The Government: Dark Days

by Joseph Storm

  “Cover me,” Xavier said. The two mercenaries readied their weapons, as the commander approached the bathroom door. He kicked it open, causing Jenny to let out a scream. She was in progress of trying to break the heavy glass of the bathroom window, barely cracking it.

  “Well, well...what do we have here?” he asked, staring Jenny over like a jackal about to make a fresh kill.

  A terrified Jenny backed up into the tub, as Xavier slowly started approaching her. The mercenaries in black entered behind him.

  “What do you want with us? Do you want money? You can have what you want! Take it! My husband’s a congressman...you don’t want to do this!” Jenny begged.

  “That’s exactly why I want to do this,” he said, in a creepy, raspy toned voice. Jenny reached the shower wall, as far as she could go. Xavier stepped into the stall with her, sniffing her skin, and her hair. Jenny trembled with fear and disgust. The commander then licked her cheek with his slimy tongue, revealing nicotine stained teeth.

  “I’m nine months pregnant for God’s sake! Have mercy!”

  “As you’ll soon discover...there is no God,” he said confidently. “Mercy is for the weak!”

  The mercenaries let loose a rare smile, as the commander turned back to them. “Give us some privacy, boys...I can handle this one alone.”

  The men nodded and exited the room, shutting the door behind them. Xavier tightly gripped Jenny’s swollen breast, like a beast in heat. “Your man went down like a lamb. Clearly he’s not the lion you deserve,” he said, as his other hand started moving up her thigh.

  “Get your hands off me!”

  Out in the hallway, the mercenaries in black turned their attention away from an unconscious Joe Striker. They laid a line of white chemical powder on the table. One of them snorted it up fast, like a Hoover vacuum sucking sand. The look of pure bliss came over the mercenary’s face, bringing him into another world. A rush of blood sailed through his veins, as a hyper energy suddenly fueled him.

  “Me,” the second man said in a Russian accent. He took his place at the table, placing the straw to his nostril, and snorting the powder up. Suddenly, a foot crashed down upon his head like a steel sledgehammer upon a hollow melon. The straw went up his nose, causing him to inhale the object and begin choking on it.

  The jittery, other mercenary in black went to reach for his gun. Joe’s fist smashed his throat, causing him to lose vocal and breathing ability. Striker was back on his feet.

  Commander Xavier’s pants were opened up, preparing to initiate the act on Jenny. Suddenly, the choking mercenary bursted through the bathroom door. Jenny kneed Xavier in the testicles, as she ran to the safety of her husband.

  Joe Striker slammed Xavier to the wall, gripping the cruel man’s neck tightly. He turned and twisted, but held back from breaking it.

  “Why the hell are you doing this? Who the hell are you?” Joe demanded to know, as Xavier started laughing. Striker pressed his neck a little more. “You got one-second before I snap it like a matchstick! You’re worth nothing to me!”

  Xavier struggled to catch his breath, as his scratchy voice muttered out, “They were dead wrong about you.”

  “They? Who are they?”

  “You’re no warrior. You have the strategic sense of a brick.”

  “Who are you...son of a bitch?”

  “I am the future!” he proclaimed, as his eyes darted back towards Jenny.

  Joe turned around, surprised by the presence of two different mercenaries in black. One hand-gagged Jenny’s mouth, while the other one held a gun to her head. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  “Release her or die!” Striker yelled, as all thoughts of defensive strategy vanished. It caused him to prematurely react to the frantic scene in front of his eyes. He released Xavier, turning his attention toward the men.

  His momentary lapse in judgement afforded the perfect opportunity for the tables to be turned. Commander Xavier Sin went on the offensive, plowing Joe over the bath tub’s lip. He crashed face first into the tile floor.

  Striker’s forehead bounced off the porcelain surface. His eyeballs rolled into his head, as he floated in between consciousness and complete darkness.

  “Wait until you have the upper hand to negotiate!” the commander yelled, letting out his wicked laugh. “Take the trash out...I have to finish what I started.”

