“Hold on, Charlie.” He quietly replied. “Give me a minute.”
He stood up and brushed off his clothing.
“Don’t tell Janice about this.” He stated. “Please. She needs me to be strong.”
“I know,” I replied. “Won’t say a word.”
“Here,” he said, grabbing some things by the door. “I found a few items that will help us out. Take this bag and I’ll take this box.”
The bag was a bit heavy, but I managed to sling it over my back.
“My god,” I said as the heavy canvas bag smacked me in the lower back. “What’s in here?”
“Canned goods,” he stated. “And I found some bottled water, and believe it or not, a camping stove! I have them in this box.”
“Hot food!” I cried out. Then I got quiet as I realized that cooking food made a cooking-food smell.
“We have to be careful not to make any cooking odors.”
“I thought of that,” he replied. He reached into the box and pulled out a six-pack of Chinese noodles. “Ramen! We just boil the water and add the noodles and flavor pack. No smell!”
We retraced our steps back to the second floor. Garrett had the camping stove and its propane tank on top of a tray of 24 Zephyrhills water bottles. We found Janice and Brie sitting in the hall bathroom of our new apartment.
“We’re hungry!” Brie shouted.
“Shhhhhh,” I said. “We have to be quiet. We don’t want to wake up the neighbors!”
Brie’s eyes got big as she thought of other people in our building.
“Now that wasn’t nice, Miss Charlie!” Janice admonished me. “Miss Charlie was just joking with you. Isn’t that right, Miss Charlie!”
“Sorry Brie,” I said. “There isn’t anyone else in the building. But we don’t want to make any noise. Otherwise, someone outside could hear us. We want to hide from the bad people.”
“You mean like the bad people that hurt my mommy?” she asked.
“Yes, from those people. But there aren’t any of them nearby now. They go home at night.”
“What if they come back,” she sniffled. “I’m scared!”
“Don’t worry; no one will come back.”
Just then, Garrett came over to the little girl and picked her up and folded her in his arms.
“I’ll take care of them,” he said. “I’ll make sure you’re safe.”
Brie hugged Garrett tightly, wrapping her arms around him and smashing her head into the young man’s neck.
Garrett turned to me and winked. He smiled and handed Brie off to Janice.
“And I have something for you,” Garrett said as he turned to his box of goodies.
He pulled out a package of Oreo cookies and handed them to Janice. Brie squealed with delight, and I think a small squeak escaped from Janice’s mouth as well. Oreo cookies! Maybe our day could be salvaged after all.
Garrett reached back into the box and pulled out a stuffed Giraffe, handing it over to the little girl.
“Here,” he said. “I think he needs a new home.”
Brie grabbed the animal and put a death hug onto the orange and white stuffed toy. Her face lit up with a pure joy that only an innocent child can make. Her contented sigh was just the medicine we all needed; and suddenly, the night didn’t seem so ominous. Our situation didn’t seem so overwhelming. We stopped worrying about the future, and enjoyed the moment.
“How about some hot soup!” Garrett said.
Janice’s eyes widened. “Hot soup?” she stammered. “Hot as in temperature hot? How? I mean, how can you do that?”
He smiled and pulled the Ramen noodle packages from his cardboard moving box. Out came the propane stove and a 4-quart stainless steel saucepan.
“You are a magician!” Janice stated.
She slid off the edge of the bathtub where she had been seated and slipped over to her protector. She wrapped both arms around Garrett’s neck and stared into his eyes.
“And I just love magic!” She whispered.
Chapter 3
Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes (Beware of Greeks bearing gifts)
— Virgil (Aenead)
After giving the keys to the apartment complex to the four refugees, John returned to DHS headquarters to get his room assignment for the evening. Beth and Mike went their separate ways, having to endure the boring lectures that John had already been put through. John had received his assignment and met his new partner, while Beth and Mike still needed to finish their “indoctrination”, including their duty and partner assignment.
John’s new partner had been an Ocoee policeman. This western suburb of metro Orlando had been growing rapidly before the EMP squashed civilization. His riding buddy was just in his second year out of the academy and seemed a bit too enthusiastic for John’s taste. He hoped he was just naïve, and not actually enjoying his newfound power. Time would tell.
Entering the main lobby of the massive complex, John made his way down the right hallway where most of the administrative services had been stationed. The Communications, Property and Evidence and Records Divisions were housed here but had been overtaken by DHS and reconfigured to their needs. Category 5 cables were strung on the ceiling above him, connecting offices on both sides of the hallway. The Ethernet and power cables snaked their way through holes cut through the walls where it met the ceiling. The old building, scheduled to be replaced in a few years, still boasted plaster rather than the more tech-friendly drop ceilings that would have hidden the Ethernet and power lines.
