Boxer’s occupants were some of the last to join the “festivities,” and when Wyatt mounted the ramp leading to the parking lot, a hush fell over the crowd. Conscious of the abrupt silence, Wyatt glanced around and inquired, “What? Did I say something wrong?”
The joke was flat, but managed to break the ice somewhat. One of Morgan’s friends, a kind soul named Marion, owned the vessel
Tilley’s Girl
with her husband Jim. Showing her typical grace, the woman approached, first touching Morgan’s shoulder while addressing Wyatt. “Are you guys doing okay?”
“We’re fine, thank you for asking.” Wyatt replied.
Everyone continued to stare, as if waiting for guidance. Marion continued, “Wyatt, what are we going to do? Jim and I couldn’t get back to sleep last night…I don’t think anyone did. What are we going to do, Wyatt?”
The first thought that went through Wyatt’s mind was
“
Who elected me boss?”
These people didn’t realize his previous leadership had cost a lot of people their jobs. He threw a helpless expression at Morgan who reassured him with a smile. David seemed to sense his father’s hesitation, moving closer to his father’s side.
“I
don’t know what going to happen folks.” Wyatt said at a slightly raised volume. “I’m as surprised as anyone how quickly this has gotten out of hand.”
Everyone began talking at once, many of the responses aimed at Wyatt. He let it go for almost two minutes, politely nodding here and
there; responding only when someone’s tone of voice made it clear the speaker wanted his attention. It was all too much for his sleep-deprived brain, causing him to become frustrated. He held up his hands and shouted, “Please…please…one at a time…please!”
An uncomfortable hush fell over the group. Wyatt waited a moment and said, “Why don’t we go in order of pier number, and everyone can speak their piece?”
There then ensued some confusion over where to start. Boxer was on pier two, so it was decided to start there.
Great
, thought Wyatt,
just great
.
“My instinct is to run away.” Wyatt’s blunt opening raising more than one eyebrow. “I’m not sure how to do that, but honestly that’s what I’m feeling this morning. We are maintaining a reasonable existence here, but it won’t last. Eventually, our food and fuel is going to run out, and we will end up like those people over there.”
Wyatt’s arm swept in a semi-circle, indicating the neighborhoods surrounding three sides of the marina.
He continued, “I don’t see any way we can defend ourselves. There just aren’t enough of us to maintain a vigilant watch and keep up with the work required around here. Those men last night were chased off with a few shots. The next time it will take more than that. The next time, they might decide to shoot first. It’s only logical to assume that as time goes on, they and others like them, will become more desperate…more willing to take risks…more aggressive.”
Wyatt surveyed the faces in the crowd, realizing they were hanging on his every word. Most of the expressions conveyed agreement with Wyatt’s position, one man even flashing a thumbs-up sign of endorsement. Despite the strong opening, Wyatt was out of gas. Uncertain of what to say next, he decided to go with his gut.
Now comes the bad part
, he thought.
“I don’t have the answer. I wish I did, but right now, I’m just as concerned as all of you. Last night, all I wanted to do was fire up Boxer’s engines, untie the ropes, and head out of here. The problem with that course of action is we don’t have anywhere to go. Every marina around here is going to have the same problem – maybe worse. We can’t all just untie and go float around Galveston Bay for the rest of our lives.” He hesitated, the brain fog now consuming him. “That’s about all I’ve got to say.”
Several conversations broke out at once. Wyatt listened to the hum of the crowd, noticing the little excerpts that made it through here and there, things like “He’s right,” and “What are we going to do?”
Slowly the gathering quieted down, and folks began taking turns holding the floor. Many passed without speaking, indicating their feelings had already been voiced. Most wanted it known that they were willing to do whatever was needed. Practically everyone wanted to stay together as a group.
When the last person finished speaking, Wyatt sought the closure they all so desperately needed. “Does anyone have anything else to add?” He was surprised when David took a step forward.
