Alea Jacta Est: Future History of America, #1

PROLOGUE

Three years ago…

Erik Larsson sat behind the wheel of his car, waiting at a red light. It was just another Thursday afternoon for the rest of the world, but for him, it was another day without landing a job.

It had been two months since he and his fiancée, Brin Hideyo, had moved to Florida’s Sun Coast, and he’d so far been unsuccessful in finding a way to help pay the bills. He knew it wasn’t for lack of trying, but it depressed him nonetheless.

Brin had been recruited the previous winter by a big pharmaceutical company, and when the two had earned their degrees, she had been ready to start work. Erik planned to start school for a master’s in teaching come September. Everyone back home told him he could find work as a substitute teacher in the meantime.

A small beep brought him out of his own self-pity. The orange Service Engine Soon light had just come to life on the dashboard. Again. Erik sighed. For the second time in as many weeks, the car begged to be taken to a service station. The last trip had cost him five hundred dollars for a fuel injector cleaning. He bit back the comment he was about to make about the car.

Oh well. That’s what credit cards are for.

Erik sighed again. The red light finally turned green and he could continue on his way to the local Walmart. He had a list of things they needed for the new apartment, and he and Brin simply could not deal without this stuff any longer. The car was just going to have to wait its turn.

He thought once again how strange it was that she was out working while he stayed home to clean and tidy up the apartment, get the groceries and cook. The role reversal seemed strange at times, and it was a little unnerving, but at least they didn’t have any friends that would require explanations, yet.

I’m domesticated, Erik thought as he pulled into the parking lot. When he found a space and pulled in, he reached to turn off the radio. Erik had been listening—somewhat—to the local AM conservative talk show host, Andrew Hide.

Hide was lambasting someone in California about the pathetic state of political affairs when the radio suddenly went silent. Erik’s hand hadn’t touched the radio dial yet. The car was still rumbling in idle, cool A/C blowing against his face. He looked around the parking lot for a few seconds, waiting. Nothing. He looked at the time on the clock—4:17 p.m.

Okaaay. He switched to another station, this one from Tampa. Erik hadn’t heard this show before, but the guy was talking about liberals in California. The host stopped midsentence and started talking about some sort of power outage reported in New York. The man wondered why none of the TV superpowers—CNN, MSNBC, or FOX—were covering the breaking story yet. He quickly wondered aloud if terrorism might be involved.

Erik held his breath and switched back to Hide’s show. Still nothing. Just as he was about to switch back to the other station, Hide came back on:

"—so we can see again. I don’t know if you can tell me if we’re on the air or not? I don’t know either…okay, well folks, if you can hear me, the lights here in Manhattan just went out and we’ve lost power, but thanks to a backup generator, we do have emergency lights. I don’t know if we’re still broadcasting or not—hey, Mike, do we still have the ex-governor on line four? No? Well, see if you can get him back…"

Fascinated, Erik listened to the show while the host talked with producers. They didn’t know they were still on the air. Erik leaned in toward the radio to listen. He ignored the curious looks of people as they walked toward the store. Erik had been raised in upstate New York, so no matter where he was in the country, he still paid attention when the Big Apple was mentioned. It was a habit.

Erik sat for a few more tense, speculation-filled minutes. No one knew what had happened or why, and the facts trickled in frustratingly slowly. Lower Manhattan was out…there was a fire at a power plant somewhere near New York City. No, it was in upstate New York. Now all of Manhattan was out—reports were coming in that part of Greater New York was out…then parts of New Jersey as well.

The last time something like this had happened was back in 2003, and before that, September 11, 2001. The same dark feeling in the pit of his stomach from those dangerous times returned on this sunny day in southern Florida.

His first thoughts now, like then, were about his family. Where were they—were they safe? Everyone had been well away from the city on 9/11: mom and dad at their cabin on Lake Champlain, his sister in Virginia at grad school. Today was much the same. His parents were still deep upstate. His sister—now married—lived in Maryland.

Erik had an overwhelming urge to get home. He wanted to see the news on TV. He had to get inside and shut the doors, seal himself in someplace secure. I must have lived in a castle or something in a previous life.

He focused on what was being said over the radio. Nothing was mentioned of smoke or fires or attacks or anything. The rational part of his mind convinced Erik to just go do his shopping and head home. By then, he figured, someone might know something useful, and the news channels would have video of the unfolding drama.

Wow, am I that far gone that this is exciting to me? I need to find a job.

Erik quickly went down his shopping list and picked up the cleaning supplies, food, and printer paper he needed, then almost ran to his car. The news was pretty much the same, but just about every radio station was talking about it now, including the sports talk programs. He drove home listening to updates, waiting for the other shoe to drop—waiting for someone to say it was a terrorist attack. He couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to be in downtown New York at that moment.

Erik pulled into the parking lot of his apartment on the other side of town. He passed workers installing a big brick pedestal sign that read Colonial Gardens. The apartment complex was only a little over halfway built, so he drove slow. There was always a chance the construction workers might leave a random nail or something on the ground, ready to puncture a tire. Luckily the buildings around their apartment were complete. Only the three big multistory buildings on the south side of the complex and the one in the middle were still under construction.

He put the old Buick in park and listened to the news. The power was out as far away as Detroit and Cincinnati—even parts of Canada were affected. Philadelphia and Washington, D.C., were spared, as was Chicago, but just about everything in between and north had been knocked offline.

Erik whistled at the sheer magnitude of the power outage, then grabbed his stuff and went inside. Erik felt guilty looking forward to this bit of morbid entertainment, but it was too early for football, and nobody cared about hockey this far south.

He had a stocked fridge, all the snacks and beer he needed, a comfortable couch, and an exciting news story. Brin was out of town on her training trip, so job or no job, his evening was set.

