A Thousand Years of Darkness: a Thriller

by Charles W. Sasser

  As in real life, Sharon projected a straightforward and sincere presence on the screen. People had to believe what she said. The show began with a video clip of President Anastos addressing the auto workers union in Detroit. Government had just bailed out another economically collapsing motor company and took control of it.

  “How’s this capitalism working for you?” the President smirked. “Did it give you a job? We gave you your jobs back.”

  Union members cheered. Pre-prepared signs bobbed. The camera’s eye zoomed in on Workers of the World Unite.

  Sharon came on in a close frame. She spoke gravely while looking directly into the eyes of her audience. “Folks, as most of you know, this is our first show since Jerry was assassinated. Before he died, he promised that the only way he would shut up was if—” She choked up and took a moment to recover. “Someone shot him. I, Sharon Lowenthal, renew the pledge.”

  Somewhere outside the cabin a whippoorwill called to its mate and a pack of coyotes yapped.

  “I’m speaking to you tonight only because of a remarkable police homicide detective who has so far saved my life twice. But for him I would have died with Jerry. His daughter was killed that dreadful day. He saved my life a second time at an Arkansas AmeriCorps camp where the training is not construction and road building but instead weapons and military drill. I was kidnapped and would have been executed except for him and another brave Tulsa police officer, both of whom are fugitives with federal government warrants issued for their arrest. They will not receive a fair trial. Chances are they will not receive a trial at all if they are apprehended.”

  She chronicled the ordeal that began with the raid at the Bunch schoolhouse and concluded with their escape from Arkansas. Government agents, she said, hung Ron Sparks in the cemetery and gunned down two witnesses who knew the truth, the same way federal agents attempted to execute her.

  A Jerry Baer clip from a previous show appeared. “Since President Anastos’ election,” he said, “I have had views confided to me privately by some of the most prominent men in the field of commerce and manufacturing. They are afraid. They know there is a power being organized that is so subtle, so watchful, so interlocked, so complete, and so pervasive that they had better not speak above their breaths when they speak in condemnation of it.”

  Bill Ackart’s image flashed onto the screen, saying, “We have an urgent responsibility to destroy capitalism from within in order to help free the world and ourselves from its grasp. We will use all weapons available to us.”

  Sharon came back on with the cabin’s fireplace shown in her backdrop.

  “The infrastructure of our new rulers is in place,” she said. “A ‘shadow government’ waiting for the right time to collapse the U.S. Republic and take over. The time of freedom is drawing short. The Senate and the House are being packed with corrupt politicians and ideological Progressives-Marxists. It has been going on for years. They have automatically rubber-stamped every socialist program to come along without even bothering to read bills that are designed to bankrupt and destroy the nation.”

  A congressman from Michigan, in office for over forty years, had been caught by Zenergy News unintentionally admitting as much over the Healthcare Bill: “Read the bill? What good is reading the bill if it’s a thousand pages and you don’t have two days and two lawyers to understand it?”

  For most of the hour, Sharon explored what was about to transpire, interspersed by clips of politicians, “community organizers,” and other radicals declaring their intentions “in their own words,” as she and Jerry Baer before her were fond of saying. She delivered a chilling summary at the end.

  “Folks, as I explained earlier in this program, I know from horrible personal experience that President Anastos is establishing a KGB-like security force to help impose a Marxist dictatorship on the United States of America. We are just one incident away from martial law, be it declared because of an Islamic terrorist attack, a major financial blowout, a widespread natural disaster, or civil unrest. It’s becoming clearer every day that the groundwork is being laid for a seamless transition into totalitarianism. The Constitution and Bill of Rights will be suspended and what government officials believe and do, no matter how arbitrary, will become law. You can be sure that all this is about to happen—and it will happen very quickly.”

  Sharon paused and gazed soberly out at her audience. “Folks,” she said, “we are one catastrophic event away from the total transformation of the United States of America.”

  The DVD went off, the TV screen turned blank, the mournful yapping of coyotes echoed in the silence.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chicago

  There were 360 Starbucks locations in the Chicago area serving “the finest Arabica” coffee. According to a Zogby poll, people who patronized Starbucks differed mightily from those who swigged at Dunkin Donuts. Liberals and Progressives were twice as likely to be found at Starbucks while men who knew how to change their own spark plugs went to Dunkin’s and would rather be chained to the soap aisle in Bed, Bath and Beyond than have to utter bastardized Starbucks Latin to order a lousy cup of Joe.

  Senate Majority Leader Joe Wiedersham and his chief of staff Dennis Trout entered the Starbucks on LaSalle Street. Trout’s fine brown hair looked thinner than usual, although he had taken great pains with conditioner to fill it out to a younger look. As for the haggard look on his face, no amount of Speaker of the House Botox could have helped it. The little coffee house hostess took a second look at them. She appeared about eighteen, still with that clueless look of a teenager.

  “Are you them?” she inquired, awed.

  Wiedersham smiled. Politicians liked being recognized by the little people.

