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

by Marcus Richardson

  THERE WAS ONLY a split second for Jed to react. He saw the dome light come on when the other door opened, could see a man poised there with a gun—a big one, pointing right towards Bill. His hand immediately moved towards his pistol. Before he could draw it, the man in the driver’s seat had his own pistol up and pointed right at Jed’s face. Jed froze, ignoring the retort of the shotgun that just sent his friend Bill off the road and into the darkness beyond the headlights.

  They just killed Bill! Jesus Christ! Oh, Jesus…Jesus, help me! his panicked mind screamed.

  I WANT YOU to see the face of justice, infidel,” Saldid said with a lecherous smile. He put the pistol’s barrel against the skin on the infidel’s forehead, right between his eyes. The American closed his eyes and began praying, knowing his death was imminent.

  “Saldid, kill him already! We must hurry before others arrive!” cursed Hakim in Arabic.

  Saldid spoke back in English over his shoulder without taking his eyes off the infidenl. “I want to make this one special, Hakim. Give me a second.”

  “Look at me, infidel!” Saldid ordered. The man opened his eyes calmly. He was more calm than ever before in his life. He was ready for death and it showed on his face. Saldid was enraged—he wanted the American to cry and beg for his life, showing the true cowardice that he believed lived in the hearts of all American Infidels.

  “I want you to know that the children of Allah will crush you! I want you to beg for your life, Infidel!”

  The American took a breath and focused on the hate filled face in the driver’s seat. He knew the terrorist would kill him soon. That thought shook him. He wondered idly why terrorists would be along the border. With a voice that was steady as a rock, he spoke his last words.

  “Some day, someone just like me is gonna wipe all you fuckers from the face of the Earth.” He defiantly spat a glob of mucus in Saldid’s face.

  As Hakim heard the single shot that scattered the insolent infidel’s brains out into the pre-dawn night, he rolled his eyes and raised his arms to Allah.

  Why have You punished me with this fool? He’s going to get us both killed one day. I could better serve You alone!

  ALONG THE BORDER between America and Mexico, Ed and George Franks raced across the old access road, heading away from the Ranch towards Jed and Bill and the mystery vehicle. They had been trying over and over again to raise their fellow Regulators on the CB to no avail. Dawn was just cresting the top of the horizon.

  “It’ll be light soon…we’ll have a better idea what we’re up against then,” said Ed over the roar of the engine. He dropped the pedal to the floor and crashed over a small dune.

  His brother, George, said nothing. He slammed a fresh magazine into his AR-15 and chambered a round with his bandaged hand.

  Ed swerved the big truck through some loose gravel and onto the road where Jed and Bill had reported in from. “There!” he said, pointing the truck in the direction of the vehicle at the top of the small hill.

  “That ain’t Jed’s Jeep.”

  “I think you’re right.” Ed floored it again and the truck lurched forward, chewing up the distance. They could both tell something was amiss. The driver side door on the black SUV was open, as was a door on the passenger side. The tailgate was up and there was debris on the ground. George checked his brother’s weapon, an old AK-47.

  “Lock ‘n’ load, Ed.”

  They slid to a stop in a cloud of dust behind the abandoned Chevy Suburban and could see the debris on the gravel more clearly under the big Ford’s headlights. There were all kinds of things scattered on the ground behind the still running Chevy. A few duffle bags, ripped open—women’s clothing and underwear half pulled out. Some papers and books strewn here and there, old shoes, a few backpacks full of toys…

  “What the hell is all this shit?” asked George, stepping out of the passenger side of the truck and sweeping his rifle left and right, looking for targets. He winced in pain at the movement but never blinked. “I smell a trap, man…”

  “Looks like someone was running away from home…” noticed Ed, covering the driver side of the Suburban. “No one’s home,” he called out. “Abandoned.” He lowered his weapon and peered about. “Don’t see—“

  “Blood!” said George, pointing to the ground a few feet away from the passenger side door. “Shotgun shells…someone bought the farm here, man.”