Thanks be to Allah, said Hakim Sharif Hassan as he smiled at the television. Reports of a major blackout on the east coast were dominating every news channel. He sat in his air-conditioned apartment in one of the sections of Chicago that most decent people tried to avoid. At this moment, he loved it. The young man from Iran watched the incessant news reports about the event, already dubbed the Great Blackout with barely contained glee.

Now you Imperialist dogs will know what it is to be hot, he commented sourly, thinking of his family back home. They had no air conditioner like the one that spewed arctic air into his room. Hakim’s mother and sisters suffered through heat and cold on a daily basis, isolated as they were in the mountainous highlands of old Persia.

He had assured their survival when he’d joined the Fist of the Jihad—a splinter cell of al-Qaeda. The majority of its operatives lived as agents of sleeper cells in the United States and other Satan-worshiping Western nations. When he completed his mission, his family would never want for anything, ever again.

The Fist took care of its own. When a Brother of the Fist was killed or sacrificed himself in the name of Allah, the brother’s family received generous donations from concerned benefactors. The Fist had many connections and almost as many financial pipelines as al-Qaeda itself.

There were a lot of people out there besides al-Qaeda who would like to see America fall from its high horse. Communists. Anarchists. Neo-Fascists. The list was nearly endless. They all contributed, then let the operatives of the Fist take the heat.

That was fine by Hakim. He’d be happy to take the glory—the cash that went with it wasn’t bad, either.

When the Holy Osama had wrought destruction upon the Twin Evils in New York City, the Fist had been there. Five of the hijackers had been sworn members of the Fist. Hakim only lamented the fact that he himself had not been chosen to fly one of the planes right down the Americans’ throats on that glorious day of vengeance. His family could be living in a palace right now.

The current news channel put up a graphic of the affected areas, then began to criticize the government for allowing the US power grid to be controlled by only three main power hubs: one for the East, one for the West, and one in Texas. If a hub failed, as evidently it had in New York, the potential for the entire grid it served to fail was enormous. Hakim stared in wonder at the graphic for a second before grabbing a wrinkled, half-used pad of paper and a dull pencil. He quickly scratched down notes.

Praise Allah! The stupid Americans not only told him what had happened, but what might happen in the future if one or more grids went down. The fools had handed him all the information he needed.

Hakim was downright giddy by the time the news channel went to a commercial. Thank you, CNN, he said reverently.

An idea formed in his head. This revelation that America was divided into three large grids, with three main hubs to control everything…it was pure Divine intervention.

Allah is great! He retrieved a cold beer from the beat-up fridge and looked at the can for a second, a pang of guilt reverberating through his mind. What the imam does not know cannot insult him. I am of the Fist. I am above rules, for my life is sacred to Allah, he said in a mockery of his swearing-in oath. He convinced himself once again that what he was about to do was perfectly acceptable to his Islamic teachings. He quickly drained the watery American beer and pitched the empty can into the corner of the kitchen.

Behind him, in the living room, the reporters had gone back to New York, showing scenes of unlit buildings looming above millions of people crowding the streets in an effort to get out of the city. Hakim ached to see a bomb go off—even just a small one—in the middle of all those people. A single man with some C4 could slay hundreds, then thousands more in the subsequent stampede. Hakim sat back in his chair and sighed over missed opportunities. He hoped his brothers in arms were paying attention.

Night was falling in New York City, without power on one of the hottest days of the year. In the post-9-11 world, the reporter was saying, people were more apt to panic and get out of town than wait for the lights to come back on. Speculation mounted about when the looting and violence might start.

You swine automatically assume the worst in your own people. No wonder this country is so polluted that other nations choke on your fumes, Hakim said, sipping his second beer. Details mattered little to Hakim when it came to his religious belief and worldview. After all, Allah was with Islam, so Allah must be against everyone else, no? People who refused to accept this Truth were fools and deserved no mercy.

Hakim finished his second beer and tossed the empty can over his shoulder to rattle on the floor. He wiped the froth from his jet-black mustache. For a second, he considered shaving it, but no—his imam demanded facial hair. That was what he had always been taught Allah wanted as well. But now…

Over the next few days, Hakim watched the news almost every minute he was awake. He listened to the reports: which plant had gone down when and how that had caused the next line to shut down. Before long, the whole interconnected monstrosity strangled itself and shut down.

Rather than use his own computer, he visited the local internet café and compared notes with his handler on a weekly basis. He never spent too much time there because of a poster tacked to the wall by the exit. It had four words on it in block letters:

SEE something? SAY something!

That was plenty enough warning to work fast. He could not risk an investigation. From the café, he conducted research as carefully as he could, using multiple accounts and a trick he’d learned in to bounce his IP address off different servers to confuse anyone trying to trace him.

According to what he found, power had by now been returned to most of the affected areas. People were all too willing to go online and vent their frustrations at the public utilities over slow response times. He sifted through complaints about how thinly spread the police forces had been in New York City. He took note of the fact that most of the time, the police were driving around with their lights on to reassure the public and not hunting criminals.

Hakim wrote everything down on a yellow legal pad. He didn’t chance printing materials from the café computer. Handwritten notes could not be traced by anyone.

Each day he returned to the café and logged in to find more and more information. People captured scenes on the streets with their phones and uploaded videos and blog posts by the minute. As the hours turned into days, the smoldering heat frayed nerves and reports of scattered fighting and looting surfaced, but nothing major.

Hakim leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his greasy, unkept hair. It had been three days. Three days and not one instance of rioting or general chaos. All the news prognosticators had been proven wrong—they’d been warning of the anarchy about to descend on New York, but instead of a media dream, they got a nightmare: boring stories of most people just hanging out and waiting for the power to return.

Three days. You had three days to implode and instead you…wait? Drink warm water on porches and sit in the shade while FEMA passes out ice? Where is the chaos? Where is the rioting?

