Apocalypse Drift (54 page)

It was the president who understood Washington better than anyone. When it all started spiraling out of control, Reed judged the commander-in-chief disinterested and unsupportive. The chief executive came across like a parent watching young children settle a dispute. Short of anyone being injured, he was going to let the kids battle it out, keeping himself above the fray.

Reflecting back, Representative Wallace now understood the president’s methods. With impeccable timing, the executive branch swooped in and played a powerful political card – patriotism. Like an ace topping a royal flush in poker, the White House used national pride to win the hand. It had been well done.

Once the two parties were in sync, it was all over for the outside influences. Labor, banking, finance, insurance, military contractors and even the NRA had all tried to waggle their pet projects into the new law. Their efforts were wasted. When it was finally through committee, the new tax code of the United States of America was 11 pages long. Over half of its rhetoric addressed the taxes to be paid by those seeking US citizenship.

Other bills were required, and those were making their way through the obstacle course as well. Immigration, Treasury, the role of the Federal Reserve Board and the Security and Exchange Commission were all going to play different roles in the future.

For today, Reed pushed all of that aside. Today, the new tax code would be signed into law. It had passed with unanimous votes in both the House and Senate.

Reed slipped on his jacket and headed for the door.
I wonder if the president will give me one of the pens he uses to sign the new legislation.

Matagorda Island, Texas

August 15, 2017

Word of the tower light spread quickly around Crusoe. Over the next few evenings, Wyatt noticed a tendency for the colonists to glance in that direction occasionally as if to reassure themselves that it was still there. Despite the positive sign of civilization, the distant beacon initially raised more questions than it provided answers. Had order been restored? Was the country coming back online?

Radio waves eventually answered most of the questions. The first non-Crusoe voices were picked up on the handheld units carried around the island. An excited neighbor rushed to Boxer, the woman holding her radio in the air like a torch. “Wyatt! Wyatt! I hear people talking, and it’s not any of us!”

As they offered a longer reach, bridge-mounted units were flipped on, eager ears tilted toward the speakers. Sure enough, distant ship-based traffic was detected on a few frequencies.

Less than a week later, AM radio started broadcasting. Static frustrated the boaters at first, as they could only make out small blurts of information. Stations transmitting FM signals came online two days later.

The news that martial law had been lifted initiated an impromptu beach party complete with loud music, grilled fish and limbo contest. A follow-on report detailing the limited restoration of electrical power resulted in more smiles than Wyatt had seen in months. Still, there were lots and lots of questions. Was there food? Gas? Water?

Some of the boaters wanted to head back immediately, others unsure if it were safe to return. The news reports seemed to center on the larger cities. How far into the suburbs had the recovery spread? Another issue that dominated the conversation was fuel. A few of the larger diesel boats had enough left to make it back to Southland, while none of the gas boats did. Should they consolidate passengers? Shuttle? Carpool?

The residents of Crusoe decided to commission a scout. Sage owned the newest model cell phone, kept fully charged so she could listen to music. Despite questioning looks from Morgan, Wyatt would always remember the day Sage and David motored off on one of the jet-skis, her phone in a waterproof plastic bag.

Two hours later they returned, smiling broadly. They had picked up cell service strong enough to make phone calls at the north end of Matagorda Bay. The cell company actually had 411 service working. Someone answered at Southland and verified that indeed, water and electrical service was restored. “The city still recommends you boil the water before drinking it, but it’s flowing,” was the response.

Food was evidently still in short supply, as was fuel. Sage tried to call two different marine fuel piers, and neither had answered. Still, it was clear that progress was being made back in the world.

Debate flowed on when to leave the island. The group finally decided that everyone would stay together until it was known that fuel was available. They had left as a community, survived as a community, and would return the same.

Three days later, Todd came back from a seaweed-gathering trip with news that he had encountered another boat on Matagorda Bay. The fisherman claimed a fuel pier in a nearby costal town had just received electrical power, and its tanks hadn’t been looted. They would even accept credit cards.

One of the gas-powered boats was dispatched and returned with enough go-juice to make it home. The owners were rationing the valuable commodity. One by one, the boats untied from the giant raft that made up Crusoe and voyaged to the nearby burg for fuel.

“Are we ready?”

David’s voice was filled with excitement as he stood on the dock, holding Boxer’s last line, ready to cast off. Wyatt scanned from one end of the island to the other, partially making sure his path was clear, partly solidifying the memory of what had been their home.

“Let’s go,” he shouted back.

