Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) (67 page)

I think we are drawn to dogs because they
are the uninhibited creatures we might be if we weren't certain we knew
better.  They fight for honor at the first challenge...and they do not for
all their marvelous instincts appear to know about death. 

—George Bird Evans

HE
LIKE AN animal, yo,” said the young thug as he watched the poor white man slurp
up two whole cans of dog food.

“Appropriate then that you and your…
homeboys
,
are feeding the wretch dog food,” said the larger man, immaculately dressed and
well spoken.  The younger man looked at his elder with a mix of scorn and
amusement. 

All these fools…so many brothers, so
much wasted talent
. 
The large black man shook his head in disgust. 
If nothing else, we will
need their numbers.  Malcolm will need every man he can get.  If what happened
this morning is a taste of things to come, we're going to need a lot more...

The younger man turned away from the
noisy scene.  “That just
nasty
.”

“Then why did you feed him?” asked the
bigger man. 
And why can't you speak English properly? It is a product of
the Man, but until you fools learn Swahili there is no point in using some
bastardized language. 
Inwardly, he sighed. 
We shall have to remedy
that as well.  If only you children had any shame at how you have debased your
noble selves.  Allah grant them mercy and strength.  Alas...I suppose for you
to have shame, you would have to know pride.  But no, the Man has taken that
from you as well...
he frowned.

“We feed him ‘cause he may be loco, but
he still a
man
.”

“He is
the
man.  A representation
of the Oppressor.” 
Perhaps these fools are not completely wild after all,
thought the well dressed representative from the Brotherhood.   A sidelong
glance at the youth next to him—he refused to label the young man what he
really was: a
hoodlum
and nothing more—revealed a spark of humanity in
the boy's face as he watched a grown man shovel dog food into his mouth
like...well, like a dog.

A few others strolled into the room in
the occupied two story house, tossing empty liquor bottles into a filthy
corner.  The clatter caused the dog-man to flinch and look up, but only
momentarily.  They immediately saw the filthy white man in rags slurping up dog
food.  Erupting into laughter, the taunts began.

The Rep sighed and turned his back on
the scene, instead, he chose to look out the filth smeared window.  There was
precious little time to make up his mind.  He had sent the order out for all
the survivors to regroup here and even now, through the grime smeared window he
could see small groups and broken individuals lurching their way towards the
house. 

Command center
, he chided himself. 
Command of
what?  I have a collection of rejects at which even the street gangs would
laugh
. 

The Rep focused on the task at hand. 
Remember
your training.  Malcolm's followers know what they are doing.  The war is at
hand.  You are a military commander now.  These are your troops.
  He
squared his shoulders and stood a little taller. 
Or what's left of them
,
a small voice echoed in his mind. 
If I had only gotten here sooner, been in
place longer.  These fools wouldn't have wasted their lives trying to ransack,
rape, and loot.  They wouldn't have so blindly drawn the attention of the Man. 
If they had just a few more days...

The Rep ignored the taunts and laughter
behind him.  He felt no pity for the white man whatsoever.  His men were beaten
and shamed.  Perhaps if they took out their inadequacies on the white man they would
feel better.  Fight better.  Act better. 

He saw a ruined neighborhood, once owned
by the Man.  Trash and burned cars littered what he assumed used to be well
manicured lawns of the upper middle class white people who lived in this area. 
He allowed himself the luxury of thinking that it may have been quite pleasant
and civilized once, even for a nest of the Man. 
Bet there wasn't a single
brother living here
. 

Behind him the taunts grew more bold. 
He heard a beer bottle smash against the wall and voices raised.  The Rep
frowned.  Through the dirty window, in the distance at the end of the street
leading out of the neighborhood, he saw a tan, blocky looking vehicle pause at
the entrance, then race off. 
Allah give me strength.  They know we're here. 
It is time to evacuate.  This place will be crawling with soldiers come
sundown.

“Yo, you hear me fool?” asked one of the
louder thugs.  “I said you can be our
mascot!
  You a fuckin’ dog!” the
laughter continued.

"Ugga!  We call you Ugga, bitch—"

"'Cause he ugly!" another
laughed.  The howls of mirth echoed in the small, stuffy room.

The Rep turned around.  Very quickly the
noise stopped when the street toughs saw the look of fury on the huge man's
face.  “Look at yourselves," he rumbled in a voice so deep one of the
thugs thought he was Barry White. 

"You are a disgrace to the Cause. 
You would think that the loss of all your local leadership in that…
pathetic
excuse for a fight last night with the Man would have taught you a lesson in
humility.  You people
deserve
to be slaves.”  His voice was like thunder
and stunned the younger men into complete silence.

"Slaves?  What the fuck—"
started one of the braver ones. 

The Rep ignored him and steamrolled on. 
The clock was ticking and he was running out of time.  “
Look
at
yourselves.  You hide in this filthy house, you drink and party and debase
yourself constantly…Allah help me,” he said and raised his hands in an appeal
to heaven. 

“Who the fuck you think you are, Uncle
Tom?” asked one of the new recruits with more bravado than brains.  He tried to
get a laugh with his wit, but failed miserably.  The others were looking down,
shamed at last.  They had been with Teedell since the beginning, had figured
they ruled the land now.  But they had been over confident.  When they attacked
the soldiers, they had been slaughtered.  It had been a long night.  The
alcohol they consumed to hide their fears and self-pity was having a very
negative affect on the remnants of the White Hand People.

“I’m the one who has to care for you
children, since you have so aptly proven you cannot do so yourself,” the Rep
grumbled.  His eyes dared anyone to say something else.  He shifted his wide
shoulders and watched the youths pause.  He was in his forties but still proud
of the fact that he could probably be a walk-on to any pro football team.  That
kind of presence commanded respect from those who only respect violence. 

