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

by Marcus Richardson

  He was about to try and yell to get some order when he heard a car horn honk a few times. He and a couple of the nearby men went to the other side of the leasing office to investigate the noise.

  There was a Sheriff’s department cruiser waiting on the other side of the iron gate, lights on and flashing. After the men got the gate open and the cruiser pulled in, they shut the gate and greeted the long absent Ted as he exited his vehicle. Only when they moved back into the light from the tiki-torches by the pool did Erik realize something was wrong.

  Ted’s uniform was smeared with grime and blood. The right sleeve was ripped off, leaving a jagged tear. Ted looked exhausted, but uninjured. Susan saw the people moving aside as Erik led the way towards the pool. When she spotted her bedraggled husband she jumped to her feet and pushed her way through the crowd.

  “Ted! What happened? Honey, are you all right?” her voice was instantly frantic. Her hands sought his face to check or injury.

  Ted embraced his wife and held her tight for a few seconds. The rest of the group, seeing something unfolding in their midst, gradually fell silent to hear what was being said.

  “I’m fine, sweetie…I’m fine.” He looked up and noticed for the first time all the people watching him.

  “What happened to the uniform, Ted?” asked Erik. Stan and Alfonse worked their way closer through the crowd.

  “Yeah, man, looks like there was fight—you okay?”

  “I’m fine, thanks, A.J.” said Ted with a nod. To the rest of the crowd, he used his officer’s voice. “I’m afraid I have some bad news, folks.”

  The crowd instantly fell dead silent. The only noise came from the younger children splashing and playing in the pool.

  “We had some trouble at the station downtown today.”

  “What kinda trouble?” asked Erik.

  “Some yahoos decided to be heroes and crashed a car straight through the front office in an attempted prison break. It looked like a group of about seven or eight Latinos. Started a gunfight right there in the office!”

  A few gasps and exclamations rippled through the gathered crowd. Ted ignored this and continued. “Luckily, we were changing shifts, so there were plenty of us to deal with them. The problem started when the inmates found out what was going on. They had a full scale riot.”

  Several people gasped and whispered about the dire consequences of a prison riot. Some heads bobbed worriedly, a few others sported fierce scowls at the conduct of criminals.

  Ted paused and took a deep breath before he continued. “We lost a lot of good men today. Even worse, most of the prisoners escaped in the fighting. We took down a handful, but by then we were already shot up from the gang bangers who rammed the car through our front door. We were barely able to get our wounded over to County Memorial—seems our local ambulances have been called up to Bradenton-St. Pete to help with the rioting going on up north.”

  “What do you mean, rioting up north? I thought the rioting in Tampa was localized to Ybor City?” someone called out. The group agreed. That was the last thing they had heard over the radio that afternoon.

  Ted hadn’t had time to listen to the radio, so he didn’t know about the broadcasters being restricted by the government. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Tampa’s like a war zone, man! We’ve been monitoring the state troopers—they’re slowly being reinforced by the National Guard and they’re in a running fight through the streets. It’s crazy—there’s a ton of people attacking the cops and Guards, then there’s the Latinos in Ybor City who are fighting the Blacks and the cops…it’s a nightmare! It’s like Katrina all over again, only ten times worse.”

  “Is it spreading?” asked a woman in a fear shaken voice. She asked as if it were a disease that would infect other areas.

  “Yeah—but so far only to other big population centers. Today St. Pete got started…bunch of people slipped over from Tampa and started looting. At least in St. Pete it doesn’t seem to be all about racial stuff.” Ted shook his head. “The Governor has set up aid stations in Bradenton and Clearwater and Lakeland, to allow the people fleeing Tampa-St. Pete to get somewhere safe. They’re opening up all the hurricane shelters all over the state to people who are afraid to stay home. Problem is…some of the storm shelters are under siege by looters and there’s just not enough cops to go around, even with National Guard guys coming in by the hour.”

  “Isn’t there a storm shelter down the street from here?”

  “What?” someone called out.