  Jenny broke from the grasp of the men. She dropped to her knees, aiding her fallen husband. Joe’s loving wife was ripped from him, watching his body dragged out of the room by the mercenaries. The helpless woman was returned to Xavier Sin’s control.

  Joe’s vision came into focus for one last sight. It consisted of Xavier pinning Jenny down, saying, “Where did we leave off?”

  “The baby!” Jenny cried out, as Xavier pulled out a dull dagger.

  “This is for later,” he said sarcastically. “There are more...pressing matters to deal with first.”

  “Joe!” Jenny cried out, watching her husband’s head get battered with the butt of a gun. Her bloodcurdling scream was the last sound Joe would hear. Striker finally lost his battle with consciousness, entering the realm of unknown nightmares.

  ******

  Filtered rays of light shot through Joe Striker’s eyelids, as the darkness was flooded with reality. While he was out, poisonous dreams crawled through his head. The face of Xavier took on demonic forms matching the evil man’s demonic goals. Every possible scenario played out before him, rape being the least, murder being the worst, and a combination of the two equaling hell on earth.

  “Jenny!” he called out, finding her nowhere in sight.

  A nasty pool of cold sweat stuck to his skin, as humidity combined with chilled air to fill the stale, motionless building.

  Striker was handcuffed and hung from random gas pipes, strung along a twelve-foot ceiling. He was in an open-barred cell, which was housed in a converted warehouse. The dim lighting flickered on and off, revealing adjacent cells in a continuous, long row.

  Blood trickled down his vein-strained forearms, as the steel handcuffs slowly gnawed their way through Joe’s thick wrists. He was alone, adjusting his eyes to discover any semblance of a location. It was useless.

  Striker’s teeth ground together, as he tried to fight the stinging agony. His throbbing head, and sore back didn’t help the situation. That constant type of pain would have driven him mad, if he didn’t have Marine Core training. He was prepped for nearly every type of torture that an enemy could throw at him.

  Joe could handle the pain from his body, but it was the worrying heart pounding inside his chest that was getting the best of him. He kept replaying the scene inside his head, watching the panic stricken look on his expecting wife’s face. Her desperate call for his help kept echoing through his ears, as he harshly judged himself. The man she once called ‘my knight in shining armor,’ failed in her most desperate time of need. He knew thoughts like that were pointless, fighting to flush it from his troubled mind. Instead, he tried to focus on what he would do to the sick bastard who put them in that situation.

  “Open 40!” a loud middle eastern voice sounded from the dark.

  Old, rust-crusted bars were unlocked and pulled open, sending a creaking noise through the air. A mercenary in black unlocked one handcuff, causing a weakened Joe Striker to fall to the ground. He writhed in pain, clasping his stretched and stiff arms, letting the tingling sensation of blood return to his appendages. However, the relief would only last a moment, as his hands were pulled behind his back, and locked again.

  “End soon,” the mercenary said, as he yanked Striker by the arms, dragging him across the filthy, rat-shit covered floors.

  “Ahh!” Joe screamed in pain. “My wife! Where’s my frigging wife?”

  The mercenary stared straight ahead. He dragged Striker through a narrow hallway, passing other cells. Along the way, he witnessed other men and women unconscious, hanging in the same manner that he was.

  A loud scream filled the
air. As he passed a particular cell, the voice became clearer, sounding its familiarity. He adjusted his eyes tightly, realizing it was more than just a colleague. In fact, it was once the most powerful man in the United States of America. At least it was before the day had passed.

  “Someone take me down from here...I can’t take it any longer!” the man yelled.

  “Mr. President?” Joe called out in a confused manner.

  “Striker! Congressman Striker...is that you? They got you too? It’s not what I thought...we’re not even from the same party!”

  “Who are these people...what is this about?” Joe yelled out, nearly cleared of the area, heading through another door.

  “It can only be the...” the president yelled, as the door was shut before he could finish.

