Charlie's Requiem: Democide

CHARLIE’S REQUIEM: DEMOCIDE

BOOK 1

A. AMERICAN AND WALT BROWNING

Charlie’s Requiem: Democide

Copyright © 2014 by A. American and Walt Browning All rights reserved.

Second Edition: August 2016

http://www.waltbrowning.com

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http://www.angeryamerican.com

Cover and Formatting:
Streetlight Graphics

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

Chapter 1

“Fear is pain arising from the anticipation of evil
”

— Aristotle

“T
hey’re still behind us!” the old man said.

Dr. Kramer maneuvered deftly between two more stalled cars as he weaved the rusty Cutlass through the Hispanic neighborhood. He glanced into the rear view mirror and saw the black Chevy Nova making a turn behind him, following their car as he worked his way to their destination. The old car following them had been on his tail for several minutes and Dr. Kramer was doing his best to shake them off. It wasn’t working. He was in their territory now.

The growl of the Oldsmobile’s 350 V8 engine was exacerbated by an apparent pinhole in the muffler. The tightly packed houses vibrated as the blue-bodied ’75 four-door sedan swayed and glided through the dead automobiles that lined the street. The neighborhood was alive with children playing in the roads as well as adults huddled in open garages and carports. The racket created by the antique Olds was more than enough warning to get the kids out of the big car’s path. Most stood and waved as he drove the giant steel automobile past its dead cousins, while some ran into their homes, joining the adults that stood and glared at the functioning machine.

He had begun the journey with six passengers other than himself. After the EMP had killed all the electronic technology in the city (and minimally throughout the US Southeast) including 99% of the computer-driven automobiles, and having survived for 6 days at his office, he was making his last run in the Orlando suburbs to take “his people” back to the relative safety of their homes. And they were “his people.” Dr. Kramer had learned to personalize his work. His patients were not numbers, clients or charts. They were people that had families and other loved ones that cared. He had evolved over the years to appreciate that. In his residency, assigning patients a diagnosis and prognosis depersonalized them, and he had been warned to not get too close.

“It will cloud your judgment,” he was told. They were certainly right on that account. Dr. Kramer found that he treated symptoms that needed to be cured, and not the people. It made the inevitable deaths easy to file away, a loss to the disease and not the passing of a parent or sibling. The goal was to have a lot more marks in the win column than the loss side of the ledger. That was supposed to be the goal of his life. It was supposed to bring a better night’s sleep, but for Gerry Kramer, it only brought night sweats and depression.

Finally, in an attempt to get a grip on his mounting mental anguish, he paid a visit to a dear friend and psychiatrist. This was the early 80’s, and psychotropic drugs were non-existent, ineffective or had severe side effects that would prevent him from practicing medicine. So his psychiatrist friend introduced him to a counselor. The man was a psychologist and local rabbi. Dr. Kramer had been raised Jewish, but was like many people, not a regular visitor to his local temple. Catholics call these members C & E Catholics for the two times a year you see them at church, Christmas and Easter. For Dr. Kramer, it was a reintroduction to the long and rich Jewish faith. After months of regular counseling sessions, Dr. Kramer finally reconciled his inner conflicts. He finally saw his patients as people, as creatures of God. He learned to mourn when they passed away, and accepted the fact that despite all the advances and tools at his disposal, we all take the final journey home. He began to sleep when he accepted his role in God’s grand scheme. He was there to ease the pain and prolong their time on earth, but he couldn’t prevent the inevitable. That was in God’s hands. That’s when the depression ended. That was when Dr. Kramer became “that man” whose hands everyone wanted to place his or her life into.

He had taken his front desk receptionist home and reunited her with her family. Now, having dropped off three of his five patients, he struggled with the fear that the black automobile tagging behind him was more than just curious. He could see four young men riding in the car, and the unmistakable silhouette of a rifle barrel could occasionally be seen projecting up from the front seat.

“Nothing good can come from this,” Dr. Kramer mumbled under his breath.

“Turn left here!” Mr. Coronado said as they approached a cross street. The octogenarian leaned forward from the back seat while his wife sat quietly, her head swiveling back and forth. She occasionally commented to her husband in Spanish and pointed to several houses as they passed by them in the large neighborhood. Once, she waved at a crowd of people clustered by a pit fire in the front lawn of one of the many cookie-cutter abodes. She received several waves in return and smiled at her nervous spouse.

Dr. Kramer gripped the steering wheel and coasted into the turn. Glancing into the mirror, he was disheartened but not surprised to see the old Nova turning and continuing to shadow them down the street. Mr. Coronado tapped the doctor on the right shoulder and pointed to one of the dwellings.

