—like it was no big deal. Like the police wouldn’t be out in force, questioning anyone headed toward the desalination plant at four in the morning. What was he thinking? Unfortunately, she knew exactly what he was thinking. Nothing. Nathan didn’t believe the secession issue was serious.
A low, distant rumble from the laundry room drew her eyes to the door leading into the garage. Finally. She muted the television and waited for her husband to open the door. When he appeared with a smile and her cappuccino, she wasn’t happy to see either. Just for once, she wished he’d look concerned. Just slightly worried. Seeing him standing in the doorway with coffees like it was any other day bothered her. It shouldn’t, but it did—which caused her to pick a fight.
“What took you so long?” she said, shaking her head.
“I had three cars ahead of me in line,” said Nathan, placing her coffee on the island in front of her and kissing her temple. “Careful. They steamed the milk long enough to blister your skin.”
“I meant your trip to the beach. When I saw the time, I got worried. I figured you got pulled over trying to reach the water.”
Nathan sat on the stool next to her, glancing upward at the television before answering. “I hit a routine checkpoint at the Del Mar exit. The officers told me the county had added a few checkpoints closer to the Del Mar plant.”
Keira glanced at her wristwatch for dramatic effect, raising an eyebrow.
“I kind of fell asleep on the beach,” said Nathan, half grinning.
“That sounds safe,” she said. California might be on the brink of a civil war, and her husband was napping on the beach without a care in the world.
“I was up in the beach scrub,” he said. “Out of sight.”
She shook her head. He still didn’t get it. Time to play a card she never would have considered before this morning.
“Anyway,” she said, swiveling her stool to face him, “I think we should consider taking a road trip to visit your parents.”
“Really?” he said, halting the coffee cup a few inches in front of his face. “You’re voluntarily suggesting we visit my parents. In Idaho. By automobile.”
Hearing the plan spelled out gave her pause. She liked it far better when Nathan’s parents came to California to visit. His father, a retired Marine sergeant major, had somehow convinced Nathan’s mother to abandon civilized life for an Idaho homestead. An hour from the nearest semblance of a town, they lived in complete isolation more than a mile off State Highway 75 on a road that required Nathan to rent a four-wheel-drive SUV whenever they flew into Boise for a visit.
She didn’t see Sergeant Major Fisher’s mountain stronghold lasting too much longer. Jon and Leah Fisher were still spry enough to hike the trails, paddle the rivers, and shovel heavy snow off the deck, but they were in their late fifties—about to embark on that long, often problematic journey through the golden years. She’d seen it firsthand. Keira’s parents were older than Nathan’s, and had already hit some rough patches.
“A few weeks of pristine mountain air and endless green fields wouldn’t be a bad thing for any of us,” said Keira. “We haven’t been on a real vacation since Owen was five.”
“Since we left Tucson,” said Nathan, appearing to take her suggestion seriously. “Six years without a family vacation.” He shook his head.
None of them had even left the state since they’d arrived in ’29. Even with Nathan’s generous, state-sponsored relocation bonus, mortgage payments stretched the monthly budget uncomfortably thin. Even worse, the constantly increasing California Resource Protection Act–related fees and taxes guaranteed they never closed the budget gap. Any increase in pay at either of their jobs was swallowed by the rising cost of living.
Fortunately, both of them worked for the county in critical, high-demand jobs. While Nathan figured out new and inventive ways to recycle a community’s wastewater, Keira tackled the growing autism epidemic. Of course, they didn’t call it autism anymore. Pervasive Developmental Disorder—or, even better, PDD—had replaced the term autism several years ago.
All variations of the word autism were perceived on the same pejorative level as the term retarded. She couldn’t remember a time when anyone used the word retarded regularly, but she’d finished her master’s degree in cognitive disability therapy with a focus on autism spectrum disorder. Keira had to be careful. One slip of the tongue in front of a parent at the therapy center could abruptly end their California dream.
Sometimes, she wished it would happen. They could ditch everything and move pretty much anywhere they wanted—outside of the United States. Nathan’s job experience alone could get the family a permanent residency visa in most countries, regardless of the debt they’d left behind. One of her husband’s colleagues had vanished without a trace last year. Skipped out on a million-dollar mortgage and a six-figure credit-card balance. She resurfaced a few months later in Buenos Aires, making twice her salary helping the Argentinians stay ahead of the water crisis. That transition didn’t sound so bad, especially when Keira learned that the company in Argentina had paid to ship all their household goods and two cars. The only thing standing in their way was Nathan.
“Owen is done with school on Friday,” she said. “I don’t think taking him out a few days early will be a problem. He said they’re just watching movies and wasting time at this point.”
“I can’t drop everything at work and leave on the same day,” said Nathan. “And who knows what will come down from the top in response to the assassination. I wouldn’t be surprised if they fast-tracked the facilities security review due at the end of the summer.”
“If one of your parents passed away, they’d let you leave on the first flight available,” she said. “And I’m not suggesting you make up a story. Just pointing out that it’s possible for the office to survive without you.”
“I’ll look into it.”
She stared at him. “I’ll look into it” was his version of “We can think about that.”<
br />
“Seriously,” he said. “I’ll ask.”
Keira cocked her head slightly.
“Really ask,” he said, leaning over to kiss her. “Promise.”
“I’m probably being paranoid, but I get the sense that this could spiral out of control quickly. Let’s put a little distance between the Fishers and California for a few weeks. If I’m wrong, which I hope I am,” she said, lying, “we’ll recharge ourselves with clean air and fresh water.”
“I hope you’re not impugning the quality of San Diego County’s water supply,” said Nathan, grabbing her wrists playfully. “Our tap water is far cleaner than any of that freshwater swill you might get in the mountains—even if it leaves a slight chlorine aftertaste.”
“Slight?” she said, pulling his arms around her.
“We’re working on that.” He nuzzled against her. “Different department.”
“Feels like you’re working on something else,” she said, pressing against him.
“Do we have time?” he asked, kissing her lips.
The sound of feet shuffling in the bedroom hallway answered the question. Keira eased back onto her stool at the kitchen island.
“Apparently not,” she said as the bathroom door closed.
“Tonight,” said Nathan, stroking her inner thigh.
She smiled. “I was hoping to be on the road by then.”
“We’ll see.” He checked his watch. “I need to get moving.”
“You weren’t in a big hurry a few seconds ago.”
“I’m easily corrupted by the woman I love,” said Nathan, kissing her.
“That’s what I love about you. And the fact that you don’t mind splurging on coffee,” Keira said, taking her cup from the island.
“I have a few redeeming qualities,” he said, grabbing his own cup and disappearing into the garage.
Fractured State (Fractured State Series Book 1) Page 5