City on Fire Read online

  Bug Out!

  Atlantic

  Book 1

  City on Fire

  Robert Boren

  South Bay Press

  Copyright © 2019 by Robert Boren.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout ©2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Cover Design: SelfPubBookCovers.com/andrewgraphics

  Bug Out! Atlantic Book 1/ Robert Boren. -- 1st ed.

  For Laura

  Perhaps America will one day go fascist democratically, by popular vote.

  ―William L. Shirer

  Contents

  Control

  Jailed

  Limo

  Police Shooting

  Riots

  Bean Town Headquarters

  Recruitment

  City Hall Horror

  Security

  UN Headquarters

  Coffee and Chit-Chat

  Fried Wires

  Building Captain

  Data Sorting

  Death Threats

  Power Grid

  The Resistance

  About the Author

  Other books by Robert Boren

  { 1 }

  Control

  Taylor Yates walked down Broadway. It was a balmy evening in Manhattan, unseasonably warm. Her phone dinged, so she fished it out of her purse. Laleh. She put the phone to her ear, glancing at her reflection in a window. Not bad. Athletic build, but with curves, long light-brown hair, and a face with delicate, pretty features. I’ve still got it, even though I’m thirty.

  “Where are you?” Laleh asked over the phone.

  “Oh, sorry,” she said, breaking out of her trance. “Just left work. Walking to the subway now.”

  “You sound beat. Sure you’re up to the party?”

  Taylor sighed, struggling to get around a clump of people massing across the street from Columbus Circle.

  “Hey!” said a heavy-set woman in Native American garb, her face painted. “We’re restricting this area. Move back.”

  Taylor rolled her eyes. “Let’s see a badge.”

  “I don’t need a badge.”

  Taylor laughed in her face and continued on, the crowd getting thicker. The painted woman grabbed her upper arm. “I said this is a restricted area.”

  “Let go of me or I’ll deck you,” Taylor said, her hand around the woman’s wrist, ripping it off her arm.

  “Brit, I’m gonna need help with this one,” the painted woman shouted.

  “What’s going on?” shouted Laleh, her voice tinny through the phone speaker. Taylor brought her knee up into the painted woman’s big round stomach, causing her to double over in pain and fall backwards.

  “Sorry, just some of those stupid demonstrators,” Taylor said, phone back to her lips. “They’re trying to block off Columbus Circle.”

  “Shit, you’re there? Better leave. The Mayor gave in to those moron’s demands, and even allowed them to police it themselves.”

  Just at that moment a hand was in front of her face, trying to grab her phone, Taylor sending an elbow back, breaking a woman’s nose. “Gotta go, Laleh.” She ended the call and took off running, getting on 60th Street, not slowing down until the crowd thinned way out, ducking into the Post Office and watching out the windows. The painted woman was poking her way down the street, looking in all directions, her bloodied nose friend crying at her side. Taylor backed further into the Post Office to get out of sight.

  “Afraid of something?” asked a postal employee from behind the counter.

  Taylor looked over at the man. “Some nutcases are blocking off Columbus square. I got shoved around and shoved back. They chased me.”

  “They aren’t nutcases,” the man said. “Not in the least. It’s about time those statues came down. They’re offensive to indigenous people world-wide.”

  Taylor burst out laughing. “So that’s what they’re doing. I should’ve known. Morons.”

  “That’s not respectful.”

  Taylor shook her head. “Whatever. You look Hispanic to me. What do you think about Spain? Should we shun you because of the actions of your ancestors, I wonder? They had more colonies over here than the English did.”

  “Don’t get sharp with me, young lady.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Those thugs are gone. Have a nice day.” She took a look out the window before going back onto the street, walking quickly towards the subway station on Columbus Avenue and 60th Street, glancing at the burned-out ruins of Saint Paul’s. A siren sounded.

  “That’s her, officer!” shouted the painted woman, an NYPD officer on a bicycle pulling next to her.

  “Halt.”

  Taylor eyed him. “What do you want, officer?”

  “Arrest her, she broke my friend’s nose and knocked me down,” the painted woman cried.

  “Pocahontas there is full of it,” Taylor said. “They tried to hold me back on a public street. They have no right to do that.”

  The officer spoke into the microphone on his lapel, asking for backup, ignoring Taylor.

  “I’m leaving,” she said, heading across the street to the subway station.

  “Stand fast!” shouted the officer. “You’re under arrest.”

  “For what?”

  “Assault, and that racial slur you just said to the victim in my presence.”

  “We still have the First Amendment,” Taylor said. “I can say what I want. Remember the Supreme Court ruling last month? Your hate speech laws aren’t valid.”

  “New York City has declared itself a sanctuary,” the officer said, getting closer to her as the sound of another siren approached. “We aren’t bound by the Supreme Court decision.”

  “Wanna bet?” Taylor saw a police cruiser coming in her direction, up Columbus Avenue.

