Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) (18 page)

E
RIK AND STAN sat in lawn chairs by the
small pond in the middle of their apartment complex, watching things around
them get worse as the sun set.  It would soon be time for their third nightly
gathering.  Erik’s wind up emergency radio sat between them, pumping out
conflicting reports from America and England.

“I just don’t get it…we’re supposed to
have Freedom of Speech and all that, right?” asked Stan, staring at the radio.

“Yup.  Guess the President decided
that’s got to be restricted a bit, at least on the part of the Press.  It
doesn’t make sense.  Why now?”

“This whole shitty situation…it just
sucks,” complained Stan with a sweep of his arm.  

“I agree…” said Erik, his mind jumping
ahead to what might happen.  “But look at it this way—we were getting reports
for the past two days about all the bad stuff going down around the country. 
First it was the airliners falling from the sky—“

“Which we
still
don’t know why,
or what flights.  My God, if I had family on a plane when the power went out,
I’d be an absolute wreck right now.“  Stan laughed, a bitter, barking sound. 
“More so than I am.”

“Yeah, that does suck, not telling us
what happened.”  Erik sipped some water and thought for a moment, listening to
the serenade of the nighttime insects.  “But maybe the government at least
informed the people who’s loved ones were killed,” shrugged Erik.  “At any
rate, the radios were effectively the only form of communication left to us—the
TVs all died when the power went out, so no cable news.”

“Well, sure, Erik, but there’s a lot of
people out there with generators, I’m sure
someone
could have seen the
TV.”

“And of those people with generators,
how many do you think would hook up their TV instead of their water pumps, or
freezers, or microwaves?  Generators can’t run everything—at least not the
‘average’ ones you get at Wal-Mart and Home Depot.  But just about everyone has
a radio and at least a few batteries laying around.”

“Or one of these cool things,” said
Stan, patting Erik’s radio affectionately.  “Man, if you hadn’t had this thing,
we might all still be in the dark.”

Erik waved off the compliment.  He
didn’t want sentiment like that growing.  He resolved to be more careful in the
future when admitting what preparations he had in stock.  He didn’t want
people, even neighbors, to view him as a supply depot, or worse, a target,
should things get more desperate. 

“I’m sure we could have heard the same
stuff with regular radios and batteries…but that’s not my point.  Radio was the
most effective and pretty much the last way to get the word out to people. 
What do you remember from those broadcasts in the last few days?”

Stan thought for a minute.  “Hell,
everything was doom and gloom.  First they told us about the power going
out…then about the terrorists that did it and the ones that claimed
responsibility.  Then it was the planes that crashed, then the riots started—then
we found out they were
race
riots.  Last thing I remember was something
about forest fires out west.”

Erik snapped his fingers.  “Right!  And
what affect did it have?”

Stan grimaced.  His face told the story
of a man who realized a younger person was educating him in something he by
rights should already know.  He sighed and replied, “Well, it scared the hell
out of me—“

“Out of
all
of us!  But that’s
not all.  Look around, man.”

Stan glanced around the complex and
noticed for the first time that of the 60% occupancy before the power went out,
only about half of those remained.  The ones who had stayed behind had noticed
a fairly steady stream of people abandoning their apartments and heading for
parts unknown.  Some told of moving in with relatives in other states or
cities.  Others said they were heading out to live with friends or loved ones. 
The result was the same.   The apartment complex population was shrinking, by
the day.  There were a score of people who had simply not come back after the
power out.  They had gone to work that morning and never returned.  No one
quite knew what to make of that.

“I see what you mean,” Stan said
quietly.

“If that ‘doom and gloom’ had kept up
much longer, there might not be anyone left!  It was scaring the shit out of
millions of people who were already scared to begin with, just adding fuel to
the fires that got started in the big cities.”

“Do you think shutting down the radios
will help though?” asked Stan, watching a gull soar through the orange-tinted
sky.

“Well, they’re not really shut down—just
broadcasting approved news bulletins now.  Which sounds to me like propaganda,
but,” Erik shrugged.  “At least we know the President’s still in charge and
trying to get things under control.”

“Yeah, barely in charge!  I wonder what
it’s like in those big cities right now.”

