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

by Marcus Richardson

  “Yo that’s some shit right there,” mumbled one of the thugs. “That white boy like a rabid dog…”

  “Naw, he a dawg.”

  “You see how he jumped? Like Anton all juiced up on smack,” two of them high-fived.

  The Rep did not miss what had just happened. The wretch…the dog, no…The Dog, had just earned some street cred. He would never have guessed that could happen. This white man could be of some use after all.

  At last Henry slumped to the floor and curled into a fetal position, whimpering and moaning to himself. Only a few snatches of phrases and words could be understood. It was clear he was mentally unbalanced. Two of the men holding him down made eye contact with the woman they had dragged into the room.

  “Party time back on,” one grinned. They got off Henry and moved towards the woman who sat slumped against a wall, her eyes staring straight ahead. The bruises and marks on her body told the tale of her life after the lights went out. The wedding ring on her broken and swollen finger spoke of more than one life ruined and wasted since the power went out.

  What was left of the woman was no longer there. She was already with her family. Most of the street thugs in the room recognized the look, but didn't care. She was an object—a toy—now. Nothing more. When she wore out, starved, or just plain gave up, they'd find another and they all knew it.

  “Bessie?” asked Henry weakly from under a fold of rotten cloth. He moved some matted hair off his scratched and bloody face and looked through clouded eyes at the woman, seeing instead his dead daughter.

  “On your feet, girl. We ain’t done with you yet,” grumbled one of the giants.

  The Rep crossed his arms and debated how far he was willing to let this go. He glanced back out the window. Instead of men shuffling along or straggling in with friends, a few were running—or trying to. More than one stumbled on baggy pants, then had to be helped up by someone else, leaving a dark stain on the street.

  Walking wounded, he thought. Must be the tail end of the survivors. Why are they running?

  In a flash of rags and dirt, Henry roared in fury and crashed into the nearest of the two giants. They were going after his little girl. His baby! No force on earth could stop a father from defending his child, no matter how weak, beaten and abused he was.

  Henry was filled with a rage and a strength that a brief blip in his mind said must be from God. The thought vanished as quickly as it came. Henry wasn't the most religious man, hadn't gone to services since his wife left him years ago. His mind paused at the thought of Bessie alive—he saw her die. Yet here she was, about to be attacked by two big black men. Henry didn't care. His baby girl needed him.

  The big man didn’t fall the way the Latino kid did, he calmly swung one meat-hook of an arm around and threw Henry to the floor. Henry struggled to get his footing, screamed about his daughter and launched another assault. Only the sight of the man’s gun flashed in his face stopped the charge.

  “You bes' check yourself, bitch,” the man growled. He was an ex-con who had spent years of 'hard-time' building up muscles that would allow himself to have a good time now that he was out on the street. “I seen some bad shit in the joint and no scrawny white man that bit like a dog gonna stop me getting’ my first piece ‘a pie since I got locked up. Now back the fuck up.”

  “Aaaw snap!” said his compatriot. The two bumped massive fists. The Rep was the first to notice what happened next.

  Henry calmly walked two steps closer to the larger man with the gun. He didn’t flinch, didn’t say anything, didn’t utter a word. He set his face in stone and stared right at the gunman. Right through him. This man was between him and his daughter. Getting to Bessie was all that mattered to Henry at that moment. He would walk through Hell itself for his little girl.

  Death held no fear over Henry Grimes. Not anymore.

  His upper lip curled. The whiteness of his yellowed teeth compared to the filth and dried blood on his face was startling. There was some fresh blood and a bit of ear in Henry's teeth. The man with the gun began to sweat.

  He realized he was going to have to shoot this fool or back down. It was clear to everyone that nothing was going to scare The Dog. Nothing would stop him. He quickly changed from a poor, half-starved white man in rags who had lost his mind, into a force of nature. The Dog.

  Soon the others noticed as well. They shared looks of amazement. No one had ever stared down Dozer before. And here this white boy in rags, acting like a rabid dog, was actually making the big black man—with a gun—take a step back. A trickle of sweat ran down Dozer's right temple. One of the thugs saw it and smiled.