“Right there!” he sighed, as their destination finally came into view.

Suddenly, another car turned from a side street farther up the road, and quickly accelerated toward them. Dr. Kramer judged the distance to the Coronado’s house and realized he would have plenty of time to make their destination. He cut in front of the second car and pulled into the driveway, stopping just short of the single-car garage. The sound of squealing brakes filled the neighborhood as the other two cars blocked the entrance behind him. Six young men quickly exited the vehicles, all with a weapon of some kind, including several with some form of firearm. Dr. Kramer thought of the revolver he had salvaged off the criminals that had broken into his office last night, but realized that the six-shooter wasn’t near enough to protect his patients and himself. With no other options, he quickly stepped out of the car, his hands and arms spread wide to show he was unarmed.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” He loudly exclaimed.

“Sure, Gringo!” One of the men from the black Nova stated. “Nice to see you visit the neighborhood.” The young man carried an aluminum baseball bat and was slapping it up and down into his left hand.

Then Mr. and Mrs. Coronado slowly stepped from the vehicle and turned to the six young men.

“Ricardo!” Mr. Coronado yelled. “What are you doing?”

The boys were taken aback and several terse seconds passed before the boys backed down. Dr. Kramer could not understand their Spanish as the older man apparently admonished the younger ones. After a bit, he turned back to the doctor and smiled. Five of the boys returned to their vehicles leaving the one with the baseball bat behind.

“I am sorry, doctor.” The leader sheepishly said. “The last few days have not been easy.”

Mr. Coronado put his hand on the young man’s shoulder and turned to Dr. Kramer.

“Ricardo has told me that the neighborhood has had some trouble. With no police, they have gotten some of the young men together and they are guarding our homes.”

“We have had some bad people come through here,” Ricardo said. “Many people are missing. They never came home from work; and with their children home from school, we are taking care of them.”

Ricardo took his bat back to the Nova and returned to help Mrs. Coronado hobble up to the front door. The two cars sped away, returning to their overwatch positions at the neighborhood entrance points.

The old couple, Ricardo and Dr. Kramer entered the house, a musty smell surrounding them as they moved to open windows and doors and air out the closed up home.

The old couple shuffled to the back of the home, leaving Ricardo and Dr. Kramer alone in the small but well-kept living room. Pictures lined the walls, showing a large family with too many grandchildren to count. Dr. Kramer wandered over to the wall and admired the family. He felt a presence over his right shoulder and turned to see the young man staring at the photographs as well.

“That’s Marco!” he said, pointing at a photograph of the old couple flanking a handsome young Marine.

“A grandson?” Dr. Kramer asked.

“Yes,” Ricardo replied. “He’s stationed overseas. I hope he’s O.K. We went to high school together.”

“Probably for now,” Dr. Kramer replied. “Hopefully, this is just here and not overseas.”

Dr. Kramer turned back to the wall, marveling at the tight-knit clan.

The young man stared at him, unsure how to proceed. Finally, he broke the silence.

“Doctor,” he hesitantly said. “Do you know what has happened?”

Dr. Kramer continued to scan the family shrine that adorned the wall, and turned and sat down on one of the overstuffed chairs, leaning his head back against the cushion. It had been a stressful and long day. Ricardo sat on a chair next to him, staring at the cardiologist, waiting for some answer to the question everyone had on his or her mind. What the hell had happened?

“Ricardo,” he started. “I don’t know for sure. But I have a pretty good idea. I just don’t know how extensive it is.”

The two men spoke for a few minutes, hearing sounds coming from the back where the old couple had decided to draw a bath and try to have some normalcy return to their lives. After he had finished his story, Dr. Kramer sat back and looked at the young man.

“So what are you going to do?” Dr. Kramer asked.

“Try and survive,” Ricardo answered. “The government might help, but many of the people here are not legal. They don’t trust the government. They have nowhere to go. No jobs to make money to buy food, and now no doctors or hospitals to help the sick.”

“What kind of problems are you having?” Dr. Kramer asked.

“Most of us went to the emergency room when we had problems,” Ricardo shrugged. “They couldn’t refuse you and they never called the police or border patrol. Now, there is no hospital and too few cars to take them anyway.”

Dr. Kramer studied the young man. He was in his early twenties, fit and well groomed. His thick, jet-black hair was combed back; and considering they were living through the apocalypse, he took pride in his appearance. He sat upright; and by his attitude and deference to Mr. and Mrs. Coronado, he had been raised well.

“Do you have family here?” Dr. Kramer asked.

