Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) (68 page)

“Aaaw snap!” said his compatriot.  The
two bumped massive fists.  The Rep was the first to notice what happened next.

Henry calmly walked two steps closer to
the larger man with the gun.  He didn’t flinch, didn’t say anything, didn’t
utter a word.  He set his face in stone and stared right at the gunman.  Right
through
him.  This man was between him and his daughter.  Getting to Bessie was all
that mattered to Henry at that moment.  He would walk through Hell itself for
his little girl. 

Death held no fear over Henry Grimes. 
Not anymore. 

His upper lip curled.  The whiteness of
his yellowed teeth compared to the filth and dried blood on his face was
startling.  There was some fresh blood and a bit of ear in Henry's teeth.  The
man with the gun began to sweat. 

He realized he was going to have to
shoot this fool or back down.  It was clear to everyone that nothing was going
to scare The Dog.  Nothing would stop him.  He quickly changed from a poor,
half-starved white man in rags who had lost his mind, into a force of nature. 
The
Dog.

Soon the others noticed as well.  They
shared looks of amazement.  No one had ever stared down Dozer before.  And here
this white boy in rags, acting like a rabid dog, was actually making the big
black man—with a gun—take a step back.   A trickle of sweat ran down Dozer's
right temple.  One of the thugs saw it and smiled.

“Yo, you ain’t right in the head,
man…step off…” said Dozer in a low voice, meant only for Henry.  He glanced
quickly at his audience.  He was about to lose face.  A thought in his drug
addled head whispered,
You might lose
part
of your face too...

The Dawg don’t fear
nuthin’!”
someone else hooted and pumped a fist in the air.

The Rep made up his mind.  “Lower that
gun before someone gets hurt.  You," he growled and pointed at the wounded
Latino.   "Get that woman out of here.  He clearly thinks she’s his
daughter.”  The bloodied kid jumped to obey and quickly pulled the disheveled
woman into a side room and shut the door.  The Rep pointed at another thug, one
of the three that brought The Dog in earlier.  “You—get in there and make sure
that woman is not raped.  Allah will not tolerate that kind of defilement.”

When the side door closed again.  Like
magic, Henry reverted to his former state, crouching on the floor, picking at
his rags and investigating his empty cans of dog food.  Every few seconds he
glanced up at the man with the gun and glared at him like a dog on a leash that
had been beaten and starved by a cruel master.  The Rep folded his massive arms
across his chest and pursed his lips in thought. 
This Dog could prove some
use after all…

“We are wasting too much time.  We need
to round up as many survivors as we can and find a new base of operations,” the
Rep intoned with a deep voice.  He was determined to bring as many of the fools
before him out of the danger zone.  In time he would introduce them to Allah
and might actually transform them into useful soldiers of the Cause.  But they
had to survive first and the National Guard had determined them to be a threat
worthy of extermination
. 

Just like the Man to go after the
Brothers first.
 

“Yo, what about that place the Dog came
from?” asked one of the youths.  “You know, that Colony place…where they had
that big fight?  Word is they pimpin’ it.”

"Yeah," said another, with a
solemn nod.

"Didn't some fools already try
d'at?" asked the first.

“Watch yo’ mouth, bitch,” another
growled and thrust out his chest.  “I was there when those cats fought back. 
They tough, y’hear?  We can’t get in that place.”

“The
Dog
could,” offered the
youth with a foul tone, pointing at Henry.

“You expect
him
to get us in the
place that crushed our initial efforts?” asked the Rep.  He had not been tasked
to this area then, but he had heard the stories.  The first organized effort to
take control in this area had met with utter disaster.  They had tried to
assault a local apartment complex and had been nearly slaughtered to a man.  In
the ensuing weeks, word got out to give that place a wide berth until the
situation had changed.  Perhaps the situation had changed.

“That fool came from the Colony?”
someone else asked.

“Colonial Gardens…” whispered the pile
of filthy rags in the corner.

“What?” barked the Rep.

“It’s called
Colonial Gardens
,”
the voice was stronger.

The black men all looked at each other,
stupefied.  It was the first coherent words anyone had ever heard from the Dog
when not screaming about his daughter.  Henry rolled into a crouch, a little
shaky, but filled with a new found resolve.  They could see the change in his
eyes.  The cloud of grief was replaced with a clarity only supplied by white
hot anger.  He used a dirt encrusted hand to brush some matted hair from his
face.  He stared at the Rep with eyes that hungered for vengeance.

“I can get you in…strong place.  You’ll
be safe.  But I have a
price
.”

