2047: Hell In A Handbasket Read online

  2047

  Hell in a handbasket

  D. Frank Green

  Contents

  Front Matter

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Author Notes

  Flee or Kill Chapter 1

  Updates on stories and Frankly Speaking

  Did you like this book?

  2047:

  Hell In A Handbasket

  (A dystopian story but one that could come sooner than you think.)

  (C) Douglas Green

  2016

  ISBN 978-1-897395-33-2

  All Rights Reserved.

  You can contact D. Frank Green at

  DFrankGreen.com (read and download works in progress and short stories)

  10/01/2047 07:30

  Over his first cup of coffee of the day, George Gwinnett admitted to himself that unless he did something, things wouldn't change here in Savannah. This old city, one of the true painted ladies of the deep South, had seen it all. From the sweating Irishmen cursing the heat and humidity as they loaded the hundreds of thousands of cotton bales shipped to Europe every year, to Sherman who refused to destroy the city, and now the heat and oak midges that were stripping her to the bones.

  The politicians of thirty years ago gerrymandering their way to power ensured this future would come sooner rather than later. Gwinnett thought about it for a moment and smiled to himself. Prolonging anything sick, something in agony, from dying is never a great idea. Shoot it and be done with it.

  As the coffee worked its magic, he focused on the view of the backyard hedge garden with its reflecting pool still full of water. Charlotte couldn't stand the thought of letting it go dry and what Charlotte wanted...

  Shaking his head, now fully awake, he brought his old-fashioned rimless glasses to life by gently touching the arm in front of his ear. Corneal implants would have been more convenient, all the younger troops had them, but he refused. He had no trouble shooting a man, but he couldn't stand the thought of having his eyeballs cut and chips installed.

  The glasses, with their full heads-up display, darkened as Gwinnett stepped out the front door of the Jones Street home. The majestic live oak trees that used to cover the street now rotted in some dump and the small, so-called replacements struggled in the heat and humidity to gain a hold on the lifeless soil. He still enjoyed his early morning walk particularly when it ended in his favorite coffee shop.

  The coffee would be smooth but the company he'd be keeping would likely turn out to be bitter, and Gwinnett knew it was time to deliver a clear message. He hoped they'd get the message. If not, he'd deliver one with a different definition of Southern charm.

  Ten minutes early, he rounded the corner at Tattnall and Liberty Streets and saw Sayshan Roberts, the War-Commander of the East Side boys, an equal distance from the shop coming in the opposite direction. They met as if by prearranged signals at the front door of the shop and Gwinnett returned his wry grin as they both appreciated that neither wanted to arrive second. Should have left sooner he thought.

  Gwinnett led Roberts to his favorite spot in the shop, out of the glare of the windows, and took a padded, swivel chair with his back to the wall. Roberts took the chair beside him with his back to the same wall. Neither was about to face away from an open door.

  Gwinnett saw the server had kept her eyes on the two of them, waved a single finger, and said, "Jersey can we have a full carafe please?"

  Roberts didn't speak.

  The pause threatened to become embarrassing so Gwinnett opened. "Thanks for coming Mr. Roberts, I suspect we both have things to put onto the table and sort out. It would be a good thing if both of us could come away from this meeting happy with the outcome."

  Roberts didn't reply right away as the manager appeared with a carafe and side plate of hot biscuits.

  Gwinnett hadn't ordered the biscuits but then again, he no longer had to. All the staff knew to bring them because he always ordered them halfway through the first coffee.The manager poured the first cups and then retreated to her counter, out of earshot.

  Neither said anything as they took the first tentative sips of the hot drink.

  "Great coffee. Thanks. Appreciate your showing respect this way." The Southern accent was clear but Sayshan used his talk-to-the-white-people voice and not his normal ghetto slang.

  "My pleasure. Glad y'all like coffee. And yes, I want us to understand each other and be able to respect each other as we move forward," replied Gwinnett.

  Gwinnett smiled and decided this would be a typical Southern meeting with a relaxed pace and the meanings and implications would be couched in the most delicate but respectful ways. The objective was to be smooth enough to sound agreeable but tough enough to force this young man to listen carefully. He shuffled his chair slightly towards Roberts to get a better look at his face. Even though he doesn't be
lieve it, this one's a boy in a man's game, Gwinnett thought. He took a deep breath, looked directly into Robert's eyes. He recognized the return stare and thought, screw this polite stuff, let's get this done quickly and move on. He isn't going to change and I don't want to waste my breath and time. Stupid bastard thinks he's in control. Let's just end this and let me get to work, he decided.

