Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1)

by Marcus Richardson

  No questions came back, so the Regulators split up and crawled off to their assigned spots, to wait for the Mexicans’ dash across the border.

  Rob peered through his binoculars. The people in the truck stopped short of the ones on foot and they all greeted each other. After a few minutes of talking—the ones in the truck did a lot of arm waving and seemed fairly agitated—the wounded man was taken down and looked over by the ones on foot. A lot of head shaking and arm waving by everyone. Finally, they put him in the truck and started walking towards the hidden Regulators. They were going to cross the border and leave the wounded man behind to die in the truck. Rob shook his head.

  Poor bastard.

  “Heads up boys, here they come. No one fire until I do. Remember, we’re aiming to scare, not kill. Just shoot ten feet in front of ‘em. That oughtta do it,” Rob whispered into the radio. Several clicks was the only response he got, the ‘affirmative’ signal from the other Teams when radio silence was necessary. When all the teams checked in, Rob looked at his friend. “You ready?”

  Lance took a deep breath, let it out slowly, watching the would-be immigrants. He wiped some dust and sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand then readjusted his cap to face backwards so he could better use his rifle’s scope. “Ready,” he said when sighted in on the group of would-be immigrants.

  When the Mexicans came within shouting distance, Rob suddenly got to his feet, appearing to the immigrants as a lone man on the top of the ridgeline. He knew they could see him. His body would be silhouetted at the top of the ridgeline and he would stick out like a sore thumb.

  Rob held his grandfather’s old lever action rifle across his chest, to make sure they saw he was armed. In his rusty Spanish, he called out, “You there! Stop! You are entering the United States illegally! Turn around and go home! Do not come any further or you will be fired on!”

  I hope they understood that…

  The Mexicans paused, as if to take in what had been shouted to them. They conferred among themselves for a moment. Rob saw with growing displeasure that the group now numbered over twenty with the addition of the men from the truck. Finally the group seemed to make up its mind and continued to walk towards the ridgeline. Rob cursed and repeated his message, as loud as he could.

  Again, the would-be immigrants stopped. One man among them yelled something back and waved a fist, but none of the Regulators could hear him. The emotion was understood though. Two men ran back to the pickup truck and their wounded comrade. The rest of the Mexicans continued. They were a football field away now.

  “Stop! You have been warned! Turn around and go back to Mexico. You are not allowed to cross the border here! Turn back or you will be fired on! I repeat: do not attempt to cross this border!” To the rest of the Regulators, Rob called out on his radio: “Watch those two headin’ back to the truck…”

  “They ain’t stoppin’, Rob…” came the worried voice of one of the Regulators over the radio.

  “I can see that…” growled Rob. He took a few steps down from the crest of the hill.

  “This is your last warning!” he said again, in Spanish. By now the Mexicans ignored him and continued plodding towards the border.

  Rob waited until they were about thirty yards out, then raised his rifle, aimed at the ground in front of the Mexicans and squeezed the trigger. The rifle barked and the sound echoed off the ridge all around them like thunder. The Mexicans came to an abrupt halt when a cloud of dust puffed up ten feet in front of them. They heard the rifle echo a split second later.

  The Mexicans got into an argument, then turned to face the border once more. “Come no further or we will open fire!” roared Rob. He was getting angry. As a group they crossed over the border and stared defiantly at Rob. They began to walk again.

  “That’s it…they’re over the line,” intoned Lance’s voice in Rob’s headset.

  “Have at ‘em, boys!” ordered Rob. At once all the Regulators stood and aimed weapons. Shots rang out, single and controlled bursts. The noise was deafening. It sounded like a pitched battle, rather than warning shots.

  Many of the Mexicans screamed in terror and froze where they stood. It looked like an army had risen from ground all around them. The dirt flew and a cloud of dust obscured the vision of the terrified immigrants for a few seconds. Then all was quiet after the last echo died. The Regulators watched and waited for the next move.

