Apocalyptic Visions Super Boxset (12 page)

***

White molding cut through the small spaces between the yellow kitchen tile that peppered the wall under the cabinets and around the sink. Ms. Fletcher turned the faucet on and watched the usage meter above the sink count the volume of water pouring into her glass. Once the gauge read eight ounces, she shut it off. The system automatically updated, registering the gallons of water she had left based off her weekly rations. She fanned herself and pressed the side of the glass to her head, attempting to cool the beads of sweat forming on her temple.

A solid ring of sweat circled the top of her blouse, and she tried peeling the clinging fabric off her as she walked to the living room. She passed the thermostat on her way out of the kitchen and only briefly glanced at the one-hundred-and-one-degree temperature.

When Ms. Fletcher turned on the television, the signal was scrambled. None of the channels worked. It had been like that since the declaration of martial law earlier in the day when reports of the Colorado River crisis surfaced.

The elementary school she worked at was a madhouse after the announcement. Parents demanded to pull their children, even though the authorities told them that help and answers would arrive before the end of the day.

And from what Ms. Fletcher could tell, that was true. On her way home from school that afternoon, she could see the heightened police presence in the area, which she was thankful for after witnessing the mess she’d had to deal with at work.

People were overreacting. They were letting fear get the better of them. She knew there was a process in which these things happened and had faith in her government to fix the problem. She repeated her assurances to herself every few minutes to ease her ever-increasing nerves.

Ms. Fletcher reclined in her flower-printed armchair and picked up a worn paperback book from the stand next to her. The living room around her, like the rest of the house, was modest. However, since she was a teacher for the public school board, she was allowed more rations than other citizens. She would have liked a better neighborhood in San Diego, but it could have been worse.

As she flipped through the pages of her novel, the television descrambled, and the image of the president, surrounded by politicians, appeared on the screen.

“My fellow Americans, I speak to you this evening with a heavy heart. Earlier today I informed the nation about the continuing water crisis in the Southwest. Reports confirmed that the Colorado Basin, which provides fresh water to most of California, Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada, Utah, and Colorado, had finally run dry. All of my attention today has been directed toward coming up with solutions that benefit not just the Southwest, but the entire country.”

Ms. Fletcher snapped the book shut. She turned her reading lamp off, casting the living room into darkness. The glow of the television illuminated her apprehensive expression at hearing the president's words.

“Upon hearing the news of civil unrest in the Southwest, I deployed forces to major cities, establishing martial law to insure that civility and order were maintained during this difficult time. However, the Southwest isn't the only portion of the country suffering from water shortages. The natural resources of our nation are dwindling drastically. It is because of this that Congress proposed a new but radical bill to ensure our great nation continues to survive.”

It was probably nothing more than further restrictions, but Ms. Fletcher wondered where they would pull the water resources from. Northern California must still have some water reserves coming from the Northwest.

“The states of California, Nevada, Utah, Arizona, and New Mexico are henceforth no longer a part of the United States of America. The new western border of the United States will run along the current borders of Texas, Oklahoma, Colorado, and Wyoming then run up into Idaho and Oregon. All authorities have been notified of this bill, which was passed in both the House and the Senate, and which I signed into law just moments ago.”

The book fell from Ms. Fletcher's lap and onto the floor as she rose from her chair. She shuffled forward in shock from what the president had just said. The president she had voted for.

“Patrols have already begun along the border, and any man, woman, or child from these former states that tries to cross into the United States will be considered an illegal immigrant and deported back across our western border. Furthermore, any citizens within our new borders that try and traffic any man, woman, or child from these now-banned territories will be punished to the full extent of the law.”

This can’t be happening. They can’t do this. This isn’t right. This isn’t legal. This isn’t fair!

“This was not an easy decision to arrive at, but sometimes the hardest decisions are the ones we must make. To all the former citizens remaining in the Southwest, remember that you hold your destiny in your own hands. I know that you will find the courage and ingenuity to live on. Form your own legislation and laws, but above all, keep each other safe. God bless us, and God bless the new United States of America.”

The president's image remained on the screen for a few more moments then disappeared. The scrambled lines returned.

Ms. Fletcher stood there slack jawed. Her silhouette was barely visible in the darkness of the living room. Then, outside her window, somewhere in the night, gunshots sounded. She clutched her chest, startled at the foreign noise.

She withdrew further into the darkness of her house.
They can’t just abandon us like this, could they? There must be someone doing something right now to fix it, right?

