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

by Marcus Richardson

  “Well,” said Erik, looking at his wife.

  “Yes, yes, we have a project to keep us busy till you ape-men come back. C’mere,” she said playfully. After a long embrace, she whispered in his ear, “You come back to me.” Louder, she said, “Now git, boys! Bring us some tuna!”

  Once Ted and Erik had disentangled themselves from their wives, they loaded up Brin’s dusty SUV and headed for the main gate. Ted’s children chased behind them on foot and scooters and bikes.

  “Quite the send off, gentlemen,” called out Lentz from near the gate as they waited for the Guard to open the Freehold’s main line of defense.

  “This is going to work…” said Erik, already on the defensive.

  Lentz raised his hands in a sign of truce. “I hope it will, for all our sakes. Especially the children. They have seen too much in these past few weeks.” Lentz, lost in thought, watched Ted’s offspring peel out and chase each other through the parking lot. Suddenly he jerked around and in the most sincere voice said, “Look. Erik, Ted,” he nodded, putting a hand on the driver’s open window. “We haven’t always seen eye to eye on every issue, but I do hope you understand I don’t harbor any ill will towards you. Either of you. You both are valued members of this community and we all owe a tremendous debt to you both.”

  Erik and Ted looked at each other in abject confusion. “I—“ Erik began.

  Lentz raised his other hand to forestall Erik’s reply. “I didn’t mean to get all sentimental. Just….just be careful. Godspeed, gentlemen.”

  ON THE WAY to the Marina, they decided to take the long route and do a little reconnaissance of Sarasota. They had been cut off from local news since the power went out, except for half crazed reports from people begging entrance into the Freehold as they moved through the area. They expected to see deserted houses and cars, but not at the level they witnessed.

  “Where is everyone?” asked Erik as they drove deeper into the heart of town. Trash littered sidewalks, shops were ransacked and left empty and open to the elements. A handful of dogs scurried out of one house but there were no people visible anywhere.

  “Lock ‘n’ load, man,” grunted Ted, scanning for any threats. “I feel like we’re being watched. Speed it up—let’s get outta this area.”

  Ted feeling uneasy was enough for Erik’s own tingling anxiety. He gunned the engine and they picked up speed, swerving around abandoned cars and debris in the road. “You see that?” Erik asked. “Damn fridge in the middle of the road!”

  There was a small metallic clink-tink at the rear of the SUV. “Floor it! We’re taking fire!” roared Ted, crouched over and shotgun up. “Still no targets,” he said as the scenery began to blur.

  Erik pulled off the main street and tore through a few trash littered yards to avoid some wrecked cars. “Holy shit!” screamed Erik as he swerved the vehicle to avoid incoming rounds.

  Erik didn’t slow down until they exited the neighborhood and rumbled on the nearest main road. “There were bodies by those cars,” he observed in a detached voice, swerving back onto the road.

  “Did you notice anything weird about that neighborhood?” asked Ted.

  “Other than there were people shooting at us!?” said Erik, his voice cracking under the strain. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. Then, “Should we stop to check the damage?” asked Erik, indicating the shots someone had taken at the SUV. He took his foot off the accelerator and the they began to slow.

  Ted glanced at the fuel gauge. “We losing fuel?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then we stop at the Marina. That was an ambush like one we almost fell into back in Fallujah.” They began to speed up again.

  Erik thought about Ted’s first question as they headed for the Marina on the main north-south parkway. “The White Hand People…”

  “Yeah, they left their calling cards on most of the houses and buildings. On all the ones that were looted. I don’t like this, man—it’s like they’re systematically going house to house —- a bunch of locusts.”

  “They’re organized,” Erik agreed. “Not the mob that hit us a while back. Those guys were just thugs.”

  “We need to check out the boat thing, then get out of town, I think,” said Ted. “This stuff is getting too close to Mad Max for my taste. We need to hightail it to the boonies, man. Maybe we can use sailboats to bug out?”

  “That’s what I kinda was thinking. The marina’s up around this next bend,” said Erik. “When we get back, we’ll talk to the girls and get out. Meantime, I just want my heart to stop pounding. That was pretty intense!”

