Charlie's Requiem Novella (6 page)

Chapter 8

Day 1

Officer John Drosky

East Orlando

It was dark by the time John got back to his patrol car just a block down the road. The past couple of hours had been a mixture of hope and frustration. John watched strangers perform noble and kind deeds for each other under extraordinary circumstances. Others, gratefully a minority, seemed to descend into a primal need to lash out at others, taking or bullying anyone to get what they wanted. With the power out, the gas station and 7/11 on the block had closed. With no electricity to power the pumps, run the register or credit card reader, it was best for them to simply close up shop. But the owners or workers were stuck there. Most just sat in the door to their stores, letting the outside air keep them cool on the warm, November day.

In one instance, two men tried to force themselves into a local gas-and-go convenience store. The two lowlifes had pulled out an old revolver on the owner who was sitting in the doorway of the store, but didn’t realize that his son was standing behind him with a Mossberg 500 shotgun. Although no shots were fired, John recognized the rapid societal deterioration that was taking place. It was easy to be charitable when you thought the power would be back on in a few hours. It was a different matter to give when you weren’t going to be able to replenish what little you had left. It was going to get nasty soon.

John’s OPD uniform was a magnet for each and every person that he came across. Hundreds of people surrounded him with questions about the loss of power and demands that he do something about it (like he could actually turn the power back on). It reinforced his belief that people were totally dependent on the government and society was only three days without power away from total anarchy. If the first few hours were any indication, fighting insurgents in Fallujah might actually look good compared to what he could expect in Orlando a week from now.

John had been in the Marines before entering the police academy. He had use the Delayed Entry Program (DEP) when he turned 18 during his senior year at Colonial High School, becoming a “poolee” until basic training was completed the following summer. His four year enlistment contract ended while he was deployed in Afghanistan. His time in the 1/3 out of Hawaii included two months of intense door-to-door fighting in Fallujah where he lost several close friends to IEDs and sniper fire. The rest of the Anbar province proved almost as difficult but he performed well, earning a number of ribbons and medals including the Bronze Star with Valor and Purple Heart. That was 2004, just a year after he had been sworn into the Corps. At the end of his four year term of enlistment he decided to enter civilian life and found his calling in with the Orlando Police Department.

The training to become an officer took almost five months of full-time study at the local community college. With his military service record and top of the class grades, he was quickly hired by the city. Although many days brought some frustrations, most of the time, John felt like he was making a difference. Most people were grateful for his work and it was not uncommon for strangers to come up and shake his hand and thank him for being a cop. However, in a few days, his uniform was going to become a magnet for frustration and anger as people realized that the government had failed to protect them at the most basic level. Without food, water or power, citizens were going to become a lynch mob, and as unfair as that seemed, John knew he would be at the end of that rope.
Yep
, he thought,
I need to get rid of this uniform
.

John decided that his best move was to hunker down in the young man’s house for the night to see how things fleshed out. The walk to headquarters would only take him a few hours, but to what end? If airliners were falling out of the sky, there was no doubt that this was at least a regional event and probably not limited to the Orlando area. If electricity from other parts of the country could be diverted to Florida, he might see a restoration of the city’s power within a few days. His apartment was at the other end of the city and if he needed to, John felt he could make it there in a day’s walk. Right now, he needed to rest and regroup. It had been a hell of a day.

John re-entered the house. The bodies in the back bedroom needed to be left undisturbed in case forensics found their way here. It would be another day before they started to smell, and he doubted he would be here that long. John shut the bedroom door, entombing the two women if or until someone came to collect evidence. Either way, it wasn’t his problem anymore.

He went back to his patrol car and stripped it of anything of value. He collected his standard issue Remington 870P shotgun and extra ammunition for both the shotgun and his 9mm Sig. A level IIIA bullet resistant tactical vest with OPD stenciled across the front came along. The first-aid and tool-kit, flashlight and batteries along with a hand held radio were also scavenged. Lastly, his personal backpack with a change of clothing and some work-out wear for the gym were all taken into the house. John searched about in the drawers and located some candles and several lighters.

Soon, he had the kitchen lit up, and he began to create a Bug out Bag out of his 5.11 backpack. One of the benefits of being active duty law enforcement was the discounts from tactical supply stores. His backpack, normally costing over 150 dollars, came with a 40% discount. With eight years under his belt, he was close to making almost 70 thousand dollars a year. When he first started with O.P.D. and was earning just over 30k, the discount meant so much more.

John divided the food into two groups, those that would spoil without power, and those items that would last a while. Having separated the food into two groups, he further divided the long-term food into two more sets. High calorie, light weight (HCLW) items and the rest. The HCLW items were set aside for his backpack. They included the standard items like peanut butter, candy, seven protein bars, 12 instant oatmeal packs and a half a jar of Planter’s peanuts among other items. Everything that could be transferred into a zip lock bag was moved into plastic and sealed. Jars or other breakable items and cans were abandoned. His only allowance for a jar was the peanut butter. He limited his metal containers to two cans of spam, three cans of tuna and a bunch of Underwood Deviled Ham spread (a nice find with 360 calories per can; Half of the calories were carbs while the other half were fat and protein).