“I sure as hell don’t wanna know,”
replied Erik.  “I’m more afraid of what it’s gonna be like around here in a few
days.  Did you see that smoke over to the southwest this morning?”

Stan shook his head.  “No.  I was…uh…”
Stan looked nervous and stared at his hands.

“Only a matter of time before the
looting starts,” Erik said, watching his companion’s reaction out of the corner
of his eye.  Stan flinched but covered it well.

Erik thought about his neighbor’s odd
behavior.  Something was going on but the man didn’t want to talk.  Erik
shrugged mentally.  He could respect that, but he’d keep an eye on Stan until
he figured out what he was up to.  “Well, whatever was burning was pretty big. 
It looked like a long way off though.  ‘Member how we heard all the police and
ambulance sirens the past few days?”

“Yeah.  We get a lot more people going
past the main gate now too.”

“Well, I haven’t heard but maybe three
or four sirens all day today.  That’s not even much more than a
normal
day before the power went out…But there’s people at the gate every ten minutes,
begging for food.”  Erik fingered the strap on his K-Bar unconsciously.  He had
been wearing it constantly since the day after the power went out.

Stan smacked at a mosquito.   “I see Ted
hasn’t been around today.  Know anything?” he asked.

“Nope.  Last I heard he was called in
late last night for a ‘briefing’.  That’s last I saw him.”  Erik could see that
across the pond, Alfonse was starting to light the tiki-torches that enclosed
the pool deck.  Brin was already over there chatting it up with Charone. 

Erik had noticed a subtle shift in Brin
over the past three days.  Previously before the crisis, neither one of them
had made much of an effort to seek out friendships among the other apartment complex
dwellers.  Since there was no TV, power or anything else other than books, Brin
had spent most of her time talking.  She’d started out chatting with the other
women of the complex, just introducing herself and seeing what was up—gossip. 
Brin had brushed off the observation by saying that she had been trained as a
sales rep—her job, when the power had been on, was to talk people up and get
them to buy more of her company’s products.

“Guess we better head over, huh?” asked
Stan with a sigh.

Erik thought for a second,
She’s
making all kinds of contacts now.  She keeps this up, she’ll know everyone in
the complex soon.
  Erik didn’t share this with Stan, as the two men packed
up their chairs.  He wasn’t sure what to think about Brin’s new pastime.  It seemed
harmless enough for the present though.  At least he had gotten her to stop
calling him a ‘survivalist’ in front of people. 
Baby steps…

“This is becoming quite the ritual,
huh?” asked Stan, picking up his collapsed chair and breaking off Erik’s train
of thought.

Erik laughed.  “Yeah, but what else we
got to do?”  Erik grabbed his radio and the two men started over towards the
pool deck.  They noticed the number of people present tonight was larger than
before.

“Looks like most of the complex, or what’s
left,” observed Stan.

“Brin said that she, Charone and Susan
were going door to door to spread the word of our ‘nightly meetings’.  I think
she called it a ‘soiree’.”

Stan laughed, noticing that across the
pond to the North, there were a couple of people strolling towards the pool
deck.  “Looks like the ladies did a good job.”

Erik felt an itch in the back of his
mind that told him it was time to start setting up a community.  He had read
enough disaster novels and studied all kinds of documents on the internet about
how to establish self-government after the shit hit the fan and the world
ended.  He considered it a good idea, but decided to wait until at least after
tonight, when most of the people in the complex were present, to determine
which way the wind blew, so to speak.  He thanked God that the massive wrought
iron gate to their community with the big brass plaque that read “Colonial
Gardens” was electrically powered—when the lights went out, they were locked
in.  It took two or three men to physically move the damn thing and open it for
a car to get out—which was a pain in the ass, but, it assured everyone that the
average street thug wouldn’t get in easily.

Of course with more people leaving the
complex every day, it seemed prudent to wait awhile before trying to establish
a self-governing body, at least until they knew who was planning on staying and
who might be leaving to seek other possible safe havens.

Wonder if anyone else is thinking along
that line…?
he thought
idly.  The constant honking and sounds of traffic heading towards the
interstate created a mind numbing background noise on this steamy summer
night.  Overhead, bright, towering sunlit thunderheads gathered to reflect
light down on a darkened world.