  Ted chuckled the laugh of a man who’d been there, done that. “Get used to people shooting at you, Erik. I think it’s gonna be a way of life, at least until this U.N. thing is resolved.”

  Erik pulled up next to the marina gate past the copse of palm trees he and Brin had hidden inside the previous night. “This place has seen better days,” he muttered as they got out. In daylight, it was a different world. A few cars had been burned where they had been parked in the lot. Beer cans, trash and items hauled from the cars and possibly bits of sailboats were strewn across the parking lot. A warzone compared to the night before.

  Erik was examining the bullet holes just above the right taillight while Ted did a perimeter sweep, looking for threats. The Marine suddenly dropped to one knee and had the shotgun up and cocked.

  “Movement!” he hissed as a warning to Erik. Then in the voice of a drill sergeant, “You! In the bushes! Come out with your hands up or I will open fire!”

  Erik dove behind the rear wheel and drew his pistol with shaking hands.

  “You have three seconds to comply! One! Two!”

  “Alright, laddie! Hold ye’r fire!”

  “Archie!” sighed Erik with relief. “It’s okay, Ted, that’s Archie.”

  “Ye’re late, lad,” said Archie Sinclair as he rose from the bushes, hands up.

  “This is our new friend,” said Erik, holstering his pistol and rushing to greet the grinning Scotsman. Erik and Archie shook hands and Ted was introduced.

  “Ye’re an operator, lad?” asked Archie. “Been a while since anyone got the drop on ol’ Archie Sinclair.”

  “U.S. Marines, six years,” replied Ted with a grin of his own as the warriors shook hands.

  “A Devil Dog! I should ha’e known…”

  "You?” asked Ted as they walked towards the docks.

  “Och, aye, the Queen’s Own 42nd Highlanders,” he said with pride.

  “The Black Watch. Top shelf, sir,” said Ted with a respectful nod.

  “Weel, it was a long time ago. Now, if ye’ll follow me, I’ve the best o’ wha’s left to show ye,” said Archie. He led them around and over and through most of the sea-worthy vessels. Nearly half were damaged or half-sunk, charred hulks of the bright, slick looking pleasure boats they were, only weeks earlier.

  Archie explained the events of the night the defeated remnants of the Battle arrived. They were frustrated at the defeat the Freeholders handed them and torched the marina to salve their wounded pride. “Maddie and I simply weighed anchor and moved out yonder a wee way. They yelled and carried on like so many wee bairns but coudlna reach the Piper,” he said, grinning again.

  Erik pointed to Archie and Maddie’s boat for Ted’s sake.

  “Big ‘un for two,” commented Ted with a whistle.

  “We manage,” shrugged the Scotsman, picking at some planks of charred wood that used to be the deckhouse of a two-masted sloop, half-sunk in the murky water of the marina. “What a waste.”

  The three men spent the next few hours scavenging and piling what supplies the could find, including radios, batteries, jerry cans of diesel, rations and so on, alongside a couple of the better looking 20 foot day sailor boats.

  At length, Archie declared he simply must be off and took his leave. “Ye watch out for ye’re lassie,” he said to Erik in parting.

  “Aye, and you for Maddie,” replied Erik with a handsh
ake.

  Archie shook Ted’s hand again and wished them luck. One last look at Erik produced, “Aye, William Wallace indeed…Remember to call for the Piper on marine sideband radio. We’ll listen every night at sunset for 30 minutes.”

  Erik looked in his hand and saw Archie had slipped him a scrap of paper with a HAM call sign and frequency the Scots monitored along with the marine sideband information. He jogged over to the Flying Piper and helped Archie cast off.

  “Thanks,” Erik said, holding up the paper. “For everything.”

  Archie, now joined by Maddie on deck, took the last mooring line from Erik and began coiling it up as Maddie expertly guided the boat out of its slip with the diminutive diesel outboard engine. “I hope you survive what’s cooming , laddie,” he shook his head sadly. “Thus is a beautiful coon-try…worr-uth fighting over," the rough Scot's burr made Erik grin.

  “We will,” Erik indicated Ted.

