American Apocalypse Page 21

  Looking back, it should have been glaringly obvious that the government was planning something. It was just that most Americans had resigned themselves to the fact that federal government incompetency and greed on a huge scale was what we were stuck with. The idea that the government might turn on part of the populace was too bizarre to believe. That was something only your drunken Uncle Dave—whom your Mom called “a tin foil hat- wearing asshole”—believed and talked about endlessly.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  W.T.S.H.T.F.

  I took turns with Ninja watching the distribution center. A crowd had begun forming as soon as the sun was up. They were in place earlier than we were, which was fine with me. I wasn’t really good at sitting and waiting. I amused myself for a while, scanning the people and looking for good-looking women. Not a lot of that was happening. My guess was that good-looking women did not have to wait in line for food on a cold morning. They were still in bed with someone who took care of things like that for them. I was surprised at the number of people that showed up. Many of them I had seen before. More than a few had brought the entire family. If the army had been smart, they would have brought balloons to give away to the kids. Even from here I could feel the festive vibe that the free food was generating. People were relieved and happy that the government was doing something constructive for a change.

  What I know about what happened next is based in part on what I saw from afar and in part from when I was down there later. Some is what people who were there told me, and some I am just guessing at. The army began the distribution on time. The two men and one woman who manned the machine guns didn’t even get on their guns until minutes before the giveaway began.

  I watched as one of them handed out a couple of cigarettes to people in line. How it worked was you, or you and whomever you were with, would go forward and present your identification to an officer sitting at a table. He handed it to an enlisted man, who did something with it involving a computer. At the next station they asked for any weapons you were carrying and handed you a claim ticket for them. Here was where the friction began to develop:

  No one wants to hand over their weapons, and yet here you are. You’re no longer in line where you can just walk away. You have already been moved down the chute. It’s still possible, but you have invested your time, shown your identification, and are now just steps away from picking up your food. The nice army man is reassuring, so you reluctantly hand over your weapons and take the claim check.

  You walk up the ramp into the semitrailer, and the nice army woman reads you the three entrées they have and asks if you have a preference? You start to get that loving feeling back: This is actually working out. Based on how many of you there are, they give you your case or two of MREs and then out the other side of the trailer you go. You walk down the ramp, and there are a couple of soldiers in real television-style battle suits with armor to meet you. You look around. The Humvee gunners are no longer recognizable; they now wear helmet and sunglasses for some strange reason. You realize that the machine gun is pointing at you, and you realize what a vicious looking weapon it is from this perspective. Nobody smiles at you. No more loving feeling. In fact, a little alarm bell goes off in your head.

  You ask the soldier, “Where do I get my guns?” You already have a feeling you know what the answer is going to be. You are right.

  “Sorry, sir. Your guns will be made available to you at a later date. Please move along.”

  The people standing in line behind you listen to this.

  “Sir, I need you to move along.”

  Out of the corner of your eye you see more soldiers drift over.

  Your woman tugs at you, saying, “C’mon, honey, we will get them later.” You look down; your daughter looks up at you, and her eyes are wide. You want to give in and go, but you know that if you do, you will be lucky to make it back with the food to wherever it is you are sleeping tonight, or this week. You do not even want to think about what will happen to your wife and your daughter if word gets out that you have nothing to protect them with other than a Chinese stainless steel steak knife that stopped being sharp the second time you used it.

  “No, I am not leaving without my guns!” You start walking. You plan to go around to the front and cut through to where they took your guns. A soldier stands in front of you. He isn’t alone. You can’t see his eyes because he is wearing sunglasses; they all are, you realize.

  “Sir, I need you to leave the area.”

  “No! Goddamn it! I am not leaving the area! Give me back my guns!”

  Meanwhile, the people who were processed behind you, who turned in their weapons, get the same answer. They are becoming very unhappy.

