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

by Marcus Richardson

  He had known for a while the restaurant, charging some of the highest prices in town, really got stuff for many of its meals from the same stores the customers went to. He smiled as he struggled to zip up the duffle. This would keep his family in food for at least two weeks, maybe three if they tightened their belts.

  “Have to come back for more tonight,” he told himself. In that one room was enough food for his family to eat for months. As long as they had water to cook and drink.

  Stan turned off the flashlight when he saw the light coming in through the windows was plenty bright to see by. He locked the storage room and raced past the cold storage lockers, holding his breath to avoid the smell. He made his way to the back door, unbolted it and cracked it open cautiously.

  Seeing no movement, he opened the door, slipped outside into the morning light, locked the door and moved again to the corner near the wooden fence. He would retrace his route, moving through backyards and avoiding streets and roads until he got back to his apartment complex. Stan checked his watch—from start to finish, his little raid inside the restaurant had taken about 15 minutes. Not bad, but I should do it faster next time. The first beads of sweat trickled down his back and spurred him to keep moving.

  As he walked quickly around the corner with his overly stuffed backpack and heavy duffle bag slung over his shoulders, his spirits rose. He couldn’t wait to see the look on his family’s face’s when they woke up and found all this food in the kitchen. No more tuna for breakfast!

  Stan, in his euphoria over a job well done, failed to notice the two large men casing the restaurant. One was a burly white man with a shaved head and wearing a t-shirt two sizes too small that he had stolen the night before from a vandalized store. The other man was short and stockier and he still wore his Sarasota County Correctional Institute issued shirt and pants. They had guessed the restaurant would have food left since it didn’t look looted yet, and when they saw the man sneak around the back with two bags full of stuff, their suspicions were confirmed.

  The two escaped convicts looked at each other and smiled. They quickly fell into stalking the man with the bags. He was easy to tail and never once looked over his shoulder. It almost looked like he had a spring in his step.

  “Let’s take this dumbass now. We can have a fuckin’ feast! I ain’t had anything to eat since yesterday!” the shorter escapee whispered.

  “Let’s follow him. See where he goes. Maybe he’s got more? Maybe he’s got a woman? Or a house?” The bigger man smiled. “Could lead us right to a party, man.”

  Twenty minutes later, Stan opened the door to his apartment and slipped inside, locking it again behind him. He crept into the kitchen and put the two bags of food down on the table. The sun was up above the horizon and he was soaked in sweat. The backpack and duffle had taken quite a bit of energy to haul back from the restaurant on foot. “Maybe I will take the car tonight…” he mumbled, stretching his back. “It’d be worth the gas.”

  Outside, on the other side of the ten foot privacy wall, watching Stan enter Colonial Garden from the upper branches of an oak tree, the taller escaped convict clung to a branch. He pushed the Spanish Moss out of his face and grinned. His fellow escapee, climbing up the next tree over, looked up and said, “Well, what is it? Where’d he go?”

  “Jackpot, baby…Jackpot!” whispered the larger man as he climbed down from the tree into the apartment complex. He watched a lithe young woman stroll through a parking lot on the other side of the wall. “Couple ‘a honeys over there too. It’s party time tonight, baby!”

  ARIZONA

  Hold the Line

  JED LEWIS, REGULATOR, sat in his perch in the rocky hills west of Nogales. He was on duty again for the dawn watch. He pulled the old denim coat tighter around his chest, cherishing the precious warmth it provided in the cold desert night. The wind was out of the northwest this morning, towards his back, so he had pulled himself into a crevice formed by a boulder that leaned against a rather large slab of limestone. It made a convenient hiding place from which he could scan the border and protect himself from the elements. He hoped the other Regulators on duty this morning found similar protection from the chill wind.

