Charlie's Requiem: Democide (4 page)

Chapter 5

“If human beings are fundamentally good, no government is necessary; if they are fundamentally bad, any government, being composed of human beings, would be bad also”

— Fred Woodworth

W
eed and Beker moved through a poor black neighborhood just a mile or so from the arena, returning to the jail where the brotherhood had been assigned rooms formerly used by the prison’s guards. Called the Parramore Historic District, it was specifically developed in the 1880’s by then mayor James Parramore “to house the blacks employed in the households of white Orlandoans.”[

While some of the homes had been gentrified, most of the homes they were passing had already been in disrepair. Now, having been abandoned in the early days of the blackout, their appearance could only be described as one step above a shanty. Front doors were left open and more windows were shattered than not. Cars, bicycles and all forms of trash were scattered throughout the yards they were passing, giving the impression that the residents had been quickly whisked away. Peeling paint, a problem due to the intense Florida sun, and missing shutters on once-dignified homes, presented a dystopian vision of a more gracious bygone era. This part of town could easily have been mistaken for a slum in any war-torn city. He had studied about Bosnia and Sarajevo in his history class, but there was a difference; those Eastern European towns had the pockmarks of battle. In Sarajevo, chunks of buildings had been ripped from their frames by small arms fire and explosions, and there was none of that here.

As they carefully picked their way through the detritus left by the fleeing residents, it finally came to Beker where he had seen such a similar situation: Chernobyl after the nuclear meltdown. The entire city had quickly been abandoned; and pictures of the town, to this day, show an empty city that died quickly and with no mercy. That was Orlando, at least where they presently stood.

The two men stopped their advance as they saw a large collection of cars pushed together on the road ahead. Several vans had been placed across the street, and the sidewalks nearby were piled with furniture and appliances. The result of the placement of all the cars and other large items was to create a funnel with the vans serving as a blockade.

“Hey Beker,” Weed whispered as they crouched behind a large Formosa Azalea. “Don’t like that pile of cars up there.”

“Yeah,” Beker replied. “Looks like it’s a trap.”

“I don’t hear anyone up there,” Weed shot back. “Ain’t no one movin’ that I can see.”

“I don’t want to take any chances,” Beker replied. “Let’s go back and around. I’d rather be safe.”

“Me neither! Don’t want any niggers getting us now that we’re so close to getting back.” Weed hissed as he displayed the Beretta.

Using it as a pointing stick, the skinny little man looked like he could barely hold the large pistol in front of him. Of indeterminate age, he was sinewy and almost too thin in a diseased sort of way. His teeth and breath spoke of a lack of basic hygiene that was reflected in his body odor. When he smiled, he only showed his brown-stained lower front teeth. Beker was pretty sure his upper teeth had been lost years before, given that he never saw one in the man’s foul mouth.

Weed’s name was appropriate. Since DHS had shown up, he had been high on pot more than he had been sober. His days consisted of smoking ganja and cigarettes while pulling shots from the bottles of cheap whiskey provided by their new government “friends.”

“Man, put that thing away,” Beker whispered. “And don’t aim it at me!”

Weed was playing with the handgun all the time. If he wasn’t pointing with it, he was using as a stick to prod and poke piles of junk they ran across. With the neighborhood being so impoverished to begin with, nothing had caught the thin man’s attention, although it wasn’t for lack of trying. He was constantly scratching himself with the gun’s front sight and using it to lift anything that needed to be pushed away in his fruitless, but never-ending search for something worth stealing.

“Don’t worry, youngin’” Weed said as he stopped to go through yet another pile of clothing. “I got the safety on. Ol’ Weed ain’t no fool!”

Yeah, right!
Beker thought.

They backtracked and moved south, crossing several streets before resuming their westerly journey. The last thing they wanted was to run into whoever was manning the makeshift barrier. A few blocks down, they found a large, chain-link, fenced field. A sign posted at the gate read:
OUC Property. No Trespassing.
It was an urban field covered by the Orlando Utilities Commission’s equipment. Called a lay-down yard, it was a holding area for the power company’s electric line components.

