Charlie's Requiem: Democide (3 page)

“How about some hot soup!” Garrett said.

Janice’s eyes widened. “Hot soup?” she stammered. “Hot as in temperature hot? How? I mean, how can you do that?”

He smiled and pulled the Ramen noodle packages from his cardboard moving box. Out came the propane stove and a 4-quart stainless steel saucepan.

“You are a magician!” Janice stated.

She slid off the edge of the bathtub where she had been seated and slipped over to her protector. She wrapped both arms around Garrett’s neck and stared into his eyes.

“And I just love magic!” She whispered.

Chapter 3

Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes (Beware of Greeks bearing gifts)

— Virgil (Aenead)

A
fter giving the keys to the apartment complex to the four refugees, John returned to DHS headquarters to get his room assignment for the evening. Beth and Mike went their separate ways, having to endure the boring lectures that John had already been put through. John had received his assignment and met his new partner, while Beth and Mike still needed to finish their “indoctrination”, including their duty and partner assignment.

John’s new partner had been an Ocoee policeman. This western suburb of metro Orlando had been growing rapidly before the EMP squashed civilization. His riding buddy was just in his second year out of the academy and seemed a bit too enthusiastic for John’s taste. He hoped he was just naïve, and not actually enjoying his newfound power. Time would tell.

Entering the main lobby of the massive complex, John made his way down the right hallway where most of the administrative services had been stationed. The Communications, Property and Evidence and Records Divisions were housed here but had been overtaken by DHS and reconfigured to their needs. Category 5 cables were strung on the ceiling above him, connecting offices on both sides of the hallway. The Ethernet and power cables snaked their way through holes cut through the walls where it met the ceiling. The old building, scheduled to be replaced in a few years, still boasted plaster rather than the more tech-friendly drop ceilings that would have hidden the Ethernet and power lines.

Out back, John had seen the new electric service that DHS had installed. The generators were a sight to behold! The back of the building, where the now dead power lines had entered the structure, was lined with five large diesel electric generators. What startled John was the physical connection into the complex’s power grid. Five large pipes stuck out of the wall and were attached to the generators via a matching female connector. It looked like a three-foot-wide metal plumbing pipe exiting the building with a 90-degree downward elbow, connecting to the female three-foot-wide conduit exiting the generators that had a matching upward bend at the end of its output. They fit hand in glove. When John commented on it to one of the techs, he was told that since 2010, the federal government and local authorities had been aligning themselves in the case of a terrorist attack. This standardization of the electric connections and pre-positioned administrative supplies was a reflection of this effort. John was impressed. It was a rare moment that the federal government actually got it right in trying to predict the future. The idea of a terrorist attack seemed more likely after seeing the massive efforts that DHS had brought to bear.

When he passed the Records Department, he immediately noticed that all furniture and filing cabinets had been taken away. Not only that, the wall between the giant evidence room and its administrative office had been razed, creating a single, cavernous chamber. John stopped in to gawk at forty rows of workstations, each row containing six stations on either side of a central aisle. Each station was manned by a government drone tapping away at their Getac x500 laptops. Ethernet cabling and power lines were strung like Christmas lights along the front walls of the tiny cubicles, held up by six-foot-high polls that jutted up from the front wall of each work station. Like some monstrous umbilical cord, the lines all joined together in a blue and black mass of twisted vessels that eventually fed to the ceiling above and out to the servers. With nearly every station manned, John quickly estimated that the room held close to 500 workers. Each agent was using a radiophone, communicating with the agent in the street. John’s package, which he was going to review tonight, gave instructions on how to interact with Records. Agent John Drosky was going to be on patrol starting tomorrow. Their A.O. would be western Orlando, which was the area his new partner had been working the last year or two. When citizens were encountered, they would be calling in to Records to determine where the rescued individuals would be assigned.

John moved further down the hall and entered the Personnel Department. Not much had changed other than the new work stations and employees. John handed over his bar-coded ID card, and waited while the woman scanned his card and verified the information that appeared on her laptop’s screen.

“So, Agent Drosky,” she said. “You’re a Marine!”

“Well, I was in the Marines, but I guess I’m DHS now.”

“My dad was a Marine,” she replied with a smile. “Always nice to have a devil dog around.”

“At your service,” John cracked back.

The woman began to type some more, and reached into an envelope she had brought out from a drawer near her knees. She reached into the package and withdrew a set of keys and replaced them with different ones that hung on the side of her cubicle. She handed the large manila envelope over to Drosky. It contained more information on his assignments, code of conduct and mission statement, along with keys to an apartment building just east of Headquarters. It was a 40-story-high complex that had generators supplying power to it.