  Jed thought it remarkable how fast things had changed since that fateful Tuesday when the power had gone out and the riots had started. It was amazing to think how fast things declined. He was still trying to block out the memories of the day after they lost power, the day of the fight where the Regulators killed about 20 illegal Mexican immigrants. Rob had said it was an invasion, an act of war just when America was at its weakest. Jed wasn’t so convinced. He thought it wrong that people try to take advantage of America’s open society, but he balked at shooting unarmed people. He had been one of the men who had aimed at the ground in front of the Mexicans that day. There had been plenty other Regulators up to the task of slaying the unarmed.

  Jed was one of the men who remained loyal to Rob and Lance, the unofficial leaders of the Regulators. Only a few men sided with John Sellson when he left, so it wasn’t much of a breakup of power. But of those that remained true, there was a sharp division—those who thought it necessary to do anything and everything to protect the nation and those, like Jed, who believed that was all well and good as long as they didn’t go shooting unarmed people. Stop them from crossing the border yes, slaughter them, no.

  Before leaving Rob’s ranch—the equally unofficial headquarters now—Jed had listened in on the shortwave radio and learned of the race riots and the Battle of Chicago and fighting in New York. He heard about the media blackout imposed by Washington—that hadn’t gone over well with the Regulators—and of the President’s assurances that the government was still very much in charge and order would be restored soon.

  Rumors came in to Nogales from Tucson of the rioting and fighting going on between Latinos and Blacks proclaiming allegiance to the Brotherhood. Things were very unsettled at the moment.

  By far, the worst news the Regulators had received was about the growing conflagration in the western states. All of a sudden, in an eerie coincidence, it was being reported that several large forest fires were consuming acres and acres of land, trees and everything in between, from just outside L.A., up to Idaho, southern Montana, Wyoming, Colorado and Arizona. Most of the Regulators were quick to surmise that terrorists had started the fires.

  Anyone who listened to the reports, then looked at maps could see all the fires were centered around major interstates running through the affected regions. But there was no official confirmation from either the states or Washington, so people just guessed and hoped the winds held, keeping the fires away. The fires were definitely getting close—just that evening, word came in that there was smoke and flames moving to the west from the Coronado National Forest on the east side of Nogales. The community was sleeping on pins and needles that night. Jed, on watch, wasn’t sleeping at all.

  He picked up the surplus Russian night vision goggles that Lance had lent out to the night watchmen. They weren’t state of the art by any means, but they were a far sight better than unaided eyes for scanning the darkness of the borderlands. Putting the unit over his head and adjusting his hat to keep him warm, Jed clumsily sought out the power switch with his work glove protected hands.

  With a click, his world erupted into shades of greens and whites. The view through the goggles cleared up and he slowly scanned his surroundings, looking at his hands, legs, gear and pack, his little cave, the ridge beyond. Everything was magnified in the ambient light of the half moon as it drifted through high, thin clouds in the ink black sky.

  Movement to the south of his position caught his eye—he adjusted the focus and held his breath to prevent the picture from blurring.

  “Whew, just a coyote.” Jed sighed and relaxed. All quiet on the southern front. He was just about to pick up his water bottle and remove the goggles for another ten minutes when a small white spot blinked on the edge of his vision. Turning just enough to see what had caught his atte
ntion, the white spot came back, clearer. It moved amorphously, appearing, then disappearing.

  “One, this is Watchtower…” he called out.

  “Go ahead, Jed…” was the static-filled reply.

  “No names!” someone else hissed over the ‘net.

  “Watchtower, you see that light?” asked the chastised first voice after a pause to curse off-net.

  Jed blindly reached for his radio, keeping his eyes on the mysterious light cluster to the south. “Yeah…I got ‘em. That’s what I was calling to report. Got some lights, moving…through the hills to the south of my position. Coming north.”

  “I see one…” was the quick reply. “Am I seeing things or…?”

  “No…definitely not. I see…” Jed squinted behind the goggles, counting shifting lights. “I count five…no, six.” They were bobbing in pairs.

  What the hell? “Looks like they’re moving in pairs. Can’t tell direction—“

  “Hey, the one I see just stopped,” crackled the radio.