“I’m not a boat owner here, and I know most of you still think of me as a kid. I’ve studied at the army’s war college, and I have one thing I want to add – something I think all of us need to consider. My father is absolutely correct – we
cannot
defend this marina. There isn’t enough manpower or firepower to do so. Whatever all of you decide, you need to keep that
fact
in mind. There’s absolutely no way we can hold this ground.”
The reaction to David’s statement ranged from agreement to fear. Wyatt had mixed feelings himself, proud that his son had stepped forward to contribute, and yet unhappy with the timing of his delivery. Wyatt again raised his arm, asking for the floor.
“Folks, none of us have had much shut-eye. I suggest we reconvene this meeting later this evening, one hour before sunset. I suggest everyone try and get some rest and think about how we can fix this problem. All ideas will be considered, and everyone will get to speak.”
The group had been milling around, discussing options for over an hour. The initial excitement was now wearing off, everyone becoming weary of the topic. All quickly agreed with Wyatt’s recommendation and then began to disperse.
As Wyatt’s family headed back to Boxer, it was Sage who sparked an idea. “What we need is our own deserted island.” Her statement caused Wyatt to stop mid-stride and stare at her for a moment. “That’s not a bad idea, Sage. Not bad at all.”
Washington, D.C.
March 1, 2017
Reed peered out the window again, unsure of what else to do. Parting the drawn blinds ever so slightly, he scrutinized what could only be described as the surreal remains of chaos. The scene outside the
window could’ve been Beirut in 1983 or London during the blitz. The once-pristine Georgetown avenue was littered with the debris of conflict, the scraps of war. The Texas congressman sighed, unable to reconcile the waste, and disappointed that nothing had changed.
Everything was still there, exactly the same as the last time he had checked. There sat the burned out postal truck, the police car with the broken windows, and the piles of shattered glass from the corner dry cleaners. Nothing had changed. The bullet holes in the police car looked as though they had rusted a little more, but perhaps that was a trick of light. The carcass of the policeman’s German shepherd looked a little more deflated. Just the sight of the dead animal made his nose crinkle with imagined stench.
The thought of odor prompted him to smell his own armpits, and the results weren’t daisy fresh. If it rained one more time, he might have enough water for a sponge bath. Reed sighed at the thought. That would probably be the biggest decision of his day – bathe…or save the water to drink.
At least the burning and looting had stopped. Several times during those first few nights, he’d seriously questioned the chances of his survival. Hiding in the apartment, he’d observed mobs of angry people parading up and down the street. Some carried homemade torches, others toted armloads of bricks and stones – all of them boiling mad, a lust for violence in their eyes. The rioters set about destroying anything they couldn’t eat. Before the power failed, the D.C. police had made a valiant attempt to maintain order, but they were vastly outnumbered.
The first night, scattered news reports flashed video, featuring lines of officers with riot shields and helmets. Initially, Reed believed the trouble to be just another series of protests that had somehow gotten out of hand. The first hint that something more serious was underway came when the scope of the unrest was reported. Reed had watched with despair as one station used a city map plastered with red lightning bolts, each small icon indicating a problem area. It wasn’t long before the map was completely covered.
Washington’s local news stations began airing footage of tear gas canisters arching into the throngs of citizens. Before long, those attempts to disperse the crowds were answered with waves of rocks, bottles, and eventually gunfire. Once the bullets started flying, any hope of containment was lost. The nation’s capital became a full-fledged battlefield.
Glued to Brenda’s television, Reed’s initial perspective of the entire affair was limited. Watching the clash unfold on the small screen was more akin to attending a Hollywood disaster movie than a real life catastrophe. It just didn’t seem real. The local stations dispatched reporters all over the city, zipping around in logoed vans mounted with satellite dishes. The footage flooded in, crews rushing from one hot spot to another while transmitting their signals back to the parent station.
