“Buses come almost every night,” he said, looking back at Ross. “They unload and go back the next morning for another load. People who come in here never go out again.”
He walked back to his cot and sat down. “I’m Michael Smith. You can call me Smitty. What did you do?”
Ross looked around. Two cots, sink in one corner, toilet stool in the other. A framed slogan on the wall: Social Justice Through Social Awareness. What the hell was this—1984?
What had he done?
“What is this place?”
“They call it a mental health facility.” Smitty swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “It’s an extermination camp.”
Ross looked up sharply. Smitty continued in a hollow voice, “People are being murdered for organ transplants.”
Ross struggled to his feet. “That can’t be right, Smitty.”
“I been here two weeks and you’re my third roommate. Patients come in, none of them ever leave, but the hospital never gets full.”
A quote from one of Sharon Lowenthal’s programs flashed through Ross’s mind. From Stalin: “We will mercilessly destroy anyone who, by his deeds and his thoughts—yes, his thoughts!—threatens the unity of the socialist state.”
Ross recalled the Department of Homeland Security Terrorist Watch List circulated to all police departments. It contained the names of over two million Americans considered “unreliable” or who posed a “threat” to the U.S. Government—a list that was growing by twenty thousand a month. Your name got on it if you had purchased and registered a firearm, spoke out against government policy, belonged to a Tea Party, became an Oath Keeper...
“Your name came up in the James Nail case,” the new piece-of-shit TPD Police Chief, Bruton the Crouton, had warned Ross a few days before assigning him to in-service training in Wichita. “That’s dangerous. A word to the wise. You’re on The List.”
* * *
Neither Ross nor Smitty was allowed to leave the cell, not even for exercise or a shower. They watched time pass and the buses arrive from through their one tiny window. One day, three stout “nurses” came in and strait-jacketed Ross, placed him on a gurney, and delivered him to an examination room for a thorough physical checkup that centered on his heart and eyes. On the way, he was pushed through halls lined with locked cells which he assumed to be filled with unfortunates like himself who had angered the government in ways they may not even have been aware of. Medical personnel dressed like normal doctors and nurses looked the other way as he was trunneled through. As though he didn’t exist. Or that he was less than human. Or already dead.
“That’s what they do,” Smitty commented when Ross was returned to their cell. “You get one more exam before it’s your turn and I get a new roommate.”
Through the window, Ross could see a high barbed-and-electrified fence and a gate through which roving Humvees were constantly coming and going. Armed AmeriCorps Green Shirts ranged the compound. Occasional Apache helicopters thumped overhead. Almost every evening he saw covered gurneys being pushed toward the menacing concrete building to which a squat smokestack was attached. Smoke emitted from it almost every night, all night.
At least these people were practical. They harvested useful organs first.
Ross discovered that he and Smitty had common acquaintances—James Nail and Sharon Lowenthal. Smitty told him about his role in Nail’s and Sharon’s escape from the AmeriCorps camp in the Ozarks.
“They were going to shoot her in the head! I couldn’t be a part of all that anymore. Detective Nail told me to go home to Chickasha and not say nothing to nobody. But they said I was seditious and came anyhow. They took my fiancée too. I don’t know what’s happened to her.”
Ross wondered about his own wife.
Guards and nurses came for Smitty one afternoon. “It’s my second exam!” he wailed. He had to be sedated and Ross had to be restrained in order for the aides to trundle the kid out of the cell. When they returned him an hour later, he was too frightened to stand. He lay on his cot, weeping.
“They want my eyes,” he speculated. “That’s what they were looking at. It’s my turn. This is the way it happens. They’ll take me tomorrow.”
Smitty remained inconsolable and unable to sleep. Ross pounded on the steel door with his fists—but no one responded. As dawn approached, Smitty said, “Doctor Moulton works here. He’s not like the others, but he’s afraid. I asked him to call Miss Lowenthal or Detective Nail and tell them what’s happened. People need to know.”
