Charlie's Requiem Novella (12 page)

Chapter 18

Day 6

33
rd
Street Jail

Mike Jones was glad it was nearly over. The past five days hadn’t gone well. With the power gone and over four thousand angry inmates yelling, cursing and throwing feces at him, he had just about had enough of the place. If it weren’t for his brother officers, he likely would have split some inmate heads. And there had been a lot of that going on. Not the COs banging heads, but the gangs taking on each other. At least for the first three days.

They had done their best to keep the gang members separated throughout the ordeal. But with no computers available to track the prisoners’ location in the complex, more often than not, competing gangs would inadvertently meet in the exercise yard or cafeteria. Almost always, blood was drawn. Things were bleak, and rumors that the food supply was dwindling didn’t leave the correction officers with much hope.

Three days earlier, the warden released about 700 prisoners that were considered non-violent or within six month of release. They were drawing up a second list when miracles of miracles happened. The federal government showed up! A convoy of military vehicles pulled up to the front gates and rumor had it that they were going to be absorbing the facility into the federal government. In fact, the commander of the DHS unit had been taken to meet with the various gang leaders and within a day of his arrival and the gang violence trickled to a halt. Mike didn’t know how they did it, nor did he care! But the last two days had been blissfully quiet, and the feds, or DHS or someone with some serious pull had actually brought out a working generator, allowing them to restart the muffin monster and clear the sewage from their pipes. There was even a shower available for the brass that ran hot water! And the food problem disappeared overnight. Mike had to admit it, the feds came through with flying colors.

Just then, his radio crackled to life. “Officer Mike Jones. Report to the warden’s office.”

Mike keyed back and replied. He would be there in ten minutes.

Mike had been sleeping in the work release center where the guards had taken over the facility. The center, designed like a dormitory, allowed for prisoners to work in the community, then return to jail at night. It provided them the chance to pull their own weight by earning an income to support their own family, pay victim restitution and reimburse the government for fees in prosecution. All these work center prisoners were low risk and had been released, freeing up space for the guards that had stayed to do their jobs. Overall, over 50% of the staff stood their ground. Mikey was proud of that. He thought it would have been a lot worse.

Mike entered the warden’s office where a new group of administrators had set up shop. Several desks were present with DHS employees manning each one. Mike must have had a confused look on his face, because one of the administrators shouted out.

“Can I help you?” he yelled.

“Uh, Mike Jones reporting as requested.”

“Oh yes,” one of the other desk jockeys said, “right over here.”

Mike took a seat in front of the man while he reviewed a thick folder in front of him.

“Oh, easy enough!” The man gushed. “You’re scheduled to go to OPD headquarters where you’ll be reassigned by our department there. They are processing all the Corrections Officers at their facilities.”

The man took Mikes incredibly thick personnel file and placed it in a self-sealing envelope. It reminded Mike of the large white, tear resistant envelopes the post office uses for First Class Mail. The ones with the green border.

“Now you need to take this with you and report to the Orlando Police Department Headquarters building at 100 S Hughey Ave.” The man continued. “There is bus service at the front gate that leaves on the hour. You have to report by midnight, tonight.”

“Do I have to wait until then?” Mike asked. He was scheduled for another night shift, but that was obviously not happening if he had to report to OPD headquarters tonight.

“No, whenever you are ready,” he concluded. “Anything else?” The man asked as Mike sat and tried to assimilate his new orders. Mike shook his head.

“Then go! Be off! The next bus leaves in 45 minutes and another an hour later.”

Mike got up to leave but was stopped when the man handed him the envelope with his records in it. The man, a bit on the eerie side, refused to let go of the package when Mike first took hold. He tugged back hard as Mike attempted to leave.

“Under NO circumstances are you to open this package! If you do, it is a federal crime punishable by imprisonment of at least five years!”

Mike snickered, thinking the man was pulling his leg, but one look at the bureaucrat told Michael James Jones that there was no humor in his words.

“Seriously?” Michael shot back.

“Officer Jones,” the man sneered back. “Don’t Fuck with the DHS! Not now, nor in the immediate future. Be advised. We aren’t screwing around.”

