The Systemic Series - Box Set

by K. W. Callahan

  “So give us the answer, teach,” Fallback smiled at her. “I’m stumped.”

  “Bullets,” Jake interjected matter-of-factly.

  Ava shut her eyes, biting her tongue in frustration. Jake just couldn’t resist prematurely ejaculating solutions to the problems that she’d worked so hard to develop.

  “Bullets?” Rambo frowned. “I don’t get it. There are tons of bullets out there.”

  “Tons of bullets for us, but not tons of bullets for everyone else…largely because we’ve already taken most of them,” Ava reminded him. “Bullets are something that are small, easy to carry, long-lasting, and that everyone wants. It’s easy to carry 20 or 30 or even 100 or more bullets depending upon the caliber. And most importantly, we control a lot of them and they’re hard to counterfeit. Sure, there will be some people out there who can make their own, just like there were people who could counterfeit dollar bills in the old days, but not many. Getting old shell casings will be easy, but finding lead and black powder…well, that’s not all that simple. Plus, you have to know how to manufacture them, how to do it right, and you have to have the right tools.”

  “Think about it,” interrupted Jake again. “People don’t walk around with wallets anymore, they walk around with guns. Guns are the new wallets.”

  “Exactly,” said Ava. “And I guarantee you that I can walk into a coin shop right now and find plenty of gold and silver coins, or a bank and find stacks of worthless dollar bills, but I won’t be able to walk into a gun shop and find any ammunition.

  “That’s for fucking sure,” nodded Rambo. “But some people will have a lot of bullets because they’ve hoarded them. They’ll be rich,” he went on. “Other people won’t have any,” he sounded confused. “That’s not really fair.”

  “Welcome to the real world,” Ava scoffed. “What exactly did you do in your previous life,” asked Ava.

  Rambo looked around the room uncomfortably, “Uh…did work for the unions,” he said.

  “Figures,” mumbled the Fallback Man. “Never drew an honest paycheck in his life.”

  “What’d you say, asshole?” Rambo said angrily, starting to stand up.

  “Boys, boys,” Ava soothed. “We’re here to celebrate, not fight. Let’s keep this civil. We’re all going to be in good shape if we just play nice and get ourselves organized. We all don’t have to understand the economic rules behind all this; we just have to abide by and enforce them.”

  Rambo sat back down, pouting.

  Ava continued. “So far, we’ve largely modeled our economic development plan on that of Atlanta’s, but Atlanta was still pretty disorganized. Now we’re going to take the Atlanta model a step further.” The men all looked at her, waiting. “We’re going to get into the banking business,” Ava looked around at them.

  Jaws fell open around the room.

  “What? We’re gonna open banks?” leered Johnny Switchblade. “I fucking hated banks back in the old days. They were a bunch of rich motherfuckers,” he scoffed.

  “Exactly,” Ava winked at him.

  “We ain’t bankers, we’re fighters,” Rambo interjected.

  “You won’t have to be bankers,” Ava soothed him. “But as one of your first orders of business, you will have to find people who can be bankers. If we want our population to depend upon us, we can’t just offer them a currency, we have to offer them security. People these days desperately want to feel safe again. Think about our old government and politicians. How did they get people to vote for them? They offered them security – not just through physical services like the police departments, fire departments, armed forces, and National Guard, but through government programs like Social Security, Medicaid, food stamps, and a central currency with banks secured and insured by the FDIC in which to keep that currency.

  “I always wondered what the FDIC did,” said Rambo.

  Ava nodded, “Now we’re going to be the government here in Miami. We’re going to give the population their economy, their currency, and most importantly, their security, and we’re going to spoon feed it to them. As one of our first big initiatives, we’re going to open banks around the city.”

  The men looked around at one another, unsure of quite what to think about what Ava was saying.

  Ava continued unfazed by the worried stares she was receiving from the men before her, the collective financial education of which might have been enough to fill a children’s book.

  “At these banks, people will be able to rent safe deposit boxes in which to safely store their extra bullets…their extra currency, just like they did in the old days. They’ll control the keys to these safe deposit boxes, but we’ll control the banks, in turn controlling the boxes, and thereby controlling the currency inside those boxes. The banks will provide people with peace of mind and financial security. And people with a sense of security, purpose, and the ability to earn and retain money, or a currency if you will, whatever that currency is, are a kinder, gentler, and easier to control people…a more disciplined people. With money in the bank, they feel safe, they feel more content, they can buy things that make them happy and forget their troubles, and they become complacent and easier to manage. You can buy their loyalty, their respect, or at least their dependency, just as our old government used to do, rather than earn it.”

  The men in the room nodded their silent agreement. Even though they might not have understood all of what Ava was saying, they had to admit, the chic knew her shit; and one thing was glaringly obvious, Jake was definitely not behind these sorts of ideas.

  CHAPTER 8

  I guess I never realized just how big Florida was until I had to try to navigate it. We hit our first roadblock just north of Jupiter on I-95. To avoid any trouble, we cut over to the Florida Turnpike, but we quickly found it blockaded as well.