Boxer backed away from her mooring as Wyatt was joined by the entire family on the bridge. The mood was an odd mix of apprehension and excitement.

Morgan leaned over and kissed the captain for good luck.

As the flotilla exited the Matagorda Ship Channel into the open waters of the gulf, Wyatt wondered if they had left too early. As the fleet moved north toward the Galveston Jetties, he relaxed somewhat as more and more radio traffic came through Boxer’s speakers.

When they came within radar range of the Galveston Ship Channel, the first thing Wyatt noticed was the lack of the huge cargo ships they had encountered on the trip down. The Estes Marie and several others had evidently made it to port.

Entering Galveston Bay proper cheered everyone up. The busy intersection of the Bolivar Roads had traffic – two large freighters steaming south from the Port of Houston.

The joy pulsing through the group diminished somewhat as they passed Redfish Island, the memory of two deaths occupying everyone’s mind. Wyatt looked over at David, doubting his son would ever want to visit the place again. He wouldn’t blame either of his children for the sentiment.

Entering the Clearlake Channel that late afternoon showed the flotilla just how much things had improved. Workers swarmed the restaurants with brooms, hammers and a buzz of recovery. The Vietnamese shrimpers actually waved, and there were no armed guards.

There was no sign of the ghost boat they had towed out of the channel. Gone were the refugees from the channel’s shoreline.

It was another positive sign when Morgan nudged him and pointed out two pleasure boats
cruising the north side of the lake. Many more were sighted before they reached the entrance to Southland.

As the returning boats entered Southland one at a time, a sense of melancholy crept in. At least three vessels had sunk, probably from damage caused by looters. Every boat they had left behind had been ravished in some way. Broken glass, life preservers, rope and other non-edible contents were scattered all over the piers.

Boxer’s slip was clear and Wyatt spun the big vessel perfectly, backing her into the tight space. David and Sage wasted no time in tying her off and then stood, mesmerized by the mess strewn around the marina.

Wyatt shut down Boxer’s engines and remained seated at the helm. With his hands resting in his lap, Morgan watched as her husband began weeping. Her first thought was that something was wrong. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she asked, “Wyatt, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Taking a deep breath, her husband looked up with watery, red eyes and smiled. “We made it, baby. We did it. We’re back home.”

Chapter 15

New York, New York

September 9, 2017

Helen and Pat walked in stride, enjoying the coolness of the early fall day. While the leaves weren’t turning just yet, the air carried a warning that winter wasn’t so distant.

Helen’s heart felt like it was spring. She normally dreaded the snow and wind, but not today. Part of her high spirit was because of Pat. Over the last few months, she had developed such strong feelings for the man. Her first clue was how badly she missed him when they weren’t together. Later, she began counting down the hours to when they had a chance to go on what he called, “pseudo dates.”  Before long, she found herself wondering what he was doing while they were apart.

A few weeks ago, he had uttered the magic words. The date had ended early, Pat needing to report for duty before the sun would rise. After a gentle kiss, he had stayed close to her and whispered, “Helen, I love you.” Since then, she had become an anxious, clock-watching school girl – time moving at a painfully slow pace between their rendezvous.

She wasn’t sure what it was about Pat that made her feel so warm and safe. Anyone who could maintain such a positive attitude while the world was falling apart had to be a good person. He not only treated her well, but everyone else around him received equal grace. Even the other soldiers who followed his orders seemed to like and respect the man.

Having a relationship that was going the right direction would’ve been enough to warm Helen’s soul, but there was more to it than that. The world was going in the right direction as well. Everywhere she looked, there were signs that New York was coming back. It was as if the calendar was completely backwards. Spring was preparing to bloom in the city – not the grey of winter.

Electricity was now on all of the time.
Such a simple thing
, she thought. The first of a long list of amenities that she had taken for granted her entire life. Yesterday, trucks from Florida had arrived with crates of oranges and apples. It was the first fresh fruit she had tasted in months. The flavor was unbelievable.  The water was now safe to drink and flowed every time she engaged a faucet.  At first, everyone had been warned to boil the liquid coming out of the tap, but Brenda hadn’t cared. To take a hot, bubbly bath had been paradise.

Today, they noticed workers posting a sign on a subway entrance. Pat stopped their progress and both of them just stared for several minutes. The sign was big news – the subway would start limited service in two days.

Private cars still weren’t allowed. It would take several weeks before traffic signals would be functioning again. Taxis were becoming more common. The city’s leaders had decided to gradually allow more and more of the iconic yellow transports to enter service.