Mike shook his head in amazement and lumbered off to pack his belongings and catch the next bus. It had been a strange few days. But regardless of the lack of civility of the new front office people, he was glad they were there and elated that he could leave.

He wanted to check up on his mother and two sisters, so he just had to report in tonight and find some down time to make sure the family was safe. His family lived north outside of Sanford and had a little land where his mama raised chickens, rabbits and had a nice garden. He knew that with her stores of canned and jarred food, they would be alright for now. And his mama and the sisters knew how to use a gun, having a shotgun and pistol available to protect their home. They had good neighbors too, so Mikey wasn’t worried yet. Looking at the activity around him, it appeared that the corner had been turned. He would just check in, get his new assignment and take some time to see his family.
Maybe
, he thought,
I might even convince mama to put one of her older birds into a pot and cook a nice homemade chicken dinner.
That thought finally brought a grin to the big man’s face. The first one in six days. It felt good to finally smile again.

About a half an hour later, Mike was found his way to the bus tagged to deliver its passengers to the OPD headquarters. With less than 4 miles of roadway to travel, it shouldn’t take too long. But then again, with the stalled cars and lack of power still evident, there was no way to know how long any travel would take.

Looking down the road, Mike could see a stream of people coming off the I-4 ramp, heading away from the jail to the north. The numbers were surprising. Hundreds of people were walking along the side of the road, coming down the far ramp and continuing north on the roadway. The flow seemed endless.

“That’s a lot of mouths to feed!” came a retort next to him.

Mike looked down and thought he recognized the woman standing next to him. Unsure who she was, he replied back. “Tru dat. I haven’t seen that many people since the last Florida Classic Football game.”

“The Cats really took it to the Rattlers, didn’t they?” She replied.

The big man looked down on the little white woman and gave her a very quizzical look.

“Get back, girl!” He said with a smile. “You watched that game!”

“Every year.” She replied.

“But its BCC and A&M. They’re black schools. And you definitely are not black!”

“So,” she replied. “I watch for the battle of the bands. And the cheerleaders! I don’t care who you are! That’s fun to watch.”

“Huh!” Mikey snorted.
Never would have thought!
He said to himself.

“Name’s Beth! Beth Ann Hildreth.” She said to him and stuck out her little hand.

The big guy gently took her hand in his and replied. “Mike. Mike Jones.”

“So, Mike Jones. I assume you’re a corrections officer!”

“Yes ma’am. And I assume you are not!”

The little woman rang out an infectious giggle. “No sir. No I am not!”

“Didn’t think so. You don’t have that look.”

“What look?” She deftly lobbed back. Their verbal sparring was becoming fun. “You’re saying I look a little too mean for the job?”

“Well,” Mike shot back, enjoying the direction of the conversation. “I didn’t want to bring that up. But since you’ve mentioned it…”

“Watch it, buster!” She chided back. “Big guys like you have no defense for my quick, cat-like strikes! HIAAA_YAAA!” And she jumped into an exaggerated karate stance, staring up at the giggling giant next to her.

“I’m glad you recognized my superior powers, Mr. Mike. Before I was forced to use them on you. I can assure you, it would have been extremely embarrassing!”

“OK! I give up! You are the sensei!” Mike snorted at her.

“And I will call you grasshopper!” Beth replied.

“Grasshopper?” Mike genuinely asked. “Why grasshopper?”

“You know, Kung Fu. The old television show.”

“Never heard of it,” Mike honestly said. “Must be a white thing.”

“Naw,” Beth said. “More generational. I could be your mother.”

“Hmmph,” Mike said back.

He stared north at the walking hordes moving away from them up John Young Parkway away from the jail. He pointed at them and Beth looked where he directed.

“The way the world looks now,” he said. “I don’t know if I’ll ever learn what you’re talking about.”

Beth stared up the road, watching the mass of people stagger and slog their way along the four lane street.

“Tru dat, big man!” She replied back. “Tru dat.”

