HOMELAND: Falling Down (Part 1 of the HOMELAND Series) Page 10

“Chaz!” Eduardo ran to him. “I need a ride.”

  “Sorry. No room.”

  “Two friends and I just need a ride off of Manhattan. We can pile in the back seat.”

  Chaz slammed the trunk shut. “Back seat’s full.”

  Eduardo looked in the car window. Chaz’s wife waited in the passenger seat. The back seat was completely empty.

  “Please! You can kick us out as soon as we cross the bridge,” Eduardo implored.

  A crash sounded somewhere nearby.

  “Good luck.” Chaz said as he ducked into the car and sped off.

  “C’mon, man!”

  Eduardo watched the tail lights disappear around a corner two blocks away.

  He started south. The air was heavy with smoke. The gray haze burned his eyes and clawed at his throat. He jogged to the corner and took a right. Halfway down the block, a diner with smashed windows came into view. The sign above it read ‘Monk’s.’ There was no sign of Sam. He picked up his pace.

  More gunshots rang out. They were close. Screeching tires and a blood chilling scream echoed down the street.

  Tires squealed. Eduardo turned to see a luxury sedan appear from a side street, coming his way.

  He recognized the car and waved his arms. “Chaz!”

  The vehicle pulled closer. It wasn’t Chaz. Two rough looking young men sat behind a bullet riddled windshield.

  The car slowed. One of the youths called out, “Need a ride?”

  “No thanks!” Eduardo eased back.

  The sedan kept coming. “C’mon, we got plenty of room.”

  A woman sprang up from the back seat. “Help! Help me! Please!”

  It was Chaz’s wife, her face smeared with blood. A third man shoved her head down with a punch to the face and climbed back on top of her. Her screams pierced Eduardo to his core.

  He barely saw the pistol in time, leaping behind an abandoned news stand as bullets tore through his previous location.

  Eduardo scanned his surroundings for an escape route, seeing nothing but shuttered storefronts. Monk’s was still thirty feet away, but it was his only chance. He bolted from cover toward the diner’s broken window. Bullets cracked against the concrete around him as he ran, following him into the window as he leapt through.

  He scurried past upturned tables behind the counter to the kitchen. He hid behind the deep fryer as he heard the car stop outside the diner. Footsteps crunched across broken glass on the sidewalk outside.

  “See him?” A voice asked.

  “Nah. Let’s go.”

  Once again the sound of glass underfoot, then the thunk of car doors and they were gone in search of easier prey.

  “Bad neighborhood,” said a voice from near the kitchen sink. Eduardo pulled the steak knife and whipped around to face it.

  “Sam!”

  “Nice to see you too,” Sam said. He held a wad of paper towels over his biceps, trying to stem the flow of blood running down the limb.

  “Were you shot?”

  Sam shook his head. “Nah. Cut my arm climbing through that damn window on the way in here.”

  “Let me see.”

  Sam removed the blood-soaked towels to reveal an ugly, jagged gash across his arm.

  “You need stitches.” Eduardo found a first aid kit fixed to the wall a few feet away. He emptied it onto a counter. “This’ll have to do for now.” He cleaned Sam’s wound with alcohol and iodine, then bound it snuggly with a large sterile bandage. The rest of the aid kit went into his trusty pack.

  They crept the rest of the way to Angie’s building, darting from one hiding place to another in the cluttered streets. The smoke was thicker here. An ambient glow told them the fires were nearly on top of them. Eduardo grabbed the scarf from his pack, wet it and tied it around his face, covering his nose and mouth as he had in Zuccotti Park. Sam removed his undershirt and did the same. It was little help. They still coughed and choked as they closed on their goal.

  A trio of looters sprang from the trash-strewn lobby as Sam and Eduardo entered, nearly knocking them down as they passed.

  “What floor is she on?” Sam asked.

  “Thirty-fifth.”

  “Shit.”

