God help us.
CHAPTER SIX
Good Neighbors
HOUSTON, TEXAS
Reince Blackaby galloped his fingers on a burnished mahogany desk with one hand and pushed the metal balls, a desk toy given to him by his wife, with the other, taking comfort in the predictable clicking sound and the laws of physics. He was having a bad day.
Reince, sleek as an otter in his $10,000 black suit and slicked-back hair, was afraid. Things had gotten out of control, and he was forced to realize that his life as he knew it was over. Beyond the broad window, Houston looked mostly calm. A few military helicopters in the distance, but nothing burning, no rioting here. Not yet.
He had spent his life telling himself that he was the embodiment of the American Dream. His father had been a boilermaker in upstate New York, hardworking, blue-collar, honest. Reince wanted more for his life, and had joined the army with a plan when he was seventeen. Six years, then college at SUNY with the help of the GI bill. Law school at Columbia, then a job with a hedge fund firm. He’d been approached by the Directors to head up a “security firm,” as they had put it. The million-dollar signing bonus made the decision a no-brainer. He was now fifty years old, and worth more in millions. Life had been good. Country clubs, yachts, vacations all over the world in private jets. He was proud of himself for what he had accomplished.
“Pulled myself up by my own bootstraps,” he’d lecture his children when they were acting spoiled, which was often. “You don’t have any idea how good you have it.”
As a hedge fund manager, he’d learned to see patterns beneath the chaos, manipulate it even. There were constant fluctuations in the market, but there was always a way to make more money.
The Directors were going to blame him for this debacle, though, and he knew firsthand what that meant. They were not people in the forgiveness business. As far as he knew, he had met only one of them, a withered, unassuming raisin of a man with intense blue eyes and a chilling smile. The man, who identified himself as “Mr. Smith,” was the one who had recruited Reince years ago. Since then, communication was via encrypted phone and self-destroying e-mail. The Directors were ghosts.
While Reince liked to consider himself a “Master of the Universe,” really, he was no more than a glorified middleman, a cog in the wheel, and now he feared for the lives of his wife and children. He’d already called Amy to tell her to get the hell out of town, empty the bank accounts, and go off the grid. It was a backup plan he’d rehearsed with her and had in place for several years.
Until this morning, everything had gone according to a plan years in the making. The right palms were greased, elections bought. The media played along, and Reince would chuckle as he watched the two sides having it out, feeling like a puppet master. A nudge here, a poke there, a bit of blackmail sprinkled in, and he was amazed sometimes how easy it was. He wasn’t privy to the Directors’ larger objectives. He followed orders.
The threat of secession was supposed to be only a means to make more money. It was never about actual war, only making dollars. More defense contracts, more gun manufacturing, more favorable tax laws, relaxed environmental regulations. Somehow, Reince had lost control. Washington, DC, was never supposed to be attacked. San Fran should not have been nuked. People had lost their minds.
Reince stared at the phone on his desk, waiting.
NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE
Leon Smith pulled the pickup truck onto West End Avenue. Traffic was snarled. The radio was talking about a war, and Leon was confused. Some of the stations had only static.
He tried the cell phone: no signal. The computer screen on the dash displayed Washington, DC, burning, and the scrolling headlines reported casualty counts, crazy numbers. “One hundred thousand people believed dead in the nation’s capital… Rioting in cities around the US.”
“You believe this shit?” Dominic said. “This some kind of joke?”
“I don’t think so,” Leon said, looking at the line of brake lights stretching for as far as he could see. People were honking horns.
The sky was low and gray with the promise of rain or sleet.
“The traffic lights stopped working,” Leon said.
“Yeah,” Jesus said. “No light in the stores either.”
“Oh man!” Dominic shouted, gesturing out the passenger window. “Look!”
Leon leaned over and down so he could see what Dominic was yelling about. Across the street, people were running out of a Wells Fargo bank. A pair of cops were walking toward the door with scatterguns.
Shots rang out, dull booms. Leon could hear people screaming.
Leon saw a woman fall down. The window on the passenger side of the truck shattered, spraying glass onto Leon’s lap, and a round slammed into the door next to him. He looked down at his chest, half expecting to find a gaping wound, but he was unharmed. Dominic and Jesus were shouting.
“There’s a bank robbery going on right next to us,” Dominic was saying. “Dog, you almost got shot.”
“Yeah.”
There were more gunshots then, and Leon slid low in his seat. The truck was hopelessly mired in the traffic jam. The sound of a wailing woman hung on the chill gray afternoon.
“I’m outta here,” Dominic said, opening the door.
“Adios,” Jesus said, jumping out behind Dominic.
The gunfire ceased, and a crowd of people formed around the cops with the shotguns. Apparently, they had shot the bank robbers. People were crouched around a middle-aged woman, and Leon could see a pool of blood on the parking lot. He decided it was time to go on foot.
He abandoned the vehicle, ignoring the malevolent stares from fellow motorists. Other people were already doing the same. With so many empty vehicles on the road, traffic would be snarled for hours even if the power grid was restored.
Leon did some quick math. He was about ten miles from home. If he jogged, and if he didn’t encounter any problems, he could make it home to Antioch in a few hours, even with the hills.
He felt pretty good for the first mile, but then his feet began to ache. Work boots were less than ideal for running on pavement. By the time he made it to Nolensville Road, he was in agony. He could feel the burning blisters on his soles, and his feet felt tortured.
Police officers directed traffic at intersections, and traffic moved along only slightly faster than his steady jog.
“Hey, man,” said a bearded guy stopped before an intersection. The man had rolled the passenger window down and was leaning across the seat. His blue Ford F-150 was dusty and the truck bed was filled with lumber and construction tools. Leon stopped.
“You need a lift, brother?” the guy said. “Where ya headed?”
“Lower Antioch,” Leon said, panting.
“C’mon, hop in,” the guy said. “I’m goin’ your way. I live down off Harding. You look like you’re about to drop.” He reached over and opened the door.
Leon hesitated. His feet hurt, and the rain had started.
“Okay. Thanks a lot, man,” Leon said, getting into the truck. There was a battered brown leather Bible on the dashboard and country music coming from the speakers.
“Name’s Burt,” said the man with the beard and friendly eyes. His hair was short and the color of snow, face weathered and strong. Maybe sixty years old, with some hard miles in there. Leon shook Burt’s hand, a firm grip. Honest, but without challenge. “It’s gonna take us a while, but it’s better than walking in that cold rain.”