Devolution (28 page)

John sat towards the back watching his peers marvel at the ingenious plan. However, he was unable to join them in their rejoicing. April was soon to be awakened from her coma and the uncertainty of her condition consumed his thoughts.

*

BEEEEEP!

It was a call the prime minister was expecting.

He leaned forward to press the button on his phone. “Yes, Delores?”

“The major general is here, sir.”

“Send him in.” The prime minister took a deep breath to calm his nerves. The afternoon’s meeting still festered within him. Sure, the major general had gone along with his plan, though it was now time for the nation’s highest elected official to garner some respect.

The prime minister stood as the major general entered the room. He graciously extended his hand towards the antique chairs opposite his desk. “Mr. Harris. Please, sit down.”

Harris proceeded silently, appearing miserable and uninspired. But that was not unusual.

The room was barely lit by the evening sun, which struggled to shine through the large windows that overlooked the crumbling city. Despite the desperate state of his nation, the prime minister managed to keep a brilliantly furnished and decorated office. Nothing would keep him from the surroundings he deserved.

“Thank you for coming,” the prime minister’s said. “I want to make something very clear.” He leaned forward onto his desk, locking eyes with his political opponent. “As long as I am prime minister, I still run this nation. You want to make a decision, you consult with me first.”

Harris was not impressed by the prime minister’s newly found fortitude. He remained reserved and stone-faced.

“How dare you approve
my
plan for implementation? When I presented it, I wasn’t asking for your approval. I was announcing our new strategy.”

Harris’ gut began to churn, yet his disposition remained calm to the point of condescension.

The PM proceeded with a trembling passion in his calm voice. “I was elected to run this country. If you deny that mandate, you will start a war within this government.”

The major general had built a career around his ability to remain numb in the wake of unspeakable acts. Yet now, this simple man before him was able to bring out emotions he thought were long dead. It was now obvious Harris loved his country. But he loved his role more.

“If you defy me,” warned the PM, “I will do everything in my political and legal power to have you removed from your post.”

Harris’ brow bent inward and his voice bled with contempt. “Go ahead. I love a challenge.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

WIN THE FUTURE NOW

A
t night, London and the Westminster area appeared peaceful and serene. There were no cries for help in the empty streets, and the wails of ambulances shrieking through crowded intersections had all but disappeared. So too did the terrifying echo of gunfire that had replaced the more soothing sounds of city life. The few operating streetlights created a comfortable glow that succeeded in masking the struggles that had befallen the once great metropolis. As dawn approached, the rising orb cast light on a ruinous facade. The depressing sight was difficult for Brits to accept. Most couldn’t help but wish for eternal darkness.

This particular December 31st morning called for a beautiful day. The heavens would radiate a bright blue. The cloudless sky allowed the free flow of sunlight to illuminate everything.

When the sun first appeared over the eastern horizon, it sent a powerful ray of warmth over the region. The winter season thus far had been harsh, adding to the already frigid mood of the British people. But a few days of tepid relief was upon them.

As the ball of fire rose into the stratosphere, it gradually erased the dark shadows that hid the bleak expanse of the city. As with every dawn, this one offered the hope that this new day would be better than the last. For most, however, all the sun succeeded in doing was to spotlight a city in disrepair. If nothing changed, by the end of winter the streets would have more potholes than asphalt.

A few shop owners still managed to hold onto their dreams of keeping alive what little commerce remained. The sounds of these hapless entrepreneurs opening the metal doors that shielded their livelihoods from the ravages of poverty could be heard echoing throughout the city with hardly any vehicle or human traffic to muffle the sound.

Due to the weather, most of the homeless had moved indoors. They now occupied the abandoned buildings that littered the city blocks. These men and women wouldn’t wake for a few more hours. Like the rest of the nation, they would greet the day with a renewed optimism. The type of enthusiasm where the impossible seemed possible, and life was only limited by one’s own imagination.

It was amazing what one beautiful day in the dead of winter could do to the human spirit; especially, a spirit that had been trampled.

A few days of early spring had arrived. And the next 24 hours would be immortalized in the history books. But not because of the weather.

*

“Let’s move it!” yelled Warren Wickham to his legions of workers as they packed their cars and trucks. “I want to be there by 8!” He tilted his clipboard to check his watch.

A low-level manager approached. “I think we have most everything, sir. We have a few trucks to fill with food and supplies, and then we’re ready.”

The energy levels at FreeGB’s headquarters were high and rising. The massive fields surrounding the complex were lined with workers preparing to revitalize their struggling nation.