  The sounds went from one man in pain to an entire room of screams. This large, open hanger had wooden posts with men and women tied to them. Each one was blindfolded. Some were in their congressional suits, others in their casual attire, but it was clear to Striker. They were all fellow members of the United States Government.

  A team of mercenaries aimed their high powered rifles. Large magnifying scopes zeroed in on the hearts and heads of the lawmakers.

  “Fuego!” a man yelled in Spanish. The mercenaries complied, unleashing a round of bullets into the scared, confused, and desperate people. Pools of splattered blood dotted the walls like flung spackle on drywall. Their bodies fell lifeless and limp, hanging from the posts like raw carcasses of hung meat.

  “Next,” Commander Xavier shouted out. The expired bodies were disrespectfully dragged from the posts toward a large Government issued SUV. Trails of blood traced the path of their final journey.

  As quickly as one set of victims was removed, the next group was dragged, kicking and screaming to their final execution.

  Striker was part of the next wave. He was pulled backward by his handcuffs, straining his arms to the brink of breaking. As he arrived at the post, a nail was driven into it, securing his cuffs deep into the wood.

  The mercenary in black said, “Enjoy trip to hell,” as he laughed, taunting Striker.

  Experiencing a sudden rage of anger, Joe managed to use his overstrained, numb arms to prop himself up. He lifted his legs in the air, strangling the mercenary with the strength of his bare feet.

  A group of mercenaries ran over and freed their comrade from the grip, bashing Striker’s mouth with a club. Before they could bludgeon him to death, a voice sounded into the air. “Stop!” Commander Sin called out.

  The men looked surprised, upset that their opportunity of a fresh kill was interrupted. “Leave him to me. Release him from the pole,” Xavier demanded.

  The men paused in disbelief.

  “Right now, damn it!” he yelled again.

  They quickly followed orders, freeing him. Commander Xavier dragged Striker to the side of the room. “Continue with the executions,” he called out.

  “Fuego!” the mercenary in black yelled again. The executioners released another round of fire into the row of helpless people.

  “My wife! What did you do with my wife?” the injured Joe Striker demanded, as he spit a cracked, molar tooth from the back of his mouth.

  “I took care of business...in every way possible,” he responded in an evil manner.

  An enraged Striker lunged at Xavier, as the mercenaries stopped him before he could enact his revenge.

  “Why didn’t you kill me at my house...while I was free to fight back? Don’t you have the courage to take me on man to man?” Striker asked. “Or why not have me die with the others...shot while strung helpless from a pole! That sounds like your style!”

  “Because...a firing squad death bares too much honor. You deserve none! You’re an impostor...not a hero.”

  “Defenseless men and women...shot pointblank, tied and blindfolded. There’s no honor in that.”

  “Well then, you’ll find even less honor in dying like a slaughtered pig...just like your wife did.”

  The mercenaries in black were forced to hold Joe down with all their might, as he tried to break toward Xavier.

  “In fact...I’ll even use the same instrument of death,” he said, revealing a blood stained dagger, dull to the point. “Nothing like a family tie,” he said sarcastically.

  “NO!” Striker yelled in agony, as an array of vile images sailed through his head, imagining the fate of his wife and unborn child. “Be damn sure you kill me...because, I’ll crawl from the grave to avenge my family.”

  “It will be slow...but sure,” he said, positioning the dull weapon, very slowly carving a line across Joe Striker’s throat. Only a small amount of blood trickled out. It didn’t fully cut, though bared the appearance of bursting open at any moment.

  “Throat not cut,” a mercenary said.

  “I know what I’m doing, damn you!” he yelled. “It’s like a work of art...lingering. Let him bleed slowly...so I can be the last nightmare in his head, before fading into a black sea of emptiness.” He placed the dagger back into its side holster. “Toss him with the other dead, he’ll join them soon enough,” Xavier said, walking away.

