Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) (19 page)

T
HE MEDIUM SIZED delivery truck, white
and filthy with age—typical for it’s particular region of the world—pulled out
of Al Qatranah, Jordan, in the middle of the night on the last leg of its
journey.

The driver, an Al Qaeda operative, had
taken over control of the truck at Al Qatranah from the previous driver and
navigator who had delivered the truck and its cargo from the port city of Al
Aqabah four hours earlier, on the southern tip of Jordan.  Al Aqabah lay
nestled in the armpit of the Gulf of Aqabah, the right ‘finger’ of the Red Sea.

The driver scratched his thick black
beard and yawned as he and his navigator bounced over the dusty road on their
way to Amman.  He squinted, watching the weak headlights dance on the road
before them as they traveled.  It was nearly 3am and he had been roused from a
deep sleep to take this mission.

From there, if he understood his orders
correctly, he’d hand over the ubiquitous little truck to another team that
would take it further north and eventually into Israel through some hidden pass
up near the Golan Heights.  But that was some other operative’s
responsibility.  He need only make it to Amman without causing trouble, meet
his handler and turn over his truck.  He didn’t even know what the cargo was
and frankly, didn’t care.  His navigator though, worried him.

The navigator kept his head down buried
in his maps, though the driver knew this road like the back of his hand.  There
was no town or village of consequence between here and Amman.  All they had to
do was stay on the road and they’d get there.  Yet the navigator didn’t say
much.  The driver took another sideways glance at his new partner.  He thought
it strange that his old partner was suddenly reassigned. 

This new fellow doesn’t look
Jordanian…perhaps he’s from Iraq?  Maybe Iranian?   I cannot place his accent.

The navigator looked at the map for the
seventeenth time that hour, sweat beginning to break out on his head.  He had
been the ‘new’ navigator for the last driver as well.  He alone knew the deadly
secret contained in the thin steel walls of the delivery truck.  He had been
with the cargo as it bypassed the oafish U.N. inspection teams while winding
its way through Iran. 

He was there when the cargo left
Chabahar, Iran, on the south-eastern coast, well away from the foolish American
Navy occupying the Persian Gulf.    The ‘navigator’ had sailed on the obsolete
and leaking oil tanker as it rounded Saudi Arabia and had spent nearly the
entire trip painfully seasick.  Then he had been forced to wait on that
stinking hellhole called a ship for more than two weeks while events in America
played out and he received word from Tehran that he was finally clear to land. 

He had overseen the delicate process of
unloading the fragile cargo at the rickety docks of Al Aqabah.  Now his journey
was nearing its completion.  All they had to do was make it to Amman by tonight
to keep up with the schedule.  He took a quick glance across the desert-like
wasteland to their left, past his ignorant filthy, flee-ridden fool of a
driver.  In the pre-dawn darkness he couldn’t really see anything.  But he knew
what was there.

That way, to the west, is Israel.

S
O, HOW’S EVERYONE doing, food-wise?”
asked one of the newcomers to the assembled Colonial Gardens inhabitants.

There were around fifty people gathered
on the pool deck.  Of those, Erik estimated twenty were children.   They were
happily playing in the pool with a few of the moms.  The rest were adults. 
Erik took a glance around and figured the ages ran from 20 to 65.

Heads shook, people muttered and talked
with those around them.  Erik could see they were still getting nowhere.  For
the most part, the meeting had gone okay.  Introductions were made and everyone
shared where they were when the power went out.  People who were outside
Sarasota and made it home told tales of the horrors they witnessed on the
journey back home.  Word spread of the people who had left and never returned.

The general consensus was, no one knew
very much, other than what they were told over the radio.  The major cities had
erupted into lawlessness.  Looting, fires, riots.  Anyone caught in the middle,
according to the President, was cut off.  The government was trying to send in
supplies and troops but…

Erik frowned and thought of the infamous
aftermath of Hurricane Katrina years ago.  It was the same story of
incompetence and “too little too late”, all over again.

With power out, no one could get gas.  After
a brief panic, everyone had resigned themselves to the fact that you had what
you had, and you weren’t getting any more.  Stores were without means of taking
money unless it was cash.  The grocery stores couldn’t get re-supplied beyond
the trucks that were already inbound when the power went out and still had
enough fuel to reach their destinations.  Erik suspected that in a few days,
people wouldn’t care and would break into any and every store looking for loot
or food or both.  Maybe they already had?  It only took a few days in New
Orleans, why should it be any different in Sarasota?

Erik pulled himself back to reality and
noticed that Ted was still absent.  He decided to seek out Susan after the
meeting to see what was up with their resident police officer.  Rumors were
coming in every hour or so from the people in the surrounding neighborhoods. 
People were out walking and riding bicycles to visit with friends and see if
anything was going on outside their little enclaves.  Those who like Erik, had
radios—especially shortwave radios—were learning of the deepening crisis in
America. 