Out back, John had seen the new electric service that DHS had installed. The generators were a sight to behold! The back of the building, where the now dead power lines had entered the structure, was lined with five large diesel electric generators. What startled John was the physical connection into the complex’s power grid. Five large pipes stuck out of the wall and were attached to the generators via a matching female connector. It looked like a three-foot-wide metal plumbing pipe exiting the building with a 90-degree downward elbow, connecting to the female three-foot-wide conduit exiting the generators that had a matching upward bend at the end of its output. They fit hand in glove. When John commented on it to one of the techs, he was told that since 2010, the federal government and local authorities had been aligning themselves in the case of a terrorist attack. This standardization of the electric connections and pre-positioned administrative supplies was a reflection of this effort. John was impressed. It was a rare moment that the federal government actually got it right in trying to predict the future. The idea of a terrorist attack seemed more likely after seeing the massive efforts that DHS had brought to bear.
When he passed the Records Department, he immediately noticed that all furniture and filing cabinets had been taken away. Not only that, the wall between the giant evidence room and its administrative office had been razed, creating a single, cavernous chamber. John stopped in to gawk at forty rows of workstations, each row containing six stations on either side of a central aisle. Each station was manned by a government drone tapping away at their Getac x500 laptops. Ethernet cabling and power lines were strung like Christmas lights along the front walls of the tiny cubicles, held up by six-foot-high polls that jutted up from the front wall of each work station. Like some monstrous umbilical cord, the lines all joined together in a blue and black mass of twisted vessels that eventually fed to the ceiling above and out to the servers. With nearly every station manned, John quickly estimated that the room held close to 500 workers. Each agent was using a radiophone, communicating with the agent in the street. John’s package, which he was going to review tonight, gave instructions on how to interact with Records. Agent John Drosky was going to be on patrol starting tomorrow. Their A.O. would be western Orlando, which was the area his new partner had been working the last year or two. When citizens were
encountered, they would be calling in to Records to determine where the rescued individuals would be assigned.
John moved further down the hall and entered the Personnel Department. Not much had changed other than the new work stations and employees. John handed over his bar-coded ID card, and waited while the woman scanned his card and verified the information that appeared on her laptop’s screen.
“So, Agent Drosky,” she said. “You’re a Marine!”
“Well, I was in the Marines, but I guess I’m DHS now.”
“My dad was a Marine,” she replied with a smile. “Always nice to have a devil dog around.”
“At your service,” John cracked back.
The woman began to type some more, and reached into an envelope she had brought out from a drawer near her knees. She reached into the package and withdrew a set of keys and replaced them with different ones that hung on the side of her cubicle. She handed the large manila envelope over to Drosky. It contained more information on his assignments, code of conduct and mission statement, along with keys to an apartment building just east of Headquarters. It was a 40-story-high complex that had generators supplying power to it.
“Thanks,” John said to the worker.
“No problem,” she replied. “I think you’ll like the accommodations. I upgraded you, and the view is outstanding!”
“If you want,” she continued, “I can show you around. There’s a nice little community room every five floors. It wouldn’t hurt to let me help you break the ice with the other agents, so to speak.”
John gave her a quick once over. The agent was not unpleasant to look at. It was difficult to size her up as she sat on a stool behind the counter. Probably pushing 40, she had her hair pulled back into a severe bun and wore her makeup a bit too thick. John took a few moments to think about it and decided it couldn’t hurt to learn more about his fellow agents.
“Sounds great!” He replied, flashing her a quiet smile.
“My name is Natasha,” she said as she held out her hand.
John shook it, noting that she held on a bit longer than normal. She flirted a bit more with him as she gathered his paperwork.
“I upgraded you,” she said slyly. “You’ll be on the 36th floor, just below me. Anything above 30 is a real step up and I got you a one bedroom so you won’t have to share it with anyone. At least, anyone you don’t want to share the room with.”
Natasha got up off her stool and moved from behind the counter to gather some final paperwork off of the shelving behind her.
Not bad, John thought. The uniform didn’t do anything for her figure, but all in all, she was pleasant enough. Besides, he thought, it can’t hurt to have friends in the right places!
Agent Drosky left the office and headed to his new apartment. He grabbed his DHS-issued duffle bag, filled with the clothing he had worn the prior week. As far as weapons, he had none. Until he went out on patrol, he wouldn’t be issued any weapons; so he didn’t need turn anything back in to the armory. DHS rules required that he sign out and return his firearms. Personal weapons were forbidden until the crisis passed. That stuck in John’s craw a bit, remembering the debacle in New Orleans after the hurricane struck in 2004. The city’s police force went on neighborhood sweeps to force people out of their homes in the flooded areas. Guns were confiscated and the practice was later ruled unconstitutional. But the damage had been done and the confiscation further eroded the trust between the police and the citizens.