Every slamming door and trunk signaled another envoy ready for departure. Wickham and his followers were not only invigorated by the virtue of their mission, but also by the magnificence of the burgeoning day.

“Tony!” Wickham yelled over to where his friend was assisting some workers with a heavy box.

“One, two, three, lift!” Among grunts and moans, the mammoth box rose from the ground. With it secured in the listing bed of the truck, Tony wiped himself off and made his way towards Wickham.

“Warren, how are you?”

“Wonderful.” The fruits of his labor were about to be picked.

“Can you believe this?” Tony gazed out at the thousands of men and women working in their devotion.

“I know, my friend.” Wickham sounded equally amazed. “Today will be the first of many good days.”

“What do you think they will do?” Tony asked,
they
meaning the
enemy
.

Wickham smiled. “It doesn’t matter.” Wickham put his arm around his good friend, and they took their first steps towards the convoy that would escort them to their destiny. “Let’s go make history.”

*

It had now been about an hour since the sun first rose over the horizon, and the homeless were finally beginning to wake. The cities’ most downtrodden stumbled from their hollowed-out shelters onto the streets. Mother Nature had indeed brought them a beautiful day. But even at that, many were far too deranged to enjoy it.

Off in the distance, a familiar low roar gradually increased in volume. As it grew louder, a visual accompanied the deep resonance. Lined along the sidewalks, the transients watched in wonderment at what seemed like an endless parade of vehicles entering the city. The few shop managers that remained ventured out to witness it for themselves. For the first time, the resilient entrepreneurs stood with the people they blamed for their misfortunes.

One-by-one, the vehicles broke from formation and rolled to a stop next to the curb. Some of the awestruck city dwellers gravitated towards their guests. Others looked on with intrigue. The workers exited the cars with tote bags filled with fruits, vegetables, and non-perishables. They opened the trunks to reveal bags of clean clothes.

“Good morning,” proclaimed a woman whose arms were stacked full of apparel. She approached a group of disheveled men and presented them the gifts. At first, they didn’t know what to make of this good will. It seemed too surreal.

“Please,” she pleaded with caring eyes, “take it.”

Once the first man hesitantly reached out to accept the offer, the others soon followed. As fast as the clothes went, the food went even quicker. London’s hungry ripped it from the hands of the volunteers and viciously began to eat it right away. This scene wasn’t unique to this specific area. Most every street near downtown was enjoying the same altruistic charity.

“We are with FreeGB,” stated one of the volunteers as he passed out the provisions. “We believe this country needs a new direction. If you need shelter, work, a fresh start, please, let us help you.”

The homeless, with no other option and plenty of reason to believe, signed up by the truckloads.

“Please, one at a time,” politely stated a young woman who directed their newest members into buses.

“I’ll be able to get a shower?” a man asked hopefully as the young woman helped him into the bus. His scraggly hair hadn’t been washed or cut in some time. The dirt on his face appeared permanent, as did the dark circles under his eyes.

“Yes, sir!” she replied enthusiastically. “You can shower, shave, get a haircut if you wish.”

A thankful smile enveloped his face. His eyes sparkled as a rush of optimism lifted his soul. With both hands, he grabbed his shaggy brown beard.

With the first of many buses full, the drivers shut the doors. “Here we go!”

The roar of the engine signaled the end of a long nightmare for those inside. This bus would make this uplifting journey dozens of times, and it was just one of many blazing a similar route. This piece of the puzzle only encompassed a small portion of that day’s activities.

*

“Hi, sir.” John Nolan stood at the doorstep of one of Center City’s last remaining businesses a few blocks from Westminster. The old white haired man who reluctantly answered the door worked alone. His rickety wooden door was kept secure by rusted steel bars, as were the blackened windows on either side. Above the door, a red and white sign announced: OPEN DURING DAYLIGHT HOURS.

The building itself was run-down and littered with graffiti and holes. The corners of the brick edifice were as straight as a country road. Rapid deterioration and acts of meaningless aggression had taken its toll. The architecture had the potential for aesthetic beauty. In fact, at one time, it was surely a dazzling structure.

“My name is John. This is Isabella and Amina.” John turned to present his colleagues. “We are from FreeGB.”

“Yes. I have heard of you.” The old man’s brown eyes appeared tired. His dark skin perfectly accented the blotchy white hair that caressed his face and head. His deep, melodic voice complemented his intriguing character.

“May we come in, sir?” John asked.

His bushy white eyebrows bent inward signaling his skepticism.