“Thanks,” John said to the worker.

“No problem,” she replied. “I think you’ll like the accommodations. I upgraded you, and the view is outstanding!”

“If you want,” she continued, “I can show you around. There’s a nice little community room every five floors. It wouldn’t hurt to let me help you break the ice with the other agents, so to speak.”

John gave her a quick once over. The agent was not unpleasant to look at. It was difficult to size her up as she sat on a stool behind the counter. Probably pushing 40, she had her hair pulled back into a severe bun and wore her makeup a bit too thick. John took a few moments to think about it and decided it couldn’t hurt to learn more about his fellow agents.

“Sounds great!” He replied, flashing her a quiet smile.

“My name is Natasha,” she said as she held out her hand.

John shook it, noting that she held on a bit longer than normal. She flirted a bit more with him as she gathered his paperwork.

“I upgraded you,” she said slyly. “You’ll be on the 36th floor, just below me. Anything above 30 is a real step up and I got you a one bedroom so you won’t have to share it with anyone. At least, anyone you don’t want to share the room with.”

Natasha got up off her stool and moved from behind the counter to gather some final paperwork off of the shelving behind her.

Not bad
, John thought. The uniform didn’t do anything for her figure, but all in all, she was pleasant enough.
Besides
, he thought,
it can’t hurt to have friends in the right places!

Agent Drosky left the office and headed to his new apartment. He grabbed his DHS-issued duffle bag, filled with the clothing he had worn the prior week. As far as weapons, he had none. Until he went out on patrol, he wouldn’t be issued any weapons; so he didn’t need turn anything back in to the armory. DHS rules required that he sign out and return his firearms. Personal weapons were forbidden until the crisis passed. That stuck in John’s craw a bit, remembering the debacle in New Orleans after the hurricane struck in 2004. The city’s police force went on neighborhood sweeps to force people out of their homes in the flooded areas. Guns were confiscated and the practice was later ruled unconstitutional. But the damage had been done and the confiscation further eroded the trust between the police and the citizens.

OPD seminars given to the Orlando cops stressed that in an emergency, they were to work with the citizens and encourage responsible use of their private weapons. The chief of police for the city, along with the Orange county sheriff, agreed that they wouldn’t enforce any unconstitutional orders to confiscate firearms. Some speculated that the OPD chief of police was more concerned with confronting a group of survivors armed with AR-15s and putting his men and women at risk, while others said he was just following the constitution. Either way, John had been glad he hadn’t been forced to choose whether to follow those orders or not. Now, his first glance at the ROE or Rules of Engagement given to him by his DHS supervisors indicated that gun confiscation was a top priority for the agency. There were squads dedicated to clearing out sections of the city, bringing the citizens into the fold and processing them into safe havens set up by the government. Those squads were responsible for disarming those citizens. John and his new partner were more of a patrol presence. They would call for the DHS squads if they met with armed resistance. John figured he would talk his way through any reluctant residents. After all, in the years he had been an Orlando cop, he had never fired his weapon. John pushed that line of thinking to the back of his mind, and began the walk to his new residential tower.

Under I-4 and about a block into the city, he found his apartment. The steady stream of fellow agents made the journey that much easier to follow; but having driven the city as a cop for nearly a decade, he could have found the building in his sleep.

As he approached the tall apartment complex, he was once again intrigued with the generators grinding away on the backside of the building. He followed the deep sounds and could feel the increased vibrations in the concrete sidewalk as he got closer to the back of the tall structure.

Turning the corner, he was met with another eight generators, all attached to the building with the same conduit connections he saw at the DHS headquarters. Several 18-wheel tanker trucks were parked nearby, and a squad of armed guards kept watch over the parking lot that held both the generators and the fuel trucks. A High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle, or HUMVEE, sat at the gated entrance. A 50-caliber M2 machine gun, also known as a Ma Deuce, was mounted on top of the vehicle, and a serious looking DHS agent sat in the turret, scanning the street in front of him.
These boys aren’t messing around
, he thought.
Best to tread lightly until I get a feel for how this game is being played
.

John nodded at the guards, receiving no reply, and walked back around to the building’s main entrance. Pushing through the revolving door, he was greeted with a blast of cool air. The lobby was a buzz with activity as people in tactical gear and others in khaki pants and polo shirts mingled in the large atrium. A coffee shop was up and running, and a storefront gift shop had been turned into a food distribution center.

John made his way to the reception desk and gave the worker his name. She punched the keys of her laptop and scanned the screen in front of her. After a moment, she looked up with a smile and handed him a plastic container very similar to the bins used to collect recyclable glass and newspapers. The number 3630 was written with indelible marker on the blue plastic sides of the container.