  A couple who have either come unarmed or are willing to give up their weapons walks past. They look at you. You recognize the look. It says, You are a dumbass for trusting them. You flash back to how you had trusted the mortgage broker, the attorney, your boss . . . And now you realize that once again you and your family are going to get fucked. You hear someone yell to the people waiting to be processed, “They are taking our guns!” The people behind you are now enraged. The soldiers pull out plastic restraint cuffs and they take down the guy behind you.

  You hear your daughter’s voice, as clear as if it were being beamed directly into your ear through the crowd noise, “Daddy!” A soldier reaches for her. You see the plastic cuffs. You snap. You punch the soldier in his gut. You think to yourself, Shit, fucking body armor, and then your world explodes . . .

  I couldn’t believe it either. I was watching you the entire time. I saw you fall, your woman and child screaming and reaching out for you as you went down. Then I dialed back so I could see more of the entire scene. I could hear some army guy on a bullhorn, probably the officer in charge, telling everyone to remain calm. Then someone shot him and the situation spun out of control.

  It didn’t matter to me; I had passed the glasses to Ninja. When I saw you fall, when I saw your daughter grabbing for you, I was already on my way. I went out the window, hit the ground, and rolled like I had finally learned to do. Ninja stuck his head out, and I could see the balloon form above his head, like in a comic book, What the fuck? floating inside it.

  “Shotgun!” I yelled.

  His head disappeared and quickly reappeared. He tossed me the shotgun and then he jumped. His landing was awkward—bad awkward. He tried to stand but crumpled as his leg gave way underneath him.

  “Goddamn it. Help me up, Gardener.”

  “Sorry. If I can, I will be back for you.”

  I began running toward the distribution center, long strides and deep breaths. I heard Ninja scream, “Gardener!” but I didn’t look back. I was focused. More focused than I had ever been in my life. I ran but I felt like I was floating. My vision had sharpened. I felt like a machine.

  The machine gunner on the Humvee nearest the crowd had cut loose and was scything the crowd in long controlled bursts. The gunner on one of the other Humvees opened up, but took a hit immediately from behind and slumped over. I ran directly toward the gun that was firing. People lay dead in clumps on the parking lot. Their blood formed little pools on the asphalt. I could hear automatic weapons fire from behind the trailer, mixed with the sound of big-bore handguns. I kept going, leaping over a couple bodies that lay in a twisted mess on the ground.

  I wanted whoever was on the machine gun. I was going to pull him down and beat him to death. He hadn’t focused on me—one person was not as good a target as what was left of the crowd. A soldier popped up next to the desk, M-16 shouldered and pointed at me. I fired the shotgun without stopping. I missed him. Another soldier appeared next to him. Yep, I am dead, I flashed, but I didn’t stop running. That’s when the machine gunner on the final Humvee opened up.

  The gunner hosed the soldier who was scything the crowd, making him dance in place, and then fall out and over the side of the vehicle, disappearing from sight. The Humvee gunner then shot the two soldiers who were taking aim a
t me, making their bodies jerk as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to them, and finally began taking out anyone who wore an army uniform, not to mention ripping a line down the side of the trailer. One of the paddy wagons started up suddenly—apparently someone had decided they had a meeting to attend elsewhere. The .50 caliber took the vehicle apart. I jumped inside the Humvee in front of me and clambered up to where the machine gunner had been. I stood up and looked around.

  It was over. The quiet was deafening. A crow cawed from a tree nearby. My ears were ringing. People were moaning. I heard boots pounding as people came at a run. I grabbed the .50 and swiveled it toward the sound. It was Max running hard in front, followed Night and Tito.

  Max stopped, took in the scene, and yelled, “Hide if you hear a helicopter coming. Strip them for weapons, magazines, and body armor, and pile it under that pine tree. Go!” He pointed at me. “You help them!” I went over the side of the Humvee, coming down next to him. “I know how to use a .50,” he said. “You don’t. Make sure no one gets caught in the open if we get visitors.”

