Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) (20 page)

“I agree, thanks for asking,” Ted
mentioned with a smile towards his wife.

“I think Charone and me’ll stick around
here, too…” said Alfonse as he stepped closer.  “We ain’t got nothing back home
anyway.  I don’t want her to have to move while she’s pregnant, you know?”

“Well the hell with
this
!  I’m
taking my family to a shelter.  I’m not going to sit around and wait for
criminals to kill us, since the cops can’t do
their
job—we’re going
where it’s safe,” someone said, louder than the other voices.  Silence followed
the accusation.

Ted just glared in the general direction
of the voice.  “I don’t know who said that and frankly I don’t care.  Just
watch your back, mister, cause there ain’t gonna be nobody to protect your ass
anymore.”

The group started to disperse on an
uneasy tone, many of the people coming up to Ted to offer sympathy and thanks
for his efforts.  A handful of families decided to head for the shelters the
next day.  The rest of the group was either going to stay or was still
undecided.  Most people were more concerned with running out of food and
water.  When that happened, they figured, they’d head to the shelters.

Ted, Susan, and their children walked
back to their building with Brin and Erik.  They were the only ones in the
building across the pond from the pool and felt a bit isolated. 
Insulated
,
mused Erik. 

“Is there anything we can do?  Anything you
need?” asked Brin.

“No, thanks, though,” smiled Ted.  “I
just need some sleep. I’m fine, really.”

“You going back to work tomorrow?” asked
Susan.

Ted considered this for a moment then
sighed.  “No.  I don’t see much there worth going back for.  The last of us
decided today we were heading home to stay with our families till this mess
calms down.  The Sheriff gave me my share of the weapons and ammo, so that’s
the best I figure I’ll get.”

“What?” Susan.

“When the inmates escaped, our biggest
fear was they’d be able to break into the weapons locker—they didn’t thank
God…they were too concerned with getting free and running for cover.  But we
know they knew about the locker and we ‘spect more than a few of ‘em are going
to come back for some tools.  So before we left for the night, we divvied up
the shotguns and pistols, all the ammo, you know, even the vests and riot
gear.  My share is in the squad car,” he said, gesturing down the breezeway of
the building towards the parking lot at the other end.  The squad car was
parked in the handicapped spot, closest to the entrance to Ted and Susan’s
apartment.

“Need some help unloading it?” asked
Erik.

“Actually, I’d much appreciate it.”

“We’ll all help,” said Brin, smiling at
Susan.

The kids ran inside to get ready for
bed.  Between the four adults, they had Ted’s squad car unloaded in less than
half an hour.  All told, the deputy had brought home two shotguns, three 9mm
pistols, various bits of riot gear—enough for one full suit and shield—two
lightweight bullet proof vests, boxes and boxes of rounds for the pistols and
about 150 shotgun shells.

“You’ve got quite the little arsenal
there, Ted,” said Erik, wiping his brow.

Ted looked at the stockpile in the
living room of his apartment.  “Well…it ain’t much, but it’ll hold us for a
while at least if something happens.  We need to get more though, I’m
thinking.”

Erik didn’t say anything, merely nodded
in silent agreement.  He honestly had no idea how much more they would “need”. 
He still had a deep-seated hope that the problems plaguing the nation would be
resolved before they needed Ted’s arsenal. 

After a moment of silence between the
four adults, looking at the weapons, Ted spoke.  In a quiet voice, he said, “I
killed two men today.”

Susan put a hand to her mouth and moved
to hug her husband, saying nothing.  Brin’s eyes popped open as she looked
between her equally surprised husband and her subdued neighbor.

“You killed two—“

“Criminals,” said Erik, interrupting. 
Something inside him was subtly changing, he realized, even as he spoke.  “Ted
killed two
criminals
that probably did something horrible to get into
prison in the first place.”

Ted gave Erik an appreciative glance, then
nodded.  “One was a drug-dealer turned murderer.  The other was a rapist been
sitting there in the cell for ten years already.”