“Welcome, agent Drosky!” She sang. “And I see you are on the 36th floor!”

Several other agents shot John some sideways glances. He couldn’t tell if they were curious or jealous. John just didn’t have enough information to know what his floor assignment and DHS status meant. As far as he was concerned, he was just another tiny spoke in the wheels of the federal government.

“Use this bin to collect your allotment of food and toiletries,” she chimed. “This bin and your I.D. will get you anything you need.” She finished by pointing to the converted gift shop.

“Thank you!” John replied. So far, he liked what he was seeing.

“Oh, and by the way,” she continued. “You’re in for an unexpected treat! The waterworks department has said that water will be restored to our building at any time! Looks like we’ll have running water soon.”

“That’s fantastic!” John said back. “I figured I’d shower at headquarters before taking my shift.”

“Well, now you won’t have to!” She replied with a smile. “Welcome to your new home!”

This might just be alright
, John thought to himself.
Maybe the feds finally have gotten their act together
!

John found the elevator and pushed the button for the 36th floor. As the doors closed, he finally felt at peace, like he could have a positive impact in bringing the nation, the state and mostly his beloved city back from the brink.
Tomorrow
, he thought,
I can finally make a real difference.

Chapter 4

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men should do nothing”

— Edmund Burke

T
he “before” seemed so long ago. Beker had many reasons to see the recent past as “the before.” After years of physical abuse, he had finally snapped and killed his mother and her abusive lover, and he did it with a kitchen knife. Granted, if you looked at it logically, it was self-defense. But who looks at killing your own mother logically.

His mother had worked at a hospital and her “friend” was employed as an aide at an assisted living facility. When they abused him, they were usually wearing their green work scrubs. These green outfits were a trigger that set off a red-hot rage Beker had trouble controlling. They were both wearing those hospital garments the morning he had finally snapped, and it was that same mindless anger that put him in the situation he was dealing with now. After killing his mom and her friend, he fled the home and began to walk the streets in a post violence daze. That is when he saw another nurse leave the clinic where she worked. And, she was wearing those green scrubs. The rose-colored curtain of rage fell and he didn’t remember much after that.

The next thing he knew, he was on the ground in handcuffs, arrested by Orlando’s finest. He was transported to the 33rd Street County lock-up; and it was while he was in a holding cell for the rage-induced assault that the lights went out. It was also in that holding cell where he met Taurus, a leader in the white supremacist movement. After seeing Beker’s scars, the ones made by his mom’s friend with her cigarette, Taurus adopted him into the white clan. It seems that Taurus had a similar experience growing up in foster care. Their scars were their bond.

The next six days were a mixture of fear and hope. Those first few days after the electricity went off were a jumble of knife fights, rioting and death. Old scores between the Whites, Blacks and Latinos ruptured what little stability the prison maintained. Then, on the third day, the feds took over the 33rd Street County Jail. Taurus and the other gang leaders met with some DHS representatives. A working relationship had quickly developed and a truce between the gangs took hold.

Beker wasn’t privy to the deal, but conversations between Taurus and his soldiers indicated that DHS was going to commute their sentences in exchange for helping DHS out. Two days later, the full gravity of the relationship between the gangs and DHS became evident. The gangs were going to be DHS enforcers. They were going to be a catalyst to encourage the uncooperative residents to align themselves within the new order of things.

But Taurus, although a gangbanger, was smart enough to distrust their “alliance” with their new DHS partners. His white supremacist philosophy and time in prison allowed him to educate himself on history, especially the history of a man named Adolph Hitler. Taurus spoke with his commanders and described the history of the rise of the Nazi party. He spoke of the Sturmabteilung, which meant “Storm Detachment” in German. They were the Nazi party’s first henchmen. During the early days of Hitler’s rise, they disrupted opposing political party rallies, and intimidated the general population, especially immigrants and Jews. They were called the “Brownshirts” because of their brown paramilitary uniforms. “That is who they want us to be!” Taurus had told his men.

The subordinates slapped each other’s backs and congratulated themselves for their good fortune. That is, until Taurus told them what had happened to the “Brownshirts.” After almost a decade of loyalty to Hitler, he ordered their arrest and the murder of nearly a hundred of their leaders and members. Called the Night of the Long Knives, the purge of his loyal followers was due to Hitler’s paranoia about the
Brownshirts’
growing power. He replaced them with the even more fearsome Schutzstaffel (SS) and the Gestapo (the Nazi secret police). Taurus confided in his men that he was worried that when the DHS had finished using them, the gangs would be eliminated. DHS was not to be trusted.