  “Oh that ain’t good…” Ed noticed a spray of blood and chunks of pink-grey stuff splashed out in an arc from the driver’s side door. He could see a booted foot sticking out of the shrub in the ditch. Stepping down gingerly, he moved some branches away and saw a man dressed like a ranch hand. On his hip was a still holstered .45 semi-auto. There was a patch on the chest pocket of the leather work jacket. It was the Regulator emblem, a large red R filling the outline of the state of Arizona.

  “Jed! Oh, God!”

  George hobbled around to his brother and nearly threw up at what he saw. Their friend’s face was only slightly distorted, but the back of his head and parts of the side were gone. The bushes and brush around him were coated pink and red. He had a look of utter peace on his face, his eyes closed as if in sleep.

  Ed doubled over, forcing his hasty breakfast back down. He didn’t need this kind of wake-up call.

  A groan drifted out of the sagebrush behind the SUV. The two brothers looked at each other and both jogged back around the Suburban to the passenger side where George had found the blood and spent shotgun shells.

  “Bill?” asked Ed, tentatively.

  “Over…unh….over here…” came the weak reply.

  The two brothers quickly found their wounded comrade through the blood stained underbrush in the ditch. He lay on his back, where he had been tossed by the blast from the terrorists shotgun. His face and upper torso were riddled with black marks and blood.

  “Oh hell…birdshot!” said George through gritted teeth and looked away.

  There was a significant pool of blood under Bill’s limp form. The shotgun had done its work nicely, eviscerating the Regulator. It was obvious to the two stunned brothers that Bill would depart this world soon. They worked to make him as comfortable as possible.

  “Bill…can you hear me?” Ed asked, taking a knee in the dirt by his friend.

  “It’s George and Ed, Bill…we’re here to help you…”

  Bill groaned in pain and his breath gurgled. His lung had been punctured. His face looked like a swollen, bloody hunk of Swiss cheese. “I ain’t gonna…make it…” he whispered.

  “No, don’t talk like that, you’re gonna be fine. We’ll have you patched up in no time…George, run get the first aid kit and get on the horn to the Ranch.”

  Bill shook his shot up head with considerable effort. He reached out with a bloodied hand and gripped Ed’s denim jacket. “Don’t bother…Jus’ tell…tell Gunn…”

  “What? Tell Rob what?” asked George, leaning over his dying friend.

  Bill’s eyes suddenly went wide. Ed winced in sympathy—he could see in the pre-dawn twilight that one eye had been destroyed by the shotgun, a bloody oozing hole left in its place. The other eye was taking on a glazed look.

  “Arabs, I think…terrorists…Hakim…Hakim…”

  Ed looked at George. “Terrorists? Hakim?” He turned back to Bill. “Hakim? Is that a name? Bill, what happened?”

  Bill grunted with the effort of taking a short breath. “Found the car…ambush…they got me, left. Jed!” he groaned. “Wanted Jed to beg…for his life…” Bill gripped Ed’s sleeve with white knuckles.

  George gripped his rifle and fought back tears. He looked around, hoping to find someone to shoot and vent his rage.

  “Tell Gunn…they went…”

  “Where…Bill, where did they go?” asked George, gently shaking his friend’s head.

  Bill seemed to slip away into unconsciousness.

  “Jesus…” muttered Ed, crossing himself. He looked at the broken and bleeding form of his friend, saw the
image of Jed laying in the brush on the other side of the Suburban. “Who…why would they do this…terrorists, here? What the fuck are terrorists doing…” His mind was thinking quickly, out loud.

  Bill suddenly spoke through the blood that was filling his mouth, welling up from deep down inside his tortured body. He had to get the word out before he died. Something was compelling him to speak when all he wanted was to sleep. “They went to Mexico…took Jed’s Jeep….Mexico. Tell Gunn…” he said, fading.

  “We will, Bill, don’t worry, we’ll tell Rob,” said Ed, trying to sooth his dying friend. Tears began welling up in his eyes. He tried to hide them from his brother, who was doing the same thing.

  Goddammit, this is too much!