  “I just saw movement behind the first six…”

  “There’s movement on foot…I can see ‘em in my scope,” replied the other voice.

  “I see another pair. They’re cars! I got at least three cars in front of me to the south, estimate half a mile—relay that to base!”

  “I’m on it…standby one,” was the terse reply of the radio coordinator. That night it was one of the Franks brothers, Ed, who sat in a truck well behind the Ridge where the lookouts were posted. The little 2-way Wal-Mart radios were good for a few miles, but to reach the Gunn Ranch, they needed the 2 meter HAM rig in Ed’s Ford F-150, normally used for ranch work.

  “Everyone keep your flashlights off…” said Jed. “They’ll spot us if we light anything…” As the headlights moved closer, Jed could begin to pick out individual shapes accompanying the slow moving vehicles. “Whoa, we got tangos on foot, repeat, movement on foot with the cars.”

  Ed’s deep voice came over the radios all the watchmen carried. “Just sit tight, folks. Rob’s called out the posse, we’ll have everyone on line in about fifteen minutes.”

  Jed cursed. They were going to have to get better at getting the Regulators together. Fifteen minutes was fast…before. Now, he estimated that fifteen minutes would barely get the combined Regulators on scene before the unknown cars and people showed up on their doorstep.

  After what seemed an eternity, Rob Gunn stopped his truck next to Ed’s and stepped out into the kicked up dust. He had his old Winchester in one hand and his field pack in the other. In it, like the other Rangers, he held spare ammo, both for his rifle and sidearm, food, water, first aid and other emergency gear, plus his radio and weather gear. He touched the brim of his Stetson with the barrel of the lever action rifle in salute as he passed Ed’s truck. Inside, illuminated by the dome light, Ed nodded and pointed up the ridge where Jed was located.

  A stiff climb through the sage brush and rocks found Rob creeping up next to Jed, still with the goggles on and watching the Mexicans in the moonlit darkness. They were now only a few hundred yards away and he could clearly make out five vehicles by their headlights; three beat up cars and two old trucks, plus a motorcycle. On foot, he counted nearly fifty men. This time he could see no women. As they got closer, he could easily point out the long dark shapes held by the men.

  “They’re armed this time, Rob,” Jed whispered as his friend and leader crouched down and peered to the south. Jed left the question as to whether or not they would be armed if the Regulators hadn't shot that last group wisely unsaid.

  “Numbers?” asked Rob, still seeing only the headlights, moving in a line abreast. The noise of the engines was faintly audible when the wind shifted or died down.

  “I count five vehicles, a motorcycle and about fifty on foot.”

  Rob rubbed his eyes. “Damn.” We’re not going to get out of this one as easy as before.

  Jed took off the goggles and handed them to Rob to get a lay of Mexicans. As he did so, Lance appeared on the other side of Jed’s little station, said his greetings and crouched down next to Jed. He had brought his own pack, hunting rifle and his two old double-action Smith and Wesson revolvers, strapped to his waist in holsters.

  Rob had seen enough and handed the goggles back to Jed. “Looks like they’re serious. Lotta guns down there, Lance.”

  “Hit ‘em hard, surprise ‘em, then retreat by teams back to the ravine up the road to the north?” asked Lance, surmising the situation in seconds. That was the main reason the men had selected Lance and Rob as co-leaders by consent—they could see the best options and made quick, well reasoned decisions.

  “That’s what I was thinking,” said Rob, eyes scanning the darkness. It would be light in another hour or so. By then, he and the Regulators would be about a mile to the north, entrenched at a ravine where the only serviceable road for miles had to cross. If those cars were anything short of 4x4 off-road vehicles, they’d be funneled by the landscape up the dirt road to the ravine. A perfect choke point. From there, if needed, the Regulators could fall back even further, moving up the hills and making the Mexicans pay for every step they took inside America.

