“So you see, Atlin, there’s no need for you to be sticking around here. You take my bike and you and your friends find somewhere better. Dearborn’s about finished and I won’t have you staying back to find that out for yourself.”
The shed door opened to reveal Akrim’s panicked face.
“There’s a few more men watching from the street now and I definitely recognize one of them from my mosque!”
Uncle Joe cleared his throat and pointed at the weapons.
“Ok then, we best get these things inside the house.”
Preacher and Akrim carried the guns inside while Joe struggled to keep up. Once back inside his home the Vietnam veteran sat down on the couch so he could have Nadine put the oxygen line under his nose while Sarah, Akrim and Preacher stood near the front door looking out at the four men across the street.
After his breathing normalized, Preacher’s uncle pointed to the three rifles.
“Those are yours. Strap ‘em to your bikes. Get some food and water from the kitchen to take with you. Push the bikes through the backyard. There’s a gate in the back right corner that opens into an alleyway. Walk the bikes real quiet until you’re a few blocks away. They’ll never see you leave and by the time they realize it, you should be long gone and if they try and give me and your aunt any trouble, I’ll blast them to hell.”
Preacher’s jaw clenched as he shook his head.
“No, I’m not leaving you alone. I won’t---“
Nadine stood up and pointed at her nephew, her eyes flashing indignation.
“You will do like your uncle says, young man! Don’t you disrespect the both of us by thinking we can’t take care of ourselves! Not another word about it! You three get going right now!”
Preacher considered pushing his refusal to leave but decided against it, knowing that refusal would only make his aunt and uncle more upset and adamant he do as he was told.
“Well, at least let me get the M60 ready for you before we go.”
Uncle Joe nodded as he smiled at his nephew.
“Good to hear you finally talking sense, boy.”
Thirty minutes later…
Joe and Nadine Blackstone sat on their front porch looking out onto their neighborhood street just as they had done together for decades. Joe sat behind the tripod mounted M60 while Nadine sat to his left.
The machine gun was pointed toward the small crowd of ten or so Muslim men who glared back at the old couple from their position across the street. Their nephew and his two friends had quietly left via the backyard fence just like Joe had told them to do. They were likely already at least ten miles away and heading somewhere west.
The thought of his nephew on the open rode atop the Harley motorcycle he had so carefully refurbished brought a soft smile of contentment to Joe Blackstone’s face. All those years in prison and now Atlin was finally free to find himself in a world he had been locked away from for too long.
Sarah had initially appeared more than a little startled over the idea of riding on the back of the Harley but Atlin promised her he would be careful. Preacher’s uncle was certain he sensed a bit of chemistry between his nephew and the cute little blonde woman. Maybe once the world got its shit together again they’d have a chance to know each other better.
He sure hoped so. Atlin deserved to find some happiness after that white lady sold him out like she did.
“Looks like more of them are showing up.”
Nadine was right. Two pickup trucks came to a stop in the middle of the street.
“I’d wager there’s almost twenty of them now, Joe.”
Joe Blackstone grunted his agreement while reaching into the front pocket of his light blue, short sleeved dress shirt where he had earlier placed a pack of cigarettes he had been hiding in the backyard shed.
Nadine saw her husband place a cigarette in his mouth and prepared to snatch it away but then stopped herself.
At this point, what does it matter?
Joe knew his wife had just changed her mind about the cigarette and was grateful for the reprieve. Then his eyes narrowed as he spotted one of the men holding a nickel-plated handgun.
“Nadine, I’d like you to go inside for a bit. Just a bit, though. This won’t take long.”
Nadine leaned over and kissed Joe lightly on the cheek before she stood up.
“I love you, Joe.”
Joe glanced up at his wife and grinned.
“You too, beautiful lady. You too.”
As the front door closed Joe saw yet another truck come to a stop in the street. The men were talking louder, their tone becoming more aggressive. Several of them were pointing at Joe and Nadine’s house.
The old man’s right hand went into his jacket pocket and gripped the familiar brushed silver metal lighter he hadn’t used since his time in Vietnam. He slowly withdrew the lighter while keeping his eyes on the growing mob that gathered outside his home. The lighter fired on the first try, its flame sparking true. With a few ragged inhalations, the cigarette was lit, forming a gathering cloud of smoke around the Army veteran’s head.
Despite the bizarre nature of sitting on his porch behind an M60 pointed at a group of men who were likely preparing to kill him, it all somehow felt right.
