Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) (23 page)

A renewed volley of fire swept the truck
as it ran down the American lines heading for the rock bridge in the center of
the Regulators.  All four tires were shot out, tires exploding.  The passenger
side windows imploded, all five men in the bed of the truck were flung out,
impaled by rounds fired from the ravine.  Finally someone hit the driver, just
as the truck began the run for the bridge.  It sped up, the flat tires and rims
spewing pebbles and dirt as the driver’s body slumped forward.

“
MOVE!”
hollered Jed for all he
was worth over the radio.  He could see the truck and the sparks of bullets
hitting its metal sides as it careened for the ravine and just missed the
bridge, soared over the ravine and crashing head-first into the north wall,
dropping with a horrendous crunch and cloud of dust.  Half the truck was in the
ravine, the hood buried to the windshield in dirt and rocks, the bed resting on
the southern lip and sticking up into the air.

“Christ!” screamed Ed Franks, picking
himself up off the ground and helping his brother to move back from the wrecked
truck.

“Tom’s under there!” shouted George,
pointing to the booted foot that stuck out under the driver’s side door of the
truck.

Rob grimaced.  “There’s nothing we can
do for him now, just keep shooting and move away from that thing before it goes
up!”

A beat up old Volkswagen Beatle, shot
full of holes and smoking, tried to turn and head back to the south.  Two
Regulators poured fire into it with abandon, causing it to catch fire and crash
into the side of a boulder.  Seconds later, like the motorcycle destroyed in
the first minutes of the battle, the Beatle exploded in a fireball, momentarily
illuminating the battlefield.

Rob could see in the flash that there
were only ten or so Mexicans standing and shooting, and they were beginning to
halt their advance.  He and a few other Regulators who saw the scene put down a
suppressive fire in the Mexican’s direction, dropping three more.

The two remaining cars, full of bullet
holes and one of them with four flat tires, had had enough.  They swerved back
to the south and sped up, aiming for safety in Mexico, both missing a
taillight.  The car with four good wheels slowed to pick up the last surviving
Mexicans on foot who simply latched on to the car’s frame and held on as the
driver gunned the engine and roared for the original ridge.

After confirmation from Jed, the
Regulators sent up a cheer.  The ‘long shots’ continued popping rounds at the
retreating cars, causing a few more Mexicans to drop off the back and roll to a
stop in the dirt and rocks.  In a few minutes, the two cars had crested the
original ridgeline and disappeared from view, heading for the border like
scalded cats.

The men continued to cheer and others
began to help the wounded.  Rob slumped down against the southern wall of the
ravine, exhausted.

“We did it, man!” said Lance, clapping
his friend on the back and grinning like a ‘possum eating a sweet potato.  “God
damn if we didn’t pull it off!”

Rob looked up and down the ravine in the
waning moonlight, from the wounded men screaming on his left to the crashed
Mexican truck with Tom Early’s boot sticking out from the bottom.  He had no
idea the number of injured and killed the Regulators suffered from the battle. 
He checked his watch…it had taken all of thirty minutes.  The darkness was
marred only by the burning wreckage of the Beatle.

“Yeah…” he sighed, closing his eyes in a
prayer of thanks.  “We did it.”

T
HIS, SAID ERIK with obvious pride,“Is
one of my favorites.  The Imperial Roman
Spatha
.  Sword of the Roman
cavalry.”

Ted whistled softly as Erik opened the
display case and gently removed the gleaming
spatha
.  The sword was just
about 36” in length, a polished blade that flashed reflected sunlight.  The
blade was nearly two inches at its widest. The long straight blade tapered
gracefully to a shallow point. 

“This sword is razor sharp, I’ve honed
it myself little by little.  Might not stop someone as fast as one of your
guns, but…”

Ted could see that the blade was indeed
sharp enough to easily slice through just about anything short of steel.  “And
they require licenses for
guns
. May I?”

Erik grinned and handed over the sword
carefully.  Ted held the ancient weapon in his right hand.  “How much does it
weigh?” he asked, trying a few slashes in the air—the blade practically sang in
his hand.  It was well balanced.

“It’s right around three pounds, just a little
under, actually.  Not bad, eh?  That design was created to allow the Roman
cavalry to reach enemies from horseback easier than with the usual
infantryman’s sword, the shorter
gladius
.  It was popular with Roman
legions in the last couple hundred years of the Empire.”

Ted handed the sword back, stubby
rounded hilt first.  He looked up on the wall and grinned.  “I’ve seen
that
one before.  In that Mel Gibson movie, right?  The one about Scotland?”

Erik looked up, noticed Ted’s gaze on
the wall and smiled.  “That’s the William Wallace claymore; yeah, they used one
similar to it in
Braveheart
.  But the movie prop is shorter because Mel
Gibson’s not the tallest actor.  The real sword is damn near five feet long and
weighs close six pounds.  Legend has it that William Wallace used that
monster,” Erik said nodded his head towards the wall mounted weapon.  “As a
one
handed sword.”

“That thing’s almost as tall as I am…how
the hell…?”