  “Yeah—that middle school, there’s a shelter there around the corner,” came the reply from a third speaker. More voices started talking over each other again.

  Ted raised his hands up for quiet. “Alright, people, hang on! I said hold on a second!” he raised his voice to cut through the bleating. “I can tell you a few things right now. First off, we’ve got to be careful—there’s close on a hundred escaped felons roaming around the city right now. With as many wounded cops as we have, it’s going to be impossible to track ‘em down, especially without power—the communications grid is down because we ran out of fuel for the generators. We got squad cars out on the streets but they won’t have enough gas to patrol for more than a day or so.“

  “What about the city cops?”

  “Well, Sarasota just ain’t that big, you know? They only got about forty cops to begin with. No, we decided back at the station that we’re on our own now. We put in a call to the state boys, but they said they got bigger worries—namely St. Pete, Tampa, Miami, Ft. Lauderdale and Jacksonville. They also said the “college towns,” were cinder kegs about ready to explode —all those kids drinking and partying like it’s the end of the world, fights are breaking out all over the place.” Of course, the people in the crowd readily knew that meant the three big ones, Florida State in Tallahassee, University of Florida in Gainesville, and University of Miami in Miami.

  “What the hell are we supposed to do?” a voice called out in the darkness. More than one person on the edge of the group began looking over their shoulders, imagining an escaped convict to be creeping up behind them. Or looters. Or any of the nightmarish “people” who surfaced during the aftermath of a disaster.

  “We got a couple options, way I see it. We can pack up and head to a shelter—“

  That got a round of agreement from some people, worried over the safety of their children.

  “We can—hang on, let me finish, folks…” Ted paused while the murmuring died down. “Or, we can also head to Bradenton to the refugee center. Now that’s a bigger place, because the National Guard is protecting it, but if we’re not coming from St. Pete, I can’t make any guarantees they’ll let us in. If we wait, the Governor may open up another refugee center closer to us, but I don’t know. Of course, you can head to a relative or friends’ house to ride this out…Or,” he said, trying to cut through the growing voices again. “Or we can stay here.”

  Brin moved through the crowd and came up next to Erik, putting an arm around his waist. “What do you think?”

  As the voices of other rose around them, debating options, Erik focused on his young wife. They had been married for just about a year. A hell of a way to start a marriage. “Well, I don’t think there’s much we can do but stay here. My parents are still in upstate New York.”

  “My family’s all out west…on the coast…” said Brin, downcast.

  “Don’t worry, sweetie, they’re in farm country.”

  “But you heard about what was going on in Chicago and L.A.!”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think it’ll get that far out into the fields…they’ll be fine. City folk don’t much compare to farming stock. Let ‘em come…your uncles will have a fine time teaching them that they’re not welcome in the country. They’ll be all right, I promise. Besides, who’s going to mess with your grandfather?”

  Brin thought for a second, taking in the commotion around them. “I don’t think I want to go to a shelter. What would we do with the cat?” she a
sked.

  Erik had never been so proud of her. “No, we can’t go to a shelter. They don’t take pets during hurricanes, so I doubt they’d bother with animals now. We’re fine right here—we got friends, we got supplies, we got protection behind these walls. I agree, I think we should stay put until we know more.”

  “We’re doing the same,” said Susan firmly. She still held a death grip on her tired husband.

  “I agree, thanks for asking,” Ted mentioned with a smile towards his wife.

  “I think Charone and me’ll stick around here, too…” said Alfonse as he stepped closer. “We ain’t got nothing back home anyway. I don’t want her to have to move while she’s pregnant, you know?”

  “Well the hell with this! I’m taking my family to a shelter. I’m not going to sit around and wait for criminals to kill us, since the cops can’t do their job—we’re going where it’s safe,” someone said, louder than the other voices. Silence followed the accusation.

  Ted just glared in the general direction of the voice. “I don’t know who said that and frankly I don’t care. Just watch your back, mister, cause there ain’t gonna be nobody to protect your ass anymore.”