  “Come no further,” called out Rob in Spanish. He leveled his rifle at the tallest man in the front of the Mexican group. “We will shoot you. Go back where you came from." There was no need to shout now. He had their attention. The other Regulators took aim. Some aimed at feet or knees though, instead of heads. “Go back, you stupid bastards,” he muttered to himself.

  From the back of the group of immigrants, someone screamed in Spanish, then pushed to the front of the group with a pistol. Rob shifted his aim to the new threat and took a deep breath.

  "Weapons!" called out someone over the radio.

  The immigrant held his pistol sideways, 'gangsta-style' and fired a few shots in the general direction of the Regulators. More than a few ducked. From out of nowhere, pistols and knives appeared in the hands of many of the males in the group. The immigrants returned fire. One of the Regulators went down screaming to Rob's left. That was all the proof Rob needed.

  "Light 'em up, boys!" he bellowed. Rob squeezed the trigger of his rifle and the first man to draw a pistol dropped to the ground in a red spray.

  About thirty seconds of noise, dust and screams later, it was over. Twenty dead and dying Mexicans lay in the dirt, bleeding and moaning. Slowly the Americans left their positions and gathered around Rob, unsure what to do next.

  The Regulators were silent. After a slight breeze cleared away the dust, the scene was clearer. Rob waited a few minutes more, until all of the Mexicans were clearly dead, sprawled out haphazardly. More than one American turned away in a fit of nausea. After all, they weren’t soldiers; most of them had never seen a dead body before. Until today, all they had simply done was round up illegal immigrants and herd them to the authorities. Rob stared at the slaughter grimly. His heart wanted to scream it was an atrocity, but his mind refused.

  Lance came up to Rob, his boots crunching through the dirt and small pebbles on the baked Arizona ground. “Lord, have mercy…”

  "John, you okay?" asked Rob.

  John Sellson put down his rifle and examined the bloody bandage on his leg. He winced as another Regulator tightened the field dressing. "Hurts like hell. Never been shot before," he said. His face was pale from pain or blood loss, Rob couldn't tell.

  "That was wrong," someone said quietly. "We killed those people, man."

  “They got what they deserved,” said Rob without bothering to turn around. He was suddenly very tired, but there was a new, harder edge to his voice. Lance did not fail to notice the change in his long-time friend. No one spoke for a long moment. Rob watched John's face change color as the anger rose in his old high school buddy.

  “Got what they deserve? Got what they deserve? Did they deserve to be shot for trying to find a better life!? Jesus Christ, Rob, we killed all those people—women and children!” spat John, incredulous.

  One of the Regulators threw up in the distance. The rest merely watched the power struggle. Rob had always been the quasi-leader of the group. But then again, no one had ever shot, either.

  “Do I need to remind you, John, that they crossed the border of our nation. Illegally. That’s an invasion in my book! We warned them. They knew we were serious! They ignored us, ignored our sovereignty and spit in our eye. They got what they should have gotten years ago!” Rob was torn inside over the revulsion of his actions and the necessity of those very actions.

  John limped a step back from the ferocious response of the man he’d known most of his life. A look of sadness came over his face. He looked to the bodies, then back to Rob. His hands were shaking as he glanced back at the bodies of the Mexicans
.

  “I can’t do this anymore. Rob, I can’t take it. I can't. I won’t be a part of killing innocent people."

  "Innocent? John they shot at us!" Lance said. "Hell, they shot you!"

  John ignored the outburst, still focused on Rob. "I don’t care if the rest of the world is falling apart around us…I just…I can’t,” said John quietly. He had reached his breaking point.

  So had Rob.

  “Okay, John,” said Rob sadly, with no hint of anger. He stepped forward, got a good grip on the shoulder patch of John’s field jacket, the Regulator emblem, and ripped it free. The sound of tearing threads caused everyone to hold their breath.

  “Fine. You’re out. Now get outta here.” Rob put the patch in his pocket and made to move past John, heading towards the bodies.

  John grabbed his friend’s arm as he pushed past. “Rob—don’t do it like this. We’ve been friends since high school, man.”