Hakim shook his head in disgust. The American media always sought out the worst in its own people, but time after time, Americans proved them wrong. Hakim was sorry that this time was the same.

He was more than disappointed that there hadn’t been large-scale looting and rioting, but comforted by the fact that everyone still feared that possibility and most commentators were quite surprised when it did not occur.

When the first reports that power had been restored in small sections of New York state, Hakim had cursed. The chance for rioting and chaos dwindled as word spread that power was being restored, bit by bit.

Fifty million Americans in five states still wi

thout power after three days—all because one power plant, located in Canada, New York, or Ohio, had overloaded. None of the authorities were sure what exactly had started it, but those three regions were the prime suspects. Terrorism had been ruled out almost from the start, and rather smugly at that, Hakim thought. He found it amusing that even now, so long after the attack, Americans were still jittery at the memories of 9-11.

A real nation would have learned an important lesson and made itself stronger, used the images of that day to redouble its resolve. You people are weak. Soft. You try to forget what happened so you can sleep better at night. Fools. He flashed a contemptuous smirk at the screen and continued reading articles.

Even while officials confirmed it wasn’t terrorism, they admitted they didn’t know the cause of the blackout. Hakim found that very amusing. If they didn’t know the cause, how could they rule out terrorism so fast? Everything was geared to keeping the populace calm and unworried. It all went back to the fear or rioting and general unrest, he figured.

Terrorism, indeed. Hakim smiled and looked at his stack of yellow legal pads. His was a righteous cause, a crusade, a jihad—not mere terrorism. But if the Americans wanted terrorism, he’d give it to them. He picked up his prepaid cell phone and made a short call.

Hey, Bob! How ya doin’? he asked cheerfully. His Midwestern accent was flawless.

"Great, John! What’s up?" The voice on the other end could easily have been found in any suburb in the nation. Just a regular guy, relaxing in a hammock in the backyard with a glass of iced tea.

Got some good news for you, said Hakim, glancing at his notes.

"Great! You going to the game tonight after all?"

Wouldn’t miss it for the world, said Hakim before hanging up. He laughed out loud at the ease of it all. His plan was set in motion.

Now, to start a truce. We will need allies. It all balanced on whether or not he could get help in his fight. He felt they were ripe for the picking, yet needed a little more convincing. He got up and closed the browser, then walked out of the café with a smile for the girl behind the counter. Outside the internet café, Hakim blinked in the sunlight and casually dropped his cell phone in the first trash can he found on the way home.

Hakim headed down the street toward his just-above-slum-level apartment. With a three-day beard and half a cigarette in his mouth, ratty jeans, and a plain white tank top undershirt, he rounded the corner into the steamy Chicago summer sun. He tucked the notepad as carelessly as he could under his arm and tried to affect the air of one who had no cares at all. He looked just like anyone else in this depressing neighborhood of inequity and sin. Just as he had expected, only a few blocks away, he found his dealer.

Hakim, my man! said the youth by way of greeting. Hakim figured him at no more than sixteen or seventeen years of age. They slapped hands and shared cigarettes.

What is happening, my friend? asked Hakim, forcing his Middle Eastern accent for the amusement of the young drug dealer. Americans always thought it sounded funny and innocent. In reality, Hakim realized, his English was far better than the American teen.

You have the smackdown, yes? he asked.

"No, man, it’s just smack, laughed the boy. He casually reached into the paper sack next to him on the row house steps and handed over a dime bag. You goin’ to school?" he asked with a nod at Hakim’s notepad.

Hakim started to explain, but Tahru pulled out a fancy cell phone and began to type a text. Hakim frowned.

The rudeness of American youth was stunning. In Iran, the boy would be beaten halfway to death for such an insult. It was clear Tahru didn’t give a rat’s ass about the ignorant Arab immigrant before him. Hakim babbled on about taking a class in English as a second language. It made him sound harmless. What is the word—rube? Yes. The boy thinks I am a rube.

Hakim finished speaking and took a long, slow drag on his cigarette. He looked up the street and pretended he didn’t care that Tahru was reading a message and not paying attention him. If he wanted to ignore the man who didn’t seem to notice that the poison Tahru sold him was only fifty-fifty and not worth a quarter what he charged, that was fine by Hakim. He fantasized about showing the young thug Allah’s mercy at the point of a scimitar. That would get his attention.

Patience—this has to be delicate. Hakim took the boy’s drugs and handed over his cash. Hakim despised drugs on principle and would toss what he purchased in the trash after getting what he wanted from Tahru. He once again marveled that such a transaction occurred in broad daylight in America.

Truly this place deserves the name Great Satan. And to be sold these filthy drugs by a child!

My friend, Tahru…I am wondered… He paused as Tahru laughed. I see this man. A black man…a great black man on the television. Tahru was gyrating gently to his own internal music.

No doubt he is high on something.

Yeah? asked the kid, eyeing the street.

His name, I cannot say—Frakahan…Frankenhan…he say he hate the white man—

Oh, you mean Calypso Louie. Shit, said Tahru. You ask Malcolm ’bout that fool. I don’t know shit ’bout him.

Hakim acted confused. But my friend, you only have one brother. I was thinking…he is naming Jamal, no?

Tahru made a clicking sound of derision with his tongue. "Tsst! Man, why you be trippin’? You know…Malcolm…oh—snap! Tahru laughed. He done converted before you came ’round last time. He just like you, all up in that Islam bulls—"

Praise be to Allah! Hakim said before the insolent fool in front of him could blaspheme the faith, inadvertently or not.