The English were trying desperately to
get word out of America and then report it back to anyone who still had
shortwave capability.  The Federal Government was being tight-lipped.  The
frosty relationship endured by England and her former colonies touched off by
President Obama years ago had not fully thawed when the crisis hit.  America
could not rely on England to help like it might have in the 19
^th
Century.

“Anyone know if Murphy’s still has
food?” asked a woman in the back of the group.  Murphy’s was the high-priced
grocery store at the corner of the block.  In fact, the masonry wall that
shielded the complex was right behind the grocery store ‘shopping center’.  More
murmurs from the group and head shaking.

“Most stores within a few miles are
pretty much stripped clean of the usual stuff: milk, water, bread, fruits and
vegetables.  What they
do
have left, you can only get with cash,” Erik
said.  The group quieted down quickly.  “I heard that from a cop that drove by
this morning checking on the neighborhoods around here.  He said he was trying
to get a list of who was still here to give to FEMA when they—well, if they
show up.”

“What about people who don’t have any food
right
now
?” someone else called from the other side of the group.  “Like
all those people who come by the gate?”

“The hell with them, some of
us
don’t have food!” a gruff voice from the gathering darkness called out.

People all began talking at once, trying
to be heard over each other.  Erik was trying to figure out what the man ten
feet away was saying when he gave up.  It was getting out of hand.  People were
talking all at the same time with the one result being no one could hear any
one thing, so no one could offer help or advice.  The more people talked, the
louder it got, the more nervous some became—their fears were compounded by the
‘worried crowd’ feeling.  Erik could feel things begin to spiral out of
control.

He was about to try and yell to get some
order when he heard a car horn honk a few times.  He and a couple of the nearby
men went to the other side of the leasing office to investigate the noise.

There was a Sheriff’s department cruiser
waiting on the other side of the iron gate, lights on and flashing.  After the
men got the gate open and the cruiser pulled in, they shut the gate and greeted
the long absent Ted as he exited his vehicle.  Only when they moved back into
the light from the tiki-torches by the pool did Erik realize something was
wrong.

Ted’s uniform was smeared with grime and
blood.  The right sleeve was ripped off, leaving a jagged tear.  Ted looked
exhausted, but uninjured.  Susan saw the people moving aside as Erik led the
way towards the pool.  When she spotted her bedraggled husband she jumped to
her feet and pushed her way through the crowd.

“Ted!  What happened?  Honey, are you
all right?” her voice was instantly frantic.  Her hands sought his face to
check or injury.

Ted embraced his wife and held her tight
for a few seconds.  The rest of the group, seeing something unfolding in their
midst, gradually fell silent to hear what was being said.                

“I’m fine, sweetie…I’m
fine
.”  He
looked up and noticed for the first time all the people watching him.

“What happened to the uniform, Ted?”
asked Erik.  Stan and Alfonse worked their way closer through the crowd.

“Yeah, man, looks like there was fight—you
okay?”

“I’m fine, thanks, A.J.” said Ted with a
nod.  To the rest of the crowd, he used his officer’s voice.  “I’m afraid I have
some bad news, folks.”

The crowd instantly fell dead silent. 
The only noise came from the younger children splashing and playing in the
pool.

“We had some trouble at the station
downtown today.”

“What kinda trouble?” asked Erik.

“Some yahoos decided to be heroes and
crashed a car straight through the front office in an attempted prison break. 
It looked like a group of about seven or eight Latinos.  Started a gunfight
right there in the office!”

A few gasps and exclamations rippled
through the gathered crowd.  Ted ignored this and continued.  “Luckily, we were
changing shifts, so there were plenty of us to deal with them.  The problem
started when the inmates found out what was going on.  They had a full scale
riot.”

Several people gasped and whispered
about the dire consequences of a prison riot.  Some heads bobbed worriedly, a
few others sported fierce scowls at the conduct of criminals.

Ted paused and took a deep breath before
he continued.  “We lost a lot of good men today.  Even worse, most of the prisoners
escaped in the fighting.  We took down a handful, but by then we were already
shot up from the gang bangers who rammed the car through our front door.  We
were barely able to get our wounded over to County Memorial—seems our local
ambulances have been called up to Bradenton-St. Pete to help with the rioting
going on up north.”

“What do you mean, rioting up north?  I
thought the rioting in Tampa was localized to Ybor City?” someone called out. 
The group agreed.  That was the last thing they had heard over the radio that
afternoon.