The gate had been left open, which was too much for Weed to pass up.

“Come on,” Weed said with a grin. “Let’s go huntin’ for some treasure. I heard that them boxes and transformers have gold and platinum in ‘em”

Before Beker could even reply, the gangly man started jogging through the gate.

The area was a salvager’s dream come true. The utility park was a collection of all the equipment and supplies needed to keep the electric grid up and running. A metal warehouse stood at the back of the yard, large enough for a truck or two to be stored inside, while to its side was a mound of 40 to 80-foot-long poles. The treated southern pine logs were stacked on top of each other like a gigantic pile of toothpicks. The yard had a patchwork of dirt lanes wide enough for the trucks needed to pick up and transport the massive electronics to get by. Large metal cans with electrodes were stacked on pallets in a haphazard pattern at the front of the yard. Some of the supplies were newly placed, while others had grass and milkweed intertwined within their workings. Dust and bird droppings coated some of the piles of metal and wire, while other stacks of equipment brightly reflected the rays of the setting sun.

Weed ran amongst the workings like a child attacking their presents under the Christmas tree. The two of them made their way to the garage in the back of the yard, passing gleaming stacks of machinery. The door to the garage was held in check with a clasped Master Lock. Weed found a metal bar amongst the garbage scattered nearby, and pried the hinge and lock off the building. The doors slid sideways into recessed pockets, letting the evening light filter into the cavernous space.

Weed let out a disappointed sigh when he discovered nothing inside other than some truck and automobile maintenance equipment and supplies. Cans of brake and transmission fluid were stacked on rusting metal shelving along with motor oil and some boxes of decomposing hardware.

Weed, undeterred by his efforts, moved back to the dusty road where Beker stood.

“Dude,” Beker said. “Let’s get going. It’s going to be dark in less than an hour and I want to get back to Taurus.”

“Just keep your britches on,” Weed replied. “Won’t take but another minute to check them piles.”

Weed began to pull parts and wires from a pallet nearby. He used his Beretta like a garden trowel, pushing aside some of the material to search underneath the surface of the stack.

He turned his attention to one of the rows of cylinders heaped in a square section of the yard. A collection of large metal twenty-foot-wide brackets containing three flat, rectangular boxes bolted to the bracket’s frame were laid on their sides. From the top of each of the three boxes jutted three more large electrodes. They looked like something from an old Frankenstein movie. Beker half expected to see electric arcs dancing in the air between their tips.

“Be careful, Weed!” Beker admonished his companion.

“Easy boy,” the gangbanger replied with a smirk. “AIn’t been no power for over a week.”

The thin man pushed at the stack, ducking his head under and around the alien looking contraption.

“Ain’t nothin’ here!” He finally said. “You see anything like a place for gold or platinum wires?”

Beker moved closer, studying the three boxes. Examining the electrodes, he was looking for a service panel or something that might hold his white brother’s treasure.

Beker looked at the electrodes jutting up from the casings and noticed a plastic cap covering their tips.

“Look there,” Beker stated, pointing to the cap that covered the tip of the contraption. The boy stood up and moved back a few feet to let Weed move into position.

“Well, look at that!” Weed exclaimed. “Now why would they cover that! Bet there’s somethin’ under there worth protectin’”

Weed leaned down and grabbed the metal frame with his right hand, and with his left hand, he stretched out and used the Beretta to lift the cap off the top of the rod.

A momentary flash of light, brighter than the sun, blinded the young man. That was the last thing Beker remembered until he awoke a minute later, flat on his back and thirty feet away from where he had last stood.

He rolled to his side, his mouth filled with the acidic tang of gunpowder. The hair on his body stood stiff and his skin tingled with electricity.

“Weed!” Beker called out as he struggled to his feet.