The Rep smiled despite himself.  He
needed to put on a strong face.  The kids were so close to completely accepting
him as their new leader.  Teedell and most of the brothers had met a painful
death just hours before at the hands of the National Guard.   And if the Dog
were to die in the process…. 

“What is your price, Dog?”   Inside he
was quite nervous and it shamed him to admit that, even to himself. 
This
Dog…is dangerous.
       

“
Larsson
.  I want Larsson.”

“Yeah, Larsson…d'at's the cat he talkin’
about when we pick him up.  He top dog in d'at place, yo,” said one of the
thugs as he rubbed his stubble covered chin.  “Said d'is Larsson threw him out
on the street with his girl…guess she die.”

“Yo!  In da house!” came a shout from
outside.  It was one of the guards the Rep had posted.  Everyone rushed to look
out the window.  Street hoods and ex-cons were running from house to house,
spreading the alarm.  “Here come da law!”

The Rep glanced further up the street. 
Sure enough, two Humvees were parked in the road, blocking access.  Further
behind, he could see lights of other vehicles moving into position. 

Time's up.

“Very well.  I know you want to return
to those people and exact your revenge.  Allah wants you to have it as well,”
the Rep said in a solemn voice.

Henry growled, a low, menacing sound. 
“Screw your Allah.  I want Larsson.”

The Rep barely contained his rage. 
“Fine.  Go.  But we will be in charge of this assault.  Do you understand?  I
will put you down like the rabid dog you are.  But if you get inside…”

Henry smiled.  “Blood.”

The Rep nodded.  “Yes.”  He turned to
his lieutenants.  “Gather the men, we need to move,
now
.  Get every car
we have, load them up and follow me.  You,” he said the last to Henry, pointing
a massive arm in his direction.  “Come with me, my friend.  We have much to
discuss.”

Henry smiled, a look that would freeze a
normal man's soul in fear.  The crusted blood and matted hair made him look
like something out of a nightmare

."Bring my daughter."

IT
WAS AN impressive little army, Henry realized in a murky sort of way.  He sat
in the back seat of a shot up sedan as it drove towards the rendezvous point. 
There were nearly 300 fighters, juiced up on hooch and whatever prescription
meds they found in houses after looting.  Fueled by tales of cheerleaders and
white women looking for love, spurred forward by racial hatred and intolerance,
they marched.

It was quite the caravan, he noticed, as
they wound their way through back streets and alleys.  They headed east,
through wasteland neighborhoods already ransacked, through gutted shopping
centers and and grocery stores, through a town that had fled or died.

Empty house after house rolled past his
grimy window.  He saw yards strewn with trash and debris, even bodies, swollen
in the sun.  His comrades, the Brothers, were excitedly talking of the heroic
deeds they would soon perform upon joining battle.

Henry heard, but did not listen.  He
saw, but did not see.  His mind, his soul, his very reason for being was all
focused on one thing now: revenge.

As they pulled up at the rendezvous
point, Henry could not get out of the car fast enough.  He knew, deep in his
troubled soul, where he was — just about a quarter mile down Bee Ridge Road, a
little west of the Freehold.  Just a short walk from vengeance.

They were gathered at looted hardware
store, sheltered in the parking lot by the shadows of the building and pine
trees.  They were close enough to strike fast, yet far enough to avoid early
detection by the Freeholders.

Beat up cars and trucks, overloaded with
fighters hanging on roofs and sides trickled into the parking lot.  Radios
blared stolen CDs.  Alcohol was passed out freely.  Molotov’s were handed out
from trunks, along with whatever weapons remained after the disastrous action that
morning.  Planks of wood, pipes, shards of glass, even axes and baseball bats
were turned into weapons for the final, all out assault on the Freehold.

Henry looked around impassive and
realized in a moment of lucidity that the people swarming around him were
planning to make one last ditch attempt.  If they failed, they were trapped
between the National Guard coming from the coast and the Freeholders.  If they
succeeded, the Freehold would be theirs and along with it, the safety of the
Freehold’s walls.  Life or Death.  A simple choice.

Henry needed only one outcome: Larsson’s
throat in his hands.  Everything else faded to nothingness and irrelevancy.

The Dog stood apart, one of the few
white men among the growing little army.  He wanted nothing of their cause; he
cared not at all if they lived or died.  They believed him to be a mad dog.  He
snarled at the first one to approach him with a water bottle.  At least it got
him some peace and quiet in the block party atmosphere of the parking lot.

If they don’t’ know we’re coming…they’re
making enough noise to give it all away…idiots.

