Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) (63 page)

It was dark
and they didn’t want to get separated in unfamiliar territory, so they held
hands tightly. The couple crept slowly along the palm trees to the far edge of
the sugar-white beach for which Sarasota is world famous. When lightning
flashed, they froze.  In this manner they crept through the pelting wind and
rain for a good fifteen minutes, heading north for the Marina. Erik walked with
the trees on his right, Brin next to him so the Gulf was on her left. She
watched the beach, he the treeline.

Brin
gripped Erik’s rain slicked hand tight. They froze and ducked behind two palms
that leaned out over the beach, making a slight barrier behind which they could
hide for a moment. “Lights!” she whispered in a hiss. “I saw three, ahead to
the left.”

Erik poked
his head up above the trees and waited through some lightning before lowering
again in the dark. “It’s the marina alright. Looks like a few boats have
lights. I’m surprised any do. I saw a path from the beach that goes around the
clump of trees ahead of us. Let’s get into those palms and see what we can see.”

“Okay,
sweetie, lead on.  This is so
exciting!
” Brin almost giggled, whether
from nerves or glee, Erik never learned. He just smiled at his diminutive wife
and pushed on towards the patch of palm trees.

Once they
were safely hidden in the small copse of palms, they shrugged out of their
packs and broke out the binoculars. Brin looked out for anyone nearby and kept
watch behind them while Erik scanned the Marina. In flashes of lightning, Erik
saw a facility battened down for the storm or the recent troubles, or both.
Then he saw the sign:

CLOSED

Due to
power outage.

Sorry! Mgmt

It was a
crude sign, painted on a piece of scrap wood nailed across the door to the gate
house at the Marina entrance. “There’s a sign says it’s closed…no power,” he whispered.
The rain made a terrible racket on the palm fronds all around them so Brin was
nestled close. She never took her eyes off the surrounding terrain.

“How come
they have lights on the boats then?” she whispered back over the rain and
thunder.

“Those
sailboats must have generators, or batteries hooked up to solar cells,” he
mused quietly. He felt Brin twitch when a peal of thunder split the night,
almost on top of them.

“It’s
getting darker,” she murmured. “I’m soaking wet. See anyone yet?”

“No…” he replied.
Then, “
Wait
…yeah, I see someone. Hang on…” In a flash of lightning Erik
spotted the shape of a man rise from the first boat moored at the dock. He was
carrying a handgun and had something on his head. A flashlight beam cut through
the darkness and wobbled its way from the big white iron gate towards their
clump of palm trees.

“Shit. He’s
coming towards us,” said Erik. He was about to tell Brin to run when he noticed
the man with the light was limping. “Hang on; he’s either wounded or old…”

“Or acting,”
Brin replied.  She touched his arm gently. “I don’t like this…”

“You there!
In the trees! Coom on then, show yerselves!” called the stranger. The
flashlight couldn’t quite penetrate the palm copse, but it was scary enough for
Brin and Erik. “I’ll have ye know I’m armed!” the man shouted over the storm.

Another
loud clap of thunder interrupted the speaker. “Och! Games up, ye’re spotted.
Now come out an’ we can have a look, eh?”

“He’s
Scottish!” Brin said with relief. “They’re our allies,” she started to get up.
Erik put a hand on her shoulder and kept her down.

“You stay,”
he whispered forcefully. “Anything goes wrong, run to the beach, get back to
the trees and call Hoss. Don’t look—
run
.”

She glared
at him.

“Okay?” he
asked the question but it wasn’t really a question, she could tell from the
tone of his voice. Brin was about to tell him where he could stick his orders
when she realized deep down he was only acting like John Wayne for her benefit.
Her resolve softened and he only relaxed the iron grip on her shoulder when she
nodded assent to the plan.

Once
satisfied she would leave if he got into trouble, he stood up and stepped
through the trees, right hand up to shield his eyes from the flashlight and the
rain.

“My, but
ye’re a big one, then,” exclaimed the stranger when Erik stepped into the beam
of light. The Scotsman had that distinctive burr known the world over.

 “I’m
sorry, I got lost—“

“Where’s
t’other one, then?” the Scot demanded, looking over Erik’s shoulder without
pause.