He took a couple deep drags and savored the infusion of tobacco-tinted nicotine.
Damn that’s nice.
Then Joe turned his full attention back to the gathering of Muslims who began to make their way across the street. He counted twenty-four of them. At least five appeared to be armed.
No more than a few feet to his right the air sizzled with the sound of a passing bullet followed by an eruption of wood fragments as a piece of siding disintegrated next to him.
Joe Blackstone’s grin returned.
Mine’s bigger than yours. Come and get some…
-----------------------
EPISODE EIGHT:
14 hours later.
Washington D.C.
The presidency was a powerful position, but had never been all-powerful. Fifty-eight year old General Reginald “Reg” Thompson knew that to be an undeniable fact. During his thirty-nine years in the U.S. military he had seen both the truth of that power and its limitations - many times over.
Today he would personally be the one to deliver this fact to the President himself.
The four-star general couldn’t help but be nervous despite his resolve to see done what he and others had already determined was necessary. Those others included his fellow officers on the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Speaker of the House, the Senate Majority Leader, the Vice President, a majority of the Cabinet, both the FBI and Homeland Security Directors, and the Director of the Secret Service.
Over the last seventy-two hours all of them had come to the general to affirm what they felt must happen before it was too late and promised him their full support.
General Reg Thompson was on his way to the White House to strip all governing authority from the President of the United States and to place the entire nation under Martial Law, effective immediately. He did so out of a sense of duty and without any desire for the great power and resulting responsibility that would be placed upon his own wide shoulders.
It would be just his fourth visit to the White House since the general’s appointment as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff a little over six months earlier. Each of those visits indicated a president who had become oddly detached from the worsening conditions of the country outside the increasingly protected walls of the White House. There were rumors the race riots had been planned all along, but had since overtaken the desires of the original architects of the current mayhem. Perhaps that was the reason for the president’s emotional withdrawal from the issue – a sense of responsibility and subsequent guilt.
Or perhaps the man was as mentally incompetent as some within the upper echelons of the military had long suggested.
At this point it didn’t matter. Within the hour the President of the United States and the impli
ed powers of that title, would be no more…
Twenty minutes later:
“Sorry to keep you waiting, General, the President is running late this morning.”
General Thompson glanced at his watch, though he wasn’t surprised. He had yet to attend a White House meeting where the President wasn’t late. The man’s tardiness was well known and had long been the subject of derision among those like the general who lived by a military code that demanded prompt attention to detail – including showing up on time for a scheduled meeting.
While he waited, the general’s eyes scanned the surprisingly intimate confines of the Oval Office. It was a place that felt far bigger than it actually was. The room never failed to leave him in awe of its historical significance or the great power it represented. It was a power that continued to whisper from the collective remnant memories of all those who had occupied it before.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
General Thompson offered the White House secretary a quick half smile and shook his head. She was an attractive, middle-aged woman with blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun and dressed in a dark blue blazer and matching skirt. Everyone inside the White House simply called her by her first name, Maggie. She had worked for the president when he was still a junior senator seven years earlier. Unknown to her, this would be her final day inside the White House.
“No thank you.”
Maggie nodded and then left the Oval Office, quietly closing the door behind her.
The general rose from one of the two cream-colored couches that were placed near the room’s center and strode toward the large floor-to-ceiling windows that dominated the wall just behind the presidential desk. He could see the outlines of the tanks that surrounded the White House property just outside the fence line while just above the tanks two military Black Hawk choppers flew by. General Thompson glanced once again down at his watch.
Five minutes.
The sound of a door opening caused the general to turn and look behind him. It was the President’s senior adviser, a woman most within D.C.’s corridors of power regarded as the real authority inside the White House. She was a short woman with dark skin and darker eyes that had an unnerving habit of rarely blinking.
“Nice to see you again, General, the President is running a bit late today. I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”
The adviser’s tone was dismissive. Her disregard for the military was well known. For years she had been pushing for, and been granted, alarmingly deep cuts to the nation’s military budget, cuts that had left the country more vulnerable than ever to attack from outside – and within. The general’s appearance, adorned as he was in his dark green military dress uniform and its accompanying medals, appeared to annoy her even more.
On this day the fifty-nine year old Senior White House Adviser wore her favored color of purple in the form of a dress jacket and pants. She moved toward the Oval Office desk and looked out the same window the general was, her mouth curling upward into a barely concealed smirk.
“Quite a mess out there.”