Time seemed to drag by.  Henry began to
pace.  He relieved himself on the curb near the trees.  Some of the fighters
pointed and laughed, but most kept a respectful distance.  His followers began
to trickle in and set up camp near him — but not
too
close.  Most of the
fighters had sloppy white hands painted on jackets or shirts or chests. 
Henry’s men had also painted crude white dogs on themselves to show others that
they were Dogmen.  The elite of the fighters. 

Henry happened to glance down and was
inspecting the dirt caked on his hands when he realized the noise level around
him had dropped significantly.  Word was spreading through the army from those
equipped with radios.  Something had them worked up.  More and more fighters
began to move and then run towards vehicles.  Tires squealed and men whooped
and the army began to dissolve and head back west down the main drag.

Henry overheard bits and pieces of
excited banter as the great block party began to break up.  His hate-filled
mind gradually pieced together the concept of a mission aborted.  Their home
base was under attack—the National Guard was on the offensive.

“No!!” he shrieked.  “We must kill them
all!”  Desperation seized him.   He roared his frustration to the clear summer
sky as his army disintegrated and raced away to rescue their brothers. 
Colonial Gardens was forgotten.

But Henry was not totally abandoned; the
Dogmen remained.  He had about 50 fighters, thirsty for blood and now an even
bigger share of the loot and women in the apartment complex.  He nodded his
approval at the words of encouragement they gave him.

Without warning, Henry turned and
sprinted towards vengeance, his howling minions close behind.  Henry grinned as
he ran – he had his pack.  They weren’t
dogs…
but
wolves.

It was as they approached the corner so
near his old home that Henry’s men found prey.  He didn’t have time to marvel
at the sight of what looked like a bomb crater where once the local gas station
had stood.  On the outside of the big reinforced gate to Colonial Gardens was a
group of ragged looking bikers.

      Henry did not bother with stealth—by
the time this first of the tired bikers noticed the group of wild men
descending on them, it was too late.  A few of them raised the alarm and fired
off shots, to little effect.  Henry tackled the first man he encountered, a
big, brute of a man in a leather vest and sank his teeth into the biker’s
throat with a scream of rage.  These men, standing in the open gate, were all
that stood between him and revenge for the death of his little girl.

The Pack smelled blood.

ERIK WOKE WITH a shriek
and lunged at an opponent that was not there.  He nearly fell over the side of their
little boat before he woke enough to realize he had been dreaming.  He lowered
himself to one knee on the deck and held on to the taut rigging and tried to
catch his breath.  The boat ceased rocking after a few seconds and peace
returned to the pre-dawn beach.  The gentle hiss of the light surf—-more a
ripple than anything else—against the coarse sand soothed his nerves quickly.

Erik wiped
the sweat off his brow and commanded his heart to stop racing.  He could still
see the look of triumph on the man's face.  He couldn't make out the face, but
he knew the man was gleeful.  He knew something had happened to Brin.  Pain in
his hand brought his mind back to full alertness.  He had gripped the wire
rigging too tight.

Glancing up
at the sky he could see the familiar stars of pre-dawn southern skies.  He
wasn't much into astronomy and could only a name a few, but the ones he knew
were comforting none the less.  They offered consistency when the world seemed
to be spiraling out of control
.  We will always be here, the same place, the
same time, every day, without fail.  You can count on us
, the stars seemed
to say, as they twinkled in the clear gulf air.  Erik took a deep breath,
savored the salty-sweet smell of the air and exhaled, feeling himself relax.

Just a
dream.  Brin is fine.  Everyone is fine.  You'll head back today, take your
time fishing and bring her a present or two.  That fish tasted fantastic last
night.  It'll taste even better when she gets some
, he told himself with
a smile.  Another thought flashed through his mind. 

Hope I
didn't wake Ted
, the smile vanished.  Suddenly Erik recognized a slight
tingling on the back of his neck.  He was alone on the
Tarpon Whistler.
 
Ted was gone.

Erik looked
up and down the beach.  The sand glowed a pale light blue in the quasi-light
cast by glowing suns millions of miles away.  No sign of Ted at all.  He got
the binoculars from their case and scanned further down the beach, looking
south. 
There
.  Movement.  It took a second for his eyes to focus on the
person, but it was definitely someone.  Using averted vision, he glanced away
from the person and let his peripheral vision give him a better image in the
darkness.  He couldn't be sure, but Erik was fairly positive he saw
"USMC" on the light colored shirt.

"He's
running on the beach," Erik mumbled to himself.  "What a
freak!"  Erik chuckled to himself and started to rummage through their
gear, looking for food.  He glanced at his watch: 4:46am.  In the east, over
the strip of land that was all he could see of Florida, the sky was definitely
lighter than behind him, out to sea.