Chapter 19

Day 6

Charlie

On the Road

I strapped my book bag over my shoulders and quickly realized that jogging and CrossFit weren’t the same as hiking with a load on my back. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised at the ‘revelation.’ I mean, even in swimming, being a star at the 50 meter freestyle didn’t translate to fame and fortune in water polo. They were two completely different events, even though they were both in the water. You would think that a medalist in the SEC championships my junior and senior year could allow me to throw a damn volleyball in the water for a full game! But when I tried once, just because it looked like fun… I lasted exactly sixteen minutes (two quarters of the four quarter match) before I gave up. These guys have to tread water, dash back and forth the length of the pool and rise up several feet like a freaking whale breaching the surface of the ocean. And they do it, non-stop, for eight-minute stints, four times in a row. I assumed they were the same muscles I used when I did my 50 and 100 meter freestyle sprints, but I quickly found out they really aren’t. Water polo was a constant grind while freestyle sprinting lasted less than a minute with hours between competitions. I was a world class sprinter in swimming’s version of a marathon. Now, with the prospect of having to lug 30 pounds across miles of hostile land, I was quickly being reminded of this reality. The best way to get in shape for a particular physical event or test is to practice that event. I was a jogger, wearing the minimal amount of clothing and lightest shoes when I did it. Now only an hour into our journey, I was carrying almost 30 pounds of food, clothing, water and a damn heavy handgun, and feeling it in muscles I didn’t realize I had. And worse of all, we were still wandering about just south of the office looking for bicycles and hadn’t started north to Janice’s sister’s house.

What was also taking its toll was the stress. Walking wasn’t just a stroll now. We had to plan our steps, literally every step, so that we could cover each other, avoid possible traps and choke points and all the while try to stay unnoticed. The people who were out now tended to be a bit desperate. With six days of hell behind us, the desperate, stupid and criminal tended to be the boldest. I hoped we were in the first category and not the second. Of course, we had killed three men so technically we did fit the third category.

When we finally found the bicycle shop, it had been looted. I suppose it shouldn’t have been a surprise with the hotels and theme parks nearby. Anyone with a home 500 miles or less from here would have been looking for any transportation to get home. Unless we wanted to take a child’s pink “Barbie” bike, of which there were many left in the ransacked shop, we were now committed to our lot in life: foot refugees. At least we only had 50 or 60 miles to walk. Her sister’s property was about ten miles northwest of DeLand which was about as rural as you could find in crowded Central Florida.

One big positive was our discovery of a map of the bicycle trails in Central Florida. Not having been into bicycling, I was surprised at the number and extent of the trails throughout the state. Janice and Garrett cleared a table and we laid the map down. The early morning sun was shining into the broken storefront window, giving us a nice warm light to see by. After studying the map for a bit, I realized that we could use several of these trails to pass through many parts of the city while staying off the main roads. It was becoming evident that the best way to survive was not to be seen. Another “find” was some clip on flashlights that we might find useful. But the added weight, as light as they were, made me hesitant to add the extra few ounces.

Well
, I thought,
I’ll be eating some food soon and that will drop the weight I’m carrying
.

We ran across an unopened five-gallon jug of water for an employee water bubbler. We swapped out the empty jug on the stand for the unopened one still in the closet and drank as much as we could before topping off our own supply. Dr. Kramer warned us to eat and drink as much as we could when the opportunity arose. It preserved our supplies.

As we scanned the map, it was apparent that most of the trails that led to just north of downtown. We were going to have to make our way through Orlando on normal paved roads before finding the bicycle trails that might hide us as we escaped the rapidly deteriorating city.

I was looking at the names of the trails when I ran across a name that echoed in my mind. The Seminole/Wekiva Trail rang a bell, and I was vaguely aware that I should know why. The southernmost trail that would help us was called Cady Way and might give us our first chance to get off the road. It began just east of downtown.

“You know,” Janice said. “The neighborhoods from here to downtown aren’t exactly the safest to walk.”

“And that was before the shit hit the fan!” Garrett chimed in.

They were right. This damned apocalypse had really screwed up our lives. Travel now meant you couldn’t just button up your car and glide past the crime and other areas that made you uncomfortable. You had to confront them.

Maybe
, I thought,
that had been the problem all along. We never had to face what we weren’t comfortable with. And a problem ignored will grow to a crisis unresolved.