Tahru grabbed his forty-ounce beer and swilled away. "See? That’s the same shit he sayin’ all the time! Always Allah this and Allah that. Shoot…crazy motherf—"

Ah, thank you my friend! Thank you, said Hakim, interrupting again. The foul-mouthed American would face Allah’s wrath for speaking thus. I did not know your brother was a true believer. He masked his face in surprise, though he knew very well of the older brother’s recent conversion. It was part of his plan to recruit new converts like Malcolm.

Tahru, pacified by the beer, leaned confidently against the rusty handrail and plucked at his own soiled wife beater. His dark skin glistened with sweat in the summer heat. He pulled his flashy sunglasses down a bit over his nose. "Man, you got to meet Jamal— He clucked his tongue. Tahru put his hands together as if in prayer before saying, I mean, his Holiness, Malcolm Abdul Rashid. Tahru laughed. Jamal done gone off an’ found Jesus," he laughed again.

May I meet Jam—I mean, Malcolm? I wish to discuss the teachings of—

Yeah, yeah, whatever, man. Just go on in—hey, watch the smack, man, don’t step on that. Tahru hastily gathered his wares and shifted position on the step. He waved a hand over his shoulder as a local girl came into view. Momma in the kitchen, she tell you where to go. Tahru absently waved Hakim past him, eyes on the girl. Almost as an afterthought, he called over his shoulder, Momma! Man here to see Jamal! He smiled at the girl, drowning in gold chains, who blew him a kiss.

From inside the dark, stagnant row house, Hakim heard a deep female voice call out, "Tah-ruuu! Don’t you be sendin’ no mo’ o’ yo’ crackheads in my house! And yo’ brother name Malcolm!"

How you doin’, baby? asked Tahru. He looked up at Hakim and hissed, Man, go on in…you makin’ me look bad!

Hakim paused for a second, his hand on the screen door’s rusty doorknob. Allah protect me from these barbarians! Your will be done…

For his plan to succeed, there had to be an expansion of the alliance. Hakim entered the row house with a smile on his face.

CHAPTER ONE

Present Day

Erik looked at the paper in his hands. Everything in his bug-out bag was listed and numbered. The first aid supplies: tapes, bandages, gauzes, and antibiotics. Iodine tinctures, ibuprofen, Tylenol, and decongestants were all listed with expiration dates.

The next category was tools, then everything non-food/first-aid-related. He had trash bags for making impromptu shelters or ponchos, and plastic ties, good for securing just about anything. Work gloves—the thin leather kind—not too expensive, but just enough to protect hands in a rough environment. The aftermath of a tornado or a hurricane can be a nasty place.

He had flashlights, batteries, rubber bands, and safety pins. He had sets of clothes to change into, two full sets of toiletries, and his favorite, an old surplus USMC Ka-Bar. He’d created a mini survival kit crammed full of fishing line, sinkers, and hooks, all lashed to the sheath with parachute cord.

As far as weapons were concerned, he had more knives and swords than he had fingers and toes, and Brin rolled her eyes every time she saw them. Try as she might to save space, Erik would not part with them. As a history buff, Erik was especially fascinated by the Dark Ages. He also loved Japanese history and had even studied in Japan for a year, traveling with his Japanese history class. Swords were a natural outgrowth of that fascination with history.

Erik’s love of all things Japan had been a large part of the reason Brin’s close-knit family had accepted him so readily. Brin’s father, Tom Hideyo, an electrical engineer, was a second-generation Japanese-American, the son of emigrants who’d fled the Land of the Rising Sun shortly after World War II. Brin’s mother, Allison Stewart, was a card-carrying Valley Girl who thrived on beaches and tanning oil. It was an eclectic mix, the scientist and the beach bunny, but they had produced a stunning young woman in Brin.

She had the smallness and grace of her Japanese ancestors, yet retained the hardiness and strength of mother’s English forebears. Through some mystery of genetics, Brin was a five-foot-four, light-skinned, dark-haired, blue-eyed beauty.

Erik smiled as he remembered the early days of their relationship. He had bonded with Brin’s grandparents almost from the start. Erik had impressed them by demonstrating his knowledge of Japanese culture when he’d removed his shoes before entering their house. He’d impressed them even more with his rudimentary knowledge of the Japanese language.

His passion for swords was a plus to Brin’s paternal grandfather, Hatori Hideyo. Hideyo-san hailed from a family long known to be the caretakers of their masters’ samurai swords. The family tradition, in Western terms, would be that of the hereditary squire, one of honor. As far as her grandparents were concerned, the fair-skinned, red-haired giant was to be considered a son. Erik had been grateful to learn that Hideyo-san and his wife, Sachiko, had considerable influence with Brin’s parents when he’d asked for permission to propose.

One of the best memories Erik had of that time was watching his fiancée, her father, and her grandfather all performing a slow kata, a karate practice routine. Brin’s grandfather had served in the Japanese Army in World War II but had been trained in the martial arts by his father long before. In time, Brin’s father had been taught karate, and in turn, his daughter as well.

Erik had joined a dojo in college but had never advanced beyond a mere initiate. He found in Brin a willing teacher, and soon her father became his sensei. Brin easily outpaced Erik in pure skills, but Erik usually won their sparring contests through leverage and sheer strength.

Each time Brin and Erik would make the trip to California to visit her grandparents, they would marvel at the young couple’s budding love and smile at their partnered katas. Her grandfather soon began to instruct Erik in the art of iaito, the way of the sword.

Erik sighed and looked around his office. Having a shotgun around would be a lot better, he admitted to himself. Part of him still clung to the idea of charging toward a burglar in the middle of the night with his katana. There was just something uncivilized about a gun. Any brute could fire a gun. It took a trained warrior to wield a sword. That was a man’s weapon—up close and personal.

Brin’s grandfather had told him many times, If you aim to take a life, have the honor to do it yourself. That is the way of the samurai. Do not let a bullet do so for you from a distance. There is no honor in that. Just death—easy and impersonal. There is no challenge. Where there is no challenge, there can be no honor.