  “Yo, you ain’t right in the head, man…step off…” said Dozer in a low voice, meant only for Henry. He glanced quickly at his audience. He was about to lose face. A thought in his drug addled head whispered, You might lose part of your face too...

  The Dawg don’t fear nuthin’!” someone else hooted and pumped a fist in the air.

  The Rep made up his mind. “Lower that gun before someone gets hurt. You," he growled and pointed at the wounded Latino. "Get that woman out of here. He clearly thinks she’s his daughter.” The bloodied kid jumped to obey and quickly pulled the disheveled woman into a side room and shut the door. The Rep pointed at another thug, one of the three that brought The Dog in earlier. “You—get in there and make sure that woman is not raped. Allah will not tolerate that kind of defilement.”

  When the side door closed again. Like magic, Henry reverted to his former state, crouching on the floor, picking at his rags and investigating his empty cans of dog food. Every few seconds he glanced up at the man with the gun and glared at him like a dog on a leash that had been beaten and starved by a cruel master. The Rep folded his massive arms across his chest and pursed his lips in thought. This Dog could prove some use after all…

  “We are wasting too much time. We need to round up as many survivors as we can and find a new base of operations,” the Rep intoned with a deep voice. He was determined to bring as many of the fools before him out of the danger zone. In time he would introduce them to Allah and might actually transform them into useful soldiers of the Cause. But they had to survive first and the National Guard had determined them to be a threat worthy of extermination.

  Just like the Man to go after the Brothers first.

  “Yo, what about that place the Dog came from?” asked one of the youths. “You know, that Colony place…where they had that big fight? Word is they pimpin’ it.”

  "Yeah," said another, with a solemn nod.

  "Didn't some fools already try d'at?" asked the first.

  “Watch yo’ mouth, bitch,” another growled and thrust out his chest. “I was there when those cats fought back. They tough, y’hear? We can’t get in that place.”

  “The Dog could,” offered the youth with a foul tone, pointing at Henry.

  “You expect him to get us in the place that crushed our initial efforts?” asked the Rep. He had not been tasked to this area then, but he had heard the stories. The first organized effort to take control in this area had met with utter disaster. They had tried to assault a local apartment complex and had been nearly slaughtered to a man. In the ensuing weeks, word got out to give that place a wide berth until the situation had changed. Perhaps the situation had changed.

  “That fool came from the Colony?” someone else asked.

  “Colonial Gardens…” whispered the pile of filthy rags in the corner.

  “What?” barked the Rep.

  “It’s called Colonial Gardens,” the voice was stronger.

  The black men all looked at each other, stupefied. It was the first coherent words anyone had ever heard from the Dog when not screaming about his daughter. Henry rolled into a crouch, a little shaky, but filled with a new found resolve. They could see the change in his eyes. The cloud of grief was replaced with a clarity only supplied by white hot anger. He used a dirt encrusted hand to brush some matted hair from his face. He stared at the Rep with eyes tha
t hungered for vengeance.

  “I can get you in…strong place. You’ll be safe. But I have a price.”

  The Rep smiled despite himself. He needed to put on a strong face. The kids were so close to completely accepting him as their new leader. Teedell and most of the brothers had met a painful death just hours before at the hands of the National Guard. And if the Dog were to die in the process….

  “What is your price, Dog?” Inside he was quite nervous and it shamed him to admit that, even to himself. This Dog…is dangerous.

  “Larsson. I want Larsson.”

  “Yeah, Larsson…d'at's the cat he talkin’ about when we pick him up. He top dog in d'at place, yo,” said one of the thugs as he rubbed his stubble covered chin. “Said d'is Larsson threw him out on the street with his girl…guess she die.”

  “Yo! In da house!” came a shout from outside. It was one of the guards the Rep had posted. Everyone rushed to look out the window. Street hoods and ex-cons were running from house to house, spreading the alarm. “Here come da law!”

