Bobby Akart - Whiteout

“Yeah, well, you’re right, and the world will soon see what I think about fighting everyone else’s battles,” added the president. “Have you confirmed that the secretary of defense has recalled all of our military personnel except for the bare minimum necessary to defend our assets abroad?”

“They will be returning home within days. Now, are you okay without making a formal announcement? Normally, these things require press releases at a minimum.”

“Screw ’em,” said the president as he pulled the messages into a pile and dropped them into the trash can next to his desk. “Transparency is overrated. Let’s talk about Texas.”

Chandler plopped into the chair in front of the president’s desk. He loosened his tie and glanced over toward the bar. This conversation required a drink. He glanced at his watch and thought, It’s five o’clock somewhere. It was a phrase referencing happy hour, although it was used to justify having a cocktail prior to five in the afternoon. He got up from the chair, removed his jacket, and poured them both a scotch whisky, neat.

“Texas?” the president repeated as he stared at his old friend over the rim of his glass.

“Texas has taken the bold step of closing its entire state line, or border, if you will, to Americans traveling south.”

“Harrison, yesterday that was rumor. Today, it’s fact?”

“I’m afraid it’s been confirmed. Their grid survived the cascading failure, and the EMP generated over Colorado barely reached the Panhandle. After Mexico closed its border with the U.S. to prevent an influx of our refugees, Texas stopped the flow of people crossing the state en route to Central America and even South America.”

The president took another swig of his drink and winced. He remained calm as he spoke. “They can’t do that. Do I need to personally call the governor and straighten her out?”

“Yes, I believe you should try. You know Texans. They’re fiercely independent. They’ve managed to keep their power grid separate from the Eastern and Western Interconnection. As a result, they’re positioned to recover from all of this faster than the rest of the nation.”

“Maybe so, but that doesn’t give them the right to reject American citizens in need. You can bet your ass they’d have their hand out if Dallas took a direct hit. They’d be begging for FEMA to send MREs and build tent cities.”

Carter stood and refilled their glasses as he relayed more information to the president. “Apparently, this independent streak is contagious.”

“Oh?” said the president in a tone reflective of his curiosity. “Is Hawaii threatening to secede?”

“No,” Chandler replied as he got settled into his chair once again. “Monroe County, Florida.”

“Where the hell is that?”

“The Florida Keys, mostly. Parts of the county extend on to the mainland, but it’s the Keys that have pulled another one of these closed-borders stunts.”

“How?”

“They’ve sent armed personnel to block the two bridges that connect the Keys to South Florida. First, they evicted any nonresidents. Then they established roadblocks to prevent any refugees who couldn’t prove residency from entering. As a result, Miami has been inundated with homeless and stranded travelers, and the mayor is having a hissy fit.”

“What’s the Florida governor say?”

“He’s just like his counterpart in Texas, complaining that he has a duty to protect the lives and property of his residents. He’s considering similar measures at his state line at Georgia and Alabama.”

“Geez,” said the president, who shook his head in disbelief. “I’ll reach out to him as well. He needs to be reminded the federal government and his fellow Americans are there for Floridians during hurricane season. He needs to be open to accept Americans who are trying to survive. And he’d better straighten out those people in the Keys, or I will.”

Sunday, November 3

Central North Carolina

“Let’s do this!” shouted Greyhound as he exchanged high fives with his portly brother. The younger man drove off with his grandfather, leaving Greyhound to drive the military cargo truck and his dad to navigate. The father and son had made this trip once before, attempting to use the interstate to travel. It had been a frustrating drive as they dodged gas-thirsty, stalled cars and people running along trying to climb into the cargo box. This trip, they’d take back roads.

Once they were on their way that afternoon, the paid passengers breathed a collective sigh of relief. The group was packed together on wooden bench seats with slat rails for backs. Their feet were buried under luggage. They huddled within themselves, partly out of apprehension surrounding the treatment by their escorts but mostly because of a chilling wind that began to blow from the north.

Peter sat next to Rafael and his family at the rear of the cargo box. There were a dozen others on board, including a family, several couples, and some single riders. They were a hodgepodge of refugees across the demographic spectrum. After twenty minutes of exchanging names and destinations, they began to tell their stories. Most were seeking warmer climates and rumors of fully functioning electricity. Others, like Peter, were hoping to reunite with family.

Only one person, Peter, had witnessed one of the warheads detonating in Washington. Everyone wanted to hear about it. Yet they didn’t. Peter could see it in their eyes and changed demeanor as he continued. An overwhelming sadness seemed to come over the group as the realization of what had happened to America soaked in.

The cargo truck rumbled along through the small community of Hildebran before approaching the underpass at Interstate 40 west of Charlotte. The group was silent as they watched thousands of people walking toward the mountains. Some pushed shopping carts while others pulled luggage on wheels. They were all seeking refuge away from the cities.

The truck chugged along down Henry River Road when it suddenly slowed. The passengers became nervous, and Peter eased his hand into his backpack to get a grip on his pistol. He was relieved that Mr. Uber and his dimwit son hadn’t confiscated all of his weapons.

On the left side of the truck, a tall wooden fence appeared along the roadway. Through the heavily wooded forest, a smattering of buildings could be seen. Then a gated entry came into view with several armed guards patrolling behind it. A long gravel driveway led up a hill through a canopy of oak trees.

“What’s this place?” asked one of the passengers.

“That’s where they filmed the Hunger Games movies,” replied an older man.

“Really?” asked a child who was sitting next to him.

The old man explained, “This was once Henry River Mills Village, an old ghost town that used to be a yarn factory. This part of Carolina was booming back then, and little communities like this sprang up everywhere. When the big factories moved into Charlotte, the people left the village for the city.”

“You said something about the Hunger Games movie,” interrupted the child’s mother.

“Yeah, right. Anyway, the place was abandoned, and the folks who bought it years ago allowed it to be used as a movie set. This was used as the setting for District 12 where the start of the movie took place.”

“It doesn’t look like a movie set now,” mumbled Peter.

“Those guys were ex-military,” whispered Rafael as he leaned into Peter. “They were disciplined and carried themselves like they were well-trained operatives.”

The older man continued. “Anyway, recently, the place was bought by a couple out of Florida. Supposedly won the lottery. They fenced the entire place like a fortress or some such.”