  They trudged up the dark stairs. The emergency lights didn’t work here. Neither did the heat. Open doors and broken windows on some floor sent a cold draft droning through the corridor, chilling steel and concrete, sucking the warmth from their flesh as they climbed against a steady stream of residents and looters hurrying to the ground level, arms loaded with valuables. At least the smoke thinned as they ascended. A small mercy.

  They emerged onto Angie’s floor.

  “Let’s hope she’s home.”

  They found her door wide open and stepped into her apartment.

  “Angie?”

  No reply.

  The place was torn to pieces. Wind rushed in through a shattered window, blowing her belongings in all directions.

  “Angie!” Eduardo called out, a touch of panic in his voice.

  “Eddie,” Sam said, “Over here.” He tried the bedroom door. “It’s locked.”

  Eddie knocked. “Angie! It’s me, Eddie!”

  “Eddie?”

  “Yeah. We came to get you outta here.”

  “Who’s with you?”

  Eduardo pulled the scarf from his face. “Just Sam. C’mon. Open up. We don’t have much time.”

  There was a sound of something heavy being pushed aside and the lock disengaging. The door opened. Angie peeked out. She had blankets wrapped tightly around her against the cold. “Eddie!” She hugged his neck. “Thank God!”

  “Good to see you too.” Heavy footsteps ran down the hall outside her apartment door. “Put on your warmest clothes and some sturdy shoes. We’re getting out of here.”

  He retrieved a towel from the bathroom and put it under the faucet. No water. He used the last of his opened bottled to wet the cloth and gave it to Angie. “Here. You’ll need it outside.” He asked, “You have a gun?”

  “Of course not.” She pulled a container of mace from her purse. “But I have this.”

  “It’s better than nothing. Keep it in your pocket. Do you have a back pack?”

  “No.”

  “Gym bag?”

  “Yes.” She reached in her closet and pulled out a black nylon shoulder bag. “It’s for my fitness gear.”

  He grabbed the bag, dumped its contents on the floor, and handed it back to Angie. “Fill it with food, water, and an extra pair of walking shoes.”

  She hurried to the kitchen and collected all the food and bottled water she could carry.

  Sam looked out the window and said, “Eddie. We got problems,” as if they didn’t already have enough.

  Eduardo looked onto the streets below. The neighboring block was on fire. A flood of people poured away from the inferno. Some lay still on the cold asphalt. There were others, lurking at the fringes of the flow, robbing, killing, and raping at will like jackals bringing down antelopes at the edge of the herd. His stomach turned at the sight.

  As Eduardo considered their options, a scream sounded from the hallway. He turned, ashen faced, to Angie and Sam. “Block the door.”

  7

  COLE

  Fort Campbell, Kentucky

  Cole scanned the parade field, wondering what the hell was going on. The battalion was formed and waiting to be called to attention, but Colonel Lee was missing. A stranger in a black tactical uniform stood in his place.

  The newcomer walked over to Captain Prescott, Cole’s company commander, and whispered something to him. As the man turned, Cole saw the letters ‘D.H.S.’ stitched in big bright yellow letters across the stranger’s back. He also saw something else. Something in Prescott’s eyes. It was fear.

  Prescott called out, “Lieutenant Young. Post.”

  Cole’s platoon leader double-timed to his captain and saluted.

  “You are now in command,” the captain said to the junior officer then followed the stranger to
the head of the battalion where Colonel Lee usually stood.

  Cole moved to fill the vacancy in front of the platoon. It was his now—Cole’s second promotion in as many days.

  Captain Prescott barked, “Battalion! AttennnShun!”

  The formation snapped to attention. The captain nodded to the black-clad man who stepped forward and addressed the battalion.

  “Good morning. I am Special Agent Piven, liaison of the Department of Homeland Security. As you know, our homeland is under attack. Terrorists and traitors are everywhere. As unbelievable as it sounds, we have even uncovered seditious plots in our own military. These turncoats have infected every part of the armed services including your own chain of command. Several high ranking officers of this division have sympathized, associated with, or assisted right-wing extremist groups. Sadly, your former commander, Lieutenant Colonel Kwan Lee is one of them.

