Phil Williams - 2050 - Psycho Island

“Over the next few months, I will work with Republicans and Democrats to draft a sensible bipartisan gun-control bill. We’ll institute more stringent background checks, with a mandatory APT test. We’ll have mandatory gun registrations. If you own a gun, we need to know who you are and where you plan to store the weapon. And we’ll have sensible limits on magazine capacities. Enough is enough.”

President Warner paused for a few seconds. “I’d like to observe a moment of silence for the victims of the University of Oregon tragedy.” Warner bowed his head, his hands clasped as if praying. After thirty seconds, he raised his head and said, “God bless the families of those who were lost, and God bless the United States of America.” Warner faded out, a commercial taking his place.

Alan muted the television. “I’m surprised a Republican’s talking about gun control.”

“It doesn’t go far enough,” Naomi replied.

“Does this change your speech at all?”

She already had her gun-control speech ready, and she was scheduled to give it at the University of Oregon on Thursday. “I should call Vernon.”

Alan frowned. “You used to talk to me.”

Naomi grabbed her phone from the end table. “We talk.”

“We haven’t had sex in two months.”

“It hasn’t been that long.”

“It has. If our love life was a priority, you’d know that.”

Naomi replaced her phone on the end table. “That’s not fair. I’m barely home. I told you that this election would be a major sacrifice.”

Alan sighed and slumped his slight shoulders. “Do I have something to worry about?”

Naomi scooted closer to her husband and kissed him on the cheek. “Absolutely not.”

Yesterday, after the vote, Summer had left the common area furious. Roger had shown Derek around the fort. The Spanish fort, Castillo San Felipe del Morro, was built in the sixteenth century. It was situated on the northwestern point of the islet of Old San Juan. The fort was originally constructed to guard the entrance to San Juan Bay and to defend the port city of San Juan from seaborne enemies.

Now it was home to a group of antigovernment activists called 1776, the massive stone walls protecting them from the evils of Psycho Island. Besides protection, the fort also provided water, with massive cisterns that collected rainwater runoff.

Approximately forty-five people were in the group, two of them children, and eight of them women. Derek had been surprised to see the submarine. Roger and the married mechanics, Fred and Willow, had been cagey, dodging Derek’s questions about where it would go and who would pilot the craft.

Now, Derek sat by himself at a plastic table in the courtyard, eating a meager breakfast of dried iguana meat and mangos. Summer and Javier had left the courtyard as soon as they saw Derek, their departure an obvious protest of his presence. Derek overheard Roger telling Gavin that they were running dangerously low on food.

Gavin said, “We used to go out in the rain and not worry about being attacked, but the Aryans must’ve figured out what we’re doing. I’m worried that they’ll pick us off one by one until we don’t have the numbers to hold the fort.”

Derek collected his empty plate and plastic cup and stepped to Roger’s table. “I know where we can find some food.”

Heads turned to Derek. Roger sat at a card table with Gavin, Fred, and Willow. Gavin was small and fit, with a young face under his beard. Fred looked like a sun-burnt Santa Claus on a diet. Willow was short and curvy, with brown disheveled hair.

“Where’s that?” Gavin asked with a smirk.

“Wade Wallace’s bedroom,” Derek replied.

Gavin and Fred and much of the group in earshot laughed.

“So what?” Gavin said. “Even if we had the manpower to march into the Aryan district and take the food, it’s not worth the risk.”

“Seems to me like you risked your lives the other night and didn’t find shit,” Derek said, straight-faced.

Gavin glowered at Derek. “Fuck you.”

“How much food?” Roger asked Derek.

“Maybe twenty boxes of MREs. And I know how we can break into the house without alerting the guards,” Derek replied, his tone unfazed by Gavin’s attitude.

“It’s a suicide mission,” Gavin said.

Roger rebuked Gavin with a stare. “Let him talk.”

“We’ll need a rope, a sturdy basket, and two people who can climb a fifteen-foot wall,” Derek said.

They dropped anchor in Sandy Bay, US Virgin Islands. Like Puerto Rico, the Virgin Islands were destroyed by a series of hurricanes, the worst being Hurricane Zoey in 2042. It was now a primitive and lightly populated archipelago without governance or an electrical grid.

A knock came at their cabin door. Jacob groaned and rubbed his eyes. He checked his watch— 3:43 a.m . Pale moonlight filtered in from the porthole. Jacob stood from the bed, took three steps to the door, and opened it. A Panamanian crewman stood in the dim light.

“We here,” the crewman said, in broken English.

“Thank you,” Jacob said. “Give us a few minutes.” Jacob shut the door, went back to the bed, and shook Rebecca.

Her eyes fluttered. “Where are we?” she rasped.

“The Virgin Islands.”

Jacob and Rebecca dressed and collected their things. Two crewmen helped them with their bags to the deck. They were anchored a few hundred yards from the beach. The crewmen loaded the bags and gear into the inflatable raft. The two mercenaries, Rob and Billy, kept a close eye on their gear, their rifles attached to their chests.

Jacob and Rebecca, Rob and Billy, along with the first mate, boarded the inflatable raft, and it was lowered by two small cranes into the water. They motored toward the beach, navigating by moonlight. As they approached the beach, Rob and Billy scanned for threats. The first mate steered them to the beach, retracting the motor from the water as the boat slid onto the sand. Rob and Billy grabbed their gear. Jacob and Rebecca did the same.

Flashlights approached, bobbing in the darkness. They stood on the sand, their gear and their feet out of reach of the tide. Rob and Billy had their rifles pointed down, but they were ready for trouble. Two Latino men walked toward them with handguns on their hips.

“Mr. and Mrs. Roth?” one of Latino men said, his accent thick.

“Yes,” Jacob said.

“Cesar is expecting you. I help with your bags.”

The Latino men carried Jacob and Rebecca’s luggage, but Jacob held on to a locked metal suitcase. They were led up a worn path through the jungle. Rob and Billy were loaded down with tactical gear. They walked about two hundred yards into the interior, the path leading upward. A stream ran alongside the path.

A squat concrete building was hidden among the vines and shade trees, dug into the hill, and lit with dim LED lights. It was situated one hundred feet above sea level, no doubt to avoid flooding. The stream ran past the building, turning a microhydro turbine. The banks were contained with concrete blocks. A fence with razor wire surrounded the building. A guard opened the gate, and everyone entered the property. Their escorts took them inside. The ceiling was low, the floors and walls concrete.

“You leave bags here. We take to your rooms,” one of the escorts said, his English broken.

Rob and Billy refused, not wanting anyone to touch their tactical gear. Jacob still held on to his metal suitcase. They were led to a cramped room with a rectangular table for ten.

One of the escorts flipped on the light and said, “You sit here. I go get Cesar.”