Charlie's Requiem: Democide

by Walt Browning

  I glanced back at the two houses and saw both fathers staring with fear out their front windows; and a quick peek into the picture windows next to the front door showed children gazing in awe at the large fighting machine.

  “This isn’t going to end well,” I told no one in particular.

  I looked back at the collection of agents that had disgorged themselves from the back of the LAV. It could carry up to six Marines in its back end; and I watched as four black-clad agents came from its rear doors, collecting themselves around Beavis and Butthead.

  “Jesus,” I said, “That’s Travis Nixon!”

  If Travis was involved, it was bound to go sideways really quickly.

  I sprinted back to the collection of government agents and caught the tail end of their conversation.

  “I’ve given them fair warning,” Beavis said to Travis and his crew. “Now it’s your turn. I want them put down.”

  “NO!” I cried. “There are kids in there!”

  Butthead interrupted my pleas; turning to Travis he gave him a direct order.

  “Reaper, I order you to neutralize those insurrectionists. Immediately!”

  “Reaper?” I yelled. “You go by Reaper? Are you kidding? Travis, there are families in there! Let me talk them out!”

  “You’re out, Drosky. Let the big boys handle this!”

  Nixon leaned into the driver’s window and yelled an order.

  “ON MY MARK! I want 25 four-round bursts put into each of those structures. After that, I’ll clean up the target site.”

  He turned to one of his squad mates.

  “Blade, you and Bull take the house on the left. I’ll take Joker and clear the house on the right.”

  I couldn’t believe it. They were going to put one hundred 25mm cannon rounds into each of the two homes, killing everyone inside.

  I couldn’t stand by, so I turned and started to run back to the houses, trying to warn the two families of the hell that was about to be unleashed on them. But before I could get even ten yards back of the nearly one hundred it would take to reach their front door, I heard the sound of the LAV’s gun ripping away at its target.

  The sound of the 25-millimeter cannon froze me in place; its signature cracks rattling off in a cluster of four rapid bursts, each shot sounding like a hammer pounding concrete. Twenty-five times in a row, ping-ping-ping-ping. Each sound represented 32 grains of high explosives combined with an incendiary material that would ignite a napalm-like firebomb with a five-yard blast radius. Every round that hit the wood-framed house was going to rip through it like a hot knife through butter. Then for good measure, the explosion would start a small fire that would burn down whatever was left.

  The constant crack of the cannon overwhelmed any other noise, gratefully drowning out the screams of the families caught inside.

  While the first house was being decimated, the father of the second home came running out of his garage. Miguel was waving his arms above his head, trying to scream above the din of the belt-driven cannon. I watched in horror as he suddenly dropped to the ground, a bullet striking him in the chest. I turned in time to see Nixon lifting his head from behind his sniper rifle. He had shot the father, rather than let him surrender.

  Within a minute, both houses had been reduced to rubble, their one-story frames lit up by small fires that were quickly spreading.

  “Well done, Reaper!” Beavis said with satisfaction.

  “Thank you, sir.” He smartly replied. “We’ll wait for the fires to burn down then verify the body count. If that meets your pleasure.”

  “Indeed,” Butthead said back. “Well done, indeed.”

  Nixon retreated to the back of the LAV while the two census workers quietly spoke with each other.

  “Agent Drosky,” Butthead finally yelled. “Return to our vehicle. We will be along shortly.”

  What could I do? I just witnessed the deaths of two families. Parents, children and any pets were smoldering in the ruins before me. I was in shock as I slowly walked back to the end of the road where Bru was waiting. He had also watched in horror as the LAV destroyed the two homes.

  “I’ve never seen anything like that,” he said as I returned to our ride.

  I said nothing as I pulled myself into the back seat. Leaving the door open, I faced out the side of the large truck and stared into the distance. The smell of cordite and burning wood wafted by us, soiling our clothing with the stench of death and betrayal.

  “John, I’m sorry.” He started. Bruner was struggling with himself, an inner war battling for his soul. Several minutes of silence followed until finally, he broke down and began to speak.

  “They told me yesterday that you weren’t to be trusted. They want me to spy on you, just so you know.”

  I continued to stare away from him, the fiery homesteads still seared into my brain.

  “Yeah,” I finally said back, continuing to gaze off into nothingness. “Looks like you can trust them, doesn’t it?”

  Bruner had nothing to say. The census workers we were there to protect still stood up the road by the side of the LAV, gazing at the destruction they had wrought. I watched as Beavis patted Butthead on the back, their excitement palpable even from a distance.

  Watching their animalistic joy at the deaths they had ordered crystalized my resolve to fight this government cancer that was taking over our lives. Then, I turned to Bruner and looked him in the eye.

  “I’m going to kill them,” I said, as I broke my silence for the final time that day. “Someday, I’m going to kill them all.”

  Chapter 15

  “The unexpected has happened so continually in my life that it has ceased to deserve the name.”