So Beker and “Weed,” another young recruit, were sent out with a busload of gang members that were tasked with helping the DHS contain a problem at one of the roadblocks. Once they arrived at the scene, they were immediately unleashed on a crowd of people wanting to pass through the government blockade and refusing to follow Homeland’s directives to report to a holding facility set up at the county fairgrounds. They wanted to go home, not to the fairgrounds. So the gang was released on the uncooperative crowd in punishment for their insubordination. Taurus’ instructions to Beker and Weed were clear; stay free of the fight and observe.

Once unleashed, the gang began to brutalize the uncooperative mob that had pushed their way through the DHS blockade. During the fight, two of the DHS agents turned against Beker’s people and killed or disabled most of his new brothers. Over a dozen of the white supremacists lay on the expressway concrete, either unconscious or dead. Beker had even watched in horror as two of his brothers had been flung from the highway overpass, falling to their death almost 30 feet below.

This was the treachery Taurus feared! Beker began to follow the giant black DHS soldier and his female agent companion when Weed pulled him back.

“Stop!” Weed pled. “We need to stay with our kind.”

“No, we follow. You heard Taurus. He expected us to be betrayed and it sure looks like he was right.”

“Then let’s just tell him that. That’s all he wants to know.”

“No,” Beker replied. “It’s more than that. They are walking away from the roadblock, not back to the other agents. Maybe they are part of a special force we don’t know about.”

“You mean, like a death squad?” Weed replied.

“Yeah, exactly!” Beker said back. “We need to see where they go and then report back to Taurus.”

So the two young men lagged behind the giant DHS agent and his older female partner. They watched as they joined some of the civilians that had forced their way past the blockade. The two of them followed the group all the way to the downtown Police Headquarters building. Beker and Weed snuck into the city’s professional arena, which sat a block south of the DHS parking lot. The north side of the arena faced up the street towards the police building where the DHS agents had gone. The DHS agents and the residents separated; and interestingly enough, the residents stayed hidden in the parking lot across the street while the agents went into their headquarters. Weed and Beker watched through the broken glass windows as the agents returned to the parking lot.

“I’m going to get closer,” Beker told Weed.

“I ain’t movin’.” Weed replied. “I ain’t getting caught again.”

“Stay here then,” Beker shot back. “If I get caught, wait till dark and get back to Taurus. Let him know what we saw!”

Beker slipped out the shattered glass doors and scurried across the street. He dodged and darted through the parked military vehicles until he got within 30 yards of the group. After a few minutes, Beker saw the agents and residents split up again. This time, the young man, two women and the child made their way into the city and the agents returned to the DHS office.

Beker moved to join back up with Weed, but several military vehicles pulled into the parking lot, one of them moving toward the young man’s hiding spot. Beker frantically searched for a place to conceal himself. He was squatting behind an oversized-looking Jeep that had a machinegun mounted on top. A similar-looking Jeep was driving up the lane directly towards his position. In seconds, the DHS agents would be on him. Many of the lot’s spaces were empty, so running was not an option. The agent manning the machine gun would cut him down in seconds if the saw him sprinting away. Beker could see nowhere to go. He was trapped! If he were caught, he was sure he would be killed.

The monstrous Jeep coming at him was painted a dusty tan color. The wheelbase was wider than anything he had ever seen. It seemed to take up the whole traffic lane as black diesel smoke belched from its vertical exhaust pipe. That’s when Beker noticed the clearance under the monster moving toward him.

As the giant military vehicle rolled toward him, Beker made a last, desperate decision. He dropped to his belly and crawled under the truck he had been hiding behind. Within seconds of him worming his way under the giant Jeep, the other vehicle pulled into the space next to him, right where he had just been hiding.

Had he been seen? There was nowhere to go. He was flat on his stomach, pressed under the massive steel car. If they saw him, he was done for! Beker held his breath, not even daring to exhale for fear of being discovered. He could hear the agents in the next space talking.

“Finally made it!” The first man said. “That was a hell of a ride.”

“This where we check in?” the second one said.

“Yeah,” a third voice replied. “I got the map from the armory. We check in across the street.”

“What about our gear,” the first man said as he opened the driver’s door.

Beker watched the man’s boots hit the ground not three feet from him. A second set of boots came out of the other side, that agent exiting out the passenger door. Beker watched as a third set of boots followed out of the other side.

“Let’s leave it in the HUMVEE,” the driver said as he began to walk back down the lane towards the DHS building. “We’ll grab all of it when we find out where we’re going to be living.”

The three men’s voices began to fade into the distance, their laughter echoing off the freeway overpass above.