  It was strange seeing the turnpike’s toll plazas manned with heavily-armed personnel, tire strips and barricades laid out before them. Not wanting to press our luck, we backtracked and headed west, hoping to eventually cut south once we hit a less populated portion of Florida. Unfortunately, we found that the lesser-populated areas also equated to lesser-used and therefore lesser-maintained roads, many of which were quickly being overtaken by Florida’s vicious, jungle-like environment.

  We’d hoped to slice our way over to the massive Lake Okeechobee in south central Florida, and then cut south on Highway 27. But here again, we found our way forward blocked. This time, it wasn’t a manmade barrier that we encountered but rather lake flooding and the rapidly deteriorating infrastructure of roads and bridges that hindered our planned progress.

  At this juncture, we had to make a tough decision. Already running low on fuel for our gas-guzzling SUVs, and facing a long trip around the gigantic lake, we ditched one SUV, siphoning what fuel we could from it. This got us to about half a tank in our remaining ride into which we packed our group and as many supplies as we could tie to the roof rack. It was a tight squeeze that required children to sit on laps, but we made everyone fit.

  About 100 miles, and over a quarter of a tank of gas later, we’d made our way around the entirety of Lake Okeechobee and had finally linked up with Highway 27. The problem we encountered here was that we found ourselves in the swampy, bug-ridden, alligator-infested, no-man’s land of the Florida Everglades, running low on fuel and ill-prepared for what lay ahead.

  Being Chicagoans, we knew mosquitoes. Before the flu ran its course, each summer back home we’d see warnings in the newspaper and on television, as well as hear stories about the occasional death due to the West Nile Virus that was transmitted by these tiny bloodsuckers. Working at home during the day, I’d watch our tax money hard at work as the white-painted army jeep of the “Mosquito Abatement” crew would drive slowly by, a two-gallon pump sprayer in the driver’s hand as he shot streams of chemicals down into sewers and catch basins to dispel the larva of the feisty festering foes below.

  But we didn’t know Florida mosquitoes, and we had certainly never encount
ered Everglade mosquitoes.

  Our first evening in the Everglades, after we’d pulled off to a secluded area beside the highway to set up camp, and as day faded to dusk, a soft and distant hum filled the air. We were all tired from a long day of driving and being cooped up in the SUV crammed asses to elbows, so we were ready to get our tent erected so we could split up the group and stretch out a bit. As much as we all loved one another, spending so much time crammed inside a single vehicle with eight other people and a cat was not an ideal situation for any of us.

  As some of us worked to get supplies untied from the top of the SUV while others worked on the tent, the sky began to grow dark at a much faster rate than I’d expected.

  “Storm must be on the way,” I said, squinting at a large cloud approaching from the south. But the air was calm and quite still. It didn’t feel like storm weather.

  There was indeed a storm on the way, just not the kind I’d expected.

  The strange hum in the air grew increasingly louder as the cloud approached, and we quickened our pace as we worked to pull items necessary for the night from the SUV’s roof rack. I began wondering if maybe this was some sort of electrical storm on its way.

  It was not.

  Just as we managed to unfurl the tent on the ground, and began running support poles through its nylon fabric, a humming torrent of viscous insects descended upon us. At first, due to their size, I thought they were some sort of horsefly or beetle. But I quickly realized they were mosquitoes the likes of which we’d never seen before, and after making their acquaintance, I hoped we’d never see again. And I’d say, judging from the voracity with which they attacked, it must have been quite some time since they’d tasted human blood around these parts. Being the nasty little vampires that they were, and thirsting for our succulent, plasma-engorged flesh, they attacked us with the intensity of a hungry lion and with a swirling tornado-like force. They whipped around us, biting us, getting into our eyes, our ears, our noses, our mouths. It was almost impossible to see or to breathe or to think or to do anything other than run for the safety of our vehicle.

  We dropped everything. I grabbed Cashmere. Claire grabbed Jason. And we all dove back into the SUV, slamming doors, rolling up windows, and spending the rest of the night sweating, scratching, and continuing to kill the tiny tormentors that had managed to sneak their way inside with us during our retreat.

  The process of trying to get any sort of decent sleep was nearly impossible because just as one of us began to drift off, someone else would cough or slap at a mosquito or start scratching. Poor little Jason had gotten it particularly bad. He had little raised and itchy bumps all over his face, and he slept fitfully throughout the night, often crying out and then scratching himself until his skin bled. We’d have to hold him tight to keep him from scratching, which made it even more tortuous, and then he’d scream and cry and struggle and wake the rest of the group up if they weren’t awake already dealing with problems of their own.

  The next morning, Will and I left the others in the car while we covered up as much exposed skin as possible, rushed outside the safety of the SUV, collected our camping supplies, tied them as best we could to the luggage rack, and beat it the heck out of there. We drove slowly on for the rest of the morning and pulled over at around noon to have lunch and take a short nap since everyone was still exhausted from their sleepless night.