“Wallace was 6’7” tall…” Erik said,
straightening his back.  At 6’4”, he was still 3 inches shorter than the famous
medieval warrior.  “’Course, the average height back then was about only 5’5”. 
Even Julius Caesar, at 5’5” was considered tall for his time period.”

“Where’d you learn all that stuff?  I
thought you were studying Japanese history?”

Erik laughed.  Eric enjoyed the weight
of the
spatha
in his hand few seconds before continuing.  “I got a minor
in history, though I took more Japanese history classes than European.  I spent
most of my history credits on Japan, the Vikings and Medieval Europe.  Then
after we moved down here, I decided to get my Masters in Japanese history.”

Ted tapped the
spatha’s
velvet
lined maple wood display case.  “What about this?  Study Roman history in
college, too?”

“No,” said Erik, “I took four years of
Latin in High School.  Lots of people have told me I was born in the wrong time
period.” The two men laughed.

“This though, is the pride of my
collection,” said Erik as he moved to a corner of the room that had a simple
vertical stand holding an elegant looking
katana
.  Sword of the
samurai.  Above the sword hung a simple bamboo-framed piece of parchment in a
bamboo frame.  Seven Japanese symbols written in broad brush strokes created a
work of simplistic art.

“What does that mean?”

“That’s the seven virtues of the
Samurai.  The code of the warrior.  
Bushido
.”  He gently lifted the
curved sword in its black lacquered wooden scabbard and balanced it in both
outstretched hands.  “This sword I received as a gift from my wife’s grandfather. 
We went with her family to Japan to visit relatives when we were engaged.  It
was one of the best times of my life. 

Obu-san showed me his ancestral
homelands and we sat around the fire at night and talked about his ancestors
who served the samurai of the area, hundreds of years ago.  His family were
the….I guess a modern term might be hereditary blademaster.”  He could see
Ted’s confusion.  “Okay, more of a hereditary squire for a medieval knight, I
guess.  They’re sole responsibility was to ensure the protection and safety of
the samurai’s swords and armor.  It was amazing.”  He gestured at the sword. 
“This sword belonged to one of his ancestors who fought and died during one of
the wars of the Tokugowa Shoguns.  Generations ago.  Obu-san has a dozen or so
old swords like this.  He gave it to me in order to protect his
granddaughter.”  Erik laughed.  “It’s a museum piece.  I suppose if we came on
hard times I could sell it to the Smithsonian…probably worth a
lot
of
money.”

The sword was like a work of art.  The
graceful curve of the ancient blade when Erik unsheathed it was stunning.  Erik
had kept the blade in pristine condition through a rigorous polishing ritual
borrowed out of textbooks on the Japanese Shoguns.  With a slight scraping of
metal on tightly fitting wood, Erik slid the sword back in its protective
scabbard and replaced it on the stand.

“Do you know how to use it?” Ted asked. 
“I mean, I’ve seen you outside, practicing your…I guess it’s karate or
something—“

“Tai Chi.  It’s a, well, it’s like slow
karate, I guess you could say.  But, yes, I do know how to use it,” Erik
smiled.  “I took every chance I could to learn from Brin, her father and
grandfather.  Obu-san even tried to teach me to speak Japanese.  He was so
impressed by my dedication to Japanese history he took it on himself to educate
me in the Japanese
experience
.  He became my
sensei
—or teacher,
but more formally
sensei
is translated as ‘master’—for extra-curricular
study.” 

Seeing Ted’s apparent lack of
comprehension, Erik continued, “Yes, he taught me how to use it.  The way of
the warrior runs deep in Brin’s family. After all, Obu-san’s grandfather served
one of the last
samurai
, still using a sword when Japan adopted western
ways and began equipping its soldiers with rifles--”

Erik still had his hand on the
katana
when they heard the scream.  A woman screamed.  A shriek of pure terror
that made the blood in both men’s veins grow cold.  It was the type of scream
that only a woman in abject terror could make.  The type of scream designed to
awaken some long lost genetic marker in all honest males. 

It demanded
immediate
action. 

In less then the time it took for his
heart to pump once, Erik’s mind raced to find the last known location of his
wife: she had left to join Susan in making the rounds of the apartment
complex.  They were planning on getting another meeting scheduled for that
night.

“Brin!”

“Susan!”

Both men spoke at the same time, turned,
and bolted for the door to Erik’s apartment.  They erupted into the heat and
sunshine of the breezeway, pausing to try and determine where the scream had
come from.  Ted turned to the right, Erik to the left, the sheathed
katana
still in his hand, forgotten.

“Look!” Erik pointed towards the pool,
just visible down the corridor.  A few people stood by the fence, pointing
south of Erik and Ted’s apartment building.  Both men sprinted out of the
corridor and raced into the parking lot.

Rounding the corner, they saw the tall,
muscular man towering over the fallen body of Ted’s wife.  She lay doubled over
next to the privacy wall, holding her head.  Brin was there as well, cornered. 
She stood in a defensive pose, calm and ready to fight.  The big man was
shaking his head from the flurry of punches she had just delivered.  He lurched
forward.  The intruder saw Brin’s eyes flash towards Erik and Ted, then turned
to face the two men.