They came for Smitty and took him away. It did no good to resist; the two prisoners were quickly overpowered. Ross’s new roommate was an elderly former state representative from Arizona, whose offense, apparently, was his support of an Arizona anti-illegal immigration bill—a racist hate crime. He lay on his cot staring at the ceiling.
“This can’t be,” he anguished. “This simply cannot be happening. Not in America.”
Anastos Calls for “True Revolutionaries”
(Washington)—As he leaves for secret high-level economic meetings Monday with other world leaders, President Patrick Wayne Anastos vows to accelerate his drive to bring “hope and change” to the United States. He urged supporters to become “true revolutionaries” as they prepare for crucial political battles ahead.
“Radicalize the revolution,” he exhorted, calling on allies to “create truly revolutionary groups, the vanguard of the people...”
Chapter Eighty
Washington, D.C.
Neither Nail nor Judy slept well, she in the bed, he on the lumpy sofa in a cheap roach motel they rented under assumed names out on Route 29. Judy kept trying to call Big C’s cell, but there was no answer, which further distressed her. Nail’s concern for Sharon increased his own anxiety. Desperation seemed to contaminate the air they breathed.
“We’re a doozy pair of vampire hunters,” Judy commented dourly.
Morning arrived at long last with increased cloud cover that promised to produce more rain. They left the motel and breakfasted in the Toyota on coffee in paper cups and packaged donuts while they waited on the street down from the Congressional Limousine Service, the chauffeuring firm that provided service for Wiedersham and other important politicians.
At 6:00 a.m., Nail called the limo service on Judy’s cell. While he waited for an answer, he looked out the Toyota’s window to where the Washington Monument speared the low, dark clouds. More clouds obscured the dome of the Capitol Building at the other end of The Mall. The scene no longer inspired Nail; he had learned too much about the ruling classes in recent weeks.
“Congressional Limousine,” a professional voice announced.
“This is Justin Cobb, Majority Leader Wiedersham’s Chief of Staff,” Nail said with feigned annoyance. “I’m calling to confirm that you have Senator Wiedersham down for the day and overnight.”
“Just a moment, please, sir.”
Nail heard papers rustling.
“Sir, we have you listed as point of contact.”
“I am just reconfirming. Overnight to New York, correct?”
“Watertown, sir?”
“Good man. Second point. You’re already late. You didn’t remember that he needed it an hour earlier this morning?”
“It says the usual time here.”
“An hour earlier,” Nail snapped. “Good thing I did call to reconfirm.”
“Yes, sir. Bill will leave right away to pick you up first as usual, Mr. Cobb.”
“Is Bill our regular?”
It was doubtful whether either Cobb or Wiedersham bothered to learn the names of their chauffeurs.
“Sometimes we have to switch out drivers to cover sick days and the like,” the dispatcher said. “Robert is your regular.”
“I’ll be waiting.” Nail hung up, satisfied that their targets wouldn’t smell a rat when a “substitute” driver showed up. Especially if the driver was female.
True to the dispatcher’s promise, “Bill” pulled out of the
parking garage minutes later in a black limo, tinted windows and all. Judy, now at the wheel of the Toyota, followed it for a couple of blocks before a red light caught it. She pulled abreast of it in the inside lane. Traffic was light this early in the morning near the university. The limo driver was not as wary as he might have been in a more dangerous part of the city where pizza delivery guys hesitated to go after dark. Bill therefore immediately powered down his window when Nail flashed his Tulsa detective’s badge out the Toyota’s window and pointed at the limo’s rear tire, as though to indicate a problem with it.
Bill was an older guy, about fifty, wearing a black chauffeur’s jacket and a military-type bill cap with the company’s emblem on the peak. Smiling, Nail stepped out of the Toyota, stuck a pistol through the open window and pressed its muzzle against Bill’s temple. Toys ’R Us marketed surprisingly realistic-looking toy guns.
“Dude, I don’t carry no cash,” the driver blurted out immediately.
Nail reached in and snatched the keys. “Move over.”