More gunshots fired outside. She backed into the wall of her living room. Her fingers clawed at the plaster behind her. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. The government was supposed to help her in times of crisis. It was their duty. It was their job.

***

The crowds around a storefront in downtown San Diego watched the president's speech and lingered there for a few moments on the sidewalk after it was over. Some people shrugged and walked away, others started crying, but a few picked up rocks along the street.

They grasped the pieces of stone firmly in hands that swung back and forth in a violent cadence. Their footsteps got louder as they ran to the storefronts and the cars that lined the road. Greedy eyes looked longingly at the goods through the windows of the stores.

Finally, the first crash of glass broke the silence of the night, followed by hurried boots that crunched over the shards of glass on the ground. Sporadic echoes of similar crashes reverberated through the streets. Then, just as a thunderstorm starts with a only a few drops, a hail of stones, pipes, and fists rained upon downtown San Diego as the crowds morphed from spectators to participants in the frenzied rush of panic.

Shouts and screams filled the streets. They were cries of anger and fear, pierced with sharp howls of pain. The police in the area half-heartedly tried to control the crowds, but they too were now exiled members of a country that had abandoned them with no prospects of help.

There was no longer order, laws, or rules. Everything was about survival now, and that's what the people in downtown San Diego repeated in their minds after every smashed window, stolen good, and punch they threw.
I'm doing it to survive.

***

Smoke snaked its way up from the tip of the cigar loitering in General Gallo's hand. He brought it to his lips, inhaling the smoke as his cheeks puffed in and out.

“It looks like our congressman pulled it off,” Gallo said.

The general was surrounded by his officers. All of them turned to him with eager twitches. This was what they had been waiting for. It was time to strike.

“Our men are ready, General,” Colonel Herrera said.

“Patience, Colonel,” Gallo replied.

Gallo's eyelids were half closed as he peered through the wafts of smoke at his men. He ashed the tip of his cigar, and it crumbled to the stone floor.
“We'll let the Americans pull themselves apart, then when they're weak and tired, that's when we crush them. We are about to regain a part of Mexico's powerful heritage. Our nation has waited over one hundred fifty years for this. We can hold for a few more days,” Gallo said.

The men nodded, leaving Gallo alone in his office. Photographs lined the walls. The pictures of the men with Gallo included top Mexican officials, his family and estate, and an 1840 map of Mexico which stretched well into California, Nevada, and Utah. His eyes fell to the area of the map that was now Texas with a gaze that could have set it on fire. He took another drag from his cigar then rested it on an ashtray. The tip smoldered.

Gallo reached for his phone and dialed a number he knew by heart. There were a few rings and then a friendly secretary greeted him. “Gallo,” he said.

That was all the introduction he needed to utter. The phone rang again, and the general was greeted by a man's voice speaking at a low volume.

“I thought we agreed no contact until next week, General,” Jones said.

“I was calling to congratulate you, Congressman. It's not every day someone sentences forty million people to die.”

“I appreciate the felicitations, General, but now is not the time. The dust is still settling on my side of the line.”

“In our discussions, you said that Texas wasn't off the table.”

“I didn't say it was on the table, either.”

“Well, now it appears that it is most definitely off.”

“General, Texas was never guaranteed. Now, if you're choosing not to honor our agreement, then I would encourage you to reconsider.”

“Are you a student of history, Congressman?”

“I've had my share of schooling, General.”

“I have always been fascinated by history. What we can learn from it, what it teaches us. But throughout history, there is one constant that never changes. Whoever wins gets to tell their version of the story, and it’s the only one people listen to. I will honor our agreement, Congressman. You will still have the Mexican government's allegiance for your conquest in the south.”

“It's always a pleasure hearing from you, General.”

The line went dead, and Gallo smiled, setting the receiver down. He took a few more puffs of the cigar. Through the smoke, he watched the old map taunt him.

Brooke pulled the last screw out of the solar panel and lifted it off the plate, disconnecting it from the rest of the solar farm around her.

Most of the panels were completely useless due to months of neglect accompanied by sandstorms. The extreme heat didn't help, either. But she had managed to find a few panels scattered around that would still be usable after a little TLC.

The shemagh wrapped around her head only left room for her eyes, which were covered by sunglasses. Almost every inch of her was shielded from the sun. The steady stream of heat and ultraviolet waves was her biggest adversary at the moment.

She knew the risks working in this type of heat brought, but the only other commodity that was more precious than water was time. Every second spent at the abandoned solar station on the edge of the Mojave was one more second the president's troops had to further establish the new western border of the United States.