  "Mr. Roberts, we seem to have a problem. In the last four weeks, your people assaulted nine of my employees while they were walking or partying in Savannah. Specifically it happened while they walked in an area of the historic or entertainment district you profess to control," said Gwinnett.

  The bastard wasn't expecting that was he, Gwinnett thought.

  Robert's face froze and his eyes tightened into a gang stare.

  Idiot thinks he can intimidate me but I've been stared at by far worse than this punk, Gwinnett thought. He took another sip of coffee, testing to see if it was cool enough to drink.

  "I've told my people not to bother locals and to confine their partying to downtown. They won't bother your members without severe penalties from me.I have a strict policy for this and there are no exceptions. I need you to respect this and ensure your members understand this. Neither of us wants our friends hurt," said Gwinnett.

  He grinned inwardly at the confused look that, for a moment, appeared on Roberts' face. This wasn't what he expected. Combine Southern charm with a stone-dead message and you've got them running before they know it, he thought.

  Robert's face tightened, he cocked his head slightly and said, "Mr. Gwinnett, these are our streets. Your employees walk on them with our blessing. But when they trash talk my people, there's a matter of respect involved. Tell yours to show respect and there will be no problem."

  Gwinnett nodded. He'd expected something like this and hoped another tack might make it clear. And no you bastard, I won't break eye contact first he thought.

  "Mr. Roberts, we have the tapes of what happened and in every instance, your members started the problem. And in every instance, they overwhelmed my employees with numbers. We can provide those to you if you doubt my word. You are taking my troops down as a game, we understand this and we simply want you to end the game," said Gwinnett.

  "Mr. Gwinnett, with all respect, you folks started the problems and no matter what your edited tapes will say, I decline your offer. This is our city now. If your people want to drink in our district, they should take better care and watch their mouths," said Roberts.

  He didn't get the message Gwinnett thought. One last try then. "Mr. Roberts. You do understand what my company does, don't you?"

  Roberts snorted. "Oh yeah, I know. But all those guns and troops overseas ain't gonna help you in my district. You can be the biggest badass you like over there, but here, these are our streets. Shit. You think I'm just another dumbass black you can push around? Not happening."

  Breaking eye contact, Gwinnett leaned back in my chair. This meeting was over except for the details and one last offer.

  He looked back up. "Mr. Roberts, thank you for the clarification. Is there anything I can do to change your mind so we can open serious negotiations and avoid any future unpleasantness?"

  "No Sir. I believe we understand each other," said Roberts.

  OK, he missed my signal. Or didn't want to get it. OK, meeting over and let's move on with my day, thought Gwinnett.

  "Thank you for meeting with me Mr. Roberts. Can we pour you a cup of coffee to go?" He didn't wait for a reply and didn't break eye contact. "Jersey, would you bring us a to-go cups please," said Gwinnett.

  The young server brought two tall paper cups and emptied the carafe into them, pressed plastic tops and slid them in front of Sayshan.

  "Enjoy your coffee Mr. Roberts. Should you change your mind, please call me and we can work something out," said Gwinnett, nodding slightly, blinking slowly, then standing to offer a handshake. He was surprised when Roberts took it in a firm grip and noted Robert's hand was already hot and sticky this early in the morning.

  "No Sir, I believe I've been clear and there'll be no need to change my mind. But if you change yours, please call me," said Roberts.

  Gwinnett locked onto Robert's eyes for a minute seeing nothing but contempt there. He wouldn't be the first to miss my signals and underestimate the world of hurt QuellCorp carries. Won't likely be the last either, he thought.

  12/01/2047 08:00

  "Son of a bitch, those bastards killed Sergeants Shaw and Berry? Didn't just hurt them?" The voice on the other end of the call heard the slap on the desk but continued his report.

  George Gwinnett's sniper training kicked in. He took a deep breath, held it for two seconds and slowly released it. Anger replaced by calm determination, he listened carefully until the report finished. "Thanks, you'll see a bonus this month," he said disconnecting the call with a curt nod and touch at his glasses.

  Gwinnett stood and walked to the salt-flecked window overlooking the Low Country marshes of South Carolina just across the river from Savannah. Last night's storm surged the king tide higher than normal and the whipping winds carried foam from the breaking waves across the marsh to cover the old plantation house. Absorbing and analyzing the view out the large patio doors as a potential battlefield, he frowned as he took in the massive but almost-dead oaks lining the driveway. What had been a tree-shaded, classic approach to the mansion was now, thanks to the oak midges and salt, a row of skeletons against a dull, cloudy sky. The countryside was dying in the heat and incessant storms.