Cold blue eyes, swarthy skin and the determined set of the jaw convinced Bill. Trembling, he scrambled across the seat to the passenger’s side. Nail shot a quick look around to make sure there were no witnesses before he slipped under the wheel, restarted the engine and turned at the next red light. Judy followed in the Toyota until Nail parked and left the limo on a side street while they transferred Bill to the Toyota for transport to the roach motel. A few minutes later, they had him bound, gagged and relieved of his uniform on the floor of the cheap room, for which Nail had paid three days in advance. Judy donned Bill’s coat and hat.
“I’ll bring you more company,” Nail promised Bill before they left him. “You’ll be safe here. I’ll call up in a day or so and have the police rescue you.”
The guy’s eyes walled about like balls on a pool table. Nail patted him reassuringly on the shoulder, locked the door and placed a Do Not Disturb on the knob. They returned to the parked limo on the side street and left the Toyota parked in its place after Nail retrieved the 30.06 Winchester from its trunk.
“You’re not bleeding again?” Judy asked him when they were on the road again.
“I’m fine.”
All the activity had reopened his wounds. The bandages felt wet against his ribs. He checked to make sure he wasn’t leaking through his shirt.
Wearing Bill’s uniform, Judy drove up to the door of Cobb’s apartment on 16th. Nail lay concealed on the wide back floorboard behind the passenger’s seat. The tinted windows prevented Cobb from seeing him until it was too late.
Cobb rushed out wearing his trench coat, gangster hat and a scowl. Judy jumped out to open the front passenger’s door for him. Cobb stopped in surprise. She kept Bill’s cap pulled low over her eyes and tilted her head low just in case Cobb had seen a photo of her somewhere. The only thing he seemed to notice was how well she filled out her jeans.
“You’re early,” he protested mildly.
“The Majority Leader called for an earlier pickup,” Judy said with her most dazzling smile. She was playing her part to the hilt.
Cobb’s frown vanished. He didn’t bother asking why Wiedersham bothered making his own phone call. He was too busy hitting on Judy.
“Where have they kept you hid?” he asked with a wink.
“The limo service figures you ol’ boys need the best,” Judy bubbled. She stuck out her chest so the jacket parted to display cleavage. She bent over to offer more distraction while she helped him take his seat and buckle in.
“I’ve seen you somewhere before,” Cobb said.
“I bet you say that to all the blondes.”
Cobb hesitated for a moment to study her. He shook his head. Couldn’t be. His eyes were still on the scenery down Judy’s blouse when a pistol muzzle pressed against the back of his head. An edged voice warned, “I’d just as soon waste you as not.”
Like most bullies, Cobb was a coward at heart when the chips were down. Nail reached across and relieved him of the 9mm Beretta he carried in a shoulder holster. Now he had a real gun.
In short order, Wiedersham’s chief of staff found himself gagged and trussed head and foot in the motel room with the limo’s chauffeur. Nail glanced at his watch. They would have to push it to arrive at Wiedersham’s house before he started trying to call Cobb to complain of tardiness.
“Mustn’t keep the Majority Leader of the Senate waiting,” Nail said.
22nd Amendment May Be Repealed
(Washington)—The U.S. Congress has voted to begin proceedings to repeal the 22nd Amendment to the Constitution. The 22nd Amendment limits a president from serving more than two terms in office. President Anastos said additional terms will give him time to initiate reforms toward keeping his promises to ensure human happiness and well-being for everyone, rich or poor...
Chapter Eight-One
Washington, D.C.
Two years ago, Zenergy executive producer Carl Patton had been leery about unleashing Jerry Baer into what some colleagues feared would become a new chapter of McCarthyism. Commies underneath every bed and all that. Except for Baer’s assassination and now Sharon’s disappearance, however, he regretted not one minute of Zenergy’s campaign against tyranny.