The more I thought about it, the less I liked the idea of going through Orlando. But when we looked at the alternatives, going around the sketchier areas of the city, we were adding days of travel. There appeared to be no alternative but to suck it up, take our chances and head straight for Orlando.

“What’s going on outside?” Janice asked. “Who are all those people?”

I turned from the table and looked out onto Kirkman road. We had walked down under the I-4 overpass and found the bike shop in a strip mall about a half a mile passed the freeway onramp. Now, there was a steady stream of people walking back north toward the expressway. Not just a stream, but a flood of people. Men, women and children were marching up the road filling both north and southbound lanes, all heading north.

We grabbed a couple of maps and jogged out onto the sidewalk, watching the parade of people walk, shuffle and stumble up the road. Families and couples were dragging their luggage and children behind them like some pitiful migration across the asphalt planes of the Central Florida Serengeti.

Then, just in front of me, a woman with two small children had her rolling suitcase handle snap. A large open beach bag tumbled off the top of the rolling case spilling almost a dozen water bottles and multiple granola bars onto the pavement. It looked like she had raided the free continental breakfast bar at her hotel, and now it had all dumped out onto the road with two screaming, filthy children grabbing her torn and stained jeans. The poor woman was at her wits end and began to scramble for the lost treasure when one of the other travelers, a similarly soiled man in a tattered business suit began to steal the water and bars, shoving them into the pockets of his jacket.

“NO! THOSE ARE FOR MY CHILDREN!”

“Tough shit lady.” He sniped back as he scooped up a pile of fruit and nut bars.

“Sorry buddy!” I heard and snapped my head to the left.

Garrett had his Glock out and had drawn down on the pig of a man, leveling his 40 caliber at the jerk’s head. The man stopped, his eyes wide with fear. He slowly began to put the handful of bars back on the ground. I looked about and we had gotten noticed. Most stopped and retreated from Garrett and his hand cannon, but I noticed three men in the group directly behind the businessman start to move around Garrett, attempting to flank the kid. I could tell they were intrigued by the Glock in my friend’s hand.

Before I could even think about it, I had my Hi-Point 9mm out and pointed at the three as they were moving off the road and around Garrett’s back.

“I DON’T THINK SO!” I shouted.

They froze and immediately began to back away.

“Other side of the street, assholes. Don’t fuck with us. We’ve killed three already today and three more won’t make a damn bit of difference… so JUST FUCKING MOVE!”

They looked at each other and ran across the median to the other side and disappeared into the mass of people.

I stood there, still pointing at the place where the three had just been, my hands shaking from the rush when I felt Janice gently grasp my pistol.

“It’s OK, Charlie. They’re gone!” she quietly said.

I lowered my gun and turned to see a wet stain beginning to form in the businessman’s groin area. He had pissed himself. I tuned to face him and strode up and got into his face.

“Give it all back and get the hell out of here!”

“Uh… sure!” He replied and quickly placed the stolen items back on the pavement.

“I don’t think so dipshit. Put them in her bag like a good gentleman.”

He picked up the fallen items and brought them over to the woman. The poor woman was standing in the road, her children clinging to her legs, mouth agape. The man reloaded all the lost items into her fallen beach bag and set it on the ground next to the mother and kids.

“Now apologize for being an asshole!” I shouted loud enough for all to hear.

“Uh… I’m sorry.” He said in a quiet voice.

“You’re sorry for being an asshole! And say it loud enough for everyone to hear!”

The man hesitated, at least until I put my hand on the butt of the Hi-Point which had been stuffed into the front of my belt. Janice and I both wore our scrubs, me because my business attire wasn’t fit for walking and her because she had nothing else. She wore her scrubs to work. I had recovered my leather belt, and had that around my waist over my scrubs. My pistol was tucked into the belt, being too heavy to be held up by the cloth ties that kept my scrub pants up.

“Oh Come on!” He protested.

“Unless you want more than piss staining your clothes,” I said. “You’ll do what I said. Now apologize for being an asshole. Otherwise, I can tell you from experience, blood won’t come out of that nice jacket of yours.”

The man hesitated once more, then faced the woman.