  “Sounds good to me,” offered Jed, putting the night vision goggles back on his head. The Mexicans looked closer than he would have imagined in the brief time Rob had the goggles. “They’re gonna be right on top of us in a few minutes, Rob.”

  “You’re not going to do anything about it, Jed. We need you up here, not shooting but looking. We’re all blind until sun-up. That’s still a couple hours away,” he said, glancing towards the east. There was just a hint of a lighter shade of dark indigo.

  “You’re going to have to give us positions and tell us where to shoot. Think you can handle it?” asked Rob, seriously. They needed someone with nerves of steel for this because things were likely to get pretty dicey soon.

  Jed swallowed. His qualms about shooting unarmed people vanished. These Mexicans were obviously here to cause trouble and hurt someone, if the number of armed men was any indication. “You got it, Rob.”

  “Okay, here’s the layout,” said Rob, explaining where the teams were going to be positioned.

  Rob and Lance and considered the situation on the way up from the Ranch, talking through CB from their respective trucks. They had decided to follow the same plan they had a few days ago. They would have the teams spread out on the ridge in groups of two, in a rough U shape to draw the Mexicans in and surround them on three sides, putting up a crossfire. Then the tips of the U would fall back to positions behind the ridge, covering the rest of the teams who would melt away in front of the Mexicans, if needed, making another skirmish line further to the north. In this fashion they would leapfrog up the dirt road cut through the surrounding ridges and work their way to the ravine. Once at the ravine, they’d set up another ambush and finish off the invaders. Assuming everything went as planned.

  Rob and Lance carefully crawled back down the ravine to the center of the U, their standard position. Rob clicked on his 2-way radio to check in with the other teams. All 26 Regulators checked in okay and in position.

  “Outnumbered 2 to 1, man,” said Lance in the darkness to Rob’s right, hidden behind a rock formation.

  “Yep.”

  “But we got the element of surprise…” Lance whispered.

  “Yep.”

  In the darkness, Lance nodded. That was all the pep-talk he needed.

  Both their radios, indeed all the Regulators’ radios clicked in unison. “Overwatch to teams, illegals inbound at about a hundred yards.”

  No one replied. Rob had ordered strict radio silence except for Overwatch, to avoid cluttering the channel and getting mixed signals. On a night like this, that could get them killed. Everyone knew if they were wounded or cut off from the group to hole up and wait for sunrise, then try to regroup after the fight. In the dark, anyone could be mistaken for an enemy.

  Minutes ticked by like years. Rob could hear the rumble from th
e car engines and the whine of the dirt bike grow louder. Every now and then he could hear a Spanish voice or a bit of laughter. The headlights grew brighter and bounced around as the vehicles crossed the rocky tract of land at the border.

  “We give ‘em a warning this time?” asked Lance.

  “Overwatch to teams, that red pickup with the bullet holes from the…fight….is down there.”

  Rob looked at his radio. “They don’t get a warning, Lance. That sumbitch was here when we gave all the warnings they needed.”

  Lance licked his lips and checked the chamber in his hunting rifle, an old scoped bolt action. He, with a few others of the Regulators, were to be the “long shots” of the night, concentrating on taking out as many targets as far away as possible, then moving back and letting the guys with the assault rifles take over. Lance took out a bandanna from his jacket pocket then placed a handful of rifle rounds on the fabric, next to his position, to allow him to reload as fast as possible.

  A few more minutes tense minutes passed. The sounds of the Mexican group grew louder. The headlights flashed and swerved around rocks. Engines were gunned.

  They have no idea we’re here…they think they’re being smart sneaking up in the night…thought Rob. He grinned. Invade his country, will they?

  “Almost to the border,” called out Jed over Rob’s radio, his voice a higher pitch. “Getting close…”

  To Rob’s left, someone shifted nervously, sending a small cascade of pebbles down the front of the ridge. His teammate cussed him out and then there was no noise again except the cars and talking Mexicans on foot. One of them stumbled and fell, causing a laughing fit among his comrades. The sound of broken glass drifted in on the wind.