He glanced up at the poster on his wall, a picture of a Navy SEAL emerging from a patch of dark water in the moonlight. There was no big rifle, just a camouflaged man rising from the water in the black of night with a knife in his hand and a look of terrible resolve on his face. A fearsome look. The caption read in bold letters:

The gun is just a tool. I am the weapon.

UNITED STATES NAVY SEALS

Erik brought himself back to the task at hand. He was deep in his semiannual task of making sure nothing was expired in his emergency kit. Stay focused. Let’s get this over with.

He looked over the US Coast Guard rations and other nonperishable foods he had stored in a large duffle bag. Besides emergency rations, he’d added a camping utensil set, emergency stove, some candles, and bottles of water.

Everything looked in order. Erik picked up the bag and winced—it felt like it weighed over thirty pounds. Still. He had been trying to lighten the load lately after the idea had formed in his head that maybe he and Brin might not be able to hunker down at home. If they had to leave the apartment, the bug-out bag would be a chore to carry for any length of time.

Erik guesstimated they had almost a month’s supply of canned foods, soups, beans and rice, not to mention SPAM, Vienna sausages, and crackers. He stared at the duffel and debated with himself. Maybe they wouldn’t need to use the bag anyway. They could just stay put during an emergency.

It had been a few years now since the Great Blackout and even longer since September 11, but the preparedness bug that had bitten Erik after the Twin Towers fell was back with a vengeance. They were in the second half of another hurricane season, and he was determined to be ready for anything. The weather service claimed this year would be well above average, storm-wise, despite the fact that so far, all was well.

After their first season in Florida, when three hurricanes had hit their apartment in a matter of weeks, Erik no longer felt so confident in his preps. Later that year, in the horrific aftermath of Hurricane Joyce, he’d realized that he and Brin were extremely lucky to have come through the season unscathed. Joyce had made Katrina look like an afternoon thunderstorm.

Erik’s top priority was to get a house and move Brin away from apartment living, preferably not in Florida. They both wanted mountains, forests, seasons—not summer and not-so-hot. As much as they liked the coast and the attraction of the ocean, snowcapped mountains always held the young couple in complete awe. They wanted to move west. Maybe Colorado. Maybe Wyoming. Hell, maybe even Montana.

Then he could really stockpile. There just wasn’t space in an apartment for two people and all their stuff, plus his emergency supplies. Erik was proud of his little cache of supplies, though. Whatever happened, he felt confident that he and his wife would survive, or at least have a much better chance at survival than average citizen.

Most people believed someone would come to help, be it the police, the National Guard, or the government. Even Katrina and Joyce hadn’t changed their minds. The government was not all-powerful. But it was good enough for them. Erik shook his head. Not good enough for me.

The internet groups and forums he frequented had given him all kinds of advice on what to get, why, how to use it, and whether it was really important. Erik checked up on the sites every day or so, even the ones that sometimes tended to lean toward the more radical The-End-of-the-World-As-We-Know-It scenarios.

He wasn’t sure anything like TEOTWAWKI was in the immediate future, but he found the advice invaluable. A lot of guys online were preparing for Armageddon, but those tactics and skills were easily transferrable to surviving everyday disasters such as hurricanes, earthquakes and floods. So Erik read, absorbed, and adapted the information to suit his needs.

If he had the money and they had to stay in Florida, he’d buy a sailboat and prep it for use in an evacuation or other emergency. A sailboat would be ideal. On a family vacation once to the Bahamas, he had rented one of the little two-man boats and had a local who worked at the resort take him out for a day and teach him to sail. Not the fancy yacht sailing available only to the rich, but the hands-on, practical kind of sailing that got you out and back alive every time. He had read a few books on the principles of sailing and had gone on a few day cruises with friends of the family. His parents had eventually acquired one for their house on Lake Champlain, so he knew how to sail. He just needed a boat. Erik jotted that down on his big list of things to acquire when he had more money or space.

Money. There was a cruel joke. His salary as a substitute teacher was…small. Brin made more than triple that in sales. She was one of the best reps in her company. They knew it and paid her well.

If we move, it’ll have to be to a place where both of us can work. Brin’s job is more important, so that means it’ll probably be closer to a big city than out at the base of a mountain.

He sighed. They both knew the dream of living on a ranch near mountains with a creek nearby was just that: a dream. More likely they would end up in Dallas or St. Louis, maybe even Chicago. Those were the big hubs for her company. She was a rising star, and her coworkers saw her moving up to corporate soon.

He hated big cities and all the extra worries that came with them, but he had to admit, more money might be involved. That meant a house—maybe even with a basement—and land. Storage. He could finally have a study, a place for his swords, a workshop, or a garage. He shook his head and tried to focus back on the task at hand. Daydreams would accomplish nothing. A house was just another item on his wish list.

Deep down, Erik knew he needed some of the things on his list immediately…he had a feeling something would happen, and soon. The blackout a few years back had exposed too many weaknesses in the American infrastructure. The more time went by, the more he was amazed that no one else seemed to remember. He had a vivid imagination and could foresee all kinds of trouble ahead.

Brin just smiled and went about her business. After all, she had a high-paying, fast-paced job and didn’t have time to worry about stuff like that, while Erik was just a substitute teacher working on his master’s degree.

For now, Erik thought. He put the heavy hurricane bag back in its place in the spare bathroom closet. Once stowed out of the way, he sat down and relaxed.

Guess I’ll get online and check in with the preparedness boards.

Erik woke his computer and checked for new messages, half-listening to the last of the crickets, cicadas, and God knew what else lurked outside in the steamy tropical night. In a few more months, he hoped, those pests would be gone for the winter. Another plus for leaving Florida. Bugs—he hated bugs. Especially spiders and fire ants. Florida was crawling with both, and many things in between. He shuddered at the thought and looked at the computer screen.

