World War III - Home Front: A Novel of the Next American Revolution - Book One – As Day turns to Night

by William C. Seigler

  My mom was frantic when I got home. “It’s been like this for two days, sirens going off all the time, police everywhere. They came to the door and asked if I had any guns. You don’t have any guns do you?”

  “No Mom.”

  “Well come on back to the kitchen. I’ll fix you some breakfast. How was your trip?”

  “It was fine except everyone is all worked up about what’s going on.” I had never seen her look so worried.

  I never thought of myself as a mama’s boy in those days. I don’t know if that should be a pejorative, but it is. She had always been good to me and had tried to remain strong throughout the divorce and all. It had been several years now, and I was out of school so child support had stopped. This only made things harder.

  It’s not like I lay around all the time playing video games, not all the time anyway. I had actually gone out and looked for a job. There just weren’t any. I had done some odd jobs and temporary work when I could find it. Guess I hadn’t planned much of a future. I never thought about any future; I was too busy just being a kid.

  “How about a plate of eggs, over hard, and bacon with hash browns? Would that be okay?”

  “That would be perfect.”

  She had just put the plate on the table when there was a gunshot and a scream. We ran to the door. The neighbor who had been down on his knees was lying face down in his yard. A cop was holding his wife back.

  She broke away and ran to the body of her husband. She never made it. They cut down just short of where he lay.

  The crowd had grown by this time, mostly blacks and Hispanics, and it went crazy. The cops fired in the air and shot off teargas. People started throwing rocks and bottles. Some cop fired into the crowd. People were running away.

  “Mom, get back inside.” From down the street the people running away were replaced by people with guns. This new group was all men – black, white, and Hispanic. Most of them looked middle aged to me.

  “Mom, come on; they’ve got guns.” I grabbed her by the shoulders and shepherded her back inside. These guys opened up with their shotguns and AR-15s. A cop went down. Some others sought cover inside the house of the couple they had just killed.

  A woman came out from the house next door with a pistol and started firing into the police. Someone set a squad car on fire. Smoke was everywhere. There were screams and gunshots. I turned to my mother. She was petrified.

  I closed the door and the windows in an effort to keep the teargas from getting in the house. The car was in the back.

  “Mom, let’s get out of here. Get your stuff.”

  “I don’t know what to get.”

  “Just get your purse and a jacket.” I quickly made sure everything was turned off and herded mom out the backdoor.

  The back of the house opened onto an alley which the garbage trucks used. Sometimes kids smoked pot in the alley, but mom had made me promise not to get into that. I hadn’t; I was more of a light beer man myself anyway.

  I backed the car, an old green Corolla®, out into the alley and headed for the nearest street. That was a big mistake. Crowds were now heading down that street toward the fighting. I quickly put it in reverse and backed all the way to the next street.

  Crowds were coming this way as well, but I was able to get turned around and duck into the next alley. Two more blocks later, I turned out onto the street and drove safely away from all the trouble.

  “Do you want to go to Aunt Mary’s?” I asked.

  She nodded without saying a word. We drove past fire trucks and ambulances and could see smoke billowing up from several parts of the city. I turned on the car radio to get some music. Mom always liked listening to the oldies. There was only news.

  People had been shot; there were many arrests. The governor had promised the National Guard would be brought in from its training base. The Guard was preparing to deploy. Apparently, there was some question about who had jurisdiction over the Guard at the moment.

  “Turn it off,” she said. I did so and glanced at her. She had out a tissue and was crying. I hated to see her cry; there had been so much of that before the divorce.

  “I wonder what they want,” I said aloud as we came to where the police were stopping cars.

  “Where you headed kid?”

  “We’re going over to my aunt’s.”

  “Any weapons in the car?”

  “No we don’t have anything like that,” I said.

  “It’ll be just a second; we’re running your plates. Is this your car?”

  “It’s my mom’s.”

  After a few moments he said, “Okay, you can go.”

  I pulled away. We hit another traffic stop on the way to Aunt Mary’s. I rolled down the window. “Is there a problem officer,” I said.

  “Get out of the car.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re going to search it.”

  “Do you have a search warrant?”

  “We don’t need no search warrant. I smell marijuana. Get out or I’ll tase you.”

  I complied. “Over here and get down on your knees with your hands on the back of your head.”

  A female cop opened the passenger side door. “Okay lady, get out and stand in front of the car.”

  “Do you have to hold a gun on my mother? I asked.

  “Shut up,” she said. The other cop went through our car pretty thoroughly.

  When he finished he said, “Okay you can go.”

  “I want your name and badge number.”

  “Look kid, you want me to run you in for obstruction. One more word out of your mouth, I’ll run you and your mother in.”

  I glanced over at mom. She looked terrified. I swallowed my pride and got in the car, but I won’t forget his face.

  I rang the bell, and Aunt Mary answered the door. “My goodness Margaret, what’s happened to you?” She let us in, and mom recounted the story to her and her husband.