  Joe started to choke on the blood. He coughed it up, as it flowed in equal amounts to the exit of his esophagus as it did from his wound. Thick individual globs seeped from his partially slit throat, which simultaneously straddled the line between healing shut and bursting open. He struggled to keep consciousness. Suddenly, a man in black hit him over the head, causing him to pass out.

  “Stop!” a mercenary said. “Commander wants him to feel!”

  “He felt. Get his body with others...load in truck!”

  Joe Striker was loaded into the back of the body-filled government vehicle. The next round of bodies was piled on top of him, squished in like sardines in an airtight tin.

  “Full,” a man called out, as the truck was sealed up. Commander Xavier entered into the passenger’s seat. It was only the first load of bodies for the night, but for him it was much more than that. He was present for one of the defining moments in the nation’s history, one as crucial as the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

  The historic moment bared as much weight as breaking free from the British. It was no longer about a change of party, but instead, a new way of life was about to descend upon an angry and fed up population. It was one which would be welcomed with open arms.

  The commander knew that the moment, and days to follow would appear in the rewritten history books. If he had any choice in the matter, the name of Xavier Sin would appear in those books as well.

  ******

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 4, 2020

  A massive gasp of muddy, wet dirt flowed into the face of Joe Striker. He bolted back to consciousness after walking the fine line between life and death. There’s a certain point in such a moment, where a person’s will can either propel them into the afterlife, or yank them back to finish their work on earth. Striker had plenty of work left to do.

  A sudden panic filled Joe’s face. He realized that he was buried alive, sandwiched between a mound of corpses. The air was swallowed by the elements, and the weakened Joe Striker would have to activate his flight or fight senses to escape the situation.

  The darkness of black mud crusted his eyes. Joe grabbed upward, following only instinct to propel him forward. The disorientation caused him to guess where his final journey would end: the surface, or entombed at the bottom of a mass grave.

  Joe frantically used his arms to climb the dead flesh like a ladder of skin and bones. He fought extreme panic as the weight of each lifeless body pushed down on him like a heart attack. Their lifeless arms dangled around him, as if they were dragging him back into the depths of an endless hell.

  With every airless moment that trickled by, Joe fought passing out. He thought of his family, and that somehow, they could still be alive. It was the one thought which fueled his existence, keeping him from accepting the mass grave as his final resting place.

  Finall
y, when it appeared that there was no hope left, Striker’s fist burst through the chilled, muddy surface. He felt around for a spot strong enough to hold his weight. Finally, he managed to find a gnarling tree root, which sailed down into the ground like a lifeline. Joe grasped the root, using every ounce of strength to crash up through the earth. The congressman was caked with frosted-filth, resembling a type of fictional swamp creature.

  He screamed into the night air, dusting the lye from him, which blistered his skin and burned his eyes like holy water on an exposed demon. Vomit spilled from his mouth in a toxic mixture of blood and dirt, settling deep in his desperate lungs. Dragging himself completely free, he collapsed in exhaustion, trembling in a near convulsion-like state. The thunder crackled again, awakening him, restarting the fury inside his pounding heart.

  A rain cloud reopened, pouring down another quick soaking of water. It washed the hardened mud from him. It was that hardening which sealed off his wound, allowing the shallow slash to not crack open like a poorly structured dam of blood.

  Regaining some energy, he frantically started digging up the frosty, fertile ground. Joe searched for his pregnant wife, praying that he didn’t find her among the bog of bodies. Yet, a piece of him also feared a future of endless wonder, unanswered empty questions of what became of his family.

  He had seen mothers, wives, brothers, sons, and daughters of his military brethren left to deal with grief after losing their loved ones. However, they also had to guess their final fate. Could they be alive? The family members are always left to wonder. ‘It’s lack of closure,’ they testified, ‘that’s as equally painful as the loss itself.’

  The frantic Striker dug fast and deep, his fingernails torn and tattered the deeper he went. The horrific sight of deceased friends and colleagues kept plaguing his eyes. They were Republicans, Democrats, and Independents, and for the first time in a long time they were each united in a bipartisan outcome: death.