  — Arthur Conan Doyle

  Dr. Kramer finally completed his new mission. While the subdivision had rallied around each other and admirably divided up their responsibilities, they lacked the basics of proper community health and hygiene procedures.

  The sick children that the group had taken were well on the way to a full recovery, their biggest threat coming from fluid loss. However, his homemade electrolyte mixture had done its trick and the sick boys and girls were moving about, their diarrhea having subsided and their energy returning.

  “Now, don’t let them start running around sweating and draining their energy,” Dr. Kramer told the assembled health care providers. “They need their energy to get better.”

  “¿Puede ver los niños jugar?” One of the women asked.

  “She wants to know if the children can go outside and watch the others?” The translator asked.

  “Of course,” Dr. Kramer replied. “Just keep them calm. Fresh air will help them recover.”

  “Por Supuesto!” The translator informed them.

  The children sitting on cots nearby, jumped up and squealed. Three of the assembled women quickly tamped down their enthusiasm, letting them know that if they overdid their freedom, they would be brought back to their cot for a forced rest.

  Dr. Kramer’s heart lightened as the children’s voices created a joyful cacophony in the large gymnasium. It brought back images of his two daughters when they were that age. Always working, he had done his best to be present during the important times. Occasionally, he was able to be there when there wasn’t a real need, like a day at the stables or for a softball game. Those times when he didn’t have to be there, but was anyway, were the most valued. Watching the girls play, or ride their horses were the memories he found himself thinking of during the darker times. The sound of the children’s laughter only made his heart ache to get home, and today was that day. Having spent the better part of a week in the neighborhood, he had significantly increased the group’s odds of survival. Their hygiene had dramatically improved and he had been able to train five women and a man on basic healthcare hygiene. It wasn’
t as easy as he thought it would be to help a large group of people live in a closely confined area. With no sewer, human waste was a source of fatal infection. With no water service, having a safe source of “agua” meant water catchment systems, boiling cauldrons and chlorine treatment.

  One of the things he didn’t anticipate was the amount of energy it took to boil the water. Trees were in short supply; and with the rainy season having ended a few months ago, collecting water from the rain catchment system was spotty at best.

  The problem was solved with the tapping of several shallow wells. The water table sat just ten feet below ground, allowing them to dig a hole about 15 feet down which filled quickly from the lateral walls. Stone was brought in to keep the sides of the walls from collapsing, allowing for an amazing refill rate. The water at this depth was still at risk from contaminants, so each family was set up with an activated charcoal straining system using large 5-gallon containers. Creating activated charcoal by burning untreated oak wood and combining it with pool-hardening powder, allowed the community to filter what they pulled out of their well and create a steady and reliable supply of drinking water.

  Numerous pools were used, but with the pumps down, the lack of water movement had already created a problem with mosquitoes and green, slimy water. Mosquitoes carried diseases and were going to be a problem; so if the pool didn’t have a good cover, it was more of a hazard than a benefit.

  As Dr. Kramer made his last walk-around, the sight of so many working together gave him hope. The knowledge many of the immigrants had brought from their homelands was an invaluable resource for the community, and old and young were doing what could to make the group flourish.

  Smoke on the horizon caused the doctor to stop in concern, but his translator alleviated his fears. It seemed that a stand of sugar cane was being burned, their top growth seared away to expose the sweet cane underneath in preparation for harvesting.

  Not only was the cane being used as a food source, several homemade stills had sprung up. Dr. Kramer approached one such house where an older gentleman from Central America had set up shop.

  He had his fire just outside the garage with copper tubes working their way inside. The clear liquid was dripping into a clean glass jug.

  The man’s wife was standing nearby, her arms crossed in front of her. She was staring out at the road, watching children play in the now abandoned street.

  When Dr. Kramer approached the house, she glared his way and turning, strode into the house in a huff.

  The elderly man slowly rose from his folding lawn chair and, reaching out to shake hands, said, “I am sorry for my wife’s anger!”

  Dr. Kramer smiled and shook his head, the way two men knowingly share a common bond. His wife was angry with both of them for the alcohol still. Good old Mr. Alvarez had been making his home-brewed elixir before coming to America. But when it became apparent that his knowledge could help create a surface disinfectant when combined with orange peels, that was all it took for him to justify the resurrection of his beloved copper and stainless steel friend.

  “She’s angry, huh?” Dr. Kramer grinned. “I suppose the fact that it’s being used for medicinal purposes doesn’t mollify her.”

  “Oh no, doctor! When I made the bebida alcohólica back in the old country, I tried to tell her it was for medicinal purposes!” He replied with a chuckle. “Now that you have confirmed my words, she will not speak of you anymore!”

  “Well I am sure that you are not keeping any of this for yourself!” Dr. Kramer jokingly chided the man.

  “OH! Never!” He slyly replied. “I would never keep it just for me, doctor!”

  “Well, be safe, Mr. Alvarez. I hope not to have to see you again.”