H
AKIM AND SALDID sat in their car outside
the ransacked Seven-Eleven.  They both loaded their weapons: Saldid, a
semi-auto 9mm pistol, Hakim, a sawed off double barreled shotgun he had
liberated from the last Yankee slain.

Once they had run out of flares and
other incendiaries, they left their fires to grow or die as Allah willed. 
Now,  the two terrorists had taken to a crime spree.  It was perfect timing. 
The power had gone out, throwing most of the country into paralysis.   Then the
riots had started.  Then the so-called “wild” fires had started.  The Arizona
government was being pulled in all directions at once, played like a puppet. 
That meant it was open season on Yankees. 

To be honest, Hakim and Saldid had
planned on slaying large groups of Americans—people in churches, for example,
praying for guidance in troubled times.  The two had decided they might still
go that route, but had changed their minds when they were witnesses to an armed
robbery. 

They had pulled in to a run-down gas station
in north of Phoenix after receiving word from their handler to head south and
observe.  A very cryptic order, but they were the Fist, so they obeyed. 

That didn’t mean they couldn’t have some
fun on the way, however.  At the gas station, they were about to rob the
proprietor, who was still trying to figure out why the power went out when
three thugs kicked in the door and shot the place up, killing the cashier
before Hakim and Saldid could get out of their stolen car.

Beaten to the punch, Hakim and Saldid
were furious.  The two hardened terrorists, trained in the best of the Holy
Osama’s camps in Iraq and Iran, quickly slew the street thugs and took their
weapons.  Still in the opening stages of the power crisis, they were wary of
authorities stumbling on the scene and helped themselves to food and drink,
throwing it in the back of the souped up low-rider  Honda Civic the thugs had
driven. 

For the next two days, the Arab
terrorists worked their way towards Tucson, staying in contact with their
handler via a satellite phone used only for tight security messages.  For some
reason unknown to them, he wanted them to get closer to the Mexican border. 
This was confusing, because there were many more fat Yankees to kill in Tucson
and Phoenix than near the border.  With their unshakable belief in fate, they
shrugged and accepted their new assignment, spreading death and mayhem along
the way.  They cut a bloody swath south, killing whomever they pleased, whether
they needed food, drink, gas or women.

It brought a smile to Hakim’s face to
know that at that very moment, there were many other teams, doing the same
thing all across the American west.  Their activities would probably be chalked
up to post power-loss chaos, and never be fully appreciated by the American
pigs, but it still filled his heart with pride.

“Are you ready, Saldid?” Hakim asked in
a low voice.

Saldid continued smiling like a madman,
staring at the windows of the ransacked convenience store.  He appeared to not
have heard his friend.

“Saldid!”    

The other terrorist jumped.  “What?”

“I asked if you were ready?” said Hakim,
growing impatient.

“I didn’t hear you.  Oh…could that be
because you fired that monster next to my head this morning?” said Saldid
acidly, gesturing towards the shotgun in Hakim’s hands.

“I am sorry…
again
.” Hakim
apologized, remembering the look of horror on Saldid’s face after the cop had
been killed.  They had been pulled over just south of Flagstaff by a State
Trooper who was a little too gung-ho about racial profiling. Hakim remembered
how the infidel confidently strolled up to the stolen Honda and rapped on the
tinted window.  When Saldid rolled down the glass, Hakim quickly thrust his
double barreled shot gun out it and blew the cop into the middle of the
highway.  Saldid heard nothing but ringing and buzzing in his ears for hours
after that.  They had considered taking the police cruiser but decided against
it—it was still too early to be trying something like that. 

“Never the less…I am ready,” said Saldid
a little too loud.  “Let us roll the rock!”

Hakim paused, half out his door.  “You
mean, let us ‘rock and roll’.”

“Yes!  That is what I say!” Saldid
grinned as he shut his driver’s side door.  “I am hungry, let’s see what we
shall eat…it will be evening soon and we will need food for the road, yes?” he
said, racking back the slide on his new pistol.  He couldn’t recognize the make
or model, but then again, he didn’t particularly care—it was a gun and he could
kill Yankees with it; that was good enough for him.