The boy caught his breath, rubbing his face and smacking his lips as he tried to get the metal tang from his mouth. It tasted like he had just chewed on a piece aluminum foil. He bent over and spit.

That’s when he noticed the smell of scorched flesh, and in a panic he began to examine himself, searching for burns. The hair on his hands and arms had been singed. He felt his body and mentally searched for pain or numbness. Thankfully, he felt neither.

He looked at the dirt and grass around the cylinders they had been examining and saw that a small grass fire had started.

“WEED!” Beker called out in alarm.

Beker turned and searched the yard nearby. Within a few seconds, he found the gangly man.

Almost sixty feet away from the explosion, Weed’s body lay against an adjoining stack of equipment, his body aflame. Beker ran to his fallen comrade and began to throw handfuls of dirt on the burning denim pants and cotton shirt. However, after a second glance at the body, Beker quickly gave up.

Weed’s right hand had been blown open, like a bomb had gone off in his wrist. The hand was split nearly in two. His eyes had bulged out of their sockets and his feet were smoldering and shredded.

Weed’s left hand still held the metal gun. Beker squatted down next to the dead man and examined the weapon. The end of the pistol had melted, its barrel and frame deformed. Beker tugged at the handgun and it came loose, along with most of the seared flesh from Weed’s hand still attached.

Beker quickly dropped the mangled pistol and stumbled out of the yard.
How had this happened? There’s no power, but Weed had just been electrocuted!
Beker thought. At that point, all of the day’s events finally came crashing down on the exhausted young man. Having witnessed the death of the gang at the roadblock, narrowly avoiding capture in the parking lot by DHS and now witnessing Weed’s death and barely avoiding his own, Beker’s only thought was to return to the jail. Back to the safety of Taurus and his Aryan brethren. With the fading light of the setting sun in his face, and a burning friend lying in the dirt behind him, Beker staggered westward. The only good thing to come out of the day was that it had finally come to an end.

Chapter 6

“A government is an association of men, who do violence to the rest of us
”

— Leo Tolstoy

T
he next morning, newly appointed DHS agent John Drosky slowly woke from the best sleep he had experienced in over a week. With a functional air conditioner and ceiling fan, he barely remembered closing his eyes before the brightening morning sunlight filtered into his north-facing bedroom. His alarm on the officially issued wind-up alarm clock had yet to go off, so he lay there thinking about yesterday’s events.

The evening before, after checking into the DHS tower apartment building and making his bed with some supplied sheets and blankets, he had returned to the lobby where there was a converted office down one of the hallways containing some officially sanctioned civilian clothing. Three sets of Khaki 5.11 tactical pants with black polo shirt sporting the DHS logo were issued. A six-pack of boxer underwear, work-out short and t-shirts along with a half dozen beige socks were added; and it all went into his newly allotted Maxpedition 3-day assault pack. A netted laundry sack was given to him since daily laundry service was provided.

An annex off of the right side of the clothing-filled room contained New Balance cross-trainers and Wolverine work boots along with a bin of white athletic socks. John quickly found the size 11 footwear, and grabbed a set of each along with several pair of the white shin-high socks. John returned to his apartment and deposited his newly issued treasures on the kitchen table. He took the “recycle bin” first issued when he was assigned his room back downstairs and entered another converted area off the lobby. This one was a commissary where he filled his plastic container with toiletries, over-the-counter pain relievers, antacids and cold medicines. He was amused to see that the standard male-issued supplies also included condoms
. I guess that’s a practical item since no one wants to deal with a pregnancy during this crisis,
he thought.

John grabbed a six-pack of vitamin water and four half-gallons of Gatorade. Some protein bars and packages of nuts rounded off his stash of goodies along with a box of Keebler’s Chocolate Chip Cookies. The only disappointment was a lack of dairy products. John kept himself in top physical condition, a byproduct of eight years in the Corps. With their main meals provided in a public mess hall, he would have to be smart about what he ate and how much. Cafeteria food was notoriously high in calories, being full of carbs and fats. These items were just meant to supplement his diet and not to replace meals.