  “We are all in your debt, doctor. We cannot thank you enough.”

  The man reached around behind his chair and brought out a mason jar filled with a clear liquid.

  “For you, my friend!” Mr. Alvarez said. “Just remember that this is for medicinal purposes only!”

  Touched by the gesture, Dr. Kramer embraced the man, smelling cigar smoke on his shirt.

  “And cut back on those cigars!” He added. “They’re not good for you!”

  “Thank you!” Came a reply from the door to the house.

  Kramer looked over and saw Mrs. Alvarez in the open door, a small paper bag in her arms. She walked up to the two men and handed Dr. Kramer the paper container.

  “This is for you and your family,” She said as she quickly turned to leave.

  “Thank you!” Kramer replied.

  The elder woman stopped and quickly turned back. She glided into Kramer’s arms and hugged him tightly.

  “I still don’t forgive you!” She softly said. “But you are a good man. You have saved many people. Muchas Gracias, Doctor!”

  With that, she spun and left, entering the home and shutting the door.

  Kramer’s translator took the bag and looked inside. Pastilles, mango fruit-filled pastries filled the bottom of the bag. They represented a not too insignificant portion of the family’s food stores, at least the fruit and flower did.

  “I can’t take these, it’s too much!” Kramer pled.

  “Don’t even think of giving those back!” Mr. Alvarez said. “She’d be mortificado! She wants you to have those. You have stayed here at the expense of being with your family. We can never repay that.”

  “Get used to it doc,” The translator said. “I better get a wagon, or something. This is only the first.”

  By the time Dr. Kramer had strolled down the streets of the subdivision, checking on a few of the people that needed chronic care, the red “Radio Flyer” wagon was loaded with gifts ranging from quilted blankets to food.

  And as he loaded his old car for the ride home, he reflected that he wouldn’t trade all the money in the world for the gifts he was filling his car with. Genuine love went into each present, and all the insurance checks in the world couldn’t come close to the fullness of satisfaction he felt right now.

  Checking the fuel, he saw that the community had topped off his ride. With a roar, the old car sprang to life. Someone had worked the engine and it was purring like a kitten. The interior was spotless and there was even a wax shine to the old beast.

  “Do you like it?” One of the neighbors said with pride.

  “You did wonderfully!” Dr. Kramer said. “I never would have believed this old girl could sound and look so good! Thank you!”

  The man beamed and turned to the group of people gathered to watch him leave.

  Dr. Kramer waved to the twenty or so who were there to see him off, a number of them with tears streaming down their cheeks. His own eyes watered as he felt the love; then he put car in “Drive” and let his foot off the brakes. The car moved quickly away, leaving his people behind.

  My people, he thought with a sadness that comes from leaving old friends.

  But the anticipation of going home and the prospect of reuniting with his wife and daughter quickly overrode any qualms about his departure. About two weeks had passed since the lights went out, and although he knew that their family homestead was equipped to ride out much longer emergencies, it was going to be a blessing to make it back and be with the ones he truly loved.

  As he exited the subdivision, he waved at the young men standing guard at the entrance to their community. The smiling men waved back, and as he accelerated away, they quickly disappeared in his rear view mirror. With a full tank of gas, a map and the late morning sun beaming in the window, Dr. Kramer enjoyed the breeze from the open windows and took time to relax. At least for now, it was good to be alive.

  As the good doctor drove through west Orlando, he eventually left the city proper and entered Ocoee, a bedroom community. His planned route was to follow Old County Road 50, which was a smaller and less busy
street that had been superseded by a straighter, six-lane modern state highway that occasionally shared the same name. State route 50 cut east to west across Orlando. Various names for the state highway were given to it based on the town it traversed. In Orlando proper, it was Colonial Drive, the city’s major east/west artery, while out here, people tended to call it by its numerical name.

  Regardless of its designation, new Highway 50 was a major road and one that was likely to be a threat with both stalled cars and criminals. Thus, old County Road 50 was the best way to get home. Driving west on the old thoroughfare, he crossed over many side streets. But the cars and other street hazards in front of him forced him to concentrate on the road ahead, so he didn’t notice the small group of soldiers that were patrolling off to his left.

  A DHS agent stood by his military vehicle, an up-armored HMMVW or Humvee with a Ma-Deuce, 50-caliber machine gun mounted on top. The sound of the quiet engine startled the agent, and he quickly looked up the street in time to see a blue Cutlass stream by the intersection.

  He jumped on his radio, alerting his postal census taker of the old car.

  “An old blue car just passed by at the 438 intersection,” He reported. “Do you want me to pursue?”

  After a brief pause, the government man replied.

  “Negative, we’ll get them eventually. Just mark the time and place of your sighting so we can do a follow up and try and locate the asset later.”

  “Copy that,” he replied. He was thankful for that reprieve. He didn’t want to chase down any more citizens. It was dangerous and unneeded as far as he was concerned.