“Unless there is someone here who knows
what to do now that the Man and his army has all but wiped you out?”  He raised
his eyebrows, pleading for someone to say something.  They sniffed, looked away
defiantly or down at the ground sheepishly. 
Pathetic
.

“Aaaaw, d'at nasty!” said another one,
who looked like a Latino.  “He’s takin’ a shit in the corner.”

“
Damn,
that stink!”  A chorus of
hoots and hands waving broke out.

The youths appealed to the Rep for
guidance.  “Do not look at me.”  He pointed towards the thugs responsible for
the Dog.  “
You
brought this poor creature here.  He is
your
responsibility.”

A side door burst open and two large men
entered dragging a white woman.  She looked half beaten to death and was barely
dressed in some rags.  The youths began hitting each other on their shoulders
and making lewd comments.  As they dragged the woman past the Latino kid, he
waved a hand in front of his nose.

“Damn, she stinks like that guy’s
daughter when we found him.”

Before anyone could move, Henry Grimes
had leapt from his position near a corner and tackled the punk that spoke about
his daughter.  He flew into a rage, growling and snapping at the younger man,
clawing, kicking and biting.  The howls of rage and pain intermingled to a
point where the shocked gathering had a hard time deciding who was screaming
more.  The others unconsciously made a circle around the two fighting men and
began hooting and cheering.

The Rep rolled his eyes. 
Allah...how
can I work with this?
 
We have no time...

“
ENOUGH OF THIS!
” he bellowed. 
The windows actually shook in the tiny room.  “Someone pull these two apart. 
We do not have
time
for this foolishness.  The Man will scour these
neighborhoods looking for us.  We need to move to a safer area and regroup.”

The Latino whimpered and scrabbled his
way across the filthy floor to a wall and glared at Henry through a swollen eye
and blood splattered face.  Half an ear was missing and his lip was torn open. 
He rubbed his neck where Henry had a death grip.

“Fuckin’
loco
…” the youth said,
then began to curse in Spanish.

The others began laughing hysterically. 
High fives and fist-bumps all around in celebration of the moment's
entertainment.

“Leave my daughter alone!  Bessie!”
Henry shrieked, forgotten in the grips of the three large men it took to hold
him down.

“How the hell some scrawny ass white boy
this strong?” grunted one of the bigger ones.  The crazed man howled and whined
in pain, then began sobbing and blubbering incoherently.  He reeked.  His face
was clawed by the Latino kid and angry welts stood out in stark contrast to the
dirt, filth, and dried blood that caked the man's haggard, half-starved visage.

“Yo that’s some
shit
right
there,” mumbled one of the thugs.  “That white boy like a rabid dog…”

“Naw, he a
dawg
.”

“You see how he jumped?  Like Anton all
juiced up on smack,” two of them high-fived.

The Rep did not miss what had just
happened.  The wretch…the dog, no…
The Dog
, had just earned some street
cred.  He would never have guessed that could happen.  This white man could be
of some use after all.

At last Henry slumped to the floor and
curled into a fetal position, whimpering and moaning to himself.  Only a few
snatches of phrases and words could be understood.  It was clear he was
mentally unbalanced.  Two of the men holding him down made eye contact with the
woman they had dragged into the room.

“Party time back on,” one grinned.  They
got off Henry and moved towards the woman who sat slumped against a wall, her
eyes staring straight ahead.  The bruises and marks on her body told the tale
of her life after the lights went out.  The wedding ring on her broken and
swollen finger spoke of more than one life ruined and wasted since the power
went out. 

What was left of the woman was no longer
there.  She was already with her family.  Most of the street thugs in the room
recognized the look, but didn't care.  She was an object—a
toy
—now. 
Nothing more.  When she wore out, starved, or just plain gave up, they'd find
another and they all knew it.

“Bessie?” asked Henry weakly from under a
fold of rotten cloth.  He moved some matted hair off his scratched and bloody
face and looked through clouded eyes at the woman, seeing instead his dead
daughter.

“On your feet, girl.  We ain’t done with
you yet,” grumbled one of the giants.

The Rep crossed his arms and debated how
far he was willing to let this go.  He glanced back out the window.  Instead of
men shuffling along or straggling in with friends, a few were running—or trying
to.  More than one stumbled on baggy pants, then had to be helped up by someone
else, leaving a dark stain on the street. 

Walking wounded,
he thought. 
Must be the tail end of
the survivors.  Why are they running?

In a flash of rags and dirt, Henry
roared in fury and crashed into the nearest of the two giants.  They were going
after his little girl.  His baby!  No force on earth could stop a father from
defending his child, no matter how weak, beaten and abused he was. 

Henry was filled with a rage and a
strength that a brief blip in his mind said must be from God.  The thought
vanished as quickly as it came.  Henry wasn't the most religious man, hadn't
gone to services since his wife left him years ago.  His mind paused at the
thought of Bessie alive—he saw her die.  Yet here she was, about to be attacked
by two big black men.  Henry didn't care.  His baby girl needed him. 

The big man didn’t fall the way the
Latino kid did, he calmly swung one meat-hook of an arm around and threw Henry
to the floor.  Henry struggled to get his footing, screamed about his daughter
and launched another assault.  Only the sight of the man’s gun flashed in his
face stopped the charge.

“You bes' check yourself,
bitch
,”
the man growled.  He was an ex-con who had spent years of 'hard-time' building
up muscles that would allow himself to have a good time now that he was out on
the street.  “I seen some bad shit in the joint and no scrawny white man that
bit like a
dog
gonna stop me getting’ my first piece ‘a pie since I got
locked up.  Now back the fuck up.”