Secession: The Storm by Joe Nobody
Authors: Joe Nobody
Tags: Science-Fiction, Literature & Fiction, Action & Adventure, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Dystopian
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of beef.
It was better to be a minor gear in an out-of-control machine, than a rusting piece of scrap. He’d stay in the machine. Perhaps one day the opportunity to make things better would present itself.
“Could the FBI would be a better choice for me?” he mumbled to the empty cab. “Maybe I’m not made of the right cloth to work the streets. Maybe I should consider an FBI lab instead of patrolling the desert.”
He was right in the middle of an intense mind-movie, trying to visualize a life where his hat and boots were replaced with a white lab coat and rubber gloves, when the New Orleans skyline appeared on the horizon.
The sheer scale of the flooding amazed Zach. Despite the hurricane’s making landfall more than a week before, the elevated interstate passed over block after block of standing, deep water. The destruction seemed to stretch for miles in all directions.
As his truck ventured deeper into the city proper, he could make out more details of the devastation. The glass was missing from practically every first-floor window. Household garage doors were buckled in half from the water’s pressure. More than a few homes had been moved several feet off their foundations by the fast-moving currents.
Some streets were lined with the hulks of already-rusting cars; other avenues appeared to be entirely devoid of any sign of life. Light poles, street signs, and corner newspaper boxes had simply vanished.
The melancholy atmosphere was further darkened by the minimal traffic he spied on the roadway. Military vehicles, patrol cars, and government sedans dominated both lanes, the occasional 18-wheeler rolling one direction or the other. It quickly became apparent that every single semitrailer was being given a police escort in and out of the city. Rule of law must be in jeopardy , Zach realized. They wouldn’t be using valuable resources for convoy security if it weren’t so.
Numerous columns of smoke rose into the morning horizon, their ominous presence accented by the dozens and dozens of helicopters whirring over the stricken city’s skyline. It looked like a war zone and smelled like one, too.
The stench of stagnating water, burning rubber, wood ash, and rotting garbage assaulted his nose. Some stretches of highway smelled like dirty athletic socks, others emitted the earthy odor of rotting flesh.
He’d been given detailed instructions at the last checkpoint, a handwritten, turn-by-turn handout someone had copied so it could be issued to rescue workers and the massive inbound federal response.
His orders were to locate the mayor, or if he was unavailable, the chief of police. Zach figured City Hall was the place to start.
For the most part, the government of New Orleans had been relocated to an upscale hotel just a block from the water-damaged municipal building. As Zach searched for a parking spot, he spotted a sprawling group of reporters, cameras, and bright lights assembled on the massive structure’s front steps. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he mumbled.
In a few minutes, he was eavesdropping at the edge of what was obviously a press conference. A large man in ornate uniform continued his address of the national media. “In this time of crisis, the safety of our citizens and first responders is our immediate priority. Therefore, no civilians in New Orleans will be allowed to carry pistols, shotguns or other firearms,” declared the government official. "Only law enforcement is allowed to possess weapons. We believe this action will help keep our population safe."
A barrage of questions was shouted from the onlookers, but Zach didn’t hear any of them. Exhausted from what had essentially been a three-day drive from Alpine, his weary brain was trying to wrap around such a violation of the Second Amendment. They’re confiscating private firearms? he pondered. How do you get a warrant to cover that? They’d never get
It was better to be a minor gear in an out-of-control machine, than a rusting piece of scrap. He’d stay in the machine. Perhaps one day the opportunity to make things better would present itself.
“Could the FBI would be a better choice for me?” he mumbled to the empty cab. “Maybe I’m not made of the right cloth to work the streets. Maybe I should consider an FBI lab instead of patrolling the desert.”
He was right in the middle of an intense mind-movie, trying to visualize a life where his hat and boots were replaced with a white lab coat and rubber gloves, when the New Orleans skyline appeared on the horizon.
The sheer scale of the flooding amazed Zach. Despite the hurricane’s making landfall more than a week before, the elevated interstate passed over block after block of standing, deep water. The destruction seemed to stretch for miles in all directions.
As his truck ventured deeper into the city proper, he could make out more details of the devastation. The glass was missing from practically every first-floor window. Household garage doors were buckled in half from the water’s pressure. More than a few homes had been moved several feet off their foundations by the fast-moving currents.
Some streets were lined with the hulks of already-rusting cars; other avenues appeared to be entirely devoid of any sign of life. Light poles, street signs, and corner newspaper boxes had simply vanished.
The melancholy atmosphere was further darkened by the minimal traffic he spied on the roadway. Military vehicles, patrol cars, and government sedans dominated both lanes, the occasional 18-wheeler rolling one direction or the other. It quickly became apparent that every single semitrailer was being given a police escort in and out of the city. Rule of law must be in jeopardy , Zach realized. They wouldn’t be using valuable resources for convoy security if it weren’t so.
Numerous columns of smoke rose into the morning horizon, their ominous presence accented by the dozens and dozens of helicopters whirring over the stricken city’s skyline. It looked like a war zone and smelled like one, too.
The stench of stagnating water, burning rubber, wood ash, and rotting garbage assaulted his nose. Some stretches of highway smelled like dirty athletic socks, others emitted the earthy odor of rotting flesh.
He’d been given detailed instructions at the last checkpoint, a handwritten, turn-by-turn handout someone had copied so it could be issued to rescue workers and the massive inbound federal response.
His orders were to locate the mayor, or if he was unavailable, the chief of police. Zach figured City Hall was the place to start.
For the most part, the government of New Orleans had been relocated to an upscale hotel just a block from the water-damaged municipal building. As Zach searched for a parking spot, he spotted a sprawling group of reporters, cameras, and bright lights assembled on the massive structure’s front steps. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he mumbled.
In a few minutes, he was eavesdropping at the edge of what was obviously a press conference. A large man in ornate uniform continued his address of the national media. “In this time of crisis, the safety of our citizens and first responders is our immediate priority. Therefore, no civilians in New Orleans will be allowed to carry pistols, shotguns or other firearms,” declared the government official. "Only law enforcement is allowed to possess weapons. We believe this action will help keep our population safe."
A barrage of questions was shouted from the onlookers, but Zach didn’t hear any of them. Exhausted from what had essentially been a three-day drive from Alpine, his weary brain was trying to wrap around such a violation of the Second Amendment. They’re confiscating private firearms? he pondered. How do you get a warrant to cover that? They’d never get
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