  It had been extremely slow going since we’d made it around the lake. Low on fuel, we were doing our best to conserve at all costs. At times, the road was so flat that I’d take my foot off the accelerator and simply let the vehicle roll along at its idle speed. If our speed fell below walking pace or we came to a slight incline, I’d touch the accelerator as gently as I could until I could get us rolling again without my additional accelerator input. We were in no rush, so our snail’s pace really didn’t matter too much.

  We couldn’t keep the vehicle’s windows open, since even during the day, the swarms of insects were overwhelming. They’d ram themselves against our windows in failed attempts to get at the tasty morsels within. About every 10 or 15 minutes – or however long it took before we could no longer bear the sweltering heat – I’d turn the air conditioner on for a minute, maybe two, getting it just cool enough inside so that it wasn’t stifling. Still, with all of us jammed into the tiny space, and with none of us having been able to shower in the past few days, the heat combined with the smell made it almost intolerable. Tempers were short to say the least, and tensions ran high.

  We made it to just north of the Everglades Parkway before we ran out of gas. This left us with around 20 miles ahead of us to reach our destination – the sandy shores of Miami. Twenty miles when we were back in southern Illinois or Tennessee might not have seemed all that bad. In fact, we might actually have enjoyed such a hike, but not here, not in the swamps of Florida, and definitely not during the peak of summer.

  Having to continue our journey on foot was torturous. We could only travel during the daylight hours from around ten in the morning – once the sun’s vicious rays had a chance to send many of the flying pests into hiding – until about four in the afternoon, since we had to get camp set up before the droning cloud of hungry insects reappeared and again descended upon us.

  At night, we’d cram ourselves into our four-person tent – all nine of us and Cashmere the cat. It was horrible to say the least. There was little sleeping, a lot of complaining, whining, and even some crying – mostly from the kids – and all in all, the next several days were pure hell.

  We had used up almost all our bug repellant on the first day. Because of our lack of bug spray, and the presence of insects even during the day, we had to continue our hike wearing long sleeves, pants, and hats, even though the sweltering summer heat was intensely oppressive. Each of us – even Jason – was straddled with as many supplies as we could carry. Strapped to us were our food and water, weapons and ammunition, extra clothing and bedding, medical supplies, and anything else we could carry and that we thought we might need for when we reached Miami. This not only made for slow going, but we were sweating like crazy and rapidly burning through our fresh water supply. By the end of the second day of the hike, our clothing was drenched in our own moisture. We stunk, we were itchy, and we were angry – not at one another, but at the shitty situation. Unfortunately, we took much of our aggravation and frustration out upon one another simply because we had no other outlet. I endured the brunt of this frustration as people questioned why we had left Gordon and the safety of his cozy little spot on the coast to come all the way down here. I was even questioning it myself. But I had to persevere, and I kept reminding our crew that we were almost through this final leg of our trip to Miami and that we’d soon be enjoying the fruits of our labor.

  I secretly prayed that what I was telling them was the truth.

  Worse yet – as if it could get much worse – as we reached the outskirts of the Miami area, we found that it was like a war zone. As we worked our way into the Hialeah area, we took shelter near the Westland Mall. There was a sort of open air market there where merchants were bartering their wares, so Will and I left the rest of the group in the shelter of an abandoned ranch-style home and took a trip to see what we could find out about the local situation as well as pick up some supplies.

  We ended up talking to a middle-aged man who was working as a fresh fruit vendor at the market – Myron was his name. He seemed a decent enough guy. He’d been a dentist in his pre-flu life. He told us that he still fixed teeth occasionally, but his fruit stand was his bread and butter while the dentistry business was hit and miss.

  “Not many people coming in for their six-month checkups anymore,” he shook his said sadly. “Mostly tooth extractions these days.”

  As we chatted, he explained that some sort of power struggle was currently taking place in Miami. As he’d heard it, an outside group of mercenary sorts had come to the area and were currently vying for power. He said they’d come in with armored vehicles
and bands of armed men and were pretty much laying down the law. Myron explained that these people had told him and the other vendors that they were going to have to pay a “security fee” each week and had given them a list of the goods and associated quantities with which they could pay. Myron said he wasn’t happy about the demands upon his already meager supplies, but he agreed that if these people actually provided the security they were promising, he was willing to give it a shot. He said he’d had problems with theft and robberies recently, and he felt that a little peace of mind was worth paying for these days.

  After we were done chatting, we ended up trading Myron a bottle of aspirin, some heavy-duty pain killers, a dozen rounds of .22 ammunition, four shotgun shells, and two of the four remaining ounces of silver that I’d held onto in exchange for a box of assorted fruit that contained pineapples, oranges, lemons, as well as a couple coconuts. We also got four gallons of fresh drinking water and talked Myron into throwing a bag of dried fish into the deal.

  “So where you headed?” he asked as we finalized our transaction and exchanged our goods.

  “For the coast,” I told him.

  “Be careful,” he said. “The guys that swept through here not long ago are headed east toward the ocean from what I understand. They seem like the sort to shoot first and ask questions later, so if you run into them, stay out of their way. I would advise doing your traveling at night if all possible…although then you have to watch out for robbers and cutthroats.”

  “Great,” Will frowned. “Sounds like we’re screwed either way.”