  One last word escaped Bill’s lips like a ghost slipping into the shadows. “Remember….” his last breath expelled. Bill lapsed into silence and ceased to move.

  CHINA

  To Prepare for War

  I AGREE, GENERAL, that this has always been an interesting proposal, but I believe we should take this matter before the President immediately. I do not think we should delay any longer,” offered Shin Ho, Minister of the Interior and ranking Party Member of China’s Communist Government.

  “I think it would be foolish to rush on this…after all, it has only been what, a week since the Americans were attacked? However…You may be right, Shin,” considered Po Sin, Minister of the People’s Army. Most people called him ‘Minister’, as he was hardly an active General any more in the People’s Army. It had been years since he’d worn a uniform and he had come to rather enjoy wearing his dark suits.

  “This old plan needs to be updated quickly. The timing has to be perfect.” Shin Ho said, examining the document in his hands.

  “I agree. And if we move soon, we may have a better than even chance of catching them by surprise.” Po Sin pursed his lips and thought for a second. “I have contacts, you know…with the Arabs,” hinted the wily head of the Army.

  The Interior Minister put down the report and smiled, intrigued. “Oh? And what do these…contacts…tell you?”

  “They say that they are working on getting us a way in.”

  Shin Ho laughed out loud, causing a few of the aides to bow and hide. Few people had ever dared to laugh at the Minister of the Army, no matter how high in the Party one was.

  “Oh come now, my friend. What do these uncultured Arabs think they can do for us?”

  “I am told, in exchange for certain, shall we say, ‘privileges’, they will ‘open the door’ to America,” Po Sin said, face as neutral as he could manage. He lit another of his foul smelling cigarettes and puffed. He knew perfectly well Shin Ho hated people smoking in his office. The aides look at each other, everyone knew never to smoke in this office…the two high ranking ministers looked to be facing off in an undeclared duel.

  The Interior Minister thought about that. “Hmmm…how are they planning to open the door for us? We will need much space. An army, even a small one will take many ships and planes to transport,” he coughed slightly. Touché.

  Po Sin smiled, cigarette clinched delicately in his hand. The smoke wafted around his head like some mythological dragon biding its time.

  “Mexico,” he said simply. “Our U.N. ambassador has worked a deal with the Mexicans…they turn a blind eye to a fleet of ours making emergency stopover in Mexico, we give them an economic boost by promoting them to most favored nation status.”

  Shin Ho frowned. “Impossible. The Americans will be furious. Plus, what good will Mexican trade do for our economy? They are worthless!”

  “Watch our efforts for yourself then, General.” Po Sin picked up a remote and pointed it at a TV/DVR combo unit cleverly hidden in the ornate cabinetry near the door to the office. The flatscreen came to life, displaying a generic menu. Po Sin found the recording he needed and pressed play, then turned up the volume. Shin Ho turned in his seat and raised his eyebrows, pulling a drag on his cigarette and waiting patiently for this unexpected surprise.

  “This occurred late last night. I recorded it to amuse myself over breakfast this morning.” The recording started, a taping off of the satellite feed from The Hague. Arrayed before the camera the U.N. General Assembly came to session in its home away from home. It was late into the morning on this opening session in the new U.N. Headquarters. About a third of the delegates were missing, still in transit or unable to attend this first re-opened session. The cramped quarters had the attending delegates sitting shoulder to shoulder for the most part.

  “The Hague?”

  “Yes. Riots in New York.” Po Sin laughed aloud. “Riots! The rabble in the streets closed down the United Nations. I love it.” Po Sin hit the fast forward button for a few seconds then muttered, “Ah, here we are…” A man on the right side of the screen, dressed in that silly Middle Eastern style of robe, stood and waited for silence.

  “Mr. Secretary General, I think we should consider some kind of resolution,” said the Syrian Representative.

  “What kind of resolution?” asked the American Representative raising his hand. He was obviously suspicious of any move by the Syrians.