  “I just seen you on TV,” the girl gushed to Trout, gesturing toward the Plasma flat-screens located at various sites around a room filled with some of Chicago’s coolest people. “You’re going to be the next politician. I liked what you said about people needing help from our government.”

  She took their orders and left. The Majority Leader was in jovial form, at least by his standards, even though there had been a glitch in the press conference/town hall meeting at which Wiedersham introduced his young protégé and Trout announced that he was filing for the 9th Congressional race. Before the arranged event, Wiedersham had summoned Trout to his hotel suite, paid for compliments of the American taxpayer. The Leader wore a Jack Victor original suit with a power tie by some wop whose name Trout couldn’t recall; he still looked as though he had slept in it.

  “We’re getting into the race late because it took more persuasion than we expected to get that idiot Spencer to drop out and let you have the candidacy,” Wiedersham said. “Your Republican opponent will campaign hard up until a week before the election, at which time he will retire for personal reasons.”

  Trout went deer-in-the-headlights as he recalled the New Orleans oil spill judge who “overdosed” and the fatal car crash after the New Hampshire nullification proclamation.

  “Don’t look so slammed,” Wiedersham said with a bark of laughter. “Spencer accepted a position on the President’s economic recovery team. We’re going to campaign hard, like it really makes a difference on the outcome. It’ll all be over in a few months. We will be in charge.”

  Trout was going to be rich and powerful.

  “There is one little matter, however, that we need to discuss,” Wiedersham added.

  Uh oh!

  “President Clinton’s staff called it the ‘bimbo eruption.’ We’re vulnerable because Zenergy and the Rightwing talk gurus are just waiting for a slip.”

  Trout’s face reddened. Wiedersham must have known about Judy all along. Did he also know that she was Ron Sparks’ cousin?

  “Dennis, you can fuck who you want and God knows I would if I had to be married to my sister. But do it discreetly. I don’t want to wake up some morning and see a John Edwards bastard child or a Bill Clinton blue dress on Zenergy. That little trailer trash whore is
the only thing that can do you in.”

  Trout’s temper flared in Judy’s defense, but he reined it in immediately, relieved that neither his brother-in-law nor George Zuniga’s “John” had apparently made the connection between Judy and her Oklahoma cousin in the cemetery. Perhaps they considered her too simple to have her properly investigated.

  Besides, he had to remember what was at stake. Congressman Trout—and the several million dollars he stood to garner from Petrobras investment dividends through his brother-in-law and Zuniga.

  Trout wondered if he had packed his Maalox.

  “Marilyn will campaign with you part of the time,” Wiedersham continued. “The Homers respond to all that happy family stuff.”

  Sure enough, Marilyn had shown up in time for the press conference/town hall meeting. She flew in early and took a limo to the courthouse to be present at the photo op. It took place in a reserve conference room. Select local and national media had been invited, along with about fifty “ordinary” citizens chosen by the Chicago Democratic Party. Chicago’s mayor and the Illinois governor were present, flashing their predatory political smiles and looking superior because of the insider knowledge they possessed that could deliver for the proper candidate. Trout recognized a sacrilegious thought for what it was, but he couldn’t help it: Why do the worst people rise to the top, based on promises that normal people would never make?

  Trout wondered if getting into this campaign made him a “worst” person.

  Marilyn pasted herself to Trout’s side at the filing conference, with her arm hooked through her husband’s, wearing a phony adoring smile whenever she looked at him. The only thing missing in the warm little political scene was Reggie the pink poodle taking a leak on Trout’s leg.

  “Dennis Trout is a thinking man’s candidate,” was how Wiedersham introduced him. “I expect him to do well among voters with IQs in triple digits.”

  Trout rose to polite applause. Someone, he didn’t know who, had prepared a speech for him. It sounded stilted and ideological, the same old populist bombast, but Trout bravely waded into it.

  “A strong and durable economy requires some countries not to have the advantage,” he recited. “I think that we all have the same interests and that in the U.S. we can compete with anybody as long as we have an even playing field.”

  To Trout’s ears, it sounded like recycled Anastos campaign rhetoric. Which it probably was.

  “I think, ultimately, the rate of growth of material consumption is going to have to come down and there’s going to be a degree of wealth redistribution in terms of energy and natural resources in order to leave room for people who are poor to become more prosperous...”

  A redneck wearing a baseball cap stood up during the short question and answer session that followed. Trout failed to see the sandbag coming.

  “What makes politicians in Washington think they can fix anything in light of failures like Medicare and Social Security?” the Homer asked.

  “With qualified people in power,” Trout responded off the cuff, “the Federal Government can ‘fix’ most anything in this country.”

  The redneck wasn’t through.

  “What is an economic stimulus payment?” he asked.

  Trout started to get uncomfortable. “It is money that the Federal Government will send to taxpayers to help stimulate the economy.”

  Trout overheard Wiedersham’s angry hiss as he leaned over to Chicago’s corpulent mayor. “How did that asshole get in here?”

  The burly redneck refused to sit down and hush. “Where does government get the money?” he demanded.

  “From taxpayers.” Uh oh. Trout felt suddenly boxed in.

  “So government is giving me back my own money?”