  The Rep glanced further up the street. Sure enough, two Humvees were parked in the road, blocking access. Further behind, he could see lights of other vehicles moving into position.

  Time's up.

  “Very well. I know you want to return to those people and exact your revenge. Allah wants you to have it as well,” the Rep said in a solemn voice.

  Henry growled, a low, menacing sound. “Screw your Allah. I want Larsson.”

  The Rep barely contained his rage. “Fine. Go. But we will be in charge of this assault. Do you understand? I will put you down like the rabid dog you are. But if you get inside…”

  Henry smiled. “Blood.”

  The Rep nodded. “Yes.” He turned to his lieutenants. “Gather the men, we need to move, now. Get every car we have, load them up and follow me. You,” he said the last to Henry, pointing a massive arm in his direction. “Come with me, my friend. We have much to discuss.”

  Henry smiled, a look that would freeze a normal man's soul in fear. The crusted blood and matted hair made him look like something out of a nightmare

  ."Bring my daughter."

  IT WAS AN impressive little army, Henry realized in a murky sort of way. He sat in the back seat of a shot up sedan as it drove towards the rendezvous point. There were nearly 300 fighters, juiced up on hooch and whatever prescription meds they found in houses after looting. Fueled by tales of cheerleaders and white women looking for love, spurred forward by racial hatred and intolerance, they marched.

  It was quite the caravan, he noticed, as they wound their way through back streets and alleys. They headed east, through wasteland neighborhoods already ransacked, through gutted shopping centers and and grocery stores, through a town that had fled or died.

  Empty house after house rolled past his grimy window. He saw yards strewn with trash and debris, even bodies, swollen in the sun. His comrades, the Brothers, were excitedly talking of the heroic deeds they would soon perform upon joining battle.

  Henry heard, but did not listen. He saw, but did not see. His mind, his soul, his very reason for being was all focused on one thing now: revenge.

  As they pulled up at the rendezvous point, Henry could not get out of the car fast enough. He knew, deep in his troubled soul, where he was — just about a quarter mile down Bee Ridge Road, a little west of the Freehold. Just a short walk from vengeance.

  They were gathered at looted hardware store, sheltered in the parking lot by the shadows of the building and pine trees. They were close enough to strike fast, yet far enough to avoid early detection by the Freeholders.

  Beat up cars and trucks, overloaded with fighters hanging on roofs and sides trickled into the parking lot. Radios blared stolen CDs. Alcohol was passed out freely. Molotov’s were handed out from trunks, along with whatever weapons remained after the disastrous action that morning. Planks of wood, pipes, shards of glass, even axes and baseball bats were turned into weapons for the final, all out assault on the Freehold.

  Henry looked around impassive and realized in a moment of lucidity that the people swarming around him were planning to make one last ditch attempt. If they failed, they were trapped between the National Guard coming from the coast and the Freeholders. If they succeeded, the Freehold would be theirs and along with it, the safety of the Freehold’s walls. Life or Death. A simple choice.

  Henry needed only one outcome: Larsson’s throat in his hands. Everything else faded to nothingness and irrelevancy.

  The Dog stood apart, one of the few white men among the growing little army. He wanted nothing of their cause; he cared not at all if they lived or died. They believed him to be a mad dog. He snarled at the first one to approach him with a water bottle. At least it got him some peace and quiet in the block party atmosphere of the parking lot.

  If they don’t’ know we’re coming…they’re making enough noise to give it all away…idiots.

  Time seemed to drag by. Henry began to pace. He relieved himself on the curb near the trees. Some of the fighters pointed and laughed, but most kept a respectful distance. His followers began to trickle in and set up camp near him — but not too close. Most of the fighters had sloppy white hands painted on jackets or shirts or chests. Henry’s men had also painted crude white dogs on themselves to show others that they were Dogmen. The elite of the fighters.