All things considered
, he thought,
I can’t complain
.

He took his bin and waited in line. There was no money to change hands, but an accounting of his choices was catalogued. John figured that they had to keep up with inventory as he observed someone ahead of him move to the register. He watched as a clerk used the bar code scanner which quickly stored the information in yet another laptop connected to the wall.

As he was standing in line, he looked about at the contents of the other agents’ bins. Some had picked similar items, but most had filled their containers with junk food and booze. John had been a bit surprised to find a shelf of hard liquor along one wall. Many of his fellow agents had multiple large two-quart bottles of bourbon, vodka and rum along with mixers packed into their 3’x 2’ crates. It was almost humorous to watch them struggle with the weight of their boxes while they waited in line. John mentally pictured these people standing in three feet of water, and It brought back memories of the pictures of looters after the New Orleans hurricane, slogging through the flood waters with their stolen goods.

While standing in line, John heard a muffled cheer coming from the lobby. Within a few seconds, an excited agent burst into the commissary and announced that the water supply to the building had been restored.

When he finally got back to his apartment, his first act was to turn on the shower. The water came out cold at first, and the stream was only a trickle.
Everyone must be hitting the showers!
John thought.

He turned off the shower and spent the rest of the evening putting things away and exploring the floors above and below. On the floor above, John found a common area with a bunch of agents lounging about, most drinking from plastic cups and grabbing fistfuls of pretzels from several large bowls.

“Johnny boy!” one of the men yelled.

John watched as Travis Nixon stood up from the couch and rapidly approached. The agent, a former SWAT sniper, grabbed John in a bear hug and lifted him into the air.

“My man! I thought you had bought the farm. No one had seen or heard from you for days! What the hell happened?”

Travis began carrying John back to the couch where three other semi-drunk men sat laughing.

Typical Travis
, John thought.
Always trying to one-up everyone. Always the Alpha male
.
Best not to get off on the wrong foot by popping him in the nose for being his usual douche-bag self
.

The big man deposited John on the couch, dropping him rather unceremoniously onto the cushions.

“I’m fine, Travis! Just took me some time to make it back.” John replied as he straightened himself up.

“Always a survivor, eh John?”

Travis dropped back on the sofa as well and swallowed a half cup of whatever concoction he was drinking. From the man’s slightly slurred speech to his marginally uncoordinated movements, the cup was undoubtedly filled with a rather stiff drink.

“Got out of the sandbox in one piece and never once had to fire your weapon in the line of duty with the OPD!” Travis said with a bit of contempt.

The big man had always been an asshole as far as John was concerned. He had been involved in some questionable shooting incidents including the accidental death of a female hostage who was in the hands of her ex-husband. Although cleared of any wrong doing by Internal Affairs, it was well known that he was a hot-head who never admitted when he was wrong. A transfer from Atlanta, he had only been with OPD for a couple of years, yet had already found himself investigated twice for excessive or inappropriate use of force. Seeing Travis’ attitude since he had first arrived convinced John that his transfer from Atlanta was likely encouraged by his former brothers in blue.

Travis was SWAT because of his prior military experience, but being ex-military didn’t mean you were the salt of the earth! During John’s time in the Corps, he knew that not all his fellow Marines were cut from the same cloth. Most were honorable people who made good and loyal brothers-in-arms. But some of the new recruits were dregs or undesirables who snuck past selection. They were usually rooted out after their first three-year hitch. Travis was one of those three-year enlistees. Having joined the Army after high school, he left after his thirty-six-month commitment. During that time, he had never seen combat, but strutted about OPD as if he had won the Medal of Honor. In many ways, John’s years in the Marines were a reminder to Travis that his Army stint wasn’t all that heroic. John was a threat to his false bravado. All things being equal, Travis was not someone John cared to associate himself with.