“SORRY FOR BEING AN ASSHOLE!” He shouted.

Before I could say anything else, he sprinted across the road and disappeared into the crowd that was trying to decide if it was safe to proceed.

I turned to the woman and child, picking up the beach bag and handing it to her.

“You need to be careful,” I said. “It’s nasty out here and getting worse.”

She smiled and thanked us, pulling the kids onto the sidewalk. We led her and her family to the parking lot of the bike store and helped her try and repair her suitcase.

While helping, we picked up some valuable information. For one, the people around us were coming from the local hotels that were accommodating the Universal studio visitors. The night before, the government had stopped by the hotels and informed them that DHS had set up processing centers to help those that were trapped. She showed me a flyer that was distributed by the federal agents with a map directing everyone to the Central Florida Fairground. People were told to take I-4 north-east toward Orlando. They were to get off on John Young Parkway, right next to the 33rd Street jail and head north. A few miles up the road, turn left and the Fairgrounds were on the right. It promised food, shelter and safety.

“Wow,” I said after reading the flyer. “That’s impressive!”

I showed it to Janice and Garrett. They were equally surprised at the rapid and efficient response the government had managed. I began to have some hope.

“It says, no firearms and to have some identification,” Garrett said.

“What’s wrong with that?” Janice asked. “You getting a little attached to your new friend?” Janice patted the top of his Glock.

“No,” he replied. “I guess not. It’s just that our guns have already stopped some bad shit from happening. I hate to give that up.”

“You did pretty well with a tire iron, big boy!” Janice replied with a smile. “Does it say anything about tire irons?”

“No,” he replied with a sheepish grin. “But I like what I have a lot more.”

“Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it,” I said. “I vote we find this place and see what it’s all about.”

“I know I would appreciate it if you tagged along,” the poor mother said. “I’d feel a lot safer if you were with us.”

Janice picked up the younger child and nodded to me. Garrett, well, he was going where Janice went so the decision was settled.

“My name’s Charlie,” I said to our new walking companion.

“Theresa,” she replied. “And this is Kaylee, my oldest.”

“I’m five years old,” the little girls said holding up all five fingers of her right hand.

“Wow,” I replied. “Next year you’re going to have to use two hands when you tell me your age!”

“And your friend is holding Brie, my youngest.”

“I’m Janice. Hi Brie!” she said as she hoisted the little girl on her shoulder.

The young girl squealed with glee as she rode above the crowd. It was amazing how adaptable kids were, and how aware they were of the emotions around them. Her mom felt safe, so now the kids did too.

We put together another one of Dr. Kramer’s make-shift Wrangler jean backpacks with one of the woman’s spare pair found in the broken suitcase. We soon were loaded up, mom and her oldest child holding hands, Janice with the youngest on her shoulders and Garrett and me flanking them, hand on our pistols tucked into our front belt.

We returned to the moving mass of people and went back up the road, turned right onto the onramp and entered Interstate 4. The massive 10 lane road which starts in Daytona Beach to the Northeast cuts southwest across Central Florida and ends up in Tampa. Along the way, it crosses Orlando and takes people to Universal Studios, SeaWorld and of course, Disney World. As we got up to the elevated expressway, I could finally appreciate the immense number of people involved. Stretching for as far as I could see in both directions, thousands and thousands of people were slowly migrating east toward Orlando. That’s when another wonderful tidbit of information was revealed to us.

“I guess that’s what the DHS guy meant when he suggested we leave as soon as possible.” The mother said. “He told us that where we were, there were about 20,000 people here in the Universal area.”

“I can believe it,” I said looking about us.

“Yeah, but he said there could be as many as 300,000 down by Disney. And even more from parts south. And that they were all going to be coming this way. So if we wanted to stay ahead of them, we needed to move.”

I glanced back, but the crowd around me blocked my view. As we passed the numerous cars, trucks and SUVs, I ran ahead and climbed on top of a dead 18-wheeler and looked behind us to the southwest. Down the road, several miles back, a literal wall of humanity was making its way toward us. Tens of thousands of people had massed and were walking up the interstate. It was the Super Bowl and World Series multiplied by three, all moving our way.