Something new…from someone named Transplant. Looked like a new guy in Florida. Well…let’s see what you’ve got to say, Transplant, said Erik as he clicked his way to the new message, entitled, Can’t shake this feeling…

Twenty-five replies already…this must be good.

Erik read the message. Transplant was a Georgia boy who had just moved to Florida. He had been reading the boards for about a year but had never posted. Prepping for disasters since Y2K and September 11…the usual intro. Erik skimmed down and looked for the meat of the message.

Evidently, Transplant had gotten a little spooked after the blackout and looked over his supplies again and again, trying to optimize everything. He had been at it for years. Erik smirked. This guy must be looking to get flamed. Trying to get the perfect kit is a never-ending battle, buddy.

Transplant went on to explain his irrational, or so it seemed to him, fear that something—he wasn’t sure what—was just over the horizon and it wasn’t going to be pretty.

The usual suspects replied right away that they’ve been worried about TEOTWAWKI for years. Another added something about building a tactical-assault wheelbarrow. Erik rolled his eyes.

From peak oil to a depression, the devaluing of the American dollar, global famine, two overseas wars, and the rampant spread of terrorism, most of the members of the forum had a healthy respect for the unknown. Many of the replies were from people scattered all over the country who agreed with the newbie and were glad to know they weren’t alone. The general theme—excepting the real screwballs— was that no one knew what was coming, only it was something bad. It was a group-consciousness sort of thing—inexplicable, but there nonetheless.

Erik sat back with a sigh and backed out of the message. That hadn’t helped at all—now his imagination was running wild. He moved on to other topics he’d been following lately.

There was a lot of concern about how dry the western states were. Some talked about the current hurricane season and how strange it was to be in July and only have one named storm so far. It was eerily reminiscent of the disastrous ’04 and ’05 seasons.

Erik looked up at the framed Hurricane Tracking Map that showed the paths of all four monsters that had hit Florida in 2004. The most powerful: Charley. The largest and slowest: Frances. The corkscrew path that looped back on itself: Jeanne. Ivan the Terrible had battered the Panhandle cities. Where the storm paths converged was a star. That was where he and Brin had been at the time. It was his constant reminder to be ready.

He sighed and glanced over at his video game station. He slid the rolling desk chair over to the TV and powered up Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 6. He selected a match and joined in the virtual mayhem. After a few moments to warm up, the kills began to rack up in his favor. Bullets shrieked across the digital landscape, and opponents around the world cursed as their virtual representations were shredded. Erik focused on the game and his anxiety faded into the background, pushed aside for another day.

CHAPTER TWO

Just outside Flagstaff, the sun was starting to disappear over the mountains to the west. Hakim shrugged under the weight of his backpack as he looked around. No one was nearby—he had not expected to run into anyone, but one had to be cautious.

Hakim’s car remained on the shoulder of the road, parked and locked. Technically, he was breaking the law by leaving his vehicle on this high mountain pass. An abandoned car along the narrow road as it wound its way around the top of the valley could cause a fatal accident.

Hakim smiled as he climbed up the steep embankment away from the road and into the pine trees. He was headed up to the top of the mountain. Absently, he realized he didn’t know the mountain’s name. He shrugged—it didn’t matter. He knew he was supposed to be on this road and drive south to mile marker 56, where he’d been instructed to park his car, climb to the top, and rendezvous with his as-yet-unknown partner.

The time had finally come. It had been almost a year since he had passed on his idea, and the tree was finally bearing fruit.

This was the night for which they had planned and trained for years. This was the night all the suffering of their brothers and sisters in Islam would be avenged. This was the night Hakim paid America back for destroying everything it touched with its foul, corrupting influence.

And it would all start with his car bomb. He smiled and relished his little moment of pride. His handler had advised him not to deviate from the plan put in place by the Fist leadership, but Hakim figured it was Allah’s will that the idea had come to him in the first place. Best not to go against Allah’s will. Besides, the car bomb would start off the night on a good note—a bloody note.

Hakim began to sweat as he climbed. His twisted path through the whispering mountain pines took him further and further away from the booby-trapped car. He grinned, thinking about the surprise to be found should anyone tamper with his car.

The driver’s-side door was wired to a rudimentary but effective homemade explosive fitted to the underside of the car. To see it, one would have to lift the car and know right where to look. He hoped it was a cop who tried the handle. He hated American police officers—they were the enforcers of America’s perverted and immoral laws. In his mind, there was no law besides Allah’s. Islam is Islam and everything else is corrupt.

Hakim had gone to great lengths to cover his tracks. He’d found someone who had just finished college and was looking to unload a beat-up old clunker. Hakim paid cash, with an extra thousand to keep the deal quiet. The kid didn’t care about title and registration—more the better for Hakim. If traced, the car would still be listed under the name George Humphries, of Topeka, Kansas. George would get a rather unpleasant wakeup call sometime tomorrow morning. Hakim smiled as he climbed ever higher through the trees, his footsteps muffled on the carpet of fallen pine needles.

To get the cash to pay for the car, Hakim had used America’s media yet again. He had been watching a news program about identity theft when the idea had come to him. Hakim figured if he really wanted to, he could make quite a living off the criminal ideas broadcast by the media in America. He was intrigued when the reporter explained how credit cards could be stolen out of trash cans.

People receive preapproved credit card offers all the time. Most just throw them in the trash and forget them, the reporter had explained with a somber face. He’d arched his eyebrows for dramatic effect, which had caused Hakim to laugh. The criminal, the reporter continued, "then comes along in the middle of the night and digs through your trash. When he finds the credit card offer, he fills out the information, puts his address down and gets the card in someone else’s name. Now he’s free to spend, and when he doesn’t pay the bills, the victim’s name comes up and it’s their credit that is ruined. With a little thought, even the paper trail will lead back to the victim. Most identity thieves will never be caught—there are just too many of these criminals out there, and law enforcement resources cannot match the number of credit offers sent out on a daily basis."