  Jim was her second husband, and as I was older when they married, I had never called him Uncle Jim. They sat with us at the kitchen table, and over coffee and sweetbread listened to our misadventures.

  Jim had gone into his study. A few minutes later, he returned and motioned for me to follow him. The news was on, and it was terrifying.

  “Well Sara, the whole country seems to be exploding,” one of the round table commentators was saying.

  “It seems the government had been so lax on the border that Middle Eastern terrorists had done quite a good job of infiltrating. Now they were hitting infrastructure targets across the country.

  “Add to this, there is rioting in some cities which I understand began as the police cracked down on suspected dissidents.”

  A black former preacher turned news commentator interrupted him. “This is primarily an attack on minorities. Too many years of police brutality have ingrained a deep hatred of the police, and now it’s boiling over. You mistreat people long enough and this is what you get. I’m actually surprised it took this long.”

  “I want to stay on the topic of foreign infiltrators for a moment. Jeff we were blindsided by this; is there any way we could have seen this coming?”

  “No Sara, I think it’s caught everyone by surprise. There is simply no way the government could have known about this.”

  “I got to jump in here.” It was the preacher again.

  “Go ahead Sam.”

  “The government had to know,” he said emphatically. “They had to know. How could they have not known?”

  “Sam, are you getting into conspiracy theory?” teased Jeff.

  “Listen to him; anyone who thinks the government is capable of doing a wrong thing is into conspiracies. No I’m not, but they had to know. Do you remember that CIA man who wrote those books a few years ago concerning the war on terror?”

  “Do you mean the guy who wrote under the name Anonymous?”

  “Yes, that’s him. I’ve seen him interviewed, and he was claiming over five years ago that this was happening. Additional
ly, I’ve read where the Border Patrol say they are picking up people from Middle Eastern countries coming in through Mexico. So I don’t see where it’s possible the government could not have known.”

  “Let’s turn to the foreign reports; we’ve been following several stories. The most troubling is coming out of Israel,” Sara said. The screen cut to burning buildings in Tel Aviv.

  “Since the bombing of Iran by the Israelis, missiles have been raining down on Israel. The dead and dying are often stuck under rubble, and there is no way to get them out till the warheads stop falling.

  “To make matters worse, no one had thought about the possibility of an Iranian naval presence in the Mediterranean Sea, at least not to this extent. Now their missile-sporting speed boats were pounding the Israeli navy and coastal cities.”

  Jeff spoke up. “Today the Russians promised to provide air cover to Iran, and with the 6th fleet stationed in the Arabian Sea and in the Persian Gulf, this could blow up into direct confrontation between the U.S. and Russia.”

  “Oh man,” I said. Jim and I were just standing there in the middle of the room.

  “Washington has finally gone insane,” Jim observed. “This time the war has been brought home to us.”

  “What do you mean? The Air Force and Navy can handle the Russians, and the Iranians are no threat.”

  “No, I mean the sleeper cells.”

  “The news said that no one could have seen this coming.”

  “Bull, that one guy is right; I’ve known it for months based just on what I’ve picked up on the internet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There is the retired CIA agent they mentioned who has written books about the war on terror and given interviews. He’s been saying that people from Iran were being positioned in the U.S. for years. Secondly, I found a report that stated people from hostile places in the Middle East have been caught crossing the border. How many do you think got in undetected?”

  “I thought they controlled the borders.”

  “No, they never have. Heck, when I was in school we would ford the Rio Grande in a university vehicle. It was a big, white Suburban with the huge orange University of Texas logo on the side. Never saw the border patrol.”

  “Wasn’t that illegal?”

  “Naw, but we were supposed to report to the nearest customs office.”

  “Did you?”

  “Heck no.”

  We spent a couple of nights with Aunt Mary, but soon mom wanted to go home. The power had been out most of the time, and a news commentator we got on the battery powered radio had advised everyone to boil their tap water before using it. There were problems with most of the services we had come to take for granted. Jim and I had gone out for groceries, and found the lines long and tempers short. Everyone was angry and afraid.

  The shelves were drying up rapidly. The government was warning people not to hoard necessities and threatened stiff prison terms for violators. How much food you need for your family before it is hoarding was never explained. Somewhere I heard that you were only allowed seven days’ worth.

  Getting around was a hassle too. Either there were cops everywhere, or there were none at all. There was no middle ground. They stopped and searched people without warrants. A couple of people had been shot at checkpoints. The whole city was crazy. Jim and I spent a lot of time watching the news on a small battery powered portable.

  I had not told anyone about my adventure at the rifle range or even that I had been to one. I was hoping that there was no way the authorities could find their way to me. I hadn’t actually done anything; I was just there.

  “Thank you for putting up with me,” Mom said as she and I reached the door.

  “You were no problem at all. We loved having you.”

  “Thanks for everything,” I said. “We appreciate your hospitality.” With that I started the car and began the drive home.

  “What’s happened to all the traffic lights?” Mom asked. It was surreal; there were no traffic lights. All the lighted signs were out. There were long lines at all the gas stations, and I heard sirens almost the whole time we were driving.

