Flash Fiction Friday (Cycle 44) Amongst the ruins of our souls

Flash Fiction Friday Prompt: A story about unrest.
Genre: Open
Word Count: 1500 words (or fewer).

"Nature is indifferent to the survival of the human species, including Americans." Adlai E. Stevenson

The odors of rotten meat from the defunct freezer and spilled cherry syrup from the snow cone machine assaulted the nose of Irvin Washington as he hid behind the checkout counter of the long looted convenience store. The slight gasoline smell coming from the full five-gallon container he clutched only made things worse and it was all he could do not to puke in spite of the danger making any sound might bring him. Through force of will alone, he stayed completely quiet listening to the words of the seven militia personnel across the street as they interrogated the Hispanic teenager they caught sneaking out of the equally looted grocery store.

“Where’s the rest of your gang, Jose?” One of the more verbally belligerent members of the irregular militia asked for the fifth or sixth time. The terrified kid mumbled something about being alone and looking for food for his family. A chorus of laughter and disbelief was all he got for his fearful honesty before the sounds of multiple blows impacting a helpless human body drifted back over to Irvin.

Irvin desperately wanted to look over the counter and see what was happening to the boy but if he were discovered there was no doubt the militia types would turn their attentions on him. As far as they were concerned anyone they ran across was guilty of looting until proven innocent. Irvin’s black skin would only make his presumed illegal behavior that much worse.

Still, the screams of the unarmed teenager being beaten clawed at his soul, so much that he pulled his old M9 army service pistol from his shoulder holster while forcing himself to get up and look over the counter. Irvin played with the insane idea of attacking the seven heavily-armed men with his pistol or walking over and demanding they stand down and submit to his authority as a former US army major, anything that might save the kid’s life.

But it did not take a military genius to realize neither idea would work, the seven men, dressed in mismatched camouflage clothes, were armed with an odd collection of assault rifles ranging from the leader carrying a tricked out, high-priced civilian version of the army’s M4 carbine to several with cheap AK-47’s.

All were working under the auspices of the ad hoc Committee of Public Safety based out of the secure area around Greenville in the upstate. The committee was the only thing South Carolina had close to a state government since everything went to shit after the president federalized the National Guard and deployed them up north to assist in controlling the insurrection in the northeast and Midwest states. Helpless against the overwhelmingly armed psychos Irvin, now just a simple high school science teacher, could not help but marvel at how far the once nearly omnipotent United States had fallen in the twenty years since he left the service in 2006.

***

Since the start of the twenty-first century, the United States had suffered a steady stream of mainly self-inflected military, diplomatic, and economic disasters that deeply strained the fabric of the nation. The catastrophe that finally pushed it over edge was the 2024 election where the political machine of one party was discovered to have rigged the presidential election in favor of the daughter of a former vice president.

The voting manipulation was so blatant in thirteen states that the governors took the issue to the federal courts, only to see Supreme Court uphold the results. The riots that soon erupted quickly became pitched battles so intense that regular army and National Guard forces from across the country had to be called in an attempt to restore order.

The violence was made even worse as gangs used the chaos to spread out from the cities and start attacking the suburbs. Once it became too dangerous to transport goods on the roads store shelves became bare and with that, the remaining social structure of the country fell apart.

***

Peering over the edge of the counter Irvin watched as the Hispanic boy was pulled to his feet. Somehow, he found the ability to stand on his own as the militia leader with the fancy M4 broke away to say something over the radio in the truck they were using. It was then that Irvin realized the boy had been one of his high school chemistry students a few years back. His recognition came right before the militia leader walked up to the boy, placed the barrel of his rifle a few inches from his head, and pulled the trigger. The body fell to the ground like a wet sack.

“The command post,” the leader said, “in Columbia has confirmed sightings of gang activity a few miles from the coliseum, load up and prepare for battle.” A chorus or rebel yells met the news and a minute later the odd collection of armed men were gone leaving only a dead body and silence in their wake.

Irvin wanted to do something for the dead boy but the smell of gasoline brought him back to his own needs. The gasoline he was able to scrounge from the virtually empty underground tanks might be just enough to allow him and his family to make it down to Manning, South Carolina and the relative safety of his brother’s property.

Quickly Irvin lifted his precious load and left the convenience store from its rear exit. He darted from behind one building to another staying out of sight as much as possible, with any luck he hoped to be home by nightfall and then after refueling his car leave his suburban home the next morning during the brief time the local militia allowed people to travel.

Even with his most determined efforts to make it home, just a couple of hours later a sudden thunderstorm with severe lightning forced Irvin to take refuge in the ruins of a strip mall. The respite was welcome along with the luck of finding an untouched vending machine inside what was once a nail salon. Irvin sat in the small office in the back listening to the pounding rain and the crackle of lightning while gorging on small bags of corn chips.

As the rain fell, Irvin used the sounds of falling water to think of happier times before Americans abandoned hope, reason, and compassion for apathy, rage, and selfish desire. In the comforting darkness of the small office, he was unable to understand why such a destructive road had been taken by a people who had so much.

Over the days and weeks as the violence grew, Irvin and his family would huddle together at home and listen to the reports over the shortwave radio as a stunned world watched America fall apart. His more fearful thoughts made him wondered how far he might have to fall to get his family to safety. The answer to that question came the next morning.

The thunderstorm that had forced Irvin under cover persisted through most of the night. Sleep came softly but when it did, it was heavy, so much he barely awoke up in time to aim his pistol at silhouetted figure standing in the doorway.

“Back the fuck off or I will shoot!” Irvin yelled.

“Irvin Washington is that you?” The dark figure said before backing off from the doorway a few inches and into the feeble morning light coming from the broken windows at the front of the store. “It’s me Peter Jacobs.”

The recognition was instant, it was one of his neighbors from his own subdivision who lived a couple of streets over. Even in more civilized times they did not consider each other friends but with children the same ages they had talked many times at school social functions and the community pool while watching their kids play in the water. Now all motives carried a possible sinister side and the two suspiciously eyed each other while not making any sudden moves.

“What are you doing here Peter?”

“Same as you I guess,” he said easing forward back into the office doorway, “looking for food or fuel to get the family and me through another day.”

The same time Peter said the word “fuel” Irvin saw his eyes dart to the five-gallon can of gasoline next him, probably drawn there by the smell. Back in the 1990’s, when Irvin was a young lieutenant in the army he served peacekeeping duty in Bosnia. He never understood the stories of how people who had lived next door for decades could overnight begin to slaughter each other.

In a flash he finally understood as Peter’s right hand began to move for something in his pocket while still looking at the gasoline. The shot from Irvin’s pistol was so surprising both men were startled by the sound. The only difference between the two was Irvin leaving for home minutes later while Peter died alone with a gunshot to his neck.

(Author's note: First, I'm actually under the word count for a change. Secondly, this is part of a series of stories I have written about a second American Civil War. "After the House of Cards has Fallen" is the first and "When the Center Cannot Hold" is the prequel. This story sets somewhere in the middle of the two time wise.)