  Rob shrugged free of John’s grip. He turned back to face John. “Friends?" Rob scanned the faces of the other grim looking, dusty Regulators. “The only friends I got are ones I can trust to get my back when shit gets tough," he said, spitting out the words with barely contained disgust. Rob jabbed a finger at John’s chest and growled, "And now I know, that ain’t you."

  “You’ve changed, Rob…” said John weakly, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “No, the whole damned world changed, John…it’s gotten a lot darker, a lot meaner, and a lot more deadly. We ain’t got time for touchy-feely bullshit no more, John. It’s kill or be killed! You saw what they did,” Rob argued, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "When we told them to stop, they ignored us. We told them again and they fired on us!"

  “Dammit Rob, I know everything is crazy…but hell, man, those were just a bunch of men with their women and kids! Just trying to make a better life for themselves—“

  “They crossed the border illegally with weapons and fired upon American citizens! What part of invasion don’t you get, John? I done said that! Besides, where we gonna take ‘em? No help from the Feds right now and word has it the state’s pullin’ the troopers to help with the riots in Phoenix! Get a grip on the reins, John, we’re gonna be on our own real soon. If not already.”

  “They didn’t—only a handful of them had guns!”

  Rob paused, looking at his friend with a cold stare. “What the hell do you think they’re gonna do—all of ‘em,” Rob waved his arm and rifle at the Mexican expanse. “All the hundreds of thousands of ‘em that are headed this way right now—what are they gonna do when they cross into our lands and find there ain’t no fruit pickin’ jobs, ain’t no food, ain’t no homes, ain’t no water, ain’t nothin’ for them now? There ain’t much gonna be left for us, let alone them, come the end of the month and you know it. But they’re gonna see our homes, our cars and think, ‘why should the lazy gringos have it all?’”

  John looked like he had been struck in the face.

  “When there’s only a handful of cops left after the rest of ‘em head up to the cities, and us gringos sittin’ high and dry in our snug little homes. You tell me, John, what the hell is gonna happen, then?” Rob’s face was red with anger and frustration, venting all at once.

  “I…I don’t know Rob,” said John, looking down at the dirt at his feet.

  “I’ll tell you what’s gonna happen. I’ll tell all of you what’s gonna happen!" he said glaring at the assembled Regulators. "They’re gonna take what they want because there’s no one left to stand up to them…that’s what’s gonna happen! They’re gonna be nice about it at first, because they’re generally nice folk. Then they’ll realize there ain’t nothing holdin’ ‘em back and we ain’t fightin’…then it’s goodnight Nogales. Think about it—our own people are going nuts in places like Chicago and Phoenix. What reason would a bunch of foreigners who broke our laws to get here in the first place have to act any different? What's holding them back?”

  No one said anything in response. John looked at his feet and at the Mexican bodies.

  Rob continued, taking a deep breath, getting control over his emotions again, “We are, that's what. People like us scattered all across this country. People who won't give up and roll over. People who are going to defend their homes and their families." Rob took off his Stetson and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He looked up again at John and said in a calmer voice, "Right here, right now, the only thing that is preventing that reality is us….The Regulators.”

  “But—“ said John, trying to think of another argument.

  “But nothing, John. We stand alone. And you ain’t one of us no more. So get the hell out of the way and let us do our job. As of this moment, you're part of the problem.”

  "Uh, Rob?" asked one of the men, a little further up the ridge.

  "Yeah?"

  "That truck is leaving, man."

  Rob scrambled, along with most of the others, up the hill to get a better view. Sure enough, in the distance, the beat up truck they had spotted before the shooting started was tearing off south. The large rooster tail of dust was easy to spot and would be for miles.

  "Well, you can bet by nightfall word of this will be spreading through the border towns," said Lance with a grim tone.

  Rob forced himself to be stern. It's time to be hard as steel. No remorse, no regrets. They chose their destiny. Out loud, he said, "Let's go. Groups Two and Seven, you finish the regular patrol. Everybody else, back to base. We got some plannin' to do."