“What?”
stammered Erik. The game was up too fast. He hoped Brin was preparing to make
her escape.

“Coom out
laddie, I know ye’re in there,” called out the Scotsman, not unkindly.

Thunder
drowned out Erik’s lie, so he had to repeat himself. “I’m alone, sir. Please,
don’t shoot me!” It was too late. Brin had already joined her husband in the
rain.

“No point
in telling me a—oh…” the Scotsman said. When he saw Brin’s scared face, he
bobbed his head and knuckled his brow. “Beggin’ pardon, mum.”

Brin’s
almond eyes blinked in the rain as she focused on the gun the Scotsman held. He
followed her gaze and aimed the gun at the ground in front of them sheepishly.
“Och, deary me…Sorry about that. So happens you lot are trespassing this fine
night and I pulled short straw.” He leaned in conspiratorially towards Brin and
whispered something behind his hand. She laughed, dropped her hands and was
visibly relaxed.

Erik fumed,
confused. “Wha—“

The
Scotsman spun around with military precision on his good heel and called over
his shoulder, “Weel, coom on then, no sense drownin’ in th’ rain. Follow me and
we’ll all have a wee dram to war’um up.”

Erik
dropped his arms and debated whether or not to retrieve their packs. He opted
for the former when Brin passed him and slipped her radio into his hand. He
smiled and pocketed the radio in the darkness between lightning flashes. If
need be, now he could at least get Hoss a warning. “I love you,” he whispered
in the cold rain as she passed, following the limping Scotsman.

“I know.”

The
Scotsman opened the gate and waved, “Coom on, we’re goin’ to the fifth slip
there, on the right.” As Erik moved past him, the old man said, “If t’eren’t
for me wee googles, I sha’ think ye’d never ha’ been seen, laddie. That was
nice work.”

He helped
Brin down to the mildly bucking deck of a rather large sailboat, then motioned
for Erik to join his wife with the handgun. The movement was too cavalier for
Erik’s taste, waving a gun about like that. In a flash of lightning, Erik then
realized that the pistol his captor wielded was only a flare gun. Erik hid his
relief and waited patiently for their elder host to clamber down from the dock.

Waves
splashed like drum beats against the hull and the howling of the wind in the
rigging was unnerving. The rocking of the boat didn’t seem to faze the Scotsman
one bit as he swaggered to the sturdy cabin hatch, flung it open and called
out, “Maddie! We’ve coompany!” He was silhouetted by a warm, inviting glow from
below decks.

“Aye?
Coompnay? In thus way-ther?” the thick, matronly Scottish accent wafted up to
greet them as Erik and Brin were led down inside the boat. As soon as the hatch
was shut and secured behind them with a resounding thud, the violence of the
storm outside all but vanished. The boat rocked slowly but of the wind and rain
and lightning they could detect almost nothing. It was as if they had descended
into a different world. Only a dull, faint clap of thunder penetrated the snug
boat’s hull into the warm and cheery interior.

The
Scotsman shook water from his rain slicker and wiped his face. “There noo,
that’s better. Welcoom aboard the
Flying Piper
. My name is Archibald
Sinclair, captain and commander of thus fine vessel.” He shrugged out of the
slicker and removed the night vision goggles from his balding head. “Och, tha’s
better. These wee straps were giving me a
brilliant
headache.”

Erik
considered Archie a moment. The flare gun had disappeared into one of the man
pockets on the photographer’s vest the Scotsman wore over his Bermuda shorts
and deck shoes.

He was tan,
Archibald Sinclair, in the manner of men accustomed to life at sea. Tan and
squint-eyed with the look of one who is always in the wind.  A sailor through
and through. Archibald had kind, grandfatherly eyes, though, and wide
shoulder’s for one so short—Erik guessed the man was about 5’7” or 5’8”. The
graying thinning hair on Archibald’s head was in stark contrast to the
reddish-brown hair covering his forearms. He looked like a small, balding bear.

Erik’s gaze
then shifted to a rather wide-looking women he spotted stepping through the
bulkhead at the other end of the cabin with a leveled short-barrel shotgun
pointed in their direction. Before Brin and Erik could raise their hands again,
the woman gasped, then called out, a dark look on her face for Archibald, “Och!
Archibald Sinclair!! How dare you drag these poor wee bairn in here at
gunpoint!”

