A Thousand Years of Darkness: a Thriller

by Charles W. Sasser

  He seemed to know who Nail was. He kicked the cop in the ribs with a steel-toed combat boot. “Wha’ the fuck you staring at, asshole?”

  Pain shot through Nail’s body, but he refused to give his tormenter any satisfaction by reacting to the kick. He suffered through. His eyes bored into the killer’s. My time will come, was their unspoken message.

  “That’s enough, Forbis,” crackled the voice of a squat, bulldog-shaped man who pushed his way through the gathered Green Shirts. He was an older man with ruthless eyes set deep into a broad face. He stared at Nail on the ground, then looked at Forbis in disgust.

  “You’re the real asshole, Forbis,” he growled. “He knows who you are. You might as well have been wearing neon on that fucking tattoo.”

  Forbis stiffened, but held his tongue. The bulldog seemed to be his superior.

  “Get these prisoners out of here,” he barked.

  “Where do you want them?” Forbis asked with open resentment.

  Bulldog bristled. “Forbis, I don’t care who you think you are, you ain’t shit to me. Separate ’em. Throw one in the stockade and put the other in the CQ building until I get word from Tulsa about what they want done. Did we lose anybody?”

  A man who seemed to be the commander of the raid stepped forward hesitatingly. “We can’t account for Carlisle.”

  Bulldog glared. “Fuck!” he said.

  That these people were not attempting to conceal their identities or their participation in the ORU massacre reinforced in Nail’s mind the inescapable conclusion that Sharon and he were not meant to leave here alive. Bulldog stalked away. Several young men, not much out of their teens if at all, freed the prisoners’ legs and lifted them to their feet while Forbis watched.

  “You’re going to die, Forbis,” Nail promised. “Then I’ll kill your partner.”

  It was an old cop’s ruse intended to trick a suspect into thinking the cop knew it all. It worked. Forbis reflexively exchanged looks with another Green Shirt, this one thinner and likewise in his thirties, with eyes as cold and inexpressive as a snake’s.

  “What’s your name?” Nail asked him. “I want to know who I’m killing.”

  This individual returned Nail’s hard gaze with one of his own. “Henshaw,” he scoffed. “I want you to know who puts the bullet through your head.”

  Forbis and Henshaw remained behind while some of the younger Green Shirts hustled the prisoners toward a military-style cantonment area. Nail took in his surroundings for future references. The van had dropped them off at an unpaved parking lot where a number of other vehicles were parked. Vans, SUVs, off-road four-wheel-drive Broncos and Safaris, a couple of military-style Humvees, all painted black with the AmeriCorp logo of crossed shovels on their doors.

  The sun was rising red and inflamed as they crossed a manicured parade field where platoons of Green Shirts armed with the latest version of the M16 main battle rifle were already conducting close order drill. Other formations sweating at PT double-timed among the spread of long, low buildings as they chanted revised Jodie calls:

  I wanna be a Green Shirt Ranger.

  I wanna live a life of danger.

  One-two-three-four...

  Sing it some more.

  Anastos! Anastos! Anastos!

  This was a paramilitary boot camp, pure and simple, and heavily armed. It occurred to Nail that government was about to turn a corner—or had already turned the corner—into a chilling new realm that would have been unimaginable only a few years earlier. Sharon shuddered and looked at Nail. They were being escorted side by side.

  “Are you all right?” Nail asked her.

  “It’s according to how you define all right,” she whispered bravely.

  “Sharon, I’m sorry I got you into this,” he apologized. “I should have sent you back to New York.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered where I was. Do you see what’s going on here? We’ve got to somehow get the word out.”

  Two of the five guards in the escort meandered off toward what was obviously a chow hall, judging from the odors of coffee, bacon and eggs that wafted from it. The three remaining were equipped with holstered sidearms. Sharon lowered her voice.

  “You recognized the tattoo?”

  “Forbis and Henshaw. Don’t forget those names.” What he meant was, Don’t forget them in case I don’t make it and you do.

  Their guards were watching activities on the parade field as they walked rather than paying strict attention to their duties.

  “In police work,” Nail whispered, “we say it’s important to know who fired the bullet, but it’s more important to know who paid for the bullet.”

  “Kimbrell?”

  “He’s part of the chain, but I’m not sure he paid for the bullet.”

  It gave Nail a headache trying to picture the complicated monster behind all the grasping tentacles that seemed to reach out from everywhere. There was nothing either of them could do as long as they were prisoners.

  “Where’s your ball cap?” Nail noticed. She was squinting against the bright rising sun.

  “I suppose I lost it at the school.”

  “The first thing I give you—and you lose it.”

  She gave him a wan smile. “It wasn’t the first thing.”

  “And that would be—?”

  “I’ll let you figure that out.”

  She was one plucky lady.

  “That’s enough talking,” a guard commanded in a surprisingly boyish voice.

  They approached a one-story green-painted building that reminded Nail of a company HQ at Fort Polk or Fort Benning. A sign over the door read Stockade. The sun felt warm on Nail’s face. He didn’t want to go inside. He thought he might never see another sunrise. Even more agonizing was knowing that what happened to him likewise happened to Sharon. One of the guards rapped on the door.