“Both my parents and a younger brother,” he replied. “The rest of my family is in Puerto Rico.”

“They might be the lucky ones,” Dr. Kramer replied with a smile. “I wouldn’t worry about them right now.”

They sat in silence as Dr. Kramer’s mind raced through his projected itinerary when he was interrupted from his train of thought by the young man.

“How about you?” the young man asked.

Dr. Kramer smiled, both thinking about his family and the respectful kindness of the young man who had asked the question. It came across as genuine, and not a throwaway line you often hear like “how’s your day?”

“Two here in Florida,” Dr. Kramer started. “And one in Nashville. My wife and youngest daughter are at home in Montverde. My oldest daughter is a resident in Nashville at Vanderbilt University. She’s studying nephrology.”

Ricardo looked a bit confused with that last statement.

“Nephrology,” Dr. Kramer repeated. “Kidneys!”

“Oh!” Ricardo said. “riñón! You must be proud.”

Dr. Kramer smiled. “Vanderbilt is one of the top 10 hospitals for nephrology. She’s an amazing young woman.”

“Ricardo,” he started. “Do any of the people have problems I could help with?”

The young man’s face brightened immediately.

“Oh, Doctor!” he exclaimed. “We have many sick children now and a lot of adults with terrible stomach problems.”

Dr. Kramer wasn’t surprised. It had been almost a week since the loss of power. Sick children could be anything from the flu or other virus, to bacterial infection. Combine this with a multitude of sick adults, and he started thinking of contaminated water and other sanitation issues. Diseases endemic to less developed countries were coming to the American society. Most weren’t prepared for this sudden transition. The country was turning into a third world nation with a population used to first world problems.

Typhoid fever, a bacterial infection caused by the Salmonella bacteria, is a human-to-human transmittable infection caused by unsanitary processing of food. Fecal matter leaking into a water supply, or food contaminated by dirty hands, resulted in the spread of the disease. Thus, one of the most critical supplies these people needed was soap and a clean water supply. Without that, the death rate of untreated typhoid is over 30%. On top of typhoid, other contaminant-causing infections were all spread by the same route, such as E. coli and Hepatitis. All could be contained with better hygiene.

Dr. Kramer and Ricardo called back to the old couple, letting them know that they were driving to the local school where many of the parentless children were being sheltered. They left the Coronado house and got into the Cutlass.

“Nice ride, doc!” Ricardo chided. “I didn’t know you guys made enough money to afford the antique stuff!”

Dr. Kramer’s stoic demeanor surprised Ricardo. Looking over at the physician, the young man realized he had touched a raw nerve. Finally, Dr. Kramer replied.

“We killed the man who owned this car,” he stated matter-of-factly. “He tried to rob my office, and he died because of it.”

Ricardo was shocked; and other than a few words of direction, they continued in silence.

Dr. Kramer caught glimpses of the residents as they rolled through the neighborhood. People were building fires, tending gardens; and at a number of homes, just starting them. Florida provided as year-round climate for gardening, and the residents were taking advantage of the temperate climate. They were adapting to the new society being thrust on them. Many were likely immigrants to the country, having come both legally and illegally to the area. Their experiences growing up in their poor, former countries would give them a fighting chance to survive the loss of modern society. Sheets, shirts and pants fluttered in the breeze on clothes lines running across side and front yards while children and adults alike reverted to the normal interactions people engaged in for the thousands of years before the invention of the internet and smart phone. They talked face to face and shared both drink and laughter. Groups of kids playing tag and “kick the can” were swarming several yards. A soccer ball flew in front of the blue beast as they drove toward the single-story elementary school. The car rolled to a stop as a couple of young boys raced into the street, waved at the car and hustled back to the yard where a makeshift goal had been erected. Dr. Kramer glanced to the left and chuckled as he watched two women standing and talking on either side of a white picket fence. Gossiping hadn’t died along with the electricity! It just happened face to face instead of on Twitter. The country had been transported back a hundred years and it was comforting to see people being people. Life hadn’t stopped; it had just been slowed way down.

When they arrived at the school, Ricardo took Dr. Kramer to the gymnasium. He found eleven children collected at one of the interior walls near a bank of doors. Two of the doors were bathrooms and appeared to be well used.

His initial assessment of the situation was proven out, and the most likely cause of the illnesses was contaminated water or food. The water from the taps was no longer safe, but the residents were using it nonetheless. Because of the lack of firewood and time and effort needed to make a fire, the people were continuing to use the tap water, assuming its safety. Some of the adults had reported that the drains were beginning to back up. This could have led to the problem as well.