“Wee?
Bairn?
”
Archie looked from the woman to Erik and back again. “D’ye no see ‘im, lass?
Tha’s William Wallace reborn, woman! He’s got to stoop to stay inside. Wee indeed!”

“Aye, he’s
a big lad then, is he no?” said Maddie with an appraising eye and wink for
Brin. “But the wee lass—she’s no’ but a bridie thing.  A wee sprite!” The older
woman casually tossed the shotgun at Archie and moved to wrap Brin in a thick
wool blanket pulled out of a cubbie-hole in the cabin’s wall.

“There we
go, dearie,” she cooed with her own softer Scots burr. “My name’s Maddie — I
fear I mus’ apologize for the rudeness of my husband. He’s only trying to
protect me, in ‘is own misguided way, y’see,” she said to Brin with a dark look
again at Archibald. Brin looked more like an Eskimo than ever with the thick
woolen blanket exposing only her face.

Archibald
grimaced but held the shotgun pointed loosely at Erik. “Are you of the
Campbell, clan, then Maddie?” asked Erik. Maddie and Archibald exchanged a
look. He lowered the shotgun.

“No laddie,
I’m a MacGregor. Archie was a piper for the Black Watch.”

Erik’s
eyebrows went up and he nodded in respect to Archibald. The Black Watch, the
Queens Own 42nd Highlanders, a fighting unit with a storied past full of
daring, bravery, tragedy and glory. In his history classes Erik had heard the
name of the Black Watch come up many times, especially dealing with the
American Revolution. No British unit was more feared or respected during the
War of Independence.

Archie
cocked an eyebrow of his own. “And how d’ye know the Campbell Tartan?” he
asked, inclining his head towards the blanket that wrapped snuggly around Brin.

“My mom’s
family came from Scotland, a long way back.  MacKenzies.”

“The
Orkneys. I
knew
it!” said Archie with a wide grin.

“Lewis,
actually,” replied Erik with a smile.

“Och, th’
big island for a big man! Highlander through an through, no doubt!  What’s yer
name then?”

“Erik
Larsson,” he replied, with a slight bow towards Maddie.

“Dearie me,
a Viking
and
a gentleman.  Careful Archie, I may run ‘way with the big
laddie here!” snickered Maddie as she tried to hide a blush. She was the image
of someone’s grandmother, plump, but not fat, gray of hair but full of spirit
and life.

“
I
may have something to say about that,” said Brin with a lopsided grin of her
own.

“May I
introduce Brin, my wife,” said Erik, an arm around his bride.

“Ha! D’hear
that woman?  He’s taken,” cried Archie with glee. He dropped the shotgun into a
chair and shook Erik’s hand with gusto.

Maddie
began removing her flannel shirt and revealed a bullet proof vest. “So is she,
you devil,” she grunted at Archie.

Erik
noticed right away that Maddie was not nearly as ‘plump’ as he first thought
she was. The Scotswoman was wearing armor. Without it, she was only moderately
heavier than Brin; a healthy weight for a woman of any age.

After hugs
and handshakes all around, in the true fashion of Highland Hospitality, drams
of whiskey were passed out and the four new friends toasted Scotland and
settled into chairs. Brin screwed up her face and gasped as the liquid fire hit
her throat, then smiled as the warmth began to work its way down to her
stomach. Archie and Maddie drank theirs like water and watched with approval as
Erik did likewise.

Erik tossed
the dram back and was hit hard by the strong woodsmoke and sea-salt aroma of
the Scotch. It was something he hadn’t encountered before. During college, his
buddies had made great sport of drinking Scotch at social gatherings—it
impressed the girls and seemed classier than swilling beer with frat boys.

He’d had
many brands,
Glen Livet, DeWar’s, Chevas Regal.
But this…
this
was
something similar yet worlds apart. It was smooth and yet it burned like fire.
It had the most delicious coloring, but the aroma was almost overpowering. It
made the other brands he’d had taste like plain water. His eyes were trying to
water as he sought out the label on the bottle when Archie poured another
round.