Beker dared not move.
Maybe the gunner is still in his turret
? He thought.
“There could be four of them!”

After what seemed like forever, he slid out from under his vehicle.
So this is a HUMVEE
! He said to himself. Beker gingerly rose and peered above the HUMVEE’s front hood. The agents were crossing the street, never bothering to look back.

Beker crept to the other still-cooling HUMVEE and looked inside. On the back seat were backpacks and duffel bags. On the floor were plastic cases and a metal box. The young man stole another look down the street; and seeing no one watching, he opened the rear door and began checking his potential loot.

The bags all contained clothing and other personal items. But the metal box was pure treasure. It was loaded with bullets. The box had printing stenciled on the outside. It read “1000 CRTG 9mm;” and under it was printed in the same yellow stencil, “BALL M882.” Beker unlatched the lid and found cardboard boxes stacked inside.

Next to the large green metal box with the 9mm ammunition were black plastic boxes. When he opened the latches on one of them, he about jumped out of the vehicle. It was a pistol, black and menacing.

Beker had never handled a gun before. He didn’t know what to do with it; but he was sure Taurus would know how it worked.

The ammunition box weighed a ton and there was no way he would be able to run with the thing. So he grabbed what looked like a messenger bag that was lying across the back seat and shoved a pistol box into its main compartment. The bag was loaded with papers, including orders and instructions for the arriving agents. Beker opened the metal ammo box and pulled out five of the smaller cardboard boxes from within and added those to his loot. He folded the large bag’s flap back over and secured its straps. He also grabbed a bottle of unopened water and closed the door.

The young man glanced back at the parking lot and DHS offices. Seeing no observers, he quickly ran down the lot’s backside, staying under the freeway until he made it to the last of the spaces. Keeping cars and HUMVEEs between him and the DHS building’s front door, he made it across the street and back into the abandoned arena.

Weed immediately met him, his face as white as a ghost.

“Dude!” Weed gasped. “I thought you was a goner.”

“Yeah!” Beker replied with a smile. “What a rush!”

“Well, don’t get used to it,” Weed retorted. “At least not around me. I ain’t gonna keep following you around on your adrenalin trips.”

Beker smiled and placed his bag on an empty counter. He opened the flap and retrieved the gun case.

“Oh man,” Weed exclaimed. “You got a pistol! A Beretta! I’ve shot one of these before.”

Weed pulled the handgun out of its case and held it up for inspection. He grabbed the top of the gun and pulled it back, locking it in place.

“You got any bullets?” Weed asked.

Beker removed a cardboard box and Weed greedily grabbed it from him.

“Hey, that’s for Taurus!” Beker chided his companion.

“No problem, amigo! I just want to load it up.”

Weed grabbed one of the handgun’s magazines and began to press bullets into it. Beker watched with fascination as each bullet was pressed and then pushed rearward, locking them into place.

“Here,” Weed said. “Load this one.”

“I don’t know how,” Beker replied.

“You ain’t ever shot a gun?” Weed asked.

Beker just shook his head.

“Well, we can’t shoot it here, so you ain’t gonna be able to learn to aim, but at least you can see how to load it.”

Weed demonstrated the way this handgun functioned. He showed Beker how to place the bullets in the magazine. He taught him how to put the magazine into the pistol and release the slide so that it was ready to fire. He showed him where the safety was located and let the young man handle the weapon.

“This is heavier than I thought!” Beker said.

“Yeah, it’s an all-metal gun. I used to rock a Glock. It’s lighter cause it’s made of plastic.”

The two men were practicing with the handgun when Weed noticed the three agents returning to their HUMVEE.

“Beker!” He said suddenly. “They’s ‘goin back to the HUMVEE. We better move, cause when they find out we stole one of their guns, all hell’s gonna break loose!”

They scurried down the hall, moving away from the glass doors they had been using to watch the parking lot. They found the southern doors broken just like the ones they had entered on the north side of the arena. They sprinted through the shattered glass and crossed the street, advancing quickly down an alleyway, moving as rapidly from the scene of the crime as their legs could take them.

As they ran, both men giggled and pushed each other, high on the rush of their caper. Within minutes, they were well on their way back to their brothers, but now they brought back goodies that were sure to put them in Taurus’ good graces.

I guess the kid knew what he was doing!
Weed thought.
Taurus is gonna be happy when we show him what we got!

Both men grinned as they darted through the abandoned cars that lined the side streets of the West Orlando neighborhood, high on the success of completing their assignment. Taurus was going to be pissed that their white comrades had been killed, but happy with the treasures and information they brought back. Not a bad day’s work for the brotherhood!