Yet, here I am,
John thought,
sitting in a 40-story high rise, surrounded by chaos and a struggling country, getting chummy with a man I would have preferred to never see again
.

“So what does DHS have you doing?” John asked.

“Hey, whatever they want, my man!” The drunk agent replied. “With all the booze I want and all the bullets I need, they can send me to hell and back. My only question will be when do I leave and who do I kill!”

The four men laughed and chortled, gulping their drinks with gusto.

“Hey guys,” John said. “Good to see you but I have to get a shower. I just got in and I have a ton of stuff to put together tonight.”

“I thought you smelled ripe, Johnny boy!” Travis sneered. “I’d say you smelled like shit, but that’s how you always smelled, you dumb Pollock!”

The four drunks roared with laughter at the big oaf’s comment.

“Yeah,” John said as he stood to exit the room. “I’ve smelled worse than this. Like when I was in Fallujah going door to door for six weeks. Hard to shower when Al Qaeda was punching back at you with RPGs and AKs. A real pisser that was.”

Travis’ face began to contort with rage.

“But I’m sure you know all about that,” John said over his shoulder as he left the room.

What a dick!
John thought as he strode back to his room.

He went into the apartment’s bathroom and checked the water pressure. Within less than a minute, the shower head blasted out a heavy stream of hot water. John quickly stripped off his clothing and jumped in. Not knowing how long the pressure and temperature would last, he did a quick lather and rinse. Once the grime was scrubbed away, he allowed the steamy jet to drench his body, soaking away the memories of the past week. Finally, he dried himself off and put on some sleeping shorts and a t-shirt. The last thing John remembered that night was his head hitting the down-filled pillow thinking that everything was going to be alright.

Now, morning had broken and John had a job to do. After breakfast, Agent Drosky walked to DHS headquarters to start his first day with his new partner, former Ocoee police officer, agent Dixon Bruner. “Hello Agent Bruner,” John said as the men shook hands. “Ready to save the world?”

“Always, Agent Drosky.” He replied. “Just check out this fancy Batman belt they gave me!” As he jutted out his stomach to show off his new black battle belt. Both men were issued a battle belt with three pouches on their left side each holding an M4 magazine, while the service pistol with a spare 17-round magazine was strapped to the right hip. Each man was issued ceramic bulletproof plates and a black plate carrier, as well as a matching Kevlar helmet with a radio mic attached. They picked up their assigned radios and stuffed them into a pouch on their shoulders, attaching the cord to the mics. A brief radio check confirmed they were on the same channel. Their clipboard gave them the day’s communication frequency as well as their assigned A.O.

“Drosky! Bruner!” Their lieutenant yelled from down the hall. “Hold on for a second. We have a call from the Utility Restoration Group about a dead man in one of their lay-down yards. Stay put, I’ll be back with the address.”

“You mean real police work, L.T.?” Drosky sarcastically asked.

“Yeah, would you believe it? It wouldn’t even be on the radar except for the fact that the man was electrocuted.”

“So?” Bruner shot back.

“So… Rook. Where did he get the electricity? Seen the city lately, smartass?” The lieutenant hissed.

Drosky looked down and chuckled as his young partner took the dress-down.
When will they learn?
He thought.
Never be seen or heard. It only creates trouble
.

After a moment, the lieutenant returned with an address and instructions.

“Brass wants to know how someone was electrocuted in a yard with no electricity. Bring back a report before you head out on your assigned beat.”

“Yes, Lieutenant!” John replied. “Whom do we bring it to?”

“Bring it directly to me and I will pass it along. Got that, agents?”

“Copy that, Lieutenant,” they both replied.