“Get the food!” he barked, pointing
towards Stan’s building.  Only then did Erik and Ted see a second man, shorter,
wider, and wearing clothes from the Sarasota County Jail.  The shorter man took
a look at the two newcomers then bolted for Stan’s apartment building, moving
surprisingly fast.

Something inside Erik snapped.  Time
seemed to slow to a standstill.  He was able to take in everything with crystal
clarity, something he’d never experienced before.  All the colors of the grass,
the sky, the surrounding landscape seemed dull while the colors of the dark
eyes of the man that threatened Brin were brilliant.  The red of Brin’s hair
and the colors of the clothes she wore shone like pure sunshine.  The whites of
her eyes, revealed in terror were almost painfully bright.  His own eyes
narrowed. 

The moment everything slowed down,
something deep down in Erik’s soul was released.  It was something unknown to
him, dangerous and primal, full of rage.  A white-hot, intense,
fury
. 

Over the years, from the dawn of history
to the modern legalistic society, the paradigm was essentially the same.  One
man chose to take what was promised to another, by trickery or force.  Most men
chose to fight, but as time wore on, the burdens of society pressed down on the
human spirit, allowing more and more outrages to go unpunished.  It was easier
to give in, to give up, to yield, to let
society
handle the miscreants. 
Justice was global now, not personal.  Just easier and as a consequence, less
efficient.  A thought flared into his mind: how would this situation have been
handled in the last dark age? 

No…
rumbled through Erik’s mind like thunder across a parched
landscape. 

The force that welled up inside Erik’s
soul transformed him in an instant into something from his ancestral past. 
Erik unconsciously slipped into the battle rage feared by the enemies of his
people from centuries past.  A Viking
berserker
, perhaps some long
distant forefather of Erik’s family, buried deep in his genetic makeup was
unleashed once again into the world.

Acting faster than Ted would have
thought possible, Erik surged forward with adrenalin-induced speed.  He
bellowed a deep animalistic, guttural roar that startled everyone in hearing
distance. Erik unsheathed the
katana
with a whisper of metal on wood in mid-stride and dropped
the lacquered scabbard in his wake to clatter on the pavement. 

A second later, Ted’s instinct and
training kicked in and he reached for the service pistol attached to his
waist.  Erik was already three strides away, closing the gap between himself
and his wife.  The wide shouldered 25 year old unknowingly blocked Ted from a
clear shot of the intruder. 

Making a snap decision, Ted quickly spun
left and trained his 9mm service weapon on the fleeing escapee.  He gripped the
pistol with both hands in the most stable up-right firing position, leaned into
the gun and took aim.

The roar in Erik’s throat reached
crescendo just as he got within range.  In his oddly slowed personal time
frame, he could see the intruder’s eyes go wide. It was either surprise or
fear, Erik didn’t care which. 

The man froze, not sure whether to fear
more the crazed man that was shrieking like a demon straight from Hell, or the
lethal looking curved sword that flashed in the sunlight as it rose over his
head, gripped by both hands.

By the time the convict resolved himself
and decided to charge at Erik, it was too late.  Erik brought his
katana
down in a vicious swing, catching the convict where his bulky neck met his
shoulder.  The old Japanese sword did its job well, cut threw skin, tendon, and
muscle, stopping with a jarring crunch only when it broke the man’s clavicle
bone.  The rage fully on him, Erik jerked the sword free with a backwards
slash, slicing open the man’s chest in the process. The ancient blade cut
through everything in its path like a hot knife through butter.  A small voice
in Erik’s mind said that the sword’s maker would be proud.

Erik’s momentum propelled him forward at
an unstoppable speed.  He was left little choice but to continue the backswing,
turn his left side towards the convict and crash into the heavier muscled man
with his left shoulder.  Erik’s forward motion halted immediately, but the
bigger man, surprised and gushing blood from his horrendous neck wound, was
bounced to his right and away from Brin.  The body check effectively put Brin
and Susan out of harm’s way.  The convict’s scream of pain was stifled in a
grunt as Erik’s body collided with him.

Erik ignored the scream of the wounded
man, reversed his back swing to preserve the speed of the sword and brought the
bloody samurai sword straight down over the back of the falling man’s head.  It
sliced with a grizzly crunch right through his spinal column and nearly severed
the intruder’s head in the process.  Blood droplets sprayed up in an explosive
release as the steel sliced through arteries and veins on its way through the
muscular neck.

Erik mostly avoided the spray of blood
from the already dead intruder and watched with dull eyes as the body hit the
pavement.  He let go of the sword still stuck in the convict’s crumpled form
and sprang to Brin’s side.  The rage was already forgotten.  It was almost as
if his soul had whiplash inside his body, the way things jumped to normal speed
around him.  All he could think of was getting to Brin.  The only obstacle that
had been in his path now lay bleeding at his feet, opened up like a pig going
to slaughter.