  We weren’t the only ones stripping bodies. Some other folks had the presence of mind to do the same thing. I came up on an old guy and his wife. He looked to be in his early fifties, with a weathered face; she was skinny. They were working together on rolling a black soldier out of his vest. The soldier wasn’t cooperating; he was missing the side of his head. Before I could say anything, the old guy growled, “My kill. My stuff.”

  I nodded and kept going. I ended up helping Night get the armor off a petite, young Hispanic girl. “You okay?” Night asked me.

  “Yeah, I am fine. You?”

  She was breathing hard. “No. I am not fine. I want to kill some motherfuckers.”

  I just said, “Yeah.” It was how I still felt. Right behind Night was a mother and her two sons. At least I think they were boys. In between the gunshot wounds and the fact that the woman had either fallen or flung herself over their small bodies, it was difficult to tell. We finally got the vest off. I grabbed the dead Hispanic’s M-16 and searched her for anything else worthwhile. We moved on to the next soldier. I thought he was another dead one. Sloppy thinking on my part.

  I was trying to unfasten the harness he was wearing when he scared the crap out of me by whispering, “Medic.”

  “Did this asshole just say something?” Night asked. Looking at the guy she said, “Hey! Hey, baby killer. You say something?”

  He opened his eyes but was unable to focus. Once again he whispered, “Medic.” And he shut his eyes again.

  “Medic? You need a medic!” Night screamed. “How’s this?” She kicked him in the head. “Huh, how’s this feel?” and she reared back and drove the toe of her boot into his temple. I grabbed her and pulled her tight against my chest. She was struggling, screaming at me, “Let me go! Let me go!” Then she broke down and began sobbing into my chest. I could hear her whispering, “Poor boys. Poor little men.” She was hacking deep sobs. What had happened here had gone off inside of her like a bomb.

  “Hey, baby. I know. I know.” I was racking my brain. We needed to move, not do a total meltdown, but I had to figure out a sweet caring way to tell her to get her shit together. I couldn’t think of anything. “Night, baby, listen to me—”

  That’s when the .50 that Max was sitting on opened up. Quickly followed by the gunner who was still on the third Humvee. I could hear it now—a helicopter. It was trying to come in low and fast. Max and the other gunner chewed it up with those .50s and it exploded about a hundred yards short of the market.

  Thank God, it missed the tree. “C’mon, Night. We got to move.”

  She pulled away from me, snot dripping from her nose and all over my jacket. She nodded and sniffled. Then she bent down and grabbed her share of plunder, and we both headed to where we were supposed to drop it. The others were already there. There was a lot of black plastic weaponry and green metal boxes. Ninja was there, sitting with his back to the tree, his leg stretched out in front of him and a shotgun cradled in his lap. “You okay?”

  He nodded his head. “I’m cool—and so is this stuff.” He looked at Night: “Gross.” He fished around in his cargo pants pocket until he found his bandanna. Handing it to her he said, “Jeebus, clean yourself up, girl.” She wiped her face and handed it back to him. He threw up his hands, “Ah . . . that’s okay. You can keep it until you wash it.”

  “Let’s make one more circle.”

  We ended up back at the Humvee that Max was sitting in. He was watching a couple guys strip the second Humvee of its machine gun. At the last one, the gunner just sat motionless.

  “What’s up, Max?”

  “Night, go get Tito. Tell him I need help pulling this weapon. Get some of them ladies from the shelter shuttling what we found up to the motel. Then I need you to look at Ninja’s leg.”

  “Got it.” And she was gone.

  He was silent for a couple beats. “I forget sometimes that you and me are about all we got for combat vets. It was hard on her seeing this?” I nodded. “Well, she is going to see a lot more.” He sighed and began working on pulling the gun off its mount. “Do me a favor.”

  “Sure.”

  “Go ask the young lady over there”—he indicated the lone machine gunner—“if she wants a place to stay tonight.”

  “Damn, Max, I thought that was a short guy with a fat ass.”