He opened the refrigerator and quickly removed the few items he found. He was surprised at the lack of food for what should have been three people, but found a half a pound of bologna, half a loaf of bread and some cheese and mustard. He managed to make five sandwiches and bagged them before putting them in the freezer, most of its space taken up by a couple of bottles of vodka. He pulled them out and consolidated them into one bottle before replacing the alcohol back into the freezer. It would, at least, act as a temperature reservoir to keep the sandwiches cold for as long as possible.

When he was finally finished, and if he was careful, he figured he had about a week’s worth of calories in his backpack.

With that task completed, John decided to load up on calories from the food that would spoil over the next day or two. Cereal and milk, a Tupperware container of some kind of stew (not bad, actually) and ice cream made up his late night dinner. One of the things he had learned was that if you weren’t going to be able to eat in the future, best to load up on the calories while you could. By the time Officer Drosky had finished, he felt like he was going to puke.

He made his way into the bathroom, and grateful that the water still flowed and should be relatively clean, he stripped off his uniform and took a long shower. He scrubbed and shampooed and luxuriated in the hot, steamy water until he felt the temperature rapidly turn cold. With a sigh, he shut the water off, not knowing when a hot shower would ever come his way again.

Having enjoyed the shower, he dried off and remembered to add some bleach for water purification and dish soap to his bag. Small containers in the garage were cleaned out and two of them were filled with the disinfecting liquids. He had to plan for the long term, although where that would be was yet to be seen.

John found the couch, and blowing out all the candles save one, he got a pillow from one of the other bedrooms, along with a bed throw and spare sheets. He put his Sig 226 on the coffee table next to him and lay back, reflecting on the day and what the future held.

His lack of a committed relationship, originally a sad side-effect of his job, now seemed to be a benefit. Every year, he would find or be introduced to a nice girl. At first, things would go well, but after a few months, the job would get in the way. His first few years were often nightshifts and weekends; not the best hours to foster a relationship with women working 9 to 5. However, the past year found him with more and more day-hours and weekdays, a benefit of his increasing seniority. Now, just past 30-years old, John felt that the timing was right for a committed relationship. Unfortunately, finding the right match had gotten more and more difficult. Most of the single women were single for a reason. Not that John minded a hard-working woman, but the many dates he had been on over the past few years had not gone too well. Recently, the women he had dated were usually pushing thirty as well and tended to be married to their jobs. John wanted a more old-fashioned marriage, one where he would be working while his wife could stay home, hopefully putting her energy into a family and not punching a time-card or working late for a bonus check. It was starting to worry him that the women he was now meeting were not interested in children, but rather in their careers. On top of that, many of the women he had dated more than once turned out to want the thrill of dating a cop rather than wanting to find a committed relationship. John’s Polish heritage had given him the tall, Slavic look that a lot of women found attractive. His blue eyes and swarthy dark hair looked especially good when he had not shaved for a day or two. So as nice as it was, sex wasn’t a problem. Unfortunately, John wanted more than that but had found that most of the “good ones” had already begun their lives with someone other than him. He was worried that he may have missed his chance between his four years as a Marine and the next six to eight years of O.P.D. putting him on the street all those nights and weekends.

Now, as he lay in the candle-lit living room, he was grateful he didn’t have anyone to worry about. His parents were dead, both passing within the last four years. He had been an “oops” baby, coming when his parents had given up hope of having a child. His mother was over forty when he was born and his father pushing fifty. When his mom died of ovarian cancer four years ago, his father lost his will to stick around and passed soon after. John devoted himself to his work after that, it was all he had. Now, it seemed to be a blessing.

As he drifted off to sleep, he heard a distant crack of gunfire. Knowing that it was many blocks away, he was grateful that he didn’t have anyone to worry about. It made falling asleep a little easier and he blew out the candle. A surprisingly deep and rested sleep found him a minute later while the rest of the city began a slow burn towards its eventual demise.

Chapter 9

Day 1

Holding Cell, 33
rd
Street Jail

The young man dozed in a fitful slumber while leaning against the wall of the holding cell. His new burn marks were starting to become both painful and exhausting at the same time. His skin had been scorched many times in the past three years and like most painful or stressful things, a person’s tolerance became almost non-existent with each successive assault. He didn’t want to have to tolerate the pain anymore. It was what made him snap that morning and it was keeping him from finding any comfort at the moment.

He could hear the other prisoners murmuring amongst themselves, but he tried his best to look within himself and ignore the others. The smell of body odor from his fellow inmates and urine near the open toilet made for an interesting aroma. The aura of the others nearby left him wanting to leave, a feeling he hadn’t felt since the whole ordeal began.

Sticking the knife into his mother’s girlfriend hadn’t phased him in the least. She was a monster, and monsters deserved to die. His mother, on the other hand… now that was starting to become a gnawing headache in the back of his brain.