Hakim had wondered about collections agencies, though. The reporter on the television had appeared to read his mind, for the bald man had suddenly said, The most frustrating part of all of this is when the collection agencies involve the police, who go to the address listed on file for the card, they find nothing—by then, the criminal has already moved on or changed names. If the identity thief knows what they’re doing and remains cautious, it’s very hard to catch them.

Hakim remembered thanking the reporter before he turned off the TV that night and went out looking through the communal dumpster. About an hour and a half later, he hit pay dirt. The older lady down the hall had received a credit card offer. Hakim took it back to his place, filled it out, and a week later, he had a brand-new five-thousand-dollar-limit credit card. He promptly asked for checks drawn on the credit line, ostensibly for a balance transfer. The credit card company was only too happy to oblige. Hakim then used the checks to obtain cash in order to pay for the car.

He very quickly got a few more cards the same way and used them to buy his supplies before anyone got suspicious. After all, his plan was never to return to Chicago. The things he had set in motion would make Chicago very…he thought for a moment as he caught his breath and leaned against a pine tree. What was the word?

Unpleasant. He shifted the weight of the backpack a bit and continued further upslope. The going was a lot rougher now that he had wandered high upslope. He could barely make out the shape of his car on the black ribbon of road below.

Hakim knew he probably would not live to see the final victory over America, but he knew it would happen—that was no small comfort. In the meantime, he and his new partner would have enough cash, supplies, and equipment to last a long time during the coming chaos. A feeling of pride surged through his chest. Allah will be proud of me.

He finally broke through the pine trees and into a somewhat level clearing. Hakim stood in the shadows and took a moment to catch his breath and look down the dizzying slope. He couldn’t make out his car through the dense trees, but he knew the bomb waited patiently.

Beyond the clearing, the mountain continued upwards into the darkening sky. It was a massive silhouette. He paused again behind one of the last scrawny pine trees and frowned. He was a warrior, not a mountain goat. In the dim light, he peered across the clearing. Still nothing—just some tough grass, lots of pine needles and a handful of scraggly scrubs and weeds.

When he was halfway across the tiny alpine meadow, he spotted the outline of a car sitting on the access road. In the dim starlight, he couldn’t see the driver. He paused, about twenty yards away. The headlights blinked on, then switched off.

Is this it? Hakim shoved his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out a heavy flashlight. He fumbled with it for a second, pointed it toward the car, then turned it on and off. He walked a few paces forward and winced at the crunching noise his shoes made on the dirt and gravel path that served as a road. The car’s lights turned on again, stayed on for about ten seconds, then switched off. Hakim was about ten yards away when he spotted the glowing end of a cigarette in the car. The driver was smoking.

That you, Bob? Hakim called in his flawless Midwestern accent. He suppressed another wince as he heard his voice carry in the night.

Yeah, John, how ya been? was the quiet reply from inside the car. Exactly as agreed.

Excellent. Hakim relaxed and walked to the car.

In Allah’s name I greet you, brother, said Hakim formally. He sat down in the passenger seat and put his fist to his chest in salute to his new comrade. The driver replied in kind.

My name is Saldid Muhammad Rahman, the driver said in Arabic. He blew a last puff of smoke out the window and flicked the glowing cigarette butt onto the pine needles that coated the ground.

Hakim shut the passenger-side door and thought for a moment. Syria?

You have a good ear, my friend, replied Saldid with a grin. I wish I were there now instead of freezing my ass off on the side of this mountain, but such is life, no? He looked over at Hakim and smiled.

I am Hakim Sharif Hassan, Hakim replied. It was so nice to hear a civilized language once again after so long in the land of the barbarians. Hakim also spoke in Arabic, with a nod toward the car’s dashboard. I see you followed my advice.

The car was a late-1990s Buick. He grunted his approval. The car would serve them well and attract not the least bit of attention from anyone, especially the police. The interior had seen some love over the decades. Honestly, he was a bit surprised the car still functioned. However, it only had to last for a few days, a week at most. Then they could have their pick of any car on the road.

The greedy fools gave me a credit card, then I got the check from them—just like you told me—and now we have a car! Is this land not great? Saldid said in a mocking tone. He grinned broadly. I even cashed the check at a Bank of America!

After the two men shared a good laugh and released some of the tension, Hakim informed Saldid of the car bomb he had rigged on the road down below. Hakim said, Should not we be going, brother? We have much work to accomplish this night.

Saldid grinned again. His front teeth were yellow from the filterless imported cigarettes he smoked. Agreed. He looked at his watch. We need not be here when the infidels find your present.

THAT IS GOOD news indeed, my friend! I will see you this weekend at our team practice session. Say hello to the reverend for me, said Hakim in his American accent over the prepaid cell phone. He casually dropped the phone in the trash outside the run-down gas station and got back in the car.

Saldid sat patiently behind the wheel, focused on yet another cigarette. They had been driving for hours, and the sun had finally breached the horizon and flooded the evil land around them in the light of heaven. They had needed to fill up the car and piss, so Hakim had checked in with his handler.

What took so long? asked Saldid in his native Arabic. He took a long drag on his cigarette and turned down the radio.

Hakim frowned. He had come to realize in the long night that his new partner loved the little false idol named Ashley Sword. Hakim hated her and everything she stood for: drugs, liquor, sex, money, and fame. Saldid hated those things too, but he could not hate her music. He said it made him want to stand up and dance. He was the driver, so he picked the music.