General Thompson cleared his throat, only slightly surprised at the thought of snapping the adviser’s neck with his bare hands.
“Yes it is, ma’am.”
“I assume that’s the purpose of this meeting? To discuss how we might better manage the chaos going on out there?”
The general abruptly moved away from the window and returned to the couch.
“I intend to wait until the President’s arrival before discussing the purpose of my being here, ma’am.”
The adviser’s unblinking eyes narrowed as she stood with her arms folded across her chest and regarded the general much like a predator would its soon-to-be prey.
“As you know, General, I have every confidence to speak for the president on his behalf.”
General Thompson’s jaw clenched as he sat silently not wanting to verbally engage further with the adviser.
“Did you hear me, General?”
The general glared back at the adviser and then nodded.
“Yes ma’am, I’ll wait for the President.”
The main door into the Oval Office opened to reveal the face and figure of the Vice President of the United States.
He actually had the balls to show up.
Vice President Joseph Blunt was regarded by most as an affable man who had resigned himself to being a historical footnote. At seventy-four, he had long ago given up on his earlier dreams of being president. At just over six foot, with a full head of shockingly white hair, and a lean, deeply lined face, Vice President Blunt certainly looked the part of an elder statesman, though as soon as he opened his mouth the ruse quickly dissipated. He had been cursed with a rather high-pitched, warbling voice that tried much too hard to be taken seriously.
“Good to see you, General Thompson.”
The general quickly shook the Vice President’s damp right hand and then noted with significant satisfaction the genuine confusion that flashed across the adviser’s eyes.
She doesn’t know what’s about to happen. Everyone actually managed to keep their mouths shut.
“What are you doing here, Joe?”
The vice president stiffened at the adviser’s neglect in addressing him by his title but also avoided looking into her eyes. She had always intimidated him.
“I suppose I’m here for the meeting, same as you. Where’s the President?”
The adviser regarded the two men in the Oval Office with increased suspicion.
“He’s on his way.”
As if on cue, the adjoining study door opened and the President of the United States walked into the room. He was dressed in tan khaki pants and a pink golf shirt. The President glanced at the vice president, the general, and then quickly moved toward the adviser where he took a position just behind her.
“Sorry for being late, gentlemen, it’s been a heck of a morning already! Did anyone offer you something to drink?”
The President was trying hard to sound both cheerful and confident and failing on both counts. General Thompson, who had already stood up upon the president’s arrival, cleared his throat before speaking.
“I’m fine, sir. I’m here to discuss the pending military response to the ongoing domestic crisis.”
The President stood behind his desk and appeared to ignore the general, instead waiting for his adviser to answer for him – which she did.
“What response is that, General? We are already using the National Guard to maintain safe zones in most of the country’s primary urban areas. Congress remains protected and able to conduct day-to-day business. What else concerns you at this time?”
“All due respect, ma’am, but the violence across the country is worsening exponentially. Local and state authorities cannot maintain order. The economy is collapsing, nearly half of our power grid is down, the stock market hasn’t opened since last week, our ports are at less than sixty percent capacity, southern border communities have been completely destroyed, both food and water resources are greatly reduced, tens of thousands have already died and at the current pace hundreds of thousands more will likely perish in the coming weeks and months. This is a national crisis.”
The President’s face tightened and then he shook his head while rolling his eyes at both the general and the Vice President.
“You know, this job would be a whole lot easier without all the damn negativity! I mean, c’mon, I know it’s tough out there, but it’s not that tough!”
General Thompson pointed to the large windows behind the presidential desk while trying very hard to keep his response from turning openly confrontational.
“Sir, we have tanks lining the White House perimeter. The Internet kill switch has been activated for the first time ever. There are entire portions of the country without power. We have an all out war being waged along our southern border. Millions are being impacted by this mess, and you want to stand there and tell me it’s not that tough?”
The adviser’s eyes flared her outrage. She had never heard anyone challenge the president’s opinion so aggressively.
“General Thompson, I would remind you who you are addressing. This is your Commander-In-Chief.”
The President’s chin jutted upward in a show of arrogant defiance.
The gesture only made the general more determined to proceed with his purpose in coming to the White House that day. He glanced at his watch once again and noted it was time to proceed.
“Mr. President, there is a growing number of individuals…people in positions of great authority, who share in my own concerns for your capacity to effectively carry out the duties of your office.”
American Survivalist: RACE WARS OMNIBUS: Seasons 1-5 Of An American Survivalist Series... Page 9