In truth, the death of his mother had been coming for years. She had become increasingly bitter as the years with her girlfriend passed. Several times in the first few years after the divorce, she had attempted to resolve things with his dad. But each time, his father had rejected her attempts at reconciliation.

The first time was when she lost her permanent alimony. The girlfriend’s attorney had assured her that she would be “set for life” since permanent alimony would never end unless she remarried. It was all his mother needed to file for divorce and live the exciting life her girlfriend promised. She would never have to marry again, and what woman receiving permanent alimony would every remarry when she could just live with their boyfriend or girlfriend and enjoy a lifetime of welfare? But when the final divorce decree came down, his mother only was given temporary, rehabilitative alimony. She immediately tried to reunite with his dad, but he recognized her true motivations and refused.

The second time she tried to reconcile with his father was when her girlfriend had beaten her. Again, his dad denied her, figuring she had made her bed, now she could sleep in it. His mom eventually agreed to go back to her girlfriend if she promised not to beat her anymore. That was when the boy started to become the punching bag, taking his mother’s place. That was three years and seven broken ribs ago.

So the boy was conflicted when he thought of shoving the knife into his mother’s chest. No matter what she had allowed, and participated in, she was still his mother. It was hurtful that she let him be beaten, bruised and burnt. So when she herself had crossed the line that morning and started choking the young man, she received the six inch blade for her efforts. But despite her abuse, it was still his mother.

His OCD was starting to kick in and the snakes and spiders that felt like they were crawling on his skin were starting to make their presence known. So he began to count the tiles on the ceiling to occupy his time and take his mind off of his building stress. Soon, his skin settled down and he started to feel the tightness in his chest abate.

“Hey boy,” he heard. “Whatcha in for?” One of the others asked.

The young man barely heard the question, continuing his ritualistic ceiling tile counting, not wanting to have to start over if he lost his concentration. The others continued their murmuring and then it got quiet. The boy had just finished counting the third row of tiles when he felt a jolt to his left shoulder. Someone had hit him in one of the burn marks and he let out a yelp. Standing in front of him was a tall, lanky man who desperately needed a shave and shower. His teeth, the few he had left, were covered in a plaque of yellow and brown crust that seemed to be holding them together, each of his lower front teeth tilting at an impossible angle. The man didn’t look much past 40 years old, but his skin and teeth told a story of a very hard life. The tattoos on his upper body bled out of the neck-line of his t-shirt, hinting of a well inked torso beneath. His head had been shaved bald. If he had been a woman, he would have been described as
ridden hard and put away wet
. As it was, he didn’t like the kid ignoring him and the punch to his shoulder brought the boy back to reality.

The man looked back at the others, searching for approval. He turned his attention back to the boy and glared at the youth, sizing him up like a lion would do to a gazelle.

“I said,” he hissed. “What are you doing in here?”

The boy, well beyond caring, simply shrugged and continued to rub the burn that had just been punched.

“Are you stupid?” The man continued. “What are you doing in here?”

The boy started at his tormentor, watching as the man constantly glanced back over his shoulder at the others. That’s when he noticed the other man. Also shaved bald, this one had an air about him that reeked of authority. This one stared back at him, his eyes boring through the boy’s gaze leaving no doubt who was in charge.

“Come on, punk!” The man in front of him said as he clenched his fist for another strike. “We want to know what a white bread kid like you is doin’ in the cell with us! Now TALK! What are you charged with?”

The young man relented. He looked down at the floor and whispered to the man.

“Murder,” he said in a low voice.

“Murder my ass!” The man chortled. “You ain’t murdered no one.”

The boy continued to stare at the floor as the man stood his ground in front of him.

“OK, White Bread.” He continued. “Who’d you put down? Just who did you off? Your teacher? Was she giving you bad grades? Come on! Tell me, just who did you kill? Mr. Big, Bad Man!”

“My mom,” he whispered back.

The verbal assault ended. His assailant stepped back and turned to the others. The leader, a big man with even more tattoos than the first one stepped forward. He moved with a grace that belied his size. As he approached, the boy could make out the tattoos with even greater detail. Several swastikas were evident as well as an Iron Cross. The number 88 was stenciled on his right cheek while the number 14 was stenciled on the left one. His blue eyes bore into the young man as he stepped up. He crouched in front of the boy and reached out, lifting his chin to stare into his eyes. The man, the leader of the group, spoke.

“Why?”

The boy, unsure why he should answer, simply lifted his shirt and the man and his minion stared at his scarred and burned chest.

The leader shook his head up and down, and letting go of the boy’s chin, lifted his own shirt up, revealing the pucker marks of his own burnt and scarred torso. The leader turned to the others and pronounced “He’s one of ours now! Protect him.”

Then he turned back to the boy. “Name’s Taurus,” he said. “You’re now protected by the Aryan Brotherhood. You’ll be safe.”

And with that, the lights went out.