Brin looked like she was about to
faint.  “You killed…two…”

Erik put his arm around her shoulder to
steady her.  His voice was soft, but the words were hard as steel.  “Brin…they
got what they deserved.”  Before she could say anything, he continued, “That
man raped some woman. 
Raped
, Brin.  He got what was coming to him.  In
my book, he got off easy.  Anyone who attacks women or children deserves to die
a horrible death.”

“But…” Brin said in a near whimper.

“But
what
?” asked Erik, a bit too
harsh.

Brin shook her head.  Her eyes filled
with tears and her throat tightened.  Everything was changing and she was
struggling with all the beliefs and principles she’d learned growing up.              “I
don’t know…I think I need to get some sleep,” she said, on the verge of tears.

“That sounds good to me,” said Ted.

The four of them said good night and
retired to their respective apartments.   Behind the door of Erik and Brin’s
apartment, she broke down in sobs, trying in vain to explain to her husband why
she was in conflict with herself and her beliefs. 

When she was young, in the farming
communities of northern California, her closest family members had been staunch
conservatives.   They believed in the Constitution and the Bill of Rights. 
They believed in God.  Then she went off to school, first in California, then a
stint in Europe, where the rhetoric got worse.  By the time she had met Erik,
she had all but forgotten the ways of her youth.  Now, at this moment of stress
and worry and uncertainty, the lessons she soaked up as a child bubbled up
through the cloudy waters of her liberal education.  Her mind was in a storm of
conflict with her heart.  As a human, she just couldn’t bring herself to relish
the thought of another person’s death.  It was a horrible thought.

H
OURS LATER, ALONG the Gulf Coast of
Florida, the Sunshine state was greeting the dawn with nervous anticipation. 
Most residents near the Tampa-St. Pete riots were up all night hearing noises
outside their dwellings they took for rioters.  Gunfire near the fighting was
starting to pop with more frequency than during the night, as the sun gained a
foothold in the sky.  Smoke hung as a dark swatch across the sky above Tampa,  visible
for miles in every direction.

About fifty miles to the south, past the
rapidly growing Bradenton Safe Haven tent city, word spread that general
looting was only days away.  Rumor had it the Best Buy had already been hit and
wiped clean.  Just on the outskirts of town, Stan Gibbons was planning on doing
some looting of his own.

He was in the alley behind his former
workplace, a fancy, up-scale restaurant serving local seafood and first-class
steaks.  Stan pressed his body against the high wooden fence that ran behind
the restaurant, keeping to the shadows.  He had to move quickly now that the
sky was starting to change from dark indigo to light gray with some orange
highlights.  He cursed himself for taking so long to walk from the apartment to
the restaurant.  It never took more than five minutes in his car…

He took one last look around the corner,
both ways.  There was not much moving.  On the street, the main drag through
the suburbs, heading east-west towards the Gulf, a single car sped by
erratically on the wrong side of the road.  Drunk teenagers, out joyriding in a
stolen car.  The thought of kids brought his mind back to the task at hand. 

His family was almost out of food.  His
wife had been forced to serve their daughter Kimberly tuna from cans with
nothing else but the last of their sodas.  The only thing they had left was
some old baked beans in an unopened can from last year’s Superbowl party.

Thus resolved, Stan wiped sweat from his
face and rushed across the alley.  He readjusted the empty backpack on his back
and moved to the back door, opening it with his manager’s key.  Stan took a
final look around before opening the heavy fire-door quickly, slipping inside
and shutting the door as quietly as possible.  Once inside, he bolted the door
and pulled out his flashlight.  He had to work fast. 

Sneaking his way through the darkened
restaurant, he noticed that no one had come by to take anything.  It looked as
if the owner had stopped in, because he could see with the beam of his
flashlights some papers were left on a table and chairs were moved around a bit
from what he remembered three days ago.  He automatically checked the front
door locks before reigning himself in. 