Ted hadn’t had time to listen to the
radio, so he didn’t know about the broadcasters being restricted by the
government.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.  Tampa’s like a war zone,
man!  We’ve been monitoring the state troopers—they’re slowly being reinforced
by the National Guard and they’re in a running fight through the streets.  It’s
crazy—there’s a ton of people attacking the cops and Guards, then there’s the
Latinos in Ybor City who are fighting the Blacks
and
the cops…it’s a
nightmare!  It’s like Katrina all over again, only ten times worse.”

“Is it spreading?” asked a woman in a
fear shaken voice.  She asked as if it were a disease that would infect other
areas.

“Yeah—but so far only to other big
population centers.  Today St. Pete got started…bunch of people slipped over
from Tampa and started looting.  At least in St. Pete it doesn’t seem to be all
about racial stuff.”  Ted shook his head.  “The Governor has set up aid
stations in Bradenton and Clearwater and Lakeland, to allow the people fleeing
Tampa-St. Pete to get somewhere safe.  They’re opening up all the hurricane
shelters all over the state to people who are afraid to stay home.  Problem
is…some of the storm shelters are under siege by looters and there’s just not
enough cops to go around, even with National Guard guys coming in by the hour.”

“Isn’t there a storm shelter down the
street from here?”

“What?” someone called out.       

“Yeah—that middle school, there’s a
shelter there around the corner,” came the reply from a third speaker.  More
voices started talking over each other again.

Ted raised his hands up for quiet. 
“Alright, people, hang on!  I said hold on a second!” he raised his voice to
cut through the bleating.  “I can tell you a few things right now.  First off,
we’ve got to be careful—there’s close on a hundred escaped felons roaming
around the city right now.  With as many wounded cops as we have, it’s going to
be impossible to track ‘em down, especially without power—the communications
grid is down because we ran out of fuel for the generators.  We got squad cars
out on the streets but they won’t have enough gas to patrol for more than a day
or so.“

“What about the
city
cops?”

“Well, Sarasota just ain’t that big, you
know?  They only got about forty cops to begin with.  No, we decided back at
the station that we’re on our own now.  We put in a call to the state boys, but
they said they got bigger worries—namely St. Pete, Tampa, Miami, Ft. Lauderdale
and Jacksonville.  They also said the “college towns,” were cinder kegs about
ready to explode —all those kids drinking and partying like it’s the end of the
world, fights are breaking out all over the place.”  Of course, the people in
the crowd readily knew that meant the three big ones, Florida State in
Tallahassee, University of Florida in Gainesville, and University of Miami in
Miami. 

“What the hell are
we
supposed to
do?” a voice called out in the darkness.  More than one person on the edge of
the group began looking over their shoulders, imagining an escaped convict to
be creeping up behind them.  Or looters.  Or any of the nightmarish “people”
who surfaced during the aftermath of a disaster.

“We got a couple options, way I see it. 
We can pack up and head to a shelter—“

That got a round of agreement from some
people, worried over the safety of their children.

“We can—hang on, let me finish, folks…” 
Ted paused while the murmuring died down.  “Or, we can also head to Bradenton
to the refugee center.  Now that’s a bigger place, because the National Guard
is protecting it, but if we’re not coming from St. Pete, I can’t make any
guarantees they’ll let us in.  If we wait, the Governor may open up another
refugee center closer to us, but I don’t know.  Of course, you can head to a
relative or friends’ house to ride this out…Or,” he said, trying to cut through
the growing voices again.  “Or we can stay here.”

Brin moved through the crowd and came up
next to Erik, putting an arm around his waist.  “What do you think?”

As the voices of other rose around them,
debating options, Erik focused on his young wife.  They had been married for
just about a year.  A hell of a way to start a marriage.  “Well, I don’t think
there’s much we can do but stay here.  My parents are still in upstate New
York.”

“My family’s all out west…on the coast…”
said Brin, downcast.

“Don’t worry, sweetie, they’re in farm
country.”

“But you heard about what was going on
in Chicago and L.A.!”

“Yeah, but I don’t think it’ll get that
far out into the fields…they’ll be fine.  City folk don’t much compare to
farming stock.  Let ‘em come…your uncles will have a fine time teaching them
that they’re not welcome in the country.  They’ll be all right, I promise. 
Besides, who’s going to mess with your grandfather?”

Brin thought for a second, taking in the
commotion around them.  “I don’t think I want to go to a shelter.  What would
we do with the cat?” she asked.

Erik had never been so proud of her. 
“No, we can’t go to a shelter.  They don’t take pets during hurricanes, so I
doubt they’d bother with animals
now
.  We’re fine right here—we got
friends, we got supplies, we got protection behind these walls.  I agree, I
think we should stay put until we know more.”

“We’re doing the same,” said Susan
firmly.  She still held a death grip on her tired husband.