  “Well, don’t tell her that, at least not while she is sitting up there.”

  I shrugged and walked over to where she could see me. “Hello. Ma’am?”

  She was alive. She moved her head a fraction of an inch to look at me better. Her face below the sunglasses was expressionless. “You want to come with us? Maybe get something to eat and a place to sleep?”

  I waited for what seemed like a small eternity before she decided to reply: “What’s for dinner? And you better not tell me it is MREs.”

  “Actually, I am not sure. Maybe soup. If it isn’t soup, then it won’t be much better than MREs.”

  “Ha! Spoken by someone who hasn’t been living on them. Anything is better than MREs. Well, get your ass up here and help me pull this weapon. It can be part of my dowry.”

  She knew what she was doing. I didn’t. “Okay grab it from underneath and lift,” she said. I did. This was one heavy piece of metal. “Okay, you got it?” I nodded. “Then toss it over the side.” It was more like lean over a bit and let it go. She dropped back down into the vehicle and began tossing out ammo boxes. The sound they made as they hit the ground told me they weren’t going to be light either. “Check up front.” I started looking around. I didn’t find anything worthwhile except a couple of empty plastic water bottles. We used them as canteens. “What did you plan on doing with this stuff?” she asked.

  “We are stacking it under the pine tree on the other side of the building.”

  “Okay, let’s go! They aren’t going to leave us alone forever.” She took the barrel and I took the other end. Max had sent someone up to the motel to bring down our two functioning vehicles. We loaded them with everything that was under the pine tree and sent them back with Ninja riding in the only empty passenger seat.

  We stood there—Max, me, and the army gunner—looking at each other. Max asked her, “You have a full name Corporal Singer?” He had read her name tag.

  She took off her sunglasses and helmet. She just let the helmet drop to the ground while she shook out her hair. She had green eyes and dark brown hair, longer than I expected. She was, I guessed, in her midtwenties. She stuck out her hand. “Singer. Jane Singer.”

  “I am Max and this is Gardener. We can walk and talk.”

  “Max, you seen Carol?”

  “Last I saw of her she was inside the shelter. I’ll go check on her. You go ahead and walk Miss Singer up.” Max didn’t look at me directly. He just left.

  I nodded my head and thought to myself, I should have known. I caught her looking at me quizzically. She didn’t say anything, though. I started w
alking and she fell in beside me.

  “So, why did you do it?”

  “Because they were assholes. Because this isn’t some little mud-brick village in some freaking raggedy-ass country. This is America. Because I didn’t sign on to kill kids.” She shrugged. “It’s also that time of month.”

  I laughed. After a minute she did too.

  “So where we going? The motel?”

  I stopped dead.

  “How do you know about the motel?”

  “Because in the army they brief you about stuff like that. What? You think we have spies?”

  “What would you think?” I replied.

  “We do. They just aren’t human.”

  Oh, crap. The realization of what she meant flooded through me. “You think one was overhead?”

  She laughed.

  It was a dry laugh, more of a snort actually. “There is always at least one overhead around here, plus satellite coverage.” She was talking about surveillance drones.

  “So what are the odds we were seen?”

  It was dusk. I could feel the chill in the air deepening. It wouldn’t be long before the first hard frost. She thought about my question as we walked. We had almost reached the motel, which gave us a view of the suburbs and city around us.

  “Look out there,” she said.

  I had been, but I was interested in what she saw. There were more than the normal amount of fires burning. There were also a lot more helicopters in the air. Smallarms fire was audible, so much so that I wasn’t hearing it. Far off in the distance I thought I saw tracers being used.

  “I can tell you what the army is seeing: large-scale civil insurrection. Possible terrorist groups engaged in attacking the homeland. From what I was hearing on the radio before everyone freaked out, this wasn’t the only distribution center they were having problems at. After all, how freaking stupid was the idea of taking guns from people. I swear that everyone in the army with the rank of colonel or above has their head up their ass.”