  The painted woman laughed, pointing. “Now you’re gonna pay.”

  “I want to press charges,” the woman with the bloody nose shouted.

  “So do I,” Taylor replied.

  “That will be enough out of you,” the officer said.

  Taylor eyed him. “Shame on you. This is wrong and you know it. These leftist activists have no right to shut down streets and bully the population. They’re no better than Nazi brown shirts.”

  “That’s another speech violation,” the officer said. “You’d best shut up now.”

  “Oh, so I can’t call them Nazis, but they can call me whatever they want, huh? Now I get it.”

  “Typical of a white person,” the painted woman shouted. “No justice, no peace.”

  “You’re white, under that phony war paint,” Taylor shouted back.

  The bloody-nosed woman got into Taylors face. “She’s LGBTQ, and so am I. Show some respect.”

  Taylor rolled her eyes as the police car arrived, two officers rushing at her, knocking her to the ground and cuffing her, then dragging her into the back of the car. Painted lady and the bloody-nosed woman both squealed with delight as the police car took off.

  ***

  John Clancy
walked onto the porch of his 18th Century Valley Forge house, looking out over the lush green curtain of trees along Valley Creek. He was in his early sixties, newly retired. A small herd of deer walked through the brush, stopping to stare at him.

  “Linda, want to check out the herd? They’re out here again. The doe too.”

  There were footsteps coming from behind, a handsome woman getting alongside him to watch, her arm going around his waist. “She’s growing fast.”

  “I’ll say,” John replied, pushing back his long grey hair. He sat in the porch swing, Linda joining him. “You don’t seem to mind me being home. It’s been almost a month now.”

  “You’re writing most of the time,” she said. “It’s not much different from when you were working.”

  “Sorry.”

  She looked him in the eyes, brushing his hair back. “How long are you gonna grow this?”

  “I don’t know. A little longer. Does it bother you?”

  She smiled at him. “No, I like it.”

  “Your sister doesn’t.”

  Linda chuckled. “As if that ever bothered me. Pat told me not to date you, remember?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “You two never got along, even in High School.”

  “Especially in High School,” John said. “I get along better with her now. I even enjoy seeing her, if she’s not on a tear.”

  “Well, you’ve always gotten along well with Craig, anyway. Too bad you’re such a bad influence on each other.”

  John chuckled. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Drinking beer, smoking pot, watching those stupid sexploitation movies all the time.”

  “It’s legal now, and the kids have been grown up and gone for years.”

  Linda smiled. “Oh, I don’t mind. Drives Pat up the wall, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Stop,” Linda said. “Pat’s trying to talk Craig into retiring. Maybe you could help out with that. He listens to you. I’ll make sure she knows if you do it.”

  “Leave me out of your schemes. He lives for his job.”

  “Sure, but he’ll adjust, just like you did. He’s an English teacher, for God’s sake.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” John asked.

  “If you can write fiction, why can’t he? He’s got more qualification than you do.”

  John burst out laughing.

  “What?”

  “Nothing would please me more than to see Craig be a successful writer, but he’s not interested. I’ve broached the subject before.”

  “You have?”

  “Of course. It’s not like he’s never tried. Not everybody can write fiction. It’s not an exceedingly rare talent, but that doesn’t mean everybody can do it.”

  “How do you do it?”

  John eyed her for a moment. “I honestly don’t know. It amazes me when people buy my books in large numbers, to be honest. I just consider myself lucky and keep plugging along.”

  “That’s what you always say.” Linda got up, walking to the porch rail to watch the deer as they walked away.

  “Why does Pat want him to retire so badly, anyway? She doesn’t like to travel, and they drive each other crazy most of the time.”

  Pat turned to him and shrugged. “She’s worried about the commute into Philly.”

  “He likes it. Gives him a chance to listen to audio books.”

  “You’re not getting me. Remember what the state government is talking about? Social Scoring?”

  John shook his head. “You really think they’ll pass that?”

  “I don’t know, but Pat’s all into it.”

  “Into it?”

  “She thinks it’s a great idea, but they’ll get a black mark for the commute.”

  “Oh, crap, now I get it,” John said, standing up. “Could be worse, I guess. Look what they’re talking about in New York state, and Vermont, and Massachusetts.”

  Linda stared back at him, eyes questioning.

  “The zone grids and employer taxes for those employees who have to commute out of their zone.”

  “Oh, that. President Simpson said he’d take that to the Supreme Court.”

  “He can’t,” John said.

  “Why not?”

  “He doesn’t have standing. Somebody in one of those states has to go to court. It’ll have to work its way up to the Supreme Court, but it might take years.”

  “You think they’ll lose below that?” Linda asked.

  “Somebody’s going to lose, and they’ll appeal. Might be the state, might be the victim.”

  “Victim? That’s kinda harsh, isn’t it?”