  “I wish your father were here,” she finally said. I glanced at her and back to the road. I didn’t know what to say. I guess I shouldn’t expect her underachiever son to take the place of dad. I said nothing. We drove the rest of the way in silence.

  Our neighborhood was a mess. Twice I had to get out and clear debris from the alley to get to the house. A group of kids blocked our path at one point.

  “What are you doing here Whitey?” one of them demanded.

  “Uh, I live here.” They moved aside. Once in the house we could see that there were windows broken out. A chunk of brick was in the living room. I got busy cleaning up the place while mom put on some water to heat.

  Whenever things were bad, she always made hot chocolate. It seemed to help. I pulled the shades and everything looked normal. That is until I stepped out on the front porch. There was debris in the front yard and our porch furniture was missing.

  There were people milling about, and I could hear angry voices in the distance. I set to work. After a while, a police patrol car drove slowly through the neighborhood.

  I was inside having hot chocolate with mom when I heard a car window break. She cringed.

  “I’m going out front to see what happened. I’ll be right back.” The cops shouldn’t have come back. Maybe they were trying to show us who’s boss. I don’t know, but there was a police car with people throwing rocks and bottles at it. It quickly drove away and everyone cheered.

  It was mostly kids, but there were some older adults out as well. It was a group as mixed as our neighborhood. There were whites, blacks, Latinos, and a few Asians. Maybe the cops would stay away. The mood was bad. I went back inside.

  A little while later, I heard a short burst by a police siren. Then the pop of a CS gas canister and there were shouts. Mom just looked down at her lap. I began to wonder where we could go next.

  The shouting grew louder. I heard debris hitting the street. Then there were gunshots. I didn’t know who was shooting.

  There was a crash in the living room. “Stay here.”

  Another of our windows was broken out, but this time the place was filling with tear gas. Mom was not in the kitchen when I got back, and the place was filling up with smoke and gas.

  I thought she had gone out the back way, but she was not there. “Mom where are you?” I called.

  Soaking a rag and putting it over my face, I went back inside. Now there was fire; the living room was on fire! Coughing and gagging, I blindly ran through the house looking for her, but she was not to be found.

  Finally, some firemen found me and dragged me outside. “Come on kid.”

  “My mom’s in there!” I cried chocking and gagging.

  The house burned to the ground. Mom didn’t make it. At the funeral Aunt Mary cried and told me how sorry she was.

  Chapter 3 – Strike While the Iron is Hot

  The group leader, known only as Rico or referred to as the Commander, was addressing the team. “The first efforts failed. People just waited in place for the feds to come and get them. Some even had elaborate plans to resist. In the end, it was always the same.

  “They took their hunting rifles, their birding shotguns, and one guy even had his bow confiscated. The people were left defenseless at a time when society was under tremendous stress with predictable results. Crime exploded; we saw exactly what happened in Australia but over a much shorter time.

  “One of the teams on the north side tried to take out a government building. They got pinned down and eaten up. Only a few people got out to tell the story.

  “The lapdog news media went with the government line. Right-wing terrorist gang attacked federal building, etc., etc. You all know the story, so I won’t bore you with it.

  “Now, everybody in this room has either been brutalized by the authorities or has had a family member beaten, rap
ed, or killed by them. That’s why you’re here.”

  There was general agreement in the room and mumbling. Several people still had swollen faces or broken noses from attempts at peaceful protests.

  “Yeah, I was in uniform and got tased by a couple of cops after I got back from my first deployment. That’s what this country has done for me,” offered Hector.

  “Why don’t you go back to Africa?” demanded Smitty.

  “I can’t; you stole me from Africa,” responded Hector.

  “Why don’t you go back to England,” interjected Raymond.

  “Why are you getting into this?”

  “Because the problem is white cops shooting minorities.”

  “We wouldn’t have all these problems without you minorities.”

  “Excuse me the bankers are all white; the corrupt politicians that give the cops the right to violate the Constitution are white. What are you talking about?” insisted Hector.

  “What do you know about the Constitution?”

  “I’ve read it; have you?” asked Hector.

  “I studied it in school.”

  “But you’ve never read it. It says that I am not a whole person.”

  “What does it say about me?” asked Raymond.

  “I don’t think they knew about Mexicans,” said Hector.

  “What the hell do you mean? Are you saying that we are not people or citizens?”

  “Both of you are ruining the country.”

  “No, you are ruining the country.”

  “It’s my pinche country too!”

  Rico let the bolt of his AK-47 slam forward; they became silent. Rico was the only man among us who had “presence,” so that the other men would acknowledge him. All eyes were on him.

  “Listen to you. You are doing just what the corrupt system wants you to do, fighting among yourselves. It keeps you weak. It keeps us all weak.

  “Hector’s right, he can’t help being born here anymore than Raymond, or me or any of us. Maybe King George was right; maybe we are too stupid to rule ourselves. The bankers and those who consider themselves the ruling elite have certainly gone a long way to convince us of it.