There were commies underneath every bed, including the bed at the White House and others slept in by politicians like that evil son of a bitch Wiedersham. So many of them in D.C. all whispering “social justice” into the President’s ear—Barbara Teague, Ira Romera, Duane Smith, George Zuniga, Bill and Bernadine Ackart....Working to foment unrest in the streets at the bottom while waiting like predators at the top to pounce on the right crisis to impose order to what they themselves were sponsoring. Jerry Baer and then Sharon after him referred to the approach as the “downside up, upside down” theory, with the American people caught in the middle of the trap like mice.
Little by little over the decades, Americans had compromised away their God-given liberties in the name of what they perceived to be security. Vote for me and I’ll give you—everything! A government with the power to take from some to give to others had the power to take everything from everyone. It was now takeaway time.
Most of the media had already succumbed to government pressure to conform. Like court eunuchs in the Ottoman Empire. Only Zenergy News Cable and a small segment of talk radio and the internet survived to spread the truth. Their days were numbered. Passage of the FAD bill would see to that.
“While we can’t say what Sharon Lowenthal or Rush Limbaugh can or cannot say,” Speaker Barbara Teague declared ingeniously after the final vote on FAD, “I feel the FCC does have the right to regulate and say the public has the right not to be offended.”
“Access to the internet and the airways,” added Senate Majority Leader Wiedersham at the same news conference, “is a civil rights issue. Each radio and TV station and each internet site will be required to pass a Public Values’ Test. If they don’t pass it, their license will be stripped from them and assigned to someone who will use it appropriately in the public interest. Parasites like Lowenthal, Limbaugh, Hannity and the Zenergy fat cats should be called out for what they really are. They’re useless eaters, they’re nasty, they’re evil, they’re liars, thieves and cheaters against the American people.”
Gone were the days when the media were watchdogs against political corruption and misdeeds. Patton guessed that by the end of next week the government would have closed the doors to Zenergy and any other outlet it considered hostile. Independent news and commentary were becoming relics of past liberties.
Until that happened, Patton intended to keep the pressure on that bunch of Marxist coyotes in Washington. He consulted his watch. Ten until seven a.m. He didn’t think the limo would be late. The driver wouldn’t dare. He leaned forward over his steering wheel and peered at Majority Leader Wiedersham’s Georgetown mansion down the street, staking out the place. He and Alfred his cameraman prepared to play ambush journalism as soon as Wiedersham came out to get in the limo.
Alfred was a middle-aged man with an old-fashioned crew cut. Normally as cool and implacable as Alfred the Butler in Batman, today he was scared and tinkered with the video feed on his camera in order to keep his hands and mind busy. Patton was sweating too. He was none too confident that his surprise ambush would elicit much of value from the politician, but he had to try for Sharon’s sake.
It was general knowledge in upper circles of power that the President, along with most of the White House czars and the Congressional leadership, would not be available for the next several days; they would be attending an “economic summit,” according to White House spokesman Dewey Gubbins. It was Patton’s goal to goad Wiedersham into providing some clue as to where the top secret Summit was being held.
“If we can get an admission on camera that the summit is being held,” Patton fretted, his thin face hollow in the cheeks, “they won’t dare do anything to Sharon for fear the public will know.”
“I don’t think they give a rat’s ass anymore what the public thinks,” Alfred said.
The two newsmen initially discussed and then discarded the idea of attempting to tail the limo to its destination. They weren’t professional gumshoes. What they needed was the Okie cop. The poor bastard was in love with Sharon. But Patton had no idea how to contact him, hadn’t heard from him since he took off from Central Park like a scalded ape.
Patton nudged Alfred when a black limousine turned onto the street from the other end of the block. Alfred snapped the covers shut on his camera. They had to be ready to get in, slam their questions at Wiedersham, then get out again quickly enough to avoid security and the cops. Today’s little ploy was enough to draw both of them some “reeducation” time at “facilities” the government was supposedly constructing in the West.
The limo eased down the tree-lined street. Although the side windows were tinted, the angle of approach allowed Patton a view through the clear windshield. He recognized the gangster hat worn by the front seat passenger—that obsequious, ass-kissing little weasel, Justin Cobb.
A Thousand Years of Darkness: a Thriller Page 34