  The group started to disperse on an uneasy tone, many of the people coming up to Ted to offer sympathy and thanks for his efforts. A handful of families decided to head for the shelters the next day. The rest of the group was either going to stay or was still undecided. Most people were more concerned with running out of food and water. When that happened, they figured, they’d head to the shelters.

  Ted, Susan, and their children walked back to their building with Brin and Erik. They were the only ones in the building across the pond from the pool and felt a bit isolated. Insulated, mused Erik.

  “Is there anything we can do? Anything you need?” asked Brin.

  “No, thanks, though,” smiled Ted. “I just need some sleep. I’m fine, really.”

  “You going back to work tomorrow?” asked Susan.

  Ted considered this for a moment then sighed. “No. I don’t see much there worth going back for. The last of us decided today we were heading home to stay with our families till this mess calms down. The Sheriff gave me my share of the weapons and ammo, so that’s the best I figure I’ll get.”

  “What?” Susan.

  “When the inmates escaped, our biggest fear was they’d be able to break into the weapons locker—they didn’t thank God…they were too concerned with getting free and running for cover. But we know they knew about the locker and we ‘spect more than a few of ‘em are going to come back for some tools. So before we left for the night, we divvied up the shotguns and pistols, all the ammo, you know, even the vests and riot gear. My share is in the squad car,” he said, gesturing down the breezeway of the building towards the parking lot at the other end. The squad car was parked in the handicapped spot, closest to the entrance to Ted and Susan’s apartment.

  “Need some help unloading it?” asked Erik.

  “Actually, I’d much appreciate it.”

  “We’ll all help,” said Brin, smiling at Susan.

  The kids ran inside to get ready for bed. Between the four adults, they had Ted’s squad car unloaded in less than half an hour. All told, the deputy had brought home two shotguns, three 9mm pistols, various bits of riot gear—enough for one full suit and shield—two lightweight bullet proof vests, boxes and boxes of rounds for the pistols and about 150 shotgun shells.

  “You’ve got quite the little arsenal there, Ted,” said Erik, wiping his brow.

  Ted looked at the stockpile in the living room of his apartment. “Well…it ain’t much, but it’ll hold us for a while at least if something happens. We need to get more though, I’m thinking.”

  Erik didn’t say anything, merely nodded in silent agreement. He honestly had no idea how much more they would “need”. He still had a deep-seated hope that the problems plaguing the nation would be resolved before they needed Ted’s arsenal.

  After a moment of silence between the four adults, looking at the weapons, Ted spoke. In a quiet voice, he said, “I killed two men today.”

  Susan put a hand to her mouth and moved to hug her husband, saying nothing. Brin’s eyes popped open as she looked between her equally surprised husband and her subdued neighbor.

  “You killed two—“

  “Criminals,” said Erik, interrupting. Something inside him was subtly changing, he realized, even as he spoke. “Ted killed two criminals that probably did something horrible to get into prison in the first place.”

  Ted gave Erik an appreciative glance, then nodded. “One was a drug-dealer turned murderer. The other was a rapist been sitting there in the cell for ten years already.”

  Brin looked like she was about to faint. “You killed…two…”

  Erik put his arm around her shoulder to steady her. His voice was soft, but the words were hard as steel. “Brin…they got what they deserved.” Before she could say anything, he continued, “That man raped some woman. Raped, Brin. He got what was coming to him. In my book, he got off easy. Anyone who attacks women or children deserves to die a horrible death.”

  “But…” Brin said in a near whimper.

  “But what?” asked Erik, a bit too harsh.

  Brin shook her head. Her eyes filled with tears and her throat tightened. Everything was changing and she was struggling with all the beliefs and principles she’d learned growing up. “I don’t know…I think I need to get some sleep,” she said, on the verge of tears.

  “That sounds good to me,” said Ted.

  The four of them said good night and retired to their respective apartments. Behind the door of Erik and Brin’s apartment, she broke down in sobs, trying in vain to explain to her husband why she was in conflict with herself and her beliefs.