  “You do realize what they’re going to do to us?” Sharon asked him.

  The boyish Green Shirt refused to make eye contact. He looked over her head. His face drained of color.

  “You will be an accessory to murder,” Sharon reminded him bluntly.

  He licked his lips and looked at his partners when he replied, “Ma’am, it’s necessary that some obstructionists be eliminated in order to build a society that is equitable and just for all.”

  Like he was reciting it by rote.

  “You could let us escape,” Sharon suggested.

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry. I have my orders.”

  The door opened and the prisoners were marched into an office occupied by three other Green Shirt cadets. Two of them escorted Nail down a narrow hallway to a barred cell furnished only with a toilet bucket in the corner. Nail stopped and looked back. The hall door into the office was still open. He saw Sharon being dragged off. He tried to break past his guards to get to her, but he was no match for them with his hands tied behind his back. The Green Shirts shoved him stumbling into the cell and slammed the heavy door. He heard it lock.

  “James, I’ll be waiting!” Sharon shouted, and then she was gone.

  Government Revises School Breakfast

  (Minneapolis)—Thanks to the intervention of the First Lady and President Anastos’ Council on Fitness, Sports and Nutrition, students like Mickey Rodriguez no longer have to go without breakfast because of late buses or overslept alarm clocks.

  Starting this week, high schools will serve free breakfast in the classrooms. Teachers say this will ensure student do not miss breakfast...

  “I was always missing breakfast because I have to get up really early and I didn’t get here in time for me to eat in the cafeteria,” said Rodriguez, a senior.

  Every student, regardless of family income, is welcome to eat free breakfast through the program, funded by the federal government. Currently, 88.4 percent of students receive free lunches and breakfasts. That percentage is expected to grow...

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Washington D. C.

  It was Sunday and normally D
ennis Trout’s day off. He and Judy had just flown back from New York on the seven a.m. shuttle when his cell rang. Wiedersham asked him to stop by the office on a couple of matters. Trout supposed overtime went with his new status.

  Everything was good between Judy and him again. They had had a nice dinner in Times Square—not The Pig Out Café—and attended Phantom of The Opera. They had remained in their hotel room all day Saturday. Judy was bubbling again. Or babbling. Whatever. His announcement that Wiedersham wanted him to work Sunday instead of touring the Smithsonian as they originally planned failed to dampen her revived spirits.

  “I’m seeing you tonight?” she asked with a suggestive smile.

  “Marilyn has plans,” he apologized.

  If anything put the damper on her, that would. She shrugged. Puzzled, Trout reflected on how well both his women seemed to be taking disappointment. When he walked into Wiedersham’s office, the Majority Leader handed him a memo distributed on State Department letterhead. It began with the Subject line: International Small Arms Destruction Day.

  The United States is joining the UN effort to curtail ownership of and trade in small arms and light weapons...

  President Anastos was asking Congress to allocate one hundred thirty million dollars to buy back an estimated million-and-a-half guns off American streets and destroy them. Every cokehead in the nation’s ghettos, barrios and cracker neighborhoods would be bringing in their stolen Saturday Night Specials and, no questions asked, selling them to the government in order to use the cash to buy other, better weapons off the streets. With enough dough left over for a good hit of crack or crystal meth. It was insane, but Trout kept his mouth shut.

  “Get with Gubbins and prepare a press announcement before Zenergy gets all over it with their Second Amendment bullshit,” he instructed. “You know what to say.”

  Trout could spin with the best of them. “That it’ll make America safe...?”

  “Safer,” the Leader corrected. As was his habit, he changed topics abruptly. “So how did your meeting go yesterday in New York?”

  Trout thought of John’s comment about chaos and about how rioting and violence in the streets were a necessary ingredient to “fundamentally transform the United States.” He remarked on how the protests against financial institutions going on in New York seemed made to order as part of the expanding chaos.

  Wiedersham gave his barking laugh at Trout’s naïve observation. “What makes you think made to order?”

  Trout blinked in surprise. “You mean they weren’t our people—?”

  “Even chaos has to be organized or it never begins. You’re in the big leagues now, Trout.”

  Trout swallowed any second thoughts he may have entertained. “I’d rather be on the wave of history than bucking it.”

  “Pragmatic,” Wiedersham said. “I like pragmatic. You can trust that over ideology.”

  There was a small pause while the Leader regarded his chief of staff. Trout guiltily concluded Wiedersham must know about Judy since he had provided two Broadway tickets and reservations for two at the Hilton in New York—and had known Marilyn was staying home. To Trout’s relief, however, Wiedersham avoided broaching the topic. Instead, he snatched a sheaf of documents from his IN box and thrust them at Trout.

  “This came in last night while you were in New York,” he snapped. “Fuckheads. Do they really think they can get away with this shit?”

  He savagely punched numbers into his phone. “Jackman, get your ass over here... I know it’s Sunday. Don’t give me any of your fucking lame lip. I want to talk to you and Hillard. If you can’t control your state legislators, we’ll get somebody who can.”