  WASHINGTON

  The Slippery Slope

  THE PRESIDENT WAS just sitting down at his desk on Air Force One when the door opened and a Secret Service Agent entered. The few staffers in the room fell silent and looked towards the agent—they expected more bad news on a day full of nothing but bad news.

  “Sir, Secretary Suthby to see you, sir.”

  “Very good, Mark, send him in, please.”

  Suthby entered the room quickly, with a purpose in his step. He carried a briefcase in one hand and a plain manila folder in the other. His spoke, a little higher pitched than normal, before he had even come within ten feet of the Commander In Chief.

  “Mr. President, have you decided what you’re going to do about my proposal?”

  “Hank, I’m not going to do anything just yet. I’m in the middle—“ the President began, casting an eye on the staffers. They looked nervous.

  “Mr. President!" interrupted the incensed Secretary. “The nation is falling apart at the seams. You have got to take decisive action, now. It’s been nearly two days since the initial attacks on our power grid, sir, if we wait any longer, it might be too late. Continuity of Government was one thing. Getting our boys home from overseas is another. The military can worry about that." He took a seat across from the expansive desk.

  "I have to worry about civil unrest. I have to urge you once more to initiate the National Curfew and Martial Law Order. Sir, if you’ll just sign the paperwork I prepared after we came aboard, you’ll have all the power you need to—“ he was holding a folder of papers, outstretched in one arm as if pleading.

  The President’s voice was sharp and deep. He did not like to be interrupted in his own office—even if it was 30,000 feet in the air. He especially did not like Hank Suthby of all people interrupting him and sitting down without even a by-your-leave. “I said not now. I mean it, Hank. I appreciate the fact that you got me the heads up which led to COG, but I’m not going to declare a national emergency when 80% of the country is just watching and waiting. For the love of—“ the President seemed to stumble in an uncharacteristic way over the words. “Good grief, man, what would you have me do, suspend the Constitution and become…some kind of dictator until the riots are put down and power is restored?”

  The Secretary of Homeland Defense reddened. The President himself had gone without sleep for two days. Or was it three? President Reed silently wondered how long Suthby had been without rest.

  Suthby opened his mouth to reply but the President he
ld his hand up, finger pointed to the ceiling. He was not in the mood to argue. “Hank, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me in the past few days—I can’t thank you enough. But get some sleep man. The work you’ve done to draft the emergency measures has been nothing short of phenomenal. And I respect what you’re trying to do and that you have the nation’s best interest at heart. I do. In fact, I keep the papers on me at all times, just in case,” the President tapped the inside pocket of his coat, while looking out one of the cabin windows at the cloudscape. “But I don't think ‘just in case’ has happened, yet.”

  Visibly struggling to calm himself, the exhausted SecDHS quietly said, “Sir, have you at least looked into our suggestions for the National Guard and Reserves?”

  “Yes, Hank, I have,” sighed the President wearily. “In fact, I just issued the orders that will give the Guard commanders authority to use deadly force. The Reserves are being called up,” the Commander-in-Chief sighed.

  “The truth of the matter is we still don’t know why the rioting is taking place. General Stirling has a special ops unit stationed outside of New York City now. We're going to see if they can discover anything useful.” The leader of the free world paused, thinking.

  Suthby looked startled. "But, isn't that a little risky?"

  “The rioters haven’t attacked our people yet. Anywhere, really. Except Los Angeles. But they're shooting at anything that moves."

  "Sir, I don't think sending in commandos will—"

  "Dammit, Hank, it’s not like they’re going in to clean house—so far it’s just looting and burning and a few rocks thrown. And yes, I’m aware that’s all it took to get Atlanta burning,” the President said before Suthby could interject. "This is an information gathering mission only. We have to know what's going on before we make decisions on how to proceed."

  “Mr. President, aerial reconnaissance shows hundreds and possibly thousands of bodies in the streets of New York and Chicago alone! Civilians are being slaughtered—-”