John saw he needed some convincing. “We are no longer taking part in this depression. We refuse to be victims.”

John’s words raced through the elderly man’s mind. Long ago, he lost his ability to trust strangers. Yet, despite his apprehensions, he stepped aside, allowing his visitors to enter.

*

BEEP, BEEP!

One block away from John, a construction worker in a bright yellow vest guided the dump truck backwards.

“Just a little more!” he hollered, the truck approached the wide expanse of the sunken pothole.

“Hold!”

The man waved the driver out. Grabbing a metal shovel from behind the door, the driver jumped into the hole. In one swift movement, his partner threw the steel latch, raising the tailgate. Gallons of thick, steaming gravel and rock fell into the small crater.

The calm winds of that morning carried the smell of roadwork down the streets and into the allies. The city was once again alive. Even the beeping of the truck, which was once considered an annoyance, had become the sound of progress.

In powerful motions, the man in the pothole spread the asphalt. He executed his job with the vehemence of a man who hadn’t worked in months.

“Good!”

His colleague threw the latch, raising the tailgate. Grabbing a rake, he began to smooth the new blacktop that in just minutes would be ready to support its first round of traffic.

*

The original oak floor creaked under John’s weight as he stepped into the old man’s store. Much to his surprise, opposite the tattered threshold lay a world of enchanting antiquity and delicate charm. As if walking through a portal, the throes of London seemed to give way to a secret treasure. Old wooden Victrolas dating back to the early 1900s lined the wall along the door. On top of old cherry tables near the foyer sat dated postcards and dresser clocks. Framed pictures of historical scenes were mixed with black and white autographed stills of celebrated world leaders. Individual glass containers protected dozens of faded baseball cards. Barbies and Cabbage Patch Kids in their original boxes hid in glass cases, along with original Coca-Cola bottles and Hollywood memorabilia. Toward the rear of the store, multiple bookshelves contained first edition prints of classic novels, along with American election memorabilia, including a tire gauge that read, “Obama’s Energy Plan.” Every square inch of the small store was utilized to display the old man’s passion.

“I can see why he hasn’t moved,” whispered one of the women. All three looked in amazement at what they had just discovered.

“It would take forever to pack all this,” the other woman replied, leaning in towards an aerial picture that caught her eye. The top third of the photograph showed a raging river, and the bottom third appeared to be an empty body of water. Filling the middle third was a breach that resulted from the massive flooding of the lake. Two houses that sat on the edge of the breach’s banks were broken in half. The missing halves were not in the picture. The woman used her fingers to trace the path the water must have taken as it rushed from the lake to the river. At the bottom right corner of the picture, she spotted a handwritten title and date:
Lake Delton, WI. June 9, 2008.

“This is awesome,” John muttered, walking further into the store.

An exquisite bronze bust of Winston Churchill, John’s historical idol, stopped him. The sculpture was large, more than a foot high. The brilliant finish aided in perfectly depicting the stern resolve of the man who many credited with saving the world. With valor and pride, the prime minister glared off into the distance. The bust sat on a square foundation of granite etched with a quotation. John recited the familiar passage:

We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets we shall fight in the hills. We shall never surrender.

“Sends chills up your spine, does it not?” The old gentleman had sneaked up behind his adoring guest.

John nodded.

“Considering what was happening then, he becomes more impressive. He was outnumbered, outgunned, out-treasured. Yet he told the enemy if they wanted this island, they’d have to kill every Brit first, including himself.”

By this time, John’s female colleagues had joined him in admiration.

“We don’t have leaders like this anymore,” the old man lamented. He then breathed a long sigh. “In time, some tyrant will realize that.”

With a creak of the floor, the feeble old gentleman made his way behind the counter. “So, what can I do for you?”

*

“Bring in the roller!” the yellow-jacketed worker called.

With a turn of the key, the mighty engine roared. Plumes of black smoke raced out of its exhaust as the colossal steel cylinder began to turn, gaining speed with each rotation. The two men who filled the hole hopped into their truck to move on. Just forty yards away, another gaping depression demanded attention. Miles of decaying roads would be addressed in the coming weeks.

“I wish those damn trucks weren’t so loud!”

Milt Sirrah’s laborer could barely hear him over the rumble. They took a break from mixing the mortar to observe the new road. However, their curiosity soon waned. The novelty of working was a powerful lure.

They hoisted their shovels, manually churning the mud in the wheelbarrow. The warm weather was perfect for laying brick. Granted, it was a slight change from the tile work Milt was accustomed to. His contract was simple; repair the exteriors of a given set of buildings.