Initially, there seemed to be a competition for who could report the most atrocious story – or uncover the most horrific images designed to shock the viewers at home and increase ratings. As Reed viewed the broadcasts, he realized the media was feeding the frenzy – throwing fuel on the fire. At first, Reed screamed back at the yellow journalists, demanding the editors and producers realize they were making
things worse. After a while, he sat back quiet and helpless, observing the entire city spiral into the deep abyss of anarchy.
In previous political disturbances, the press had been a neutral bystander. During the civil rights protests, Vietnam War demonstrations, and harsh labor disputes
, reporters operated with impunity. In those days, people, no matter how motivated, angry or partisan, respected the press
.
This time
, it was different. Government, police, press, and even private citizens were caught flatfooted by how quickly things escalated - the population rapidly moving from rage to desperation, the final destination being a place where there was a complete disregard for rule of law.
Like a dome of magma exerting pressure on a mountaintop, the frustration, anger, and general disconten
t had been building for years; an eruption was inevitable. It wasn’t the lack of electricity or the government’s announcement that initiated the final release. Those events were merely the catalysts, only serving to unleash an already existing, pent up flood of rage.
The outburst wasn’t isolated to any one segment of the population or specific
silo of society. Affluence didn’t make any difference; age wasn’t a factor, and race played no role. It didn’t matter if the discord was due to a threatened foreclosure, the price of milk, a scheduled IRS audit, or frustration with government regulations. The root cause might have been the recent loss of employment, a deep-seeded fear of global warming, or the ban on assault weapons. Government infringement was as much a contributor as government inaction. Those who believed in the redistribution for equality were just as motivated as those who despised redistribution of wealth. Progressive left and conservative right both joined the rampage, equally contributing to a caldera of violence.
The reporters were unprepared for both the intensity and longevity of the collective fury. As society fell off the cliff, many of them lost their lives in the ensuing turmoil. In the hours leading up to the final power outage, fewer and fewer live reports were transmitted.
One of the last involved a female reporter broadcasting live in front of the Channel 31 news van. Four men casually approached, nonchalantly watching as one guy opened the van’s door while another pulled a pistol and fired inside. In the ensuing chaos, the cameraman was knocked down, but his camera kept filming. The last sideways images were of the attractive newswoman being dragged off, desperately kicking and pleading for her life. The picture went dark shortly afterwards, her screams echoing through the television’s speaker.
Reed rubbed his temples, trying to ease the memories of those first few nights. Stumbling back to the kitchenette, he reached for the pantry door, subconsciously rummaging for something to eat. He stopped himself, realizing it was just as barren as the last time he’d checked. He had consumed the last packet of instant oatmeal - two days ago? Or was it three? His stomach chimed in with a vote for three days without food.
I wonder if having a conversation with your stomach is a sign of starvation
, he thought.
Representative Wallace began questioning the election and his motivation of revenge. Was his current predicament some sort of karma?
A punishment from God?
The members of his household should be safe back in Dallas, or at least that’s what he hoped. Thinking of his family, Reed’s throat began to tighten, and his eyes became
moist. The constant conjecture about the safety of his loved ones was torture. His last cell phone call had been to his wife and children. They were heading to her parents’ home in rural Texas. What he wouldn’t give right now to be there with them, or at least know they were secure.
An unusual noise outside prevented a deeper dive into the pool of despair. It was a grinding sound that he hadn’t heard in days – a car engine. Reed sprinted to the window and peeked around the blinds. Yes, there was an SUV and a car outside. He rushed to the other side of the window for a different vantage, still too frightened to peel back the vertical slats. There was a military Humvee as well. Four soldiers with black rifles piled out of the Humvee, quickly followed by some serious-looking gentlemen exiting the cars. The civilians were all very clean cut, with short hair and pressed shirts. As one man moved to shut his door, Reed noticed he was wearing a handgun under his coat. One of the men was holding a piece of paper in his hand, looking at the street addresses and then referring back to the paper. Reed almost jumped for joy when the fellow pointed at his building. The soldiers immediately double-timed in the direction indicated, and in a few minutes, a knock sounded at the door.