They pivoted and left the building, going to their assigned vehicle, an Oshkosh M-ATV. An ugly beast with a 7.2 liter inline-6 Caterpillar C7 turbodiesel. If a dune buggy had mated with an MRAP, its offspring would be the M-ATV. Able to carry four soldiers in a mine resistant armored car, the vehicle wouldn’t win any beauty awards. But to John, who had used one during his deployment in the war on terror, it was a treasure he couldn’t have hoped for just a day ago. Bullet-proof and able to go over or through anything they may come across, it was a safe haven in a world of chaos. John was glad to have it.

They had been trained on the vehicle’s startup procedure and soon they had the heavy beast moving down Hughey Avenue, heading for the lay-down yard less than a mile away.

“Well, Drosky. This thing won’t win any awards for speed,” Bruner said as John negotiated the oversized buggy around the multitude of stalled cars.

“Zero to 60 in thirty seconds!” Drosky replied with a smirk.

“It won’t win any awards but it’ll save your ass in a firefight!” He continued. “It’ll take a lot more than any of the criminals around here have to make a dent in this baby.”

“I suppose.” The young man replied. “And call me Bru,” he said. “You know, sounds like a beer?”

“You got it!” Drosky replied. “Call me John.

“And speaking of beer,” Drosky continued. “I’ll buy tonight.”

“Thanks partner,” Bru replied. “Such a big spender. Sure you can afford it on your DHS salary?”

Both men smiled, John staring out at the hovels they were passing by. So far, he was liking his new partner. Dixon Bruner didn’t seem to have any airs about him. Young and eager, John could see a little of himself a decade and a half ago.

Soon they pulled into the OUC yard and found a group of men gathered near the back. The two agents hopped down from their vehicle and walked over to the assembled group.

“Who called it in?” John asked.

“I did,” came a tentative reply.

A middle-aged man, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved cotton shirt stepped forward. Wearing his safety yellow helmet and sunglasses, he removed his leather gloves and stuck out his hand.

“Michael Parkway,” he said shaking John and Bru’s hand. The agents replied in kind and John turned to his junior partner.

“Get out your notebook,” John said. “Take notes while we go through the crime scene.”

John turned to Parkway and the three of them approached Weed’s body.

“So, what happened?” John asked. “How did this man get electrocuted in a city with no electricity?”

“Well, that’s a good question. If you come over here,” Parkway pointed to the cylinders where the explosion had taken place, “you can see where the source of electricity came from.”

John and Bru approached the area where Weed had met his fate. A grass fire had burned itself out, leaving a burnt ebony scar around the metal containers. A black scorch mark on the gleaming boxes showed them where the surge originated.

Bruner began to reach into the metal frame when Parkway violently grabbed his hand.

“WOAH THERE, PARTNER!” He shouted. “You don’t want to do that!”

Bru backed away from the apparatus, and looked questioningly at the utility worker.

“But there aren’t any lines going into the mechanism that I can see.”

“There aren’t any,” Parkway stated. “And there never was.”

“Well just how did they get charged? How did that contraption electrocute that man?”

“That contraption is a G.E. Utility Capacitor.”

“Looks like a transformer,” Bru chimed in.

“They do,” Parkway replied. “But they do completely different jobs.”

The utility lineman walked to the stack of capacitors and pointed to the leads coming off the top.

“There are two basic mechanisms we put on the utility poles. Transformers and capacitors. A transformer does just what it sounds like it should. It transforms the high voltages running through the electric wires into the 120-volt current that is piped to the end users.”

“How much voltage do the electric wires carry?”

“The average line runs about 7200 volts. So the transformer has to step that down to a steady 120 volts that you get at your outlets. But the overhead lines don’t run a constant voltage. During parts of the day, there is excess voltage in the system and that’s where the capacitor comes in. A capacitor is an energy sink or reservoir. It absorbs excess voltage when the demand is down and gives it back to the system when the demand exceeds the supply in the line. Essentially, a capacitor serves the same purpose as a storage tank in a water system. It allows for a constant voltage like a water reservoir helps maintain constant water pressure.”