"Well,
I'm up, may as well get breakfast going.  Ted'll probably be hungry." 
Erik kept an eye on Ted as he made his way north up the beach, heading towards
the boat, anchored about 30 feet offshore in the shallows.  Erik noticed the
former Marine was keeping a pretty good pace for running on the sand and had
been at it for at least the five minutes he had been watching.  Ted was known
for getting up early and go for a PT run, as he called it, but something was
telling Erik this wasn't the case.

To the
south, out of the corner of Erik's eye, he saw a flash.  "What was
that?" he said as he looked up from the meager breakfast he had prepared. 
Some beef jerky liberated from a convenience store, some water, and a few
pieces of dried candied fruit Brin had slipped in his bag.  He had no idea
where that fruit had come from but it was a Godsend.  The remnants of his dream
tried to force itself back on his conscious mind.  He closed that door and focused
on what he was seeing.

Erik
expected Ted to pause and look south as well, but he hunched his shoulders and
went into a full on sprint instead.  In a another minute, he had reached the
spit of land closest to the boat and slowed to a walk.   He passed another
minute or so pacing back and forth, hands on hips, a cool down from his run. 
Ted had missed the event, whatever it was.

Erik
thought he heard a low rumble echo of the water from the south.  And another. 
A weaker flash of light bubbled over the horizon around the bend in land due
south.  Then nothing.  Silence, except for the gentle, ever present cadence of
the light surf on the sand.  Erik didn't like the feeling he was getting.  When
he glanced back to the beach, Ted was gone.  Erik looked south.  Nothing. 

"What
the hell?"  Erik was suddenly uncomfortable.  He set his mind to preparing
the boat to get under way and tried to ignore Ted's disappearance.  His mind
began to race: 
Maybe he went over the crest and is doing pushups.  Maybe
you never saw him
, a little voice countered mischievously in his head. 
Maybe
you're still dreaming.
  Erik sighed and looked up.  "Maybe I'm going
crazy."

Ted emerged
out of the water just off the bow, where it was only chest deep.  Erik gasped
and stumbled which caused him to land squarely on his rear at the tiller.  The
little boat rocked as Erik cursed.

"
Really
?"
he asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.  "You trying to give me a heart
attack? 
Shit!
" Erik said, exasperated.

Ted laughed
as he climbed aboard.  He shook his head and flung water off onto the deck. 
"Hey man, remember, I'm a Marine?  We do stuff like this all the time.”

"Running
on the beach, disappearing into the water, or scaring the living hell out of
people for no good reason?" asked Erik sharply.

Ted smiled,
his teeth flashing white in the dim light.  "All of the above."

"But
I'm the good guy, remember?" asked Erik.  He found it hard not to smile. 
Ted sat there with a grin on his face so wide, Erik half expected to see canary
feathers on his lips.

The second
explosion startled them both pre-dawn darkness.

"What
the hell
was
that?  It's flashing again," asked Erik as he picked
himself off the deck. 

"Again? 
Why didn't you say something?"  Ted sat up and rubbed his eyes, blinking
at the flare of light down the coast.  It was already fading by the time Erik
got the binoculars on it, way south on the horizon.

“'Cause you
scared the piss out of me, that's why," grumbled Erik.

"Down
by the White Hand camp we saw yesterday, I bet," Ted grunted.  The loud report
of the explosion finally reached them and rumbled past half a minute later. 

"That
was big.  That was an explosion.  Look—tracers!" Ted exclaimed, pointing.

"Wow—there's
some serious shooting going on," Erik muttered.  He focused the binoculars
a little more.  "Looks like a small scale version of Christmas in
Baghdad."   He passed the binoculars to Ted.

The Marine
whistled.  "I think someone is getting his ass handed to him."  Two
more explosions blossomed, as if in competition with the faint tinge of color
on the eastern horizon.  "Whatever the hell is causing all that, I'm glad
it's way down there and not up here with us."

"Yeah,
well, whatever the hell is
causing
that is between us and home,
remember?" asked Erik.  "I think we need to get ready to go."

"I
agree.  Last thing I want is to be caught here next to shore with our pants
down.  Let's switch spots, you're the sail-master here."

They
carefully swapped positions on the boat, passing the central mast on opposite
sides to keep the little vessel level on the water.  Ted sat and tried to
squeeze some water out of his shirt.  He seemed refreshed and a little more
relaxed than Erik had seen him in weeks.  A flash caught the bigger man's eye.

Erik
swiveled his head and stared down the beach.  "Light's on the beach, by
the curve of the point," he called out in an urgent whisper.  Sound
travels extremely far on a beach with nothing to block it but a few mangrove
trees hundreds of yards away.  He loosened the main sheets and hauled away. 
"We need to bail, like
now
." 