  Jackman and Hillard were U.S. Senators from New Hampshire and not likely to challenge Wiedersham’s authority. Not only was Wiedersham Senate Majority Leader, he was also a member of the President’s circle of anointed insiders.

  Trout understood his brother-in-law’s choler after he scanned the documents thrust at him. The New Hampshire State Legislature had passed a “nullification” resolution declaring “certain actions of the federal government totally void.” It seemed there were still a few politicians around who had a set of balls. Something in Trout admired their defiance.

  The proclamation reminded Congress and the U.S. President, in much the same language as that issued by a band of colonials in Philadelphia two centuries ago, that:

  Any act by the Congress of the United States or Executive Order by the Judicatories of the United States of America which assumes a power not delegated to the government by the Constitution and which serves to diminish the liberty of the any of the several States or their citizens shall constitute a nullification of the Constitution by the government of the United States of America...

  That, therefore, all acts of Congress of the United States which do abridge the freedom of religion, freedom of speech, freedom of the press, are not law, but are altogether void, and of no force...

  Acts which could cause a nullification include, but are not limited to:

  I. Establishing martial law or a state of emergency within one of the States without the consent of the legislature of that State;

  II. Requiring involuntary servitude, or governmental service other than a draft during a declared war;

  III. Surrendering any power delegated or not delegated to any corporation or foreign government;

  IV. Any act regarding religion, further limitations on freedom of political speech, or further limitation on freedom of the press;

  V. Further infringements on the right to keep and bear arms...

  Any future government of the United States of America shall require ratification of three quarters of the States seeking to form a government of the United States of America and shall not be binding upon any State not seeking to form such a government...

  That things in the country had sunk to this level left Trout stupefied. Nullification was paramount to a state of revolt against the federal government. If allowed to stand, it could inspire other disgruntled states to follow suit. Wasn’t that how the Civil War started?

  Wiedersham hung up the phone in refueled rage. Apparently, he had been working himself up all weekend over this.

  “Who’s the Regional Homeland Security Director in New Hampshire?” he demanded of Trout. “Find out and get him on the line. It’s time these cocksuckers understand where the power is. Knock a few of them in the dirt and they’ll come around. They’ll know better than to fuck with me next time.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Ozark Mountains

  As soon as the cell door clanged behind him, Nail limped to the single barred window that looked out upon the parade field to see if he could tell where these people were taking Sharon. She and her escort were crossing the field toward buildings on the other side. Sharon walked with her head held high in defiance, as though she knew Nail watched and was sending a message that she believed in him. She soon disappeared behind a long, green barracks. There were three or four other structures beyond, one of which was likely the CQ where Sharon was to be confined.

  Nail allowed himself a moment of despair. What made Sharon think he could save her when he hadn’t even been able to save his own daughter? He was no shining knight on a white horse out to slay dragons and rescue maidens. He was just an ordinary cop starting to comprehend that he may be involved in something way over his head.

  But he was stubborn. Connie used to say he had a head as hard as an anvil.

  He inspected his cell from wall to wall, corner to corner, limping from the old bullet wound. The walls were rough-hewn pine two-by-eights solidly attached to what he assumed to be standard two-by-four studs. The ceiling was likewise constructed. The floor was a concrete slab. There was one steel door, solid except for the barred window at the top and a small opening at the bottom for sliding in food and water. Inside, opposite the door, was the steel-barred window. The slops bucket offered the only prospect of a weapon. It was soft plastic.

  Nail return
ed to the window and looked out through the bars. He watched Forbis and Henshaw cross the parade ground with several other Green Shirts and enter the long, green barracks. Revenge was not a laudable quality, as he had realized from investigating homicides. Yet, thoughts of revenge consumed him.

  “Everything will be solved peacefully through God if you stand where you’re supposed to stand,” Sharon liked to preach, contending that everything went up for grabs when people resorted to violence and picked up guns.

  Maybe God needed a little help sometimes. Those responsible for the deaths of Jamie, Jerry Baer and the others at ORU that fateful day were never going to be brought to justice in the traditional sense. Sharon would have to realize that. They seemed to be protected from high up the political chain. Cops liked to say that at times justice came only from the barrel of a cop’s gun.

  Nail didn’t have a gun. He was locked in an escape-proof cell with his hands bound behind his back. Unless he found a way to escape, today would likely be the last he or Sharon ever saw.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Ozark Mountains

  The problem with doing nothing was not knowing when you were done. Nail paced his cell and counted his paces: four one way, eight the other. He stared out the window toward the green barracks across the parade field where he last saw Forbis and Henshaw. Beyond were the smaller buildings where Sharon’s guards had taken her. He listened with his ear next to the steel door and heard a murmur of conversation and laughter coming from the stockade’s guard room.

  To test the guards’ response, he called out to them through the tiny window in the door. “Hey, up there! I need a drink of water.”

  Feedback was about what he expected from this bunch of young cutthroats. “Drink piss, pig!”

  A half-hour passed. Then somebody slipped a tin cup of water through the slot at the bottom of the door. Nail peeped out the window in time to recognize the boyish Green Shirt whom Sharon had engaged about letting them escape. Apparently, he possessed a seed of conscience somewhere inside all that brainwashing.