Starcross

Chapter Fifteen

The Lincoln Memorial

Washington D.C.

 

            Like their own army, refugees lined both sides of the reflecting pool that stretched between the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial. Small, multi-colored tents, liberated from local sporting goods stores, that were designed for at most three people were crammed with five. Medical supplies, those that weren’t earmarked for the troops, were scarce. Food lines stretched for a mile as the refugees who were all brought up entitled wanted more than their fair share. The police here, and the FBI agents who didn’t have military experience, were on extra duty just to keep the peace and yet there was still theft, assault, rape, and murder. It sickened him how people resorted to their evilest side during times of crisis.

            Lovett thought back to a report he read this morning and recalled that some two million people had moved into the city before it came under siege. There’s a thought he never considered having: Washington D.C., the capitol of his country, is under siege by an invading army. Most of the people here weren’t just from the surrounding area however but from Maryland, Boston, New York, and even far off places like Detroit and Chicago; civilians who got out before the cities fell and came to the Capitol seeking protection.

            As he walked by the tent city he passed a group of twenty-something guys who sat on the back of a pick-up truck, a handful of them eyed him suspiciously and he flexed his left shoulder and felt the handgun that was holstered there. Lovett knew that his near fifty year old body was nothing intimidating but he had years of training and experience that kept his nerves calm and he knew he was fast on the draw.

            Thankfully, he passed the truck and approached a group of soldiers who stood guard near the head of the food line. Dirty people wearing dirty clothes lined up to accept steaming bowls of soup and a roll of bread, some thankful while others were angry their bowls didn’t hold more. A man wearing a faded baseball cap was shouting at one of the soldiers who was trying to firmly but gently push him away from the line, a frightened child clutching at his leg.

            “What’s going on here?” Lovett demanded when he got close enough.

            The soldier turned and nodded respectfully, his hand preoccupied, when he saw Lovett’s identity badge that announced him as one of the President’s advisors and a VIP. “Nothing, Sir. Just a minor dispute.” He answered in a curious accent.

            “You in charge?” The Hat man asked, stepping away from the soldier. The child, he could see it was a little girl about seven, clutched his unbuttoned shirt tail, a white ‘Red Sox’s’ t-shirt was exposed beneath it. “Tell this Fuck that just because he’s got a uniform don’t mean he can tell people what to do.”

            “Sir,” Lovett began patiently. “This man is an appointed guard, assigned to be here to keep the peace. That means he does have the authority to tell you what to do.”

            “No, no, no. I don’t mean him being a soldier. I mean he’s a fucking Druidth.” Lovett turned and saw the soldiers paler than unusual complexion and the light purple irises under his blue MP helmet, now understanding what the problem was. Hat man saw the soldier as an enemy he could fight as opposed to the real enemy he couldn’t.