Charlie's Requiem Novella (13 page)

I got down and told the rest what was happening. I sure didn’t want to get caught in all that. There was no way our government could handle that mess. We all agreed that our final goal was to get to DeLand and take care of ourselves. Going to shelter and relying on the government to house hundreds of thousands of refugees along with feeding millions in such a small area was going to be impossible.

Theresa was visibly agitated at our decision, but agreed we were probably correct in our assessment. I assured her she could still change her mind when we got to the turnoff at John Young Parkway, where she only had a couple of hours walk to get to the Fairgrounds. It was with this thought in mind that we moved with a purpose up I-4 and toward the turnoff a few miles ahead. That’s when our world turned upside down and death visited us once again.

Chapter 20

Day 6

33rd Street Jail

Mike and Beth

Mike and Beth entered the bus and took seats next to each other. So far, they were the only passengers on the large, Greyhound transport. The engine was running and door open, but no driver had yet appeared. They were scheduled to leave within the next few minutes.

“My God,” Beth said. “We could have walked there by now.”

“Yeah,” Mike replied. “But I don’t want to mix it up with all the people out there. Too much going on I don’t understand.”

Beth looked at Mike for several seconds, assessing the big man with renewed interest.

“So Mike,” she said. “Where are you from?”

“Oh, right here in O-town.” He said. “Graduated from Seminole High School.”

“Did you play sports?”

“Oh sure! With my size I didn’t have a choice!” he smirked. “Did alright. Nothing special. Then when I graduated I decided to be a CO.”

“Why not a cop?” Beth inquired.

“Cops don’t have too good a rep in my neighborhood. A CO! Now that’s alright.”

Beth understood. She had processed too many American black males not to get the drift that cops were the enemy in many African-American communities, even the black cops. It was a sad state and Beth didn’t see any easy way out of it.

Just then, three school busses rolled into the front gate and pulled up next to the front of the Booking and Release Center. The drivers left the busses running and entered the BRC.

“That’s weird,” Beth said, staring at the idling behemoths.

“Probably releasing more prisoners,” Mike replied. “They’ve been letting the short timers and non-violent go. I just don’t know who else they can let out that won’t be causing problems!”

They continued to watch for any sign of who was going to get the “get out of jail free” card when Mike saw a group of soldiers come out a side door or the BRC. The emergency exit went into a courtyard to the right of the main entrance to the building. It was surrounded by a ten foot chain link fence topped with razor wire.

Mike and Beth watched as eight DHS agents decked out in full kit moved into the courtyard and turned to cover another group that was a few seconds behind them.

“Hey!” Mike said. “That’s Chief Braddock. And the judges!”

“You’re right!” Beth replied. “Judge Bender and Hernandez.”

As the two watched, the second group of people including the judges and chief moved to the wall of the building while the 8 agents kept their place about ten yards back. There were several DHS administrators talking animatedly with the captain while the two judges stood with arms crossed, listening to the conversation.

“Mike,” Beth said tapping him on the shoulder. “I don’t like what I’m seeing. Can you crack the window a little to see if we can hear what they’re saying?”

“Sure. I was just going to do that.”

Mike clasped the window clips and sliding the glass on its tracks about an inch. What the two of them heard next was forever frozen in their minds.

“I’m telling you,” Captain Braddock said in a raised and angry voice, “Is that you can’t do that with those thugs! I won’t approve it and I promise you, I’ll make sure your superiors know about it!”

“I can assure you,” the head administrator said in an eerily calm and commanding voice, “that my superiors not only know about this, but have engaged me to implement these directives.”

“I don’t believe it!” Judge Bender shot back. “Our government can’t have fallen to this level. I can promise you we will fight you tooth and nail. This is not constitutional and every corrections officer in the facility will fight you when we let them know what’s going down.”

The DHS administrators had moved back slightly from the other three men. Their leader, a lean and pale man, had his back to the captain and judges. He had his head down, shaking it slowly. Finally, about three paces back, he turned and with a sneer he addressed the three.

“This is a new time,” he said. “This is a new world. There is no more Constitution. There are no more ‘rights’. There is only power and pain. And I weld both!”