  John smiled at her. “I’m not going there. I know we don’t agree. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  Linda eyed him for a moment, getting ready to say more, but thinking better of it. “Okay, have it your way. Glad you aren’t commuting anymore.”

  “There’s something we can agree on.”

  The couple went into the house.

  ***

  Jacob Timmons sprinted across Massachusetts Avenue in Boston, walking past the Chinese restaurant, going into the Bow Street Pub. He was a young man of twenty-six, with dark hair, two days of stubble, and a lanky six-foot-three frame. He saw five of his friends, at their usual table, by the window in the far corner.

  “Hey, shit face!” he shouted, several of his friends returning the greeting, the bartender shaking his head, others in the bar laughing.

  “Hey, a little decorum,” said a shapely barmaid who approached Jacob.

  “Hey, Ash,” he said. “How they hanging?”

  “Never you mind.” Ashley was ten years older than Jacob, but not ready to surrender to her thirties.

  “Sorry, guess we’re getting too old to use that greeting.”

  Ashley burst out laughing. “If you changed, I’d get worried. Go take your seat. What do you want?”

  “Still have that good porter on tap?”

  “You and your porter. I’ll bring you one.” She gave him a quick hug. “Good to see you, hon.” He watched her walk away.

  “Checking out Ashley’s ass? I’m gonna tell her.”

  Jacob turned, seeing Ava standing there, her brown hair hanging around her shoulders, framing her pretty face.

  “I was not,” he said.

  Ava snickered, shaking her head.

  “Okay, maybe I was a little bit. Turn around and I’ll watch yours instead.”

  She punched him on the upper arm. “Behave. C’mon, let’s go back to the table. They’re waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “You, dummy,” Ava said. “This was your idea, remember? Why are you late, anyway?”

  “I was unavoidably detained.”

  Ava rolled her eyes. “Enough with the Caddyshack stuff, that movie is too old.”

  They walked towards the big round table. “Art never gets too old. Hey, everybody.”

  “Who’s he?” asked a smart-alecky young man in the back, sporting long red hair and a red beard to match.

  “Good to see you too, Dave,” Jacob said as he sat, Ava sitting down on his left.

  “Here’s your porter,” Ashley said, setting it in front of him. “Want to run a tab?”

  Jacob nodded. “Thanks, Ash.”

  “Enjoy,” she said, turning to walk away.

  “See the news?” asked a large, clean cut young man with sandy hair, sitting to Jacob’s right.

  “Which, Gavin?”

  “Grids. It passed the State House of Representatives today, man.”

  Jacob’s brow furrowed, as he looked around the table at his friends. “It’s still got to get through the Senate.”

  “You know it’ll sail right through,” said a small young man sitting across the table from Jacob, looking younger than the rest.

  “I agree with Adrian,” said the woman next to him, a striking beauty with long straight black hair and brilliant green eyes.

  “Did I say I didn’t agree, Trini
ty?” Jacob asked. “It’s got a good chance in the Senate. Our only hope is the Governor, and he’s been giving in to media pressure more and more these days.”

  Adrian nodded in agreement. “This is gonna be launched in New York by the end of the month. Once that happens, the rest of the upper Atlantic states will fall like dominoes.”

  “What they’re talking about in Pennsylvania is worse,” Gavin said.

  “Social scoring,” Ava said, scrunching her nose in disgust. “That’s turned into a terror everywhere it’s been tried.”

  “I’m surprised California hasn’t tried it yet,” Dave said.

  Trinity snickered. “Give them time. Things are worse there than they are here.”

  “So far,” Dave said. “Do we get to use the room upstairs?”

  “Yeah, as long as we don’t mess it up,” Jacob replied. “Jaak also said no illegal activities there.”

  “What, we can’t make bombs?” quipped Adrian. “Maybe Estonia wouldn’t have been passed around so much had they been a little more dangerous.”

  “Keep it down!” Ava said, eyes darting around. “You know how people are around here.”

  “Yeah, they’ll assume we’re leftists and ask if they can help,” Adrian said softly.

  Trinity laughed. “Probably too much truth to that.”

  Dave shook his head. “That would be an anti-establishment activity, and the destruction of our Bill of Rights is as establishment as it can get.”

  “It was a joke,” Adrian said. “The leftists are in an interesting place. They celebrate their activist tendencies during the Viet Nam and Iraq wars, and all the No-Nuke nonsense from the 1970s. Most of them don’t even realize they’re the people they fancy themselves fighting against. The leftists are today’s establishment, and they’re doing what their fellow leftists of the past have done whenever they find themselves in power. You know, like the USSR, China, Cuba, Venezuela, and North Korea. They’re taking control of everything, and arresting anybody who resists or even disagrees out loud.”

  “Yeah,” Trinity said. “If it wasn’t the death of our society, it’d be funny.”