  His mind shifted gears to his downtown home in Savannah, to the stump in his front yard on what was once a completely shaded street. Even the occasional stench of the pulp mill up the Savannah River had stopped a few years ago when there weren't enough local trees to make it profitable.

  Sadness replaced the sniper's calm as he accepted saving the South would be the second war his family had lost. Gwinnett thought about his options for a few seconds, did another calming breath routine. He imagined himself pulling a trigger.

  A short chopping hand motion lit up the comm system. "Executive. Level one," he said.

  The comm device interrupted the six senior executives of QuellCorp, the world's largest security company, with a tone demanding an answer. All six took the summons on their ear implants, opening the network with single clench of their jaws. "Priority meeting. My office." Six acknowledgments double-clicked onto the system.

  Sarah's, his daughter, contained a message, "Landing in ten minutes, inbound in copter. At full speed. Be there in fifteen."

  Gwinnett frowned, he didn't like flying in anything without wings. No matter how many assignments, how many jumps, he simply didn't trust anything that could fly backwards or sideways as easily as forward. He grimaced at the thought that at 57, his jumping and active service days were well behind him and that some mornings his knees clearly telegraphed this message.

  The five executives in the house joined him within a few minutes. Sarah's copter banked over the low country, dropped to skim the salt marsh grasses leaving a trail of flattened grass in the wake of its unmuffled, screaming engines. Gwinnett heard the background chatter on the company network but declined the 360-degree, 3-d camera view.

  "QuellCorp Radio. Gwinnett Two."

  "Gwinnett Two. Quellcorp radio."

  "QuellCorp, request immediate priority level one landing instructions. Coming in hot."

  "Gwinnett Two. You are cleared for direct, priority inbound on 17. Winds zero. We'll have your ground crew and transport waiting."

  "Copy that Quellcorp. Inbound 10 minutes on 17 direct."

  This was all routine and Gwinnett turned to his men, but suddenly stopped as a flashing red light appeared in the center top of his glasses. "Shots fired. Gwinnett Two." He stopped. Flicked the edge of his glasses. "Give me the 360-view, include lead up time 10 seconds," he said. He didn't say anything to group. As senior executives, they had the same warning lights flashing in their corneal feeds and were issuing identical orders.


  The 360-view showed the quadcopter approaching a small channel island with a herd of wild pigs rooting up clams and vegetation. As the copter passed the island the front gun cameras showed the entire copter executing a slow spinning turn - while staying level - to spray heavy machine gun rounds at the herd. The animals exploded under the withering fire and only one animal staggered away from the carnage. The front camera continued to rotate and then showed a view of the base in the distance as the machine continued its forward travel.

  "Well, they are a scourge on the native wildlife," said Richard Simpson, VP of QuellCorp's Security.

  George just looked at him. Didn't say anything. Damn stupid stunt just to kill something; what are we going to do with her, he thought.

  Gwinnett sent a message to his daughter's private comm channel. "Get here safely even if it takes extra time. We're going to start a fire, not put one out."

  12/01/2047 08:15

  Fifteen minutes later, Gwinnett watched as Sarah strode into his office, still wearing her flight suit and carrying her helmet. The helmet bounced against her leg and a myriad of sensor-feed connectors waving in rhythm emphasized her entrance. She smiled her version of the Gwinnett smile, guaranteed to charm or infuriate in equal measure, and walked to one of the couches against the wall.

  Gwinnett stood up from behind the small antique wood desk once owned by Jefferson Davis. It was easy to see why he'd been an outstanding linebacker at Georgia. At six two and two-hundred and twenty pounds, he still carried himself with the easy grace of a trained athlete. Good-looking, silver-haired, he could have been a model for executive recruiting. He refused his wife's suggestions to have corrective surgery for his eyes and definitely refused either computer-connected contact lenses or computerized corneal implants. His ancient, round-rimmed glasses contained a multitude of chips so Gwinnett had full heads-up capacity and computer contact. At the moment however, they hung, half-in and half-out of his shirt pocket, bouncing as he rose.

  "Mr. President, Sir. Sorry to be the last one but I was getting in some flight time to keep my rating," said Sarah increasing the intensity of the smile.