“This war is already worse,” Martinez said. “And it’s only been a few weeks.”
“I’m lost,” Henry said.
“What the sergeant major is saying is two things,” Carlos said. “Number one, this war is going to become exponentially worse than the first Civil War because of the increased lethality of our weapons and training and the fact that the people pulling the strings don’t give a fuck about killing everyone. Finally, it’s our job to stop them. That about right, Sar’n?”
Martinez gave Carlos an odd, appraising look. “Yes, Carlos, that’s about right.”
“The Civil War was not about slavery or morality, not really,” Carlos said. “It was about money and power. The men on the ground, the guys pointing the rifle at each other, they were caught up in it. Most Confederate soldiers were never even related to someone who owned a slave, and still they fought. Maybe they listened to the wrong sermon, or maybe because their brothers were all fighting, too, and that was the honorable thing to do. A bunch of dirt farmers and sharecroppers who fought like hell because they had been manipulated into believing in a system which benefitted the gentry at a disproportionate rate to the general populace.”
“Where the hell did that come from, and who the hell are you?” Martinez said with a grin.
“I like history,” Carlos said. “I love to read. But in the army, it doesn’t pay to be too smart.”
All three of them laughed then, and they told stories about foolish and dangerous officers they’d all served under. In the stories, the lieutenants, captains, and majors were buffoons. Henry rejoiced in the laughter and shared reminiscing, for the stories were similar. There were cowards, bullies, and grossly inept officers they’d all had the displeasure of serving under. It wasn’t all funny, though; soldiers had died because of these fools. The conversation became serious.
“That’s what this is, you know,” Carlos said.
“What?” Martinez asked.
“The same kind of thinking, similar manipulation, but on a broader scale now, that compelled the South to really go to war the first time. Fear, misinformation, dehumanization, misplaced loyalty. Brotherhood. Money and power. But the money and power now, worse than then, is centralized in the hands of a few. And the economy is global. I’m guessing our real enemies have estates in Europe, Asia, all over the world. They’re loyal to the dollar and the yuan and the ruble. They don’t want to lose what they’ve got, and they’ve managed to get people to fight for them. And now we have a new ‘bloodiest day in American history.’”
“I’m sorry,” Henry said, “but it’s not quite that simple. The government has gone nuts. They’re in our personal business and no one is stopping them. They want to take our guns, hand out money to people who lay around all day and expect us to pay for it. Welfare, entitlements. Spending money the government doesn’t have to spend. And you’re wrong about the Civil War. The first one, I mean. It wasn’t just about—”
“All right, Johnny Reb,” Carlos said. “You tell that to the motherfucker with the private island who’s trying to kill you. The team that comes for your wife and kid. We can debate the Federalist Papers and the theory of nullification then. Right now, there is an enemy that needs some killing.”
“Amen, brother,” Martinez said. “Now shut up and get some sleep. I’ve got the first watch.”
KEY WEST, FLORIDA
Suzanne peered through the hole Bart had cut in the front door while the others took up positions around the house. Bart, carrying an AR-15 from Henry’s gun safe, padded from room to room, checking the windows and doors. Outside, the gang of looters whooped and hollered as they pillaged the home across the street. Suzanne knew no one lived there at the moment.
The looters, at least thirty of them, loaded pickup trucks, trailers, and vans. Suzanne could hear them laughing and joking. These were the kind of people that longed for a breakdown of society. For them, this was an extended holiday, a chance to be free of the law and constraints of morality. A window of opportunity afforded by a lack of consequences.
Maybe they’ll leave us alone. There are plenty of other houses around here.
More of them came, their ranks swelling through some invisible cockroach network, an announcement floating through the air that the light was out and it was time to swarm..
Ginnie took Taylor into the guest bathroom, the safest room in the house. They hunkered down in the bathtub with some blankets over them. They’d gone over this plan more than once, and even drilled on it. The tub might protect them from rounds tearing through the house. Although the walls were concrete, the hurricane shudders over the abundant windows would do nothing to stop a bullet.
Mary sat in the living room holding a .22 pistol in her hands and looking at it as though it were a poisonous snake.
Greenburg looked morose and tense and he had a baseball bat over his knees.
“They’re coming this way,” Suzanne said. The sun was coming up. She’d hoped these clowns would lose interest, but they seemed to be enjoying themselves. They’d set one of the houses down the street on fire.
The looters carried pieces of rebar, bats, crowbars, and guns. They were mostly young men, but Suzanne could see some who looked to be in their forties, bearded and crusty. A group of them stood in the road looking at her home, hands on their hips, apparently sizing things up.
There was more shouting and gesturing and the group of thugs formed up and started walking up the driveway.
“Get ready,” Suzanne said.
“It’s clear in the backyard,” Bobby said.
“I’m not playing with these assholes,” Bart said. “Suzanne, aim for the chest.”
Bart stood next to the front door, the assault rifle in both hands. He had extra magazines stuffed into his pockets and a sidearm holstered at his hip. He paused for a moment, and Suzanne saw him nod to himself, as though he were counting down in his head.
He threw the door open, moving to his right.
Suzanne fired the first shot, at a man less than thirty feet away. He was carrying a black revolver in one hand, sauntering forward with a grin. When the door opened, he started to raise his weapon, his grin fading into surprise while Suzanne pulled the trigger.
The blast knocked him two steps back, and he pivoted on one foot while his knees buckled beneath him, sitting down, then falling at an angle that would have been painful and awkward for a man who was still alive. The recoil from the shotgun slammed into Suzanne’s shoulder and rocked her on her feet; she was already chambering another shell, racking the weapon and shifting the barrel slightly.
Bart was firing and moving off to the right. Single shots like firecrackers.
Suzanne fired again, feeling outside of herself, and surprised at how calm she was. She tingled all over, and her ears were humming.
The second guy was trying to run, but instead of turning away, he’d come straight at her. He was about twenty feet away when she shot him in the face. His head was transformed into pink mist and meat and his body twisted to the ground, arms and legs twitching.
There were other shots from further away, and Suzanne heard the crack of rounds hitting the metal shudders covering the windows only a few feet away. From inside, she could hear Mary screaming. It sounded like Bobby was shooting at someone in the rear of the house.
The knot of men who’d initially approached the house scattered and they were running for cover. Bart kept firing, and two more of them fell mid-stride.
The smell of propellant mixed with the salty air and sewage and smoke from the burning house down the road.
Bart cut down the driveway, crouching next to Suzanne’s Mercedes, firing through another magazine.