Everywhere there were signs of a thawing city trying to regain its feet. Delis were offering limited menus, and the big department stores were decorated with banners promising to reopen soon.

People scurried along the sidewalks with briefcases and computer bags again, their body language indicating work was waiting for them. Helen’s firm hadn’t reopened yet. She was volunteering for the FEMA relocation services - four hours per day.

A policeman directing traffic at a busy intersection drew the pair’s attention. More and more law enforcement were replacing the soldiers who once controlled the streets.
Yet another sign of normalcy returning to Gotham City.

That’s the only bad part
, she thought.
Patrick isn’t going to be here much longer.

As the couple headed toward Helen’s apartment, they passed a movie theater displaying a large banner which advertised a “Grand Re-Opening,” complete with a free movie next Tuesday. The smaller print warned that management was doing everything in its power to obtain popcorn, but no promises.

“Helen,” the lieutenant began, “I have something I need to talk to you about.” He paused, gazing at her with the most serious eyes, taking both of her hands into his.

Oh no
, she thought.
Here it comes. I’ve been dreading this – he’s going to tell me his unit is leaving
.

“What’s the matter, Pat?”

“Helen, my unit is going to be pulling out soon. We’re being reassigned to Syracuse.”

Her eyes moved to his chest. She worried if he could feel her hands trembling as he held them. Sighing, she finally managed to swallow the lump in her throat so that she could once again talk.
“Oh no, Patrick. I knew this was coming, but I was hoping it would be a bit longer. Do you know exactly when yet?”

The solider shook his head, “No, we don’t know the exact date, but it will be soon.” He paused and looked around, “Do you know what this place is?”

Helen didn’t want to be distracted. Unsure of where he was going with the question, she glanced over her shoulder and then back into his eyes. “Yes, this is where all of those people were killed.”

Pat squeezed her hands. “You’re right, but there was something else more important about this place. This is where I first met you. I think I knew right then.”

She didn’t understand what he meant, “Knew what, Patrick?”

“I think I knew I loved you the first time we talked. I know it sounds silly, but it’s really true.”

He reached into his pocket, pulling something out. She hardly noticed the motion, still trying to cope with the thought of being without him. And that is when it happened. He took a knee right there on the sidewalk and opened a small box containing a plain gold band.

“Will you marry me, Helen?”

Kemah Bay, Texas

September 30, 2017

The fresh Texas sun dawned on a most unusual sight. Breaching the entrance to Rose and Charlie’s neighborhood was a convoy of men and machines that could easily have been mistaken for either a military maneuver or an alien invasion.

Alerted by the hum of the engines, survivors peered around their curtains or through their blinds. Outside, the procession began with two police cars, complete with blue flashing lights. Immediately behind the law enforcement escort was an entourage of human-shaped figures donned in bright white, full-bodied latex suits. The creatures were crowned with shield-like masks and black hoses that flowed to large breathing tanks strapped on their backs.

Following the platoon of masked men was a parade of vehicles that included delivery vans, fire trucks and ambulances. Two military Humvees brought up the rear of the motorcade.

In reality, the apparent intruders from outer space were medical personnel and other volunteers, shielded with hazardous material suits. The grim purpose of their visit required protection from exposure to all sorts of dangerous elements. Bacteria and viruses weren’t the only threats. The armed escort provided by the police was deemed necessary after numerous incidents had occurred. As thousands of such units spread throughout the nation, some residents hadn’t welcomed the intrusion. Reports of bullets, arrows and other projectiles welcoming the crews had spread quickly, so an armed presence was added to the column
s. 

As the procession entered the neighborhood, the men in white began spreading out and knocking on doors. Rarely did they receive any response - in which case portable drills were used to overcome door locks. Announcements were made before entering the private homes. Most times, the odor from inside served as an accurate predictor of the outcome. Now and then, living occupants were found, often too weak to answer.

Two of the men entered Rose and Charlie’s bungalow. After receiving no response, they began searching the house, eventually locating the decomposed bodies of Rose and her two children. “This one’s a clean one,” said one to the other. The second nodded his understanding of the phrase…a weapon hadn’t been the cause of death, and no animals had gained access to the bodies.

Plastic body bags were fetched from one of the delivery vans while a search of the house was conducted. Pictures were removed from frames and any identification found in the residence was included in a thin file of documentation. Black, permanent ink markers scribbled the same serial number on bags of the victims’ personal effects and bags of the victims themselves. 