  When she was young, in the farming communities of northern California, her closest family members had been staunch conservatives. They believed in the Constitution and the Bill of Rights. They believed in God. Then she went off to school, first in California, then a stint in Europe, where the rhetoric got worse. By the time she had met Erik, she had all but forgotten the ways of her youth. Now, at this moment of stress and worry and uncertainty, the lessons she soaked up as a child bubbled up through the cloudy waters of her liberal education. Her mind was in a storm of conflict with her heart. As a human, she just couldn’t bring herself to relish the thought of another person’s death. It was a horrible thought.

  HOURS LATER, ALONG the Gulf Coast of Florida, the Sunshine state was greeting the dawn with nervous anticipation. Most residents near the Tampa-St. Pete riots were up all night hearing noises outside their dwellings they took for rioters. Gunfire near the fighting was starting to pop with more frequency than during the night, as the sun gained a foothold in the sky. Smoke hung as a dark swatch across the sky above Tampa, visible for miles in every direction.

  About fifty miles to the south, past the rapidly growing Bradenton Safe Haven tent city, word spread that general looting was only days away. Rumor had it the Best Buy had already been hit and wiped clean. Just on the outskirts of town, Stan Gibbons was planning on doing some looting of his own.

  He was in the alley behind his former workplace, a fancy, up-scale restaurant serving local seafood and first-class steaks. Stan pressed his body against the high wooden fence that ran behind the restaurant, keeping to the shadows. He had to move quickly now that the sky was starting to change from dark indigo to light gray with some orange highlights. He cursed himself for taking so long to walk from the apartment to the restaurant. It never took more than five minutes in his car…

  He took one last look around the corner, both ways. There was not much moving. On the street, the main drag through the suburbs, heading east-west towards the Gulf, a single car sped by erratically on the wrong side of the road. Drunk teenagers, out joyriding in a stolen car. The thought of kids brought his mind back to the task at hand.

  His family was almost out of food. His wife had been forced
to serve their daughter Kimberly tuna from cans with nothing else but the last of their sodas. The only thing they had left was some old baked beans in an unopened can from last year’s Superbowl party.

  Thus resolved, Stan wiped sweat from his face and rushed across the alley. He readjusted the empty backpack on his back and moved to the back door, opening it with his manager’s key. Stan took a final look around before opening the heavy fire-door quickly, slipping inside and shutting the door as quietly as possible. Once inside, he bolted the door and pulled out his flashlight. He had to work fast.

  Sneaking his way through the darkened restaurant, he noticed that no one had come by to take anything. It looked as if the owner had stopped in, because he could see with the beam of his flashlights some papers were left on a table and chairs were moved around a bit from what he remembered three days ago. He automatically checked the front door locks before reigning himself in.

  “Who cares about the stupid lock? Sun’ll be up soon. Come on, get moving!” he told himself.

  Rushing through the tomb-like restaurant to the back storage rooms, he saw where the freezers had been opened and meat removed days ago. He held his nose and pulled his shirt collar up over his face to shut out the stench. “Didn’t take it all…damn that stinks!”

  Stan unlocked the dry goods storage room and took a second to survey the contents with his flashlight beam. The sun was coming in through the stained glass windows well enough that he almost didn’t need the flashlight. Pastas, spices, cheese wheels, canned goods, everything was where it was supposed to be. Stan thought for a second. “Whoever got the meat has a key. And if they have a key, they can come back for all this. It’s a treasure trove! Gotta move fast.”

  Stan unzipped his backpack and pulled out a rolled up duffle bag. Moving quickly and not caring about making a mess, he stuffed as many boxes of pasta and breadsticks and pasta sauces, and canned food into the backpack. In the last few pockets he forced in cheese wheels of different flavors and sizes. He proceeded to fill the duffel bag in the same manner. Stan grabbed bags of tortilla chips and salsa and many of the canned and store-bought ingredients for appetizers that he could recognize.