OPD seminars given to the Orlando cops stressed that in an emergency, they were to work with the citizens and encourage responsible use of their private weapons. The chief of police for the city, along with the Orange county sheriff, agreed that they wouldn’t enforce any unconstitutional orders to confiscate firearms. Some speculated that the OPD chief of police was more concerned with confronting a group of survivors armed with AR-15s and putting his men and women at risk, while others said he was just following the constitution. Either way, John had been glad he hadn’t been forced to choose whether to follow those orders or not. Now, his first glance at the ROE or Rules of Engagement given to him by his DHS supervisors indicated that gun confiscation was a top priority for the agency. There were squads dedicated to clearing out sections of the city, bringing the citizens into the fold and processing them into safe havens set up by the government. Those squads were responsible for disarming those citizens. John and his new partner were more of a patrol presence. They would call for the DHS squads if they met with armed resistance. John figured he would talk his way through any reluctant residents. After all, in the years he had been an Orlando cop, he had never fired his weapon. John pushed that line of thinking to the back of his mind, and began the walk to his new residential tower.
Under I-4 and about a block into the city, he found his apartment. The steady stream of fellow agents made the journey that much easier to follow; but having driven the city as a cop for nearly a decade, he could have found the building in his sleep.
As he approached the tall apartment complex, he was once again intrigued with the generators grinding away on the backside of the building. He followed the deep sounds and could feel the increased vibrations in the concrete sidewalk as he got closer to the back of the tall structure.
Turning the corner, he was met with another eight generators, all attached to the building with the same conduit connections he saw at the DHS headquarters. Several 18-wheel tanker trucks were parked nearby, and a squad of armed guards kept watch over the parking lot that held both the generators and the fuel trucks. A High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle, or HUMVEE, sat at the gated entrance. A 50-caliber M2 machine gun, also known as a Ma Deuce, was mounted on top of the vehicle, and a serious looking DHS agent sat in the turret, scanning the street in front of him. These boys aren’t messing around, he thought. Best to tread lightly until I get a feel for how this game is being played.
John nodded at the guards, receiving no reply, and walked back around to the building’s main entrance. Pushing through the revolving door, he was greeted with a blast of cool air. The lobby was a buzz with activity as people in tactical gear and others in khaki pants and polo shirts mingled in the large atrium. A coffee shop was up and running, and a storefront gift shop had been turned into a food distribution center.
John made his way to the reception desk and gave the worker his name. She punched the keys of her laptop and scanned the screen in front of her. After a moment, she looked up with a smile and handed him a plastic container very similar to the bins used to collect recyclable glass and newspapers. The number 3630 was written with indelible marker on the blue plastic sides of the container.
“Welcome, agent Drosky!” She sang. “And I see you are on the 36th floor!”
Several other agents shot John some sideways glances. He couldn’t tell if they were curious or jealous. John just didn’t have enough information to know what his floor assignment and DHS status meant. As far as he was concerned, he was just another tiny spoke in the wheels of the federal government.
“Use this bin to collect your allotment of food and toiletries,” she chimed. “This bin and your I.D. will get you anything you need.” She finished by pointing to the converted gift shop.
“Thank you!” John replied. So far, he liked what he was seeing.
“Oh, and by the way,” she continued. “You’re in for an unexpected treat! The waterworks department has said that water will be restored to our building at any time! Looks like we’ll have running water soon.”
“That’s fantastic!” John said back. “I figured I’d shower at headquarters before taking my shift.”
“Well, now you won’t have to!” She replied with a smile. “Welcome to your new home!”
This might just be alright, John thought to himself. Maybe the feds finally have gotten their act together!
John found
the elevator and pushed the button for the 36th floor. As the doors closed, he finally felt at peace, like he could have a positive impact in bringing the nation, the state and mostly his beloved city back from the brink. Tomorrow, he thought, I can finally make a real difference.
Chapter 4
“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men should do nothing”
— Edmund Burke
The “before” seemed so long ago. Beker had many reasons to see the recent past as “the before.” After years of physical abuse, he had finally snapped and killed his mother and her abusive lover, and he did it with a kitchen knife. Granted, if you looked at it logically, it was self-defense. But who looks at killing your own mother logically.
His mother had worked at a hospital and her “friend” was employed as an aide at an assisted living facility. When they abused him, they were usually wearing their green work scrubs. These green outfits were a trigger that set off a red-hot rage Beker had trouble controlling. They were both wearing those hospital garments the morning he had finally snapped, and it was that same mindless anger that put him in the situation he was dealing with now. After killing his mom and her friend, he fled the home and began to walk the streets in a post violence daze. That is when he saw another nurse leave the clinic where she worked. And, she was wearing those green scrubs. The rose-colored curtain of rage fell and he didn’t remember much after that.
The next thing he knew, he was on the ground in handcuffs, arrested by Orlando’s finest. He was transported to the 33rd Street County lock-up; and it was while he was in a holding cell for the rage-induced assault that the lights went out. It was also in that holding cell where he met Taurus, a leader in the white supremacist movement. After seeing Beker’s scars, the ones made by his mom’s friend with her cigarette, Taurus adopted him into the white clan. It seems that Taurus had a similar experience growing up in foster care. Their scars were their bond.
Charlie's Requiem: Democide Page 3