It was all over in 15 minutes. The remains were gently stacked in one truck while the file was stored in another, joining a grim collection that numbered in the hundreds. As the crew left Charlie and Rose’s home, a streak of bright orange spray paint was used to mark the door. One of the searchers turned to another and asked, “Have you heard if they are going to build any sort of monuments over the gravesites? I’ve heard rumors it will be like the Vietnam Wall in Washington.”

“No, I haven’t,” was the cold response. The guy asking the question
shrugged, accustomed to moody co-workers. This was depressing work.

Over the next few weeks, thousands of similar convoys performed their gruesome tasks all over the United States. Some homes were found completely empty and put on a list to be rechecked later. Survivors were discovered in others, often rushed to the now-functioning hospitals by the trailing ambulances.

Eventually, either the government or a bank would take possession of empty properties. Already, mayors and councilmen were thinking of incentives to repopulate their cities. Inexpensive housing might be a popular benefit.

Homes weren’t the only structures searched. Every office building, farm, store and school could be sheltering displaced or desperate people. One shopping mall was found to be occupied by over 100 people. Warehouses, especially those filled with foodstuffs, had become home to entire settlements. Shanty towns had sprung up along remote interstate exits, populated by stranded motorists with no place to go.

The final task for the government team was the restoration of electrical power. After Rose and Charlie’s neighborhood had been searched, the utility crews checked gas lines, transformers, water mains and wiring. With the fire department standing by, the suburbs began the transition from darkness to light. 

Washington, D.C.

November 20, 2017

Reed wasn’t greeted with Brenda’s usual smile. Normally, the girl was way too cheery, but the look on her face indicated something was wrong.

“Congressman, there’s an FBI agent, along with another man, in your office. They were, ummm, rather insistent.”

Reed’s expression relayed the puzzlement he felt. “Thanks, Brenda.”

As he entered his office, the two men stood and introduced themselves. “Congressman, I’m Federal Agent Dayton, and this is Chief Investigator Myers from the Federal Reserve. We’re sorry to drop in unexpectedly like this, but something has come to light that we felt you deserved to know.”

Reed nodded and moved behind his desk. After taking a seat, he responded, “No problem, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”

Investigator Myers took the lead. “Congressman, this morning at 6:00 a.m., a convicted murderer was put to death via lethal injection in Huntsville, Texas. His name was Roger James Swan. Have you ever heard of him?”

Reed shook his head, “No, sir, can’t say that I have.”

The man from the Fed continued, “I spent most of the night with Mr. Swan. He is an ex-employee of the Federal Reserve, and actually worked for a short period in my section. I guess Mr. Swan decided not to share his retirement with his wife and murdered her.”

Reed couldn’t connect the dots. “I’m sorry Mr. Myers, but I can’t see what this has to do with me?”

The FBI agent took over. “Congressman, Roger Swan confessed to murdering your father, along with four other people. He wasn’t caught until the demise of his spouse, but we have strong evidence to believe his confession was factual.”

Reed sat straight up in his chair, the FBI agent’s statement resurfacing the memory of Mr.
Agile’s meeting from what seemed like a lifetime ago. “Evidence, Agent Dayton? What evidence?”

It was Myer’s turn, “Last night, while he was having his last meal, Mr. Swan told me where to find your father’s wallet. I called the Dallas police, and they found it exactly where Swan said it would be.”

Reed was stunned. Mr. Agile had been so convincing…so sure. Reed’s follow-up had made it even more certain. Now this? Without thinking, the representative stood and wandered to his window. After a moment, he turned and asked, “Why? Did he say why?”

Myers nodded. “Swan said he had been working on a scheme to sneak insider information out of the Fed and sell it. He said your father caught on to the plan. Swan claimed to have almost blown the whole caper because he entered the wrong date in a computer system of some sort. We’re still looking into that, but the wallet was pretty specific proof.”

Reed agreed. “Gentlemen, I’m at a loss for words. I have believed for some time now that my father was murdered by someone within the Fed, and I wondered if there were some conspiracy or cover up there.”

The FBI agent’s voice softened. “Mr. Wallace, we know you’ve been checking into the Fed for some time. Not very many people file a Freedom of Information request like you did. We kept an eye on your activities for a short time. You never did anything illegal, so the surveillance was dropped long ago. The reason why the FBI is involved now is to provide a measure of confidence. I want to give you my personal pledge that this matter will be followed up on properly. I believe you and your family need this entire situation laid to rest and without doubt.”