  “Israel must be condemned for this unprecedented, unprovoked, barbaric strike—“

  The Western dressed Israeli Representative leapt to his feet, full of righteous indignation. “How dare you accuse Israel of this horrific act!” He thrust a bony finger at the Syrian. “You have no proof that we did anything! Likely this is a terrorist plot to—“

  The Secretary General’s soft voice cut through the erupting shouting match. “Gentlemen! The Syrian delegate has the floor—Israel shall have its turn, following correct parliamentary procedure.”

  The aging Israeli ambassador plopped back in his seat, face red. The Syrian bowed and sent a wry smile towards his Israeli counterpart. “I propose a resolution condemning the nuclear attack on Jordan and insist this body level sanctions—“

  “The United States will not tolerate any action against Israel without hard evidence—“ interrupted the U.S. Delegate calmly. He sounded bored. A tired game. Only a few delegates nodded in agreement.

  “Mister Ryan, you are out of order,” chided the Secretary General in his lilting accent. “Need I remind you that the Syrian Delegate has the floor?” The American feigned regret and motioned for the Syrian to continue with a mocking bow.

  “Arrogant prick,” muttered Shin Ho.

  “Yes, but, he got his message out: America votes no, so America’s allies will vote no. Ssssh, this is the part I want you to see,” whispered the old general.

  The French Delegate stood up, shouting over the rest. “I propose a resolution for this body to investigate whether the United Nations send peace keeping forces to America.”

  The shocking statement dropped silence on the crowded chamber like a bomb. Shin Ho sucked in a breath in surprise. Po Sin grinned. The audacity of the Frenchman! His mind raced with likely military scenarios.

  “What?” gasped the American ambassador on the TV screen as the camera zoomed in on his face for a reaction. “Are you mad?”

  All thoughts of condemning Israel were forgotten—delegates all up and down the aisles of the make-shift conference chamber screamed and shouted for or against the action.

  After a few minutes of pounding a book on the table before him, the Secretary General got things under control again. He glared at each of the screaming delegates, shaming them into silence. Finally, he turned to the French delegate. “Why has France proposed this action?” he asked. In the shock of the proposal, no one pointed out that inquiring about the proposal while the Syrian proposal was active violated the rules of parliamentary procedure.

  The French Delegate bowed mockingly towards his American counterpart in a return for the American’s treatment of the Syrian ambassador. He sniffed politely before replying.

  “France knows, as the rest of the world also knows, that a nation harboring world’s greatest military—“ the French delegate grimaced on admitting Franc
e was not the world’s foremost military power. Nevertheless, he continued, “A nation like America, with such potential for destruction, in the throes of civil unrest on such an unprecedented scale seen there for the past week, can have disastrous consequences for the entire planet.”

  “This…is…outrageous!” cried the American delegate, standing again in protest. The camera swiveled back and forth, trying to catch all the facial expressions.

  “The United Kingdom agrees, this proposed action is outright lunacy. This smacks of—” said another delegate, jumping to the defense of America.

  “Gentleman, wait your turn. I will not remind you again.”

  The French delegate smiled sweetly at the Secretary General again. “Merci, Mr. Secretary General. As I was saying…” he looked pointedly at the American and British delegates and sniffed delicately again.

  “France is concerned that the civil unrest in the United States will bring instability to not only America, but to any region in which America once had a military presence—because, as we all know, those soldiers are going home, leaving warlords and terrorists to run free again. The potential that a civil war in America is brewing is just too great. This is unacceptable to the people of France and indeed, the world.”

  “And Germany,” said the dour German delegate, though he appeared more disgusted by the idea than anyone else in favor of it.

  “I speak for Mother Russia,” said a fireplug of a Russian, standing up from the front row. “We cannot agree more. The situation is too dangerous. How often have we as a body stepped into affairs of lesser countries, often at behest of United States, to ‘stabilize’ region?” The Russian spoke in rough English to show he was not nekulturniy—some uncultured heathen.

  The American delegate shook his head in disbelief as more and more members stood to voice their support for the growing proposition. The lesser nations could obviously tell which way the tide was turning and rushed to join the bandwagon.