  The formation erupted in disbelief. Piven glanced at Prescott.

  The captain yelled, “At ease!”

  The men quieted and Piven continued. “Captain Prescott is now your acting commander. Anyone with information as to Colonel Lee’s whereabouts will report to me immediately. Anyone withholding such information is guilty of aiding a known terrorist and will be treated as a terrorist.”

  Piven let his words sink in before continuing. “As I said, extremists and traitors are everywhere. My job is to root them out. And I will stop at nothing to execute this task. Other agents are now doing the same in every military command from corps level down. The entire chain of command from platoon sergeant up will report to the battalion conference room immediately after this formation for a briefing and evaluation. This includes both commissioned and non-commissioned officers. Your attendance is mandatory. All personnel are restricted to the battalion area until further notice. That is all.”

  Prescott ordered, “Fall Out!”

  The men milled around in confusion, wondering what just happened.

  Cole gathered his men. “You guys keep your heads down. Something tells me this isn’t the time to draw attention.”

  Hicks asked, “What’s going on, Sarge?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe we’ll know more after the meeting.” He pointed at Sergeant Reyes. “You are now the platoon sergeant. You’ll have to come too. The rest of you report back to your quarters and stay there.”

  Cole sat in the conference room with the rest of the battalion leadership five minutes later. The men exchanged nervous looks, but none dared speak.

  The dim fluorescent lights in the room flickered and hummed, fighting to stay alight. The base’s old power plant had been pressed back into service after the blackout. The overburdened facility provided limited electricity to buildings inside the wire as blinking lights struggled to squeeze every drop of energy from their meager ration.

  Agent Piven entered the room, striding confidently to the front of the group. “At the stroke of midnight eastern time this past Tuesday, the national power grid experienced a cyber-attack of a severity and complexity that was previously thought impossible. The entire country was plunged into darkness and will remain there for the foreseeable future.” He glanced up at the struggling lights. “Currently, little is known about the nature of the attack other than that it originated somewhere in Nashville and was conducted by the American Constitutional Front. That’s all I can say until each of you is vetted. That process begins now. We will call you, one by one, to the battalion commander’s office to be interviewed. Do not leave this room until ordered to do so.”

  Piven pointed to armed men standing by the exits. Each wore the same black D.H.S. uniform as Piven, but with no names on their chests.

  “They will make sure you don’t.”

  Piven left the conference room. The metal door slammed behind him, echoing in the silence of the gathered men.

  Morning drifted into afternoon and afternoon faded to twilight as Cole waited his turn.

  Reyes’ name was called sometime in the late afternoon.

  “Good luck.” Cole whispered.

  “Thanks. You too.”

  Several more hours went by as the number of men waiting in the room whittled down one by one.

  Cole walked to the door leading into battalion headquarters and said to the guard, “I gotta take a leak.”

  “Hold it,” the stone faced guard replied.

  “C’mon, man. I’ve been stuck in this room for ten hours.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “Either you let me out or I’ll piss in the damn floor.”

  The sentry smirked. “Do what you gotta do.”

  Son of a bitch.

  Cole fought the urge to piss on the guard’s leg.

  “Sexton!” another nameless D.H.S. agent shouted from the doorway. Not ‘Sergeant Sexton.’ Just ‘Sexton.’

  He glanced down and said to Cole, “Follow me.”

  The door guard glared at Cole as he passed.

  The agent led Cole to the interview room, waved him inside, and shut the door behind him.

  The room was dark. The lights here were just as feeble as those in the rest of the building.

  This had been Colonel Lee’s office, but all vestiges of the former commander were gone. Photos, awards, knickknacks. Gone. A new name plaque which read, ‘Special Agent C. Piven’ now graced Lee’s desk—the one Piven now sat smugly behind. A nine-millimeter pistol rested on the surface inches from his resting hand.