Then, without hesitation, he drew a handgun and shot Judge Bender in the head. Within another second, the eight DHS agents lit up all three men and riddled them with dozens of rounds. All three were dead before their bodies hit the dirt.

The administrator turned to scan the parking lot. Beth and Mike ducked down in time to avoid detection. After a minute, the eight agents had taken the corpses back in the building and the area was once again clear.

“Oh my God!” Beth said. “I can’t believe it!”

Mike was boiling. Captain Braddock was his boss, but more importantly, he was a brother CO. Mike respected him as much as any man. There was vengeance in Mike’s blood. Beth could see it when she stared up at the man-giant sitting in the seat next to her. She put her hand on Mike’s shoulder.

“There’s nothing we can do right now,” she said quietly.

“I know,” Mike said. “Ain’t going to do anything stupid. But this won’t stand.”

“What should we do?” Beth asked. “Do we go back in or do we get out of here.”

Before they could decide further, the front double doors of the BRC were flung open and several DHS agents came out, one manning each of the busses. Then, to the astonishment of both Beth and Mike, dozens Aryan Brotherhood prisoners came out, none of which had cuffs or restraints. They joked and whooped as they spread out and entered the busses. When finally full, the three vehicles slowly turned around in the parking lot and made their way out the gate, finally turning up the ramp onto I-4.

“Jesus,” Beth said. “Could that be what the Captain and judges died for?”

“Hmmph,” Mike replied. “Looks like a reason to me.”

Several more DHS agents came out the door, laughing and joking. Two of them went to the front gate and manned it. Beth and Mike looked at each other, having not even noticed that it was unguarded from the beginning.

“We stumbled onto an execution,” Beth said.

“And they didn’t want any witnesses,” Mike added.

The third agent made his way toward the bus they were on. If found, the both knew they wouldn’t be alive to see the sun set.

“Hide,” Beth said. “Get to the back of the bus and get down.”

Somehow, the two of them managed to scrunch down and avoid detection. The driver gave the back of the bus a perfunctory look and started the engine. Immediately, they felt the vehicle lurch forward, its gears ramping up as they too entered the onramp to Interstate 4. But, once on top of the interstate, instead of moving forward they came to a quick stop. The driver opened the door and hopped out, making his way behind the bus. Screams could be heard outside and both Mike and Beth risked a peek out the back window.

There, not a hundred yards behind them was a massive roadblock with MRAPs, HUMVEEs and police vehicles. All the vehicles were blocking, what looked to be the largest mass of people they had ever seen, from moving any further down the expressway. They were being pushed off the interstate and onto John Young Parkway. The problem was that a large group of people, several hundred by the looks of it, had stopped and refused to go down the ramp. It appeared that there was an impasse when out of the blue, the blockade was pulled back and the crowd that had wanted to keep using I-4 were allowed to continue their journey down the expressway.

That’s when Beth spotted the Aryan Brotherhood. One of the school busses had pulled off to the side of the roadway and disgorged its passengers. With pipes and fists, the Brotherhood rushed into the crowd and began to exact a bloody revenge on the uncooperative mob that had just passed by the blockade. The DHS agents manning the roadblock simply stepped back and to the side.
Now
, both Beth and Mike thought,
things were starting to make sense
.

As the Brotherhood merged with the crowd, the two groups were indistinguishable. As far as the DHS was concerned, it was a win-win situation. Lose some uncooperative civilians, less problems for them. Lose an Aryan, no problem either. They were all sitting back, appreciating the show.

The bus driver seemed to be watching for the same reason, the sick enjoyment of observing someone else suffer. It was a modern day Coliseum with the slaughter of these innocents providing the same twisted pleasure as in ancient days. It made Beth shake. It made Mike see red.

Suddenly, a group of about 50 civilians broke from the ranks and started running up the far side of the wide concrete expressway. A whistle blew from a DHS agent at the roadblock and a second group of Aryan Brothers appeared from that area and gave pursuit. The two groups were destined to meet, and by both Mike and Beth’s estimation, they were going to collide right at their location.