The chaos in San Diego Brooke had escaped from had started long before the president's speech. Once word broke out that the Colorado River was dry, people had started looting any resource station in the area. The small thread of civility that still remained was cut with the president's words.

She leaned the solar panel up against the side of her Toyota Land Cruiser 70 Series. Brooke had invested in the SUV for her engineering job at the solar power company. It was one of the best decisions she had made. The cruiser wasn't great on gas mileage, but with its live-action axle, four-wheel drive, and 5.7-L V8 engine, complimented with the thirty-two-inch all-terrain tires made navigating the sea of sand easy.

That car was one of her biggest advantages at the moment. There weren't many vehicles that could handle the terrain and punishment of desert travel, but hers could.

The solar panel she brought over gave her a total of six, which she thought was more than enough to provide power to a spare car battery she had found. It could come in handy for bartering or if something happened to the cruiser.

All she needed now was the copper wire to rig up the battery. Brooke pulled her sleeve up to check her watch. Lunch time.

Brooke covered the panels with a spare tarp she’d found. She didn't want to leave the panels in worse condition than they already were. Her feet sifted through the sand, sinking in and out as she trudged to the station's entrance.

Both her children were huddled close to the vents, attempting to stay cool with what little air conditioning the building provided.

“You guys hungry?” Brooke asked.

Emily, her nine-year-old daughter, nodded emphatically. John, her fourteen-year-old son, agreed.

“What do we have to eat?” John asked.

Most of the station had been picked over by both the company that used to operate it and scavengers looking for a quick score. But there were still some useful items. She had found some of the emergency rations that morning after taking inventory of the first aid supplies left behind.

Brooke picked up one of the MREs and turned it over in her hand. “Looks like beef stew and mashed potatoes,” Brooke said.

Emily and John frowned.

“Anything else?” Emily asked.

Brooke tossed her daughter the pack.

“Now's not the time to be picky, Em,” Brooke answered.

“Why can't we open up the food we brought?” Emily asked.

“I want to work through what we find here first. Once we run out of this stuff, we'll start digging into our own stash,” Brooke replied.

They had brought as many supplies as they could stuff into the cruiser, which was packed with filled portable water tanks, canned foods, and more MRE rations. There was enough food to last them a month, but the water supply would only get them through the week.

The three of them choked down their meals. Emily and John made a bigger fuss about it than necessary, but even Brooke admitted it wasn't the best.

“We'll probably be here one more night, so let's try and keep it fairly clean, okay?” Brooke asked.

“We still have to clean our rooms even when the world is collapsing around us,” John said, picking up the pieces of litter from their MREs.

Brooke pulled a piece of paper from her pocket with random items inked in hurried handwriting. John stopped his cleaning when Brooke extended the paper to him.

“What's this?” John asked.

“I need you to check how many of the items on this list we have. It could be a while before we get to see Aunt Amy in North Carolina, so I need you to inventory everything that's on there. If we don't have it, try and find it. The items crossed off are what I found this morning,” Brooke said. “Have your sister help.”

Brooke rewrapped her shemagh and headed back outside. She wasn't sure if it had become hotter during the thirty minutes she was inside or if she just got used to being in the shade, but the heat wave that attacked her when she stepped outside felt like it could melt her.

Her first step was setting up the cells to capture the light. It was June, so for her latitude, she needed to position the solar cells at eighty degrees. She propped up the four-by-five-foot panels to the appropriate angle then secured them together with clamps.

Once she was done securing the panels, all the wires hung off the sides, dangling and smacking into one another from the gusts of hot wind blowing from the west.

Now she needed copper, and lots of it. She picked up a hammer, an empty can she would use for a spool, and wire cutters. Under all of the decomposing solar cells around her was precious copper wire that would help her connect the panels to the spare car battery.

After two hours of dismantling a quarter of the field, the can was fat with copper. It was late afternoon, and she walked backed into the station, copper in hand, to refill her water bottle.

Both John and Emily had food, water, clothes, and equipment spread out on the floor of the station’s main entrance lobby.

“How are we looking?” Brooke asked.

“We have almost everything. It looks like the only thing we're missing is the pistol,” John said.

Brooke kept the gun on her at all times. She knew John could use it, but she didn't want to put that burden on him. At least not yet.

“Whatever the count is on the side of the boxes of ammo, make sure you subtract five bullets. I have them loaded in the revolver,” Brooke said.

She was impressed. She thought John would have walked through the motions of getting everything accounted for, but from the organization she saw, he seemed to be doing a good job.

“Thank you,” Brooke said.

“For what?” John asked.

“Helping.”