You don’t want me to fall asleep at the wheel and crash, do you? That was the argument Saldid had used to justify listening to that…racket. Hakim grunted at the memory. He could not stand to listen to what the irritatingly desirable little girl claimed was music. Now her body…Hakim repressed a smile. He could make her sing.

Inside his head, the voice of his imam reproached him for his lustful thoughts. Hakim mentally shrugged off the warning. He found it was easier and easier now to ignore his imam. The crusty old man was on the other side of the world and he, Hakim Sharif Hassan, was about to make history. What did it matter if he dreamed of a few virgins on earth before he met them in Paradise?

So, Saldid said, what did he say this time?

I have good news and better news. We have been given the command to begin. In a few hours, we are on our own. He smiled. Hakim laughed out loud after a few moments of quiet contemplation. The dream was at last a reality. He glanced at his watch.

My friend, we must be south of Flagstaff as soon as possible. We set our plans in motion at dawn.

Millions of these accursed animals will die soon, by the Fist of the Jihad—by Allah’s will, intoned Saldid in a thick, emotionally charged voice.

Hakim continued to stare out the window. He watched with detached awareness as the Arizona landscape rolled past. Praised be Allah’s name.

So what is the better news? asked Saldid after a moment of silence. They had reached the speed limit and he backed off the gas. The last thing they needed was a speeding ticket. It would never be paid, but the process would slow them down just enough to ruin the beautiful design of their mission.

Hakim grunted again. My friend, Malcolm. The one in Chicago—he is ready. When he receives word of our deeds, he will strike. His connections will greatly advance our cause, Saldid. That is the best part of the whole plan: bringing in our African brothers in a coordinated strike. It is a pity they are so misguided in their motives, though they are believers. Hakim shrugged. It is Allah’s will that they are expendable, like the communists and anarchists. Those fools will garner so much attention, our brothers will have an easy time of it, I think.

They may be fools, but the anarchists have a passion to be respected, agreed Saldid. He smiled again. I almost wish I could watch it on the news as it happens. Think of what it will look like!

I prefer to live it, my friend, replied Hakim with a smile of his own.

As the midmorning sun began to heat up the parched land called Arizona, Hakim and Saldid pulled out of a Kmart. It was their last stop. The backseat of the old Buick was full of emergency road flares, matches and fireworks—anything they could get their hands on that would remain on fire for more than a few seconds. They had hit every Target, Kmart, Walmart and convenience store they found on their way out of town, buying a handful here and a handful there. They never bought enough of one item to arouse suspicion. The two men quickly amassed a modest stockpile of incendiary devices. The trunk held a few weapons, a cooler full of ice and cheap American beer, and a duffle bag full of granola bars and cans of soup.

Hakim checked his watch once they were safely on the highway. 12:30 p.m. EST. That meant 10:30 a.m. local time. It is time, Saldid. Let us bring jihad to America.

Saldid smiled and cranked up little Ashley Sword. Hakim reluctantly tolerated his partner’s transgression and even found himself grinning after a song. Finally they came to a suitable frontage road and carefully pulled off the interstate. The car quickly left the sanitized highway area and entered the brush lands of Arizona’s mountains. It had been a very dry season, and they kicked up an enormous rooster tail of dust.

Hakim reached behind him and pulled a handful of road flares into his lap. He rolled down his window, whispered a quick prayer, then ignited the first flare and tossed it out the window of the car and into the dry grass next to the dirt track.

Flare after flare went out the window at regular intervals. Neither man looked back to see if they took. There wasn’t a need. Smoke had already started to drift across the road behind them. There was no time to stop and watch the fires grow into Allah’s sword. They had to start more fires and move on—other teams such as theirs were doing the same thing throughout the American West. The plan was driven by precise movements.

Following the access road a few more miles, the two men found another dirt road that took them back to the highway. Along the way, more flares went out the window. The smoke from the first flares was visible now over the hills where they had started. The wispy black cloud mingled tenuously with the dust the car had generated. It still appeared delicate and harmless, like something out of a dream.

Hakim glanced at the mountains in the distance, the great dark forests of northern Arizona. It would be only a short journey for the newborn fires to reach the fertile breeding grounds of a dark, summer-dry pine forest. He smiled. His plan would work.

Saldid checked for traffic before he entered the highway, then headed north. Both men knew another team would cover the middle part of Arizona, while still another roamed the south. In a single day, if they stopped only to refuel, the three teams would cover hundreds of miles of road. They would all toss countless flares, cigarettes, and matches into the dry grass and weeds, all over the state. Hakim and Saldid could only speculate at the total number of teams in Arizona, but one thing they knew for certain: the Holy Firestorm had begun.

CHAPTER THREE

Erik turned on the TV while he got dressed. Brin was still sleeping. He smiled and peered through the bedroom door at the slow rise and fall of the sheets.

He frowned when the news came on. The way-too-early-in-the-morning-to-be-this-cheerful blonde on the TV looked at her notes and reported: "In other news, our Flagstaff affiliate, KTWN, is reporting a fatal mystery in the mountains near Flagstaff this morning amid the raging wildfire that began overnight.

Shortly before dawn, an Arizona Highway Patrol officer was investigating an abandoned vehicle blocking a high mountain pass. There was an explosion, which tragically killed the officer. Officials are not releasing the name of the officer, pending notification of the family, and they are unsure as to the cause of the explosion. The dramatic event was caught on the dashboard camera mounted in the officer’s patrol car. Though the car and the camera itself were damaged in the fire, the footage is still viewable. You can even see the small brush fire that experts claim is the cause of the wildfire. A small box in the screen appeared, showing the current fire, sparked from the car explosion, consuming a whole mountainside.

Folks, I must warn you the following segment is graphic and may not be suitable for all our viewers, so if you feel that—

Oh, give me a break! hissed Erik. "It’s only six thirty! You can’t start the day off with footage