  Henry happened to glance down and was inspecting the dirt caked on his hands when he realized the noise level around him had dropped significantly. Word was spreading through the army from those equipped with radios. Something had them worked up. More and more fighters began to move and then run towards vehicles. Tires squealed and men whooped and the army began to dissolve and head back west down the main drag.

  Henry overheard bits and pieces of excited banter as the great block party began to break up. His hate-filled mind gradually pieced together the concept of a mission aborted. Their home base was under attack—the National Guard was on the offensive.

  “No!!” he shrieked. “We must kill them all!” Desperation seized him. He roared his frustration to the clear summer sky as his army disintegrated and raced away to rescue their brothers. Colonial Gardens was forgotten.

  But Henry was not totally abandoned; the Dogmen remained. He had about 50 fighters, thirsty for blood and now an even bigger share of the loot and women in the apartment complex. He nodded his approval at the words of encouragement they gave him.

  Without warning, Henry turned and sprinted towards vengeance, his howling minions close behind. Henry grinned as he ran – he had his pack. They weren’t dogs…but wolves.

  It was as they approached the corner so near his old home that Henry’s men found prey. He didn’t have time to marvel at the sight of what looked like a bomb crater where once the local gas station had stood. On the outside of the big reinforced gate to Colonial Gardens was a group of ragged looking bikers.

  Henry did not bother with stealth—by the time this first of the tired bikers noticed the group of wild men descending on them, it was too late. A few of them raised the alarm and fired off shots, to little effect. Henry tackled the first man he encountered, a big, brute of a man in a leather vest and sank his teeth into the biker’s throat with a scream of rage. These men, standing in the open gate, were all that stood between him and revenge for the death of his little girl.

  The Pack smelled blood.

  SARASOTA

  No Man Left Behind

  ERIK WOKE WITH a shriek and lunged at an opponent that was not there. He nearly fell over the side of their little boat before he woke enough to realize he had been dreaming. He lowered himself to one knee on the deck and held on to the taut rigging and tried to catch his breath. The boat ceased rocking after a few seconds and peace returned to the pre-dawn beach. The gentle hiss of the light surf—-more a ripple than anything else—against the coarse sand soothed his nerves quickly.

  Erik wiped the sweat off his brow and commanded his heart to stop racing. He could sti
ll see the look of triumph on the man's face. He couldn't make out the face, but he knew the man was gleeful. He knew something had happened to Brin. Pain in his hand brought his mind back to full alertness. He had gripped the wire rigging too tight.

  Glancing up at the sky he could see the familiar stars of pre-dawn southern skies. He wasn't much into astronomy and could only a name a few, but the ones he knew were comforting none the less. They offered consistency when the world seemed to be spiraling out of control. We will always be here, the same place, the same time, every day, without fail. You can count on us, the stars seemed to say, as they twinkled in the clear gulf air. Erik took a deep breath, savored the salty-sweet smell of the air and exhaled, feeling himself relax.

  Just a dream. Brin is fine. Everyone is fine. You'll head back today, take your time fishing and bring her a present or two. That fish tasted fantastic last night. It'll taste even better when she gets some, he told himself with a smile. Another thought flashed through his mind.

  Hope I didn't wake Ted, the smile vanished. Suddenly Erik recognized a slight tingling on the back of his neck. He was alone on the Tarpon Whistler. Ted was gone.

  Erik looked up and down the beach. The sand glowed a pale light blue in the quasi-light cast by glowing suns millions of miles away. No sign of Ted at all. He got the binoculars from their case and scanned further down the beach, looking south. There. Movement. It took a second for his eyes to focus on the person, but it was definitely someone. Using averted vision, he glanced away from the person and let his peripheral vision give him a better image in the darkness. He couldn't be sure, but Erik was fairly positive he saw "USMC" on the light colored shirt.

  "He's running on the beach," Erik mumbled to himself. "What a freak!" Erik chuckled to himself and started to rummage through their gear, looking for food. He glanced at his watch: 4:46am. In the east, over the strip of land that was all he could see of Florida, the sky was definitely lighter than behind him, out to sea.