Ted panned
over to the lights as Erik, now finished with the mainsail,  started to haul
the anchor up.   Once released from the soft sandy bottom, the
Tarpon
Whistler
began to bob out into the gentle surf.

"Mmmmm...I
see a small group of people with lights, looks like a few may be wounded. 
They're armed though.  Don't look friendly," Ted announced, eyes still on
target.

"Glad
to see you're staying calm!" Erik grunted as he stowed the anchor. 
"You wanna steer or watch them?  Let's get the hell out of here and get
some distance between us and shore."  He watched the sail flutter in the
slight pre-dawn breeze that was always there, just off shore.  "Hold off
on the motor.  I think we have enough wind..."

Erik worked
quickly and swung the boom back and forth until the large white sail caught the
slight breeze with ease.  Once secured, he gave Ted the thumbs up.   Ted pushed
the tiller hard over and the sailboat slowly but smoothly began to bite the
water and turn out into the Gulf. 

"Not
much wind," Ted observed as he dropped the keel with an audible thump they
felt in the hull.

"Whatever's
here will get us moving.  It won't take much for this little thing,"
replied Erik, never taking his eyes off the group of people close to the
horizon.

"Thank
God the moon already set," muttered Ted.

Erik cursed
under his breath.  "I didn't even think how this white sail on a white
boat would be lit up like a beacon in moonlight."

"It's
all good, man," Ted glanced behind them at the coast.  It wasn't receding
fast enough for his taste, but their movement was as stealthy as he could hope
for.  "Besides, I think these guys are more concerned with whatever the
hell is going on behind them.”  More tracers lit up the night sky.  The two men
could just barely hear the rat-tat-tat of automatic weapons echo across the
glass-smooth water.

The further
they got from shore, the stronger the breeze became so that soon they were
about half a mile out and running south, with the wind at their backs and
gaining speed.  Erik glanced to the east and noticed the first blush of dawn.

"It's
a little choppier out here but the wind is better.  We should be even with the
action by dawn," Erik remarked.

"We'll
be lit up," Ted nodded to port and the glow from sunrise on the other side
of the dark strip of land at the edge of the water.  "But maybe they'll be
too concerned with the fighting to notice us."

For the
next half hour, neither spoke, preferring to battle their fears in private as
they watched the fires and smoke of the suspected battle creep closer.  In the
east, the sun had crested the horizon and was bathing the world in its early
glow. 

Along the
coast, the beach was wreathed in smoke from a dozen fires.  The once
sugar-white beach was a cratered wasteland.  Charred debris and a growing pile
of bodies marred the north end of the beach.  The south end was littered with
charred vehicles and a few Humvees.

"Well,
if it ain't our old friends the National Guard," quipped Ted with a
smile.  He'd be the first person to respect anyone who put on a uniform, even a
Coastie.  But he was a
Marine
and a combat veteran to boot.  In Ted's
mind just the title alone gave him a lot of joshing rights that he fully
enjoyed.

"Looks
like the National Guard whooped some ass," commented Erik.  He offered a
low whistle of admiration.  "Kickin' ass and taking names."

"'Bout
damn time!  Those White Hand People are getting out of control.  Hey, check it
out," Ted muttered.  He pointed to a particularly active spot on the north
end of the beach.  "The troopers got 'em penned up in the same spot they
had their own prisoners yesterday. 
Nice
."  He laughed.   "I
hope it stinks."

Erik was
about to crack a joke when the forgotten marine radio in the tiny cabin
crackled to life as it broke squelch.  "
Unidentified sailing vessel,
this is the Florida National Guard, on the beach to your east.  You are in
violation of the statewide mandatory dusk till dawn curfew.  Identify yourself
and come ashore for inspection.
"

"Uh,
oh," Ted said, binoculars up.  A soldier on the beach was looking at them
through his own field glasses.  He looked away and was obviously saying
something to a second soldier.

"
I
repeat, sailing vessel, identify yourself and come ashore.  If you do not come
ashore immediately, you will be deemed hostile and fired upon
."

"Damn! 
I
hate
martial law..." muttered Erik as he reached for the radio. 
Something about the voice triggered a memory in his mind.  It was familiar.  He
spotted a puff of smoke just inside the tree line behind the beach and the mic
paused on its way to his mouth.  "What was that?"

"Mortar!"
Ted announced.  "Incoming!"  He swung the tiller hard to starboard so
the sailboat turned towards the shore with a lurch.  She was a little
daysailer, but her size made the little boat nimble.  Ted had to grip the rails
to keep from sliding as the boat heeled in the water, picking up speed. 
"Hang on!"