The bus driver must have figured out the same thing, because he turned and strode back to the bus. Mike moved up and hid about five rows from the front. The driver entered the bus and shut the door, locking it in place. He removed his sidearm and stood at the door of the bus and watched out the front window where the two groups had finally met. There were about a dozen thugs from the white gang and they laid into the unarmed group of civilians the way a pack of wolves would attack a flock of sheep. As he stood, staring out the front glass, the last thing the driver would ever remember was the feeling of surprise when saw the spray of his arterial blood bathing the right side of the bus. The blood loss was so quick, he was down and was unconscious within seconds. He was dead before Mike wiped the man’s blood off of his Blackhawk Garra II knife, a folder with a nasty curved blade that he liked to keep razor sharp. So sharp, that the DHS agent never felt the slice that ended his life.

Mike retrieved the guard’s handgun and opened the door. He leapt out into the fray, turning to his right. A large, bald shaved hoodlum was coming up the side of the bus at the same time. Both men were startled, but like most brawls, the bigger and stronger man usually won. In this case, Mike clobbered the punk on the bridge of his nose with the butt of his pistol. Blood spewed as Mike brought his left fist down on the man’s face, breaking his cheekbone and crushing his eye socket.

All the years of listening to these racist’s taunts was contained in that one blow. As a CO, he was trained to interact with the prisoners with respect. “Yes, prisoner Jones, you may do this” or “yes prisoner Smith that would be fine.” Meanwhile, the bald white brothers would spit at him and call him nigger or yard ape. In general, Mike had to endure the constant and degrading abuse of a racist who had nothing to lose. The pent up anger from three years of listening to this nastiness was now unleashed.

Unexpectedly, Mike heard a grunt behind him. He quickly spun in time to find little Beth with the downed bus driver’s baton. She had engaged another Aryan and was getting the best of the brute. In fact, she was damn good. A cross blow to his right knee had caused the grunt he had heard. Mike now watched approvingly as an uppercut to the thug’s chin brought the piece of shit down. A coup de grace to the head split the man’s skull depositing his brains on the concrete. She spun around to Mike and nodded.

“Got your back, brother. I was a CO too. Twenty years!”

Mike nodded back and the two entered the mass of people, trying to stop slaughter, Mike welding his pistol like a hammer and Beth bringing up the rear.

Suddenly, they heard a scream and turned to their left. Twenty yards away, they saw one of the Aryan brothers take a crowbar and smash it into the face of a young woman carrying a small girl. That was the last conscious thing Mike remembered until later when the carnage had been stopped. The red vision Mike first saw with the murder of the Captain and the judges flooded his brain. The criminals that DHS had unleashed on the unarmed people had crossed all the lines that civilized people use to define humanity. An unarmed mother was slaughtered for no reason. Mike went postal. It was the most incredible display of raw power Beth had ever seen. Men were tossed like rag dolls over the interstate and onto the road fifty feet below. Heads were smashed against anything hard enough to crack them. Car doors, concrete and even another head were used to terminate the criminals. He was a vengeful, giant god cutting a swathe through the chaff of humanity.

The brotherhood thug with the crowbar was just the first of over a dozen that felt his wrath. Mike picked up the crowbar that killed the young mother and ended the lives of the remaining Aryan brothers, allowing the remaining civilians to escape. Fortunately, the morass back at the original roadblock had kept those heavily armed agents occupied while Mike cleaned house to their rear.

Finally, when the bloodletting was through, Mike and Beth surveyed the damage. Six of the civilians had fallen, including the mother and her child, the later crushed by the mob as it tried to escape. Her little neck had been broken. All of the dozen or so Aryan Brothers lay dead somewhere nearby.

Mike finally dropped the crowbar and let Beth lead him back down the road, away from the roadblock.

“Come on, Mike.” She gently said. “Let’s get to OPD headquarters. There have to be some answers there.”

Mike and Beth began the walk, followed by one person no one had seen. One other Aryan prisoner had escaped their notice. A freshly shaved man with a new tattoo on his arm and a swastika given to him by his new brothers. Under the swastika was a name: Beker. He was told it meant reborn, or converted in the German language, the language of the fatherland. Even though the real German word was Bekehrte, it was close enough. It meant more than conversion, it implied proselytization or active promotion of a faith or belief. The boy liked that. He now went by Beker.