  Trout’s eyes desperately searched the room for an out. “Next question?” he pleaded.

  “You, sir,” accused the redneck, “and people like you are destroying the nation.”

  “Well, I’m sure glad you’re here to save it,” Trout snapped.

  The guy was too stupid to know what was best for him.

  It took two cups of Starbucks coffee for Trout himself to swallow all the crap he was dishing out.

  President Pitches Cheap Credit

  (Washington)—With mid-term elections approaching, President Anastos broadened the appeal of his administration by promising to help Americans suffering from inflation caused by international capitalism. His new program will provide disadvantaged Americans and immigrants with a special, no-interest government credit card that can be used to shop at state-run stores opening in major cities nationwide. It is known as the “Good Life Card.”

  He called it evidence that he is committed to making the good life in the United States accessible and affordable for all, not just the rich.

  “I’m going to sell you some tremendous refrigerators—very cheap. Among the best in the world,” he touted during a televised event. “Gas stoves at half price, water heaters, washers, television sets, air conditioners—on your Good Life Card with no down payment...”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Keystone Lake, Oklahoma

  The mainstream media went ape the morning after The Jerry Baer Show w/Sharon Lowenthal aired. Pundits from government-supported news outlets called Sharon a liar who consorted with killers and terrorists of the tinfoil hat variety, a “seriously disturbed Jewish woman...divisive...misinformed...” Modern People implied a sex scandal involving Baer and her, which may have led to his murder. American Post called for increased government intervention to control “hate media.” Cable TV talk shows were all over her...

  James Nail finally had enough of it. He got up from the sofa in front of the TV and walked out the back door without a word. He stood on the banks of Cottonwood Creek looking down the brown stream where it twisted through sycamores and cottonwoods toward Keystone Lake. He had become even more distant after Sharon announced she would be returning to New York to video her next show. It was only a matter of a few days at most before Nail and Big C would have to likewise abandon the Safe House.

  Big C sipped ice tea while looking out the kitchen window at Nail by the creek. Nothing like a frosty glass of it on a Saturday afternoon after mowing the grass. No use leaving the place all grown up in weeds when everyone left.

  “The man got it bad for you, sis,” he said.

  Sharon’s eyes hadn’t left the back door through which Nail had disappeared. Big C smiled. “Girl, I know James for over twenty years. Connie the love of the poor sucker’s life. After she kick him out, there been no other female in his sorry life ’cept for Jamie.”

  “What about you, Corey? Are there any females in your life?”

  “I what you might call a serial monogamist.”

  She changed the subject. “So what are James and you going to do? You can’t go back to the police department.”

  Big C thought about it before answering.

  “This thing done stuck in James’ craw,” he said. “He never going to rest until he get it out.”

  “I’m afraid for him,” Sharon said.

  “He afraid for you too, sis.”

  She rose from the sofa and put on another ball cap Nail found for her in the closet after she lost the first one during the raid at the schoolhouse.

  “You’ll look out for him, Corey?”

  “Sis, we been watching over each other long time.”

  She went out the back door, closing it behind her. Big C continued looking out the window. Nail still stood solitary in the summer sunshine by the big fishing log. Sharon walked up behind him. She stopped with her shoulder touching his arm. Neither spoke. Both looked down the creek. Their hands sought out each other’s and they stood silently holding hands.

  Big C turned away. Previously, Nail and he had had a real purpose in life: To Serve and Defend. Now, they were fugitives on the other side of the law. Big C didn’t like the feeling. As an active militia member, however, he must have known this day would come.

  He sank onto
the sofa and flipped the cable back to Zenergy. It blurred in front of his eyes. He couldn’t get the Lady Clairol blonde from the cemetery out of his mind. Something about Judy Sparks-Taylor’s innocence, her vulnerability, triggered something in his protective nature. She might not be bright and worldly by Washington standards, but she was real. A country girl was as out of place among the politicians in D.C. as a chick hatched by a mama duck and asked to learn how to swim. What happened to her if they discovered she had been Ron Sparks’ source of information?

  Restless, Big C got up and returned to the kitchen window with his tea. He still sweated, so he stripped off his T-shirt. Nail and Sharon remained standing on the creek bank. Standing there like that for their last little time together. That was the saddest thing he had ever seen, sadder than a pair of ex-cops who didn’t know where the hell they were going or what they were going to do.

  After a minute or so, he made up his mind. He punched Judy’s cell number into one of the Wal-Mart throwaway phones. She answered on the first ring, like she was waiting for a call.

  “Corey? I thought you was Dennis. I’m still glad to hear from you. This ol’ girl has been feeling powerful neglected.”

  “You all right?”

  “You got no idea what politics is like. Dennis left to go campaigning in Illinois. He promised me all those things he and me is going to do when he’s rich and gets rid of his wife—then he goes and takes Marilyn with him and tells me I got to keep quiet and hide under the bed until he’s ready for me. Him and Marilyn is on all the news, all lovey-dovey and acting the perfect little family, right down to their pink poodle.”

  “Sound like he going to the dogs, poodle-wise,” Big C commiserated, trying to make a joke to lift her spirits.