  “Sergeant Sexton,” he said with a smile when Cole entered the room. “Thanks for coming.”

  “I didn’t have a choice.” Cole took the seat across the desk, hoping to get the ‘interview’ over with as quickly as possible.

  “I’m sorry about all this, but these are dangerous times. We have to know who we can trust.” He opened a mini-fridge behind the desk. It was full of icy sodas and bottled water. “You must be thirsty. Can I offer you a drink?”

  “Water, thanks.”

  Piven handed Cole the cool beverage. “You’ve been in a few years now.”

  “Seven.”

  “With four combat tours along the way.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Tell me, what makes a philosophy major join the Army?”

  Cole shrugged. “It pays better than philosophy.”

  “I guess it does.” Piven laughed. “You don’t have any political affiliation. You don’t go to church. Your parents live only five hours east of here, yet you rarely visit them. You have no friends to speak of. You don’t call anyone.” Piven spoke from memory. No notes. Cole wasn’t sure what to think about that. “You rarely text. Your last email was weeks ago and not worth reading. You’re not even on social media. You’re a philosopher with nothing to say. Odd, don’t you think?”

  “You read my email?”

  “There’s no such thing as privacy anymore, Sergeant. But, if you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear.” Piven got another water from the fridge and took a swig. “How many people have you killed?”

  “I try not to think about it.”

  “Does that question bother you?”

  “No.”

  “It’s okay. We have to do things in war sometimes. Things that are tough to think about after, but necessary. The incident at the hospital for example. I was sorry to hear about Sergeant Crowe. I understand he was a good man.”

  “The best.”

  “You killed the man that shot him.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He had a hostage. You opened fire, killing both him and the hostage. You made a tough decision. According to your file, it’s not the first time.”

  “I’m not a murderer.”

  “But you are a killer.”

  “I’m a soldier.”

  “Fair enough, but I think we both agree that you’ve had to make some tough choices during your time in uniform.”

  “It’s part of the job.”

  “You will be called upon to make even tougher choices in the coming days. Like I said, these are dangero
us times. It’s hard to tell who the enemy is. Anyone could be a traitor.”

  “Like who?”

  “Right-wing radicals mostly. Constitutionalists, veterans, evangelical Christians, libertarians, preppers, bourgeoisie types.”

  “Bourgeoisie?” Cole almost laughed at the term. “You just described half the country.”

  “It only took a few to bring us to our knees. Small domestic terror cells decapitated our government and took down the power grid. You’ll have to root out these fanatics, disarm them, and kill them if need be.”

  “What about Posse Comitatus? It’s illegal to use the military against civilians.”

  “As I said, Sergeant, these are desperate times. They call for desperate measures.”

  “You’re talking about killing American citizens.”

  “I’m talking about arresting traitors. You took an oath to defend this country against enemies both foreign and domestic. It has to be done. The sooner the better. The country is tearing itself apart out there. You saw it. We need patriots to step up and make it right. Can I count on you to do that? Can your country count on you?”

  “How do we know who the bad guys are?”

  “Leave that to me.”

  Cole took a deep breath, trying to calm his unease and hide his disgust. He knew Piven was full of it. This was against his oath and the Constitution, but Cole knew saying that would land him on the enemies list.

  “Well?” Piven’s fingers tapped impatiently next to the pistol on the desk.

  Cole decided discretion to be best course of action—for now. He nodded. “Enemies foreign and domestic.”

  Piven smiled. “I knew we could count on you.”

  8

  EDUARDO

  Eduardo peered out the window of Angie’s darkened apartment. The smoke-blanketed streets below were clogged with abandoned vehicles. The lights of two derelict police cars flashed mutely in the murk as the icy moon looked down from its celestial perch. The flood of humanity was now a trickle, small groups making their way north. Always north. Fires still raged across the city, casting the world in an orange glow. Dark shapes slithered in the haze at the edge of seeing. Screams of unseen victims below rose from the soot and echoed into the apartment through the broken window.