“Who cares about the stupid lock? 
Sun’ll be up soon.  Come on, get moving!” he told himself.

Rushing through the tomb-like restaurant
to the back storage rooms, he saw where the freezers had been opened and meat
removed days ago.  He held his nose and pulled his shirt collar up over his
face to shut out the stench.  “Didn’t take it all…damn that stinks!”

Stan unlocked the dry goods storage room
and took a second to survey the contents with his flashlight beam.  The sun was
coming in through the stained glass windows well enough that he almost didn’t
need the flashlight.  Pastas, spices, cheese wheels, canned goods, everything
was where it was supposed to be.  Stan thought for a second.  “Whoever got the
meat has a key.  And if they have a key, they can come back for all this.  It’s
a treasure trove!  Gotta move fast.”

Stan unzipped his backpack and pulled
out a rolled up duffle bag.  Moving quickly and not caring about making a mess,
he stuffed as many boxes of pasta and breadsticks and pasta sauces, and canned
food into the backpack.  In the last few pockets he forced in cheese wheels of
different flavors and sizes.  He proceeded to fill the duffel bag in the same
manner.  Stan grabbed bags of tortilla chips and salsa and many of the canned
and store-bought ingredients for appetizers that he could recognize. 

He had known for a while the restaurant,
charging some of the highest prices in town, really got stuff for many of its
meals from the same stores the customers went to.  He smiled as he struggled to
zip up the duffle.  This would keep his family in food for at least two weeks,
maybe three if they tightened their belts.

“Have to come back for more tonight,” he
told himself.  In that one room was enough food for his family to eat for
months.  As long as they had water to cook and drink. 

Stan turned off the flashlight when he
saw the light coming in through the windows was plenty bright to see by.  He locked
the storage room and raced past the cold storage lockers, holding his breath to
avoid the smell.  He made his way to the back door, unbolted it and cracked it
open cautiously.

Seeing no movement, he opened the door,
slipped outside into the morning light, locked the door and moved again to the
corner near the wooden fence.  He would retrace his route, moving through
backyards and avoiding streets and roads until he got back to his apartment
complex.  Stan checked his watch—from start to finish, his little raid inside
the restaurant had taken about 15 minutes. 
Not bad, but I should do it
faster next time.
  The first beads of sweat trickled down his back and
spurred him to keep moving.

As he walked quickly around the corner with
his overly stuffed backpack and heavy duffle bag slung over his shoulders, his
spirits rose.  He couldn’t wait to see the look on his family’s face’s when
they woke up and found all this food in the kitchen. 
No more tuna for
breakfast!

Stan, in his euphoria over a job well
done, failed to notice the two large men casing the restaurant. One was a burly
white man with a shaved head and wearing a t-shirt two sizes too small that he
had stolen the night before from a vandalized store.  The other man was short
and stockier and he still wore his Sarasota County Correctional Institute
issued shirt and pants.  They had guessed the restaurant would have food left
since it didn’t look looted yet, and when they saw the man sneak around the
back with two bags full of stuff, their suspicions were confirmed.

The two escaped convicts looked at each
other and smiled.  They quickly fell into stalking the man with the bags.  He
was easy to tail and never once looked over his shoulder.  It almost looked
like he had a spring in his step.

“Let’s take this dumbass now.  We can
have a fuckin’ feast!  I ain’t had anything to eat since yesterday!” the
shorter escapee whispered.

“Let’s follow him.  See where he goes. 
Maybe he’s got more?  Maybe he’s got a woman?  Or a house?”  The bigger man
smiled.  “Could lead us right to a party, man.”

Twenty minutes later, Stan opened the
door to his apartment and slipped inside, locking it again behind him.  He
crept into the kitchen and put the two bags of food down on the table.  The sun
was up above the horizon and he was soaked in sweat.  The backpack and duffle
had taken quite a bit of energy to haul back from the restaurant on foot. 
“Maybe I
will
take the car tonight…” he mumbled, stretching his back. 
“It’d be worth the gas.”