Free Secession: The Storm by Joe Nobody Page A

his way inside.
     
    “New Orleans Police Department!” the intruder shouted, repeatedly bumping the elderly homeowner backwards with his chest. Before Abe could do or say anything, a stream of uniformed bodies poured in behind the huge cop, the living room soon filled with armed men and rifle barrels sweeping in all directions.
     
    Still in a state of disbelief, Abe could do nothing but hold up his hands in the classic, “Don’t shoot,” position.
     
    “You have to leave,” the bull-cop began shouting. “The mayor has ordered all residents to evacuate. Now!”
     
    “We’re not going anywhere!” Mr. Hendricks responded, finally recovering. “Get out of my house.”
     
    Abe noticed the intruders spreading out, one man in an Army uniform slowly moving to get behind his father. Another cop who shouldered a shotgun was making for the staircase.
     
    “Do you have a warrant?” Abe barked, not sure what else to say.
     
    One of the two NOPD officers stepped closer to Abe, poking him in the stomach with the barrel of an AR15. “This is our warrant,” smirked the cop.
     
    “Are there any firearms in this house?” the lead man asked. “We’ve been ordered to confiscate all weapons.”
     
    “You can’t do that,” protested Abe, “That’s illegal as hell. Get the fuck out of our house.”
     
    “Yeah… what the hell is wrong with you guys?” Mr. Hendricks demanded, regaining his composure and stepping toward the big policeman. “We’ve got rights here… you can’t just barge in here and….”
     
    A lightning storm charged with events erupted. Placing a hand on each of Mr. Hendricks’s shoulders, the big cop yanked the old man savagely to the floor. Abe’s natural reaction was to help his father, but he didn’t manage a single step before the closest invader dove into his mid-section, slamming him brutally to the carpeting.
     
    Someone was trying to pull Abe’s arms behind his back as the room filled with the bedlam of shouted commands and confusing orders. Swirls of fast moving bodies, firearms, and his father’s screams of protest made it impossible to discern what was happening.
     
    “Where are the guns?” someone kept shouting. “Where are the guns?”
     
    Two of the soldiers started for the kitchen. Abe’s eyes followed their movement, despite being pinned on his stomach.
     
    The kitchen door flew open in slow motion, the barrel of Charlie’s shotgun rising frame, by agonizing frame. Abe wanted to shout a warning, tried to fill his throat with the words that would cause his brother to stop. But it was too late.
     
    The 12-gauge exploded, pellets of buckshot driving into the nearest soldier’s chest. Abe saw his brother’s face wrinkle in pain and confusion as a series of bullets ripped through his torso. A cloud of red mist appeared behind the younger Hendricks as his body twisted and vibrated from the impacting lead.
     
    Abe recognized his own voice screaming, “No!” while his little brother sank to the floor. As he went down, another jet of red fire sprayed from Charlie’s shotgun. Someone howled in agony, the sickening wail overriding the earsplitting thunder of gunfire and the blaring shouts of men in combat.
     
    And then Abe was free.
     
    The man holding him to the floor rolled away, seeking cover when the firefight began. Still in shock over watching his brother cut to pieces, Abe rose to his knees, thinking only of gathering Charlie’s limp body in his arms.
     
    Movement drew Abe’s eye, his father finding himself unburdened as well. Ed Hendricks was reaching for something, extending his arm in Charlie’s direction. Too late, Abe again tried to mouth a warning for his dad to stop.
     
    More thunder filled the Hendricks’s living room, one of the cops believing Mr. Hendricks was reaching for Charlie’s shotgun – or so they assumed. Abe watched in absolute horror as his father’s head exploded in a geyser of tissue and bone.
     
    “You sons-ah-bitches!”