  Archie waved and said a little louder as the Flying Piper gracefully pulled away from the dock, “Take my advice, laddie. Leave the fighting be to the professionals! Run while ye can!” He and Maddie waved as the sailboat coast past the end of the long dock, Erik keeping pace. “Ye’ll always have a place t’stay in Scotland!” Archie continued waving for a few seconds, then turned to his tasks.

  Erik watched the Flying Piper until it was perhaps half a mile out into the peaceful Gulf of Mexico, past the sand bars visible even at high tide, and the blazing white mainsail was unfurled. The offshore wind was caught quickly and the boat turned south and began the trek around the Floridian peninsula. Quickly, a jib was run up and the sailboat began to pick up speed.

  Moments later, Erik had their own boat, named the Tarpon Whistler, ready to head into the bay. The little 2hp engine gurgled noisily to itself as Ted cast off the mooring lines and gingerly climbed aboard. He almost looked surprised the boat didn’t sink with him in it. Erik grinned, then eased the boat out, not as gracefully as Maddie had the Piper, but at least they didn’t hit anything.

  “Okay, we’re clear of the Marina, you take the tiller, I’ll prep the sail.” Erik and Ted switched positions carefully as every movement rocked the little sailboat. Erik began instructing Ted on the basics of sailing. “It’s really pretty easy, as long as you’re not trying to win the America’s Cup or anything. Just let the boat and the wind do all the work.”

  Erik pulled on the mainstay and the mainsail began to rise haltingly with each pull. A moment later and the sail was up. Almost instantly the wind snapped the white sail taut and the little boat began to heel. “Ease her to starboard,” Erik said, ducking under the boom as it swung to port. “Good, you remembered to reverse your movement for the rudder’s position!”

  “Hey, Marines are part of the Navy to some degree.” Erik looked at Ted with an eyebrow raised. “Technically, I mean. Look, I ain’t no squid, but I can steer a boat…it’s the sails that screw me up. Hey…I think we’re going sideways!” observed Ted, his grin erased by sudden worry.

  “Hey, this thing has a rotating keel, I should have checked…” Erik clambered around Ted and found a lever marked “KEEL”. He remarked, “Someone customized this thing to look like a car’s emergency brake.” He released the lever and the boat shook, then steadied out and stopped drifting.

  “Pickin’ up speed,” commented Ted with approval. “Holding course.”

  Erik grinned as he checked the mainstay and perched on the port side of the boat. He closed his eyes and savored the whistling of the wind in his ears, the slight force on his face, the silence. Taking a deep breath, he inhaled the sounds and smells of the Gulf. The surface of the water was not quite glass smooth, but Erik knew it was infinitely more calm than the open waters of the Atlantic, far to their east. He turned back to Ted and began to explain how to tack a boat.

  “Angle us back towards the shore…see how the sail’s starting to drop? We’re running closer to the wind. Can’t do that all that well with a little rig like this.” Erik ducked the boom again, surprising Ted that such a large person could move with such agility on a moving vehicle, let alone a sailboat. He untied the guideline, gave the boom a tap and let it swing out in the opposite direction until it caught the wind and filled again, from the other direction.

  Tying the mainstay on a cleat on the starboard side this time, he said, “Now, hold this course a ways, then reverse the process and catch the wind going that way,” he said pointing off-shore.

  “You know, this ain’t so bad,” mused Ted, squinting in the wind.

  “Let’s head up the coast a ways,” Erik said, pointing north along the beach.

  “Siesta Key?”

  “Why not? I don’t know the fishing grounds around here but there’s got to be something out here.” Erik set to pulling out the trolling lines with the gear stripped from the other boats at the Marina. In short order, 4 ramshackle poles were trailing tackle from still other poles out behind the Tarpon Whistler. Erik watched the horizon. It was a little past noon, they had some few miles to go up the coast, the sun was shining, the breeze steady. All they needed were fish on the line and cold beers.

  They spent the afternoon in that manner, tacking up the coast, lines out for fish, talking of sailing and how to escaping the looming war. They watched the shoreline glide past, saw knots of people in tents on the beach. Some waved, some ran out to the water as if on a deserted island and the rescue boat had arrived at last. One man went so far as to shoot at them with a pistol.

  The Tarpon Whistler was a good three-quarters of a mile offshore, so Erik laughed while watching through binoculars as the man switched between waving and firing woefully ineffective shots at the cruising sailboat.

  “Look at all that trash on the beach,” Ted commented as they slipped past just north of Sarasota’s downtown district.

  “Bet you the White Hand People already came through here, too,” said Erik as he rested in the shadow of the mainsail. He scanned the beach with the binoculars. “Lot of tents—and people, stretching up and down over the dunes…Ted a lot of them aren’t moving…” he passed the binoculars to Ted and gripped the rail for support.

  “Guess that’s where everyone went…My God…”

  “Think the White Hand People did that?” asked Erik, his knuckles white with anger.

  “I see some guards of some kind…damn that’s a prison. Uh…uh oh. We’ve been spotted.”

  “Take us further out off shore, I don’t want any lucky shots,” said Erik as he took the binoculars back from Ted. The Marine readily agreed and pushed the tiller to starboard and the little sailboat dutifully angled further out towards the west, smoothly turning into and through the wind. Erik reversed position again and let the boom swing around and catch the wind with a nice snap.

  “What if they have a speedboat?” asked Ted, the shotgun balanced on his knees. “I don’t think we can outrun anyone in this…”

  “Dammit, I hadn’t thought of that. We don’t really have any options for a tactical sailboat, do we?”

  “Not unless we mount some cannon…”

  “Well, just take us way out then. We can come around after we cross Siesta Key,” replied Erik, eyes still on the shore. Finally he exhaled a sigh of relief. “Well, they don’t seem to care too much about us. No one’s really doing anything. Wait…”

  “What is it?” asked Ted, suddenly tense. He was trying not to think about how deep the water must be beneath them as the Tarpon Whistler cruised further into the Gulf.

  “Someone’s watching us through binoculars. Not doing anything, just watching.” Erik looked at Ted’s worried face and then back to the retreating shoreline. “Oh. He’s gone, now.”

  Ted took them out far enough that the people on the beach were tiny specks. Then they held course and tacked again to run parallel to the white strip of beach, close to three miles in the distance. “Well, I hope whoever he ran to tell about us doesn’t have a speedboat or jet skis…”

  As the sun was nearing the horizon, they caught s
ight of Siesta Key and began the run towards shore.

  It was as they got within a half mile or so of the deserted nature preserve at the northern tip of the island that they caught their first fish, after much excitement. “I think it’s a barracuda or something,” said Ted. “Look at those teeth!”

  “Whatever it is, it’s dinner now. Smack it with something to knock it out, before it bites one of us! That thing could take off one of our legs flopping around like that!” replied Erik. He lifted a leg over the thrashing fish, nearly as long as his arm and watched as Ted silenced the flopping fish with a butt stroke from the shotgun.

  “Take us in up to the point there and we’ll beach. Then we can make a fire and cook this bad boy,” suggested Erik, pointing off the starboard bow. He could almost taste the roasted fish. His mouth began to water. Erik raised the keel and untied the mainstay when the water depth came to about four feet. He could see right down to the bottom and watched it slowly get shallower as the gentle slope of the beach approached. The sail fell and they ghosted to a smooth stop in about a foot of water at the very tip of Sand Key, the bow of the sailboat running up into the smooth sand.

  After spending ten minutes gathering driftwood from the edge of the mangrove swamp that covered the island near the tip, they had a fire going. The smell of roasting fish was intoxicating after so many weeks of plain, survival food. They were going to eat meat—fresh meat. Both men let their worries melt away as they savored the relaxing warmth of the fire, the sound of the gentle Gulf waves lapping the shore, the cool evening breeze off the water.

  They talked of better days while the fish cooked, what it was like before the attacks, of camping, family and friends. It was the most peaceful few hours either man had experienced in well over a month.

  It was as the sun finally vanished beneath the horizon and the heat of the day began to bleed off rather quickly that they heard the sound.

  A plane. A big one.

  “Look, there it is!” said Erik, pointing in the fire’s glow towards the northeast. Three blinking lights gave away the planes location.