Bunker gave Megan to him, letting her slide gingerly from his grasp. “Careful with her knee. I’d suggest keeping it supported and not moving it around too much. It’s pretty swollen.”
“I see that,” the father said before kissing his daughter softly on the cheek. “Megan, sweetheart. Wake up. It’s Daddy. I’m here now, darling. Everything is going to be okay.”
Megan’s eyes remained closed and there was no reaction to his gentle words.
Franklin shot a look of confusion at Bunker, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. His eyes said it all.
Bunker could see his pain. “She’s been in and out since the crash. We think she might’ve hit her head, too. But since there’s no apparent bruising or blood, we really don’t know much for sure. You need to get her medical attention right away.”
When Franklin’s face turned from confusion to concern, Bunker continued, hoping to alleviate some of the man’s dread. “When she’s awake, she seems coherent and in reasonably good spirits. So hopefully it’s nothing serious. It could just be exhaustion. After all, your daughter’s been through a lot today. But a doctor really needs to examine her, just to be sure.”
“I’ll make sure she gets everything she needs. I can’t thank you enough. All of you, for bringing my little girl home to me.”
“It’s our pleasure, Franklin,” Stephanie said, putting a hand on Bunker’s shoulder.
Franklin turned and headed east, across the square.
Bunker waited until Stephanie looked at him, letting his courage rise before he had to speak again. “Hey, it’s about that time.”
“Please don’t go,” she said, pleading with watery eyes.
“I don’t have a choice. It’s been great getting to know you and your son. He’s a good boy, and you should be proud of him.”
Jeffrey wrapped his arms around Bunker’s bare legs and squeezed them tight.
Before Bunker could pry the kid loose, a swarm of children from the bus and their parents surrounded him, led by the Sheriff and Daisy. The Mayor remained behind, chatting with some of the other parents and kids.
The lawman came forward and put out his hand. “I’m Sheriff Gus Apollo.”
Bunker gripped it with force and shook it twice, looking the man in the eye. “Jack Bunker.” He needed to size up the new acquaintance and see if he could detect the sheriff’s intentions.
“My deputy tells me all these kids are safe because of you,” Apollo said. He turned his gaze at Stephanie and then Jeffrey. “And you two, as well.”
“We were just doing what anyone else would do, Sheriff,” Bunker answered, as Jeffrey let go of his legs and stood by his mother.
“Well, I’m not so sure about that. Risking your life for total strangers is not something you see every day. Not in today’s world of never getting involved.”
Apollo turned sideways and held out an open hand. “These parents have something they’d like to say to you. Both of you.”
A second later, a dozen hands came at Bunker and Stephanie, along with a barrage of appreciative phrases, including “God bless you,” “We owe you,” and of course, “Thank you.”
Bunker gripped each of their palms and gave them a quick shake. Some of the moms exchanged their handshakes for a firm hug, wrapping their trembling arms around Jack’s neck, then Stephanie’s.
Just when Bunker thought it was almost over, some of the little ones they’d saved decided to tackle Bunker’s legs with a group hug.
He wasn’t sure what to do with everyone watching, so he just stood there in the limelight, offering up a forced grin as he waited for the hug-fest to end.
Stephanie bent down and greeted the children who came her way with an emotional hug for each.
Bunker watched her with the little ones and wished he was as comfortable around emotional kids. Her motherly instinct was impressive and genuine.
When it was over and the children returned to their parents, he announced to everyone, “Thank you, folks. But I really need to be going.”
“Oh no, you’re not,” Deputy Daisy said, latching onto his arm. “We’ve got some celebrating to do.”
“That’s right,” one of the male parents said. “There needs to be a hero’s party.”
“No, that’s really not necessary,” Bunker said.
“Yes. Yes, it is. It’s the least we can do,” one of the soccer moms said, grabbing his left hand and leading him forward. “Do you have a place to stay, Mr. Bunker? We have plenty of room in our house.”
The twin girls Daisy had been walking with grabbed his other hand, pulling his arm free from Daisy’s grip. “Please, Mr. Bunker. Stay at our house. Please.”
Bunker looked at Stephanie, who was grinning from ear to ear. It was clear she was getting a kick out of all the attention he was getting.
“Welcome to my hometown,” Stephanie quipped. “Where no one ever leaves. Including me, apparently.”
He sighed, knowing it was going to be impossible to say no. He felt like a carnival freak who’d been imprisoned behind viewing glass with everyone huddling around and staring at him. The word uncomfortable didn’t begin to cover it.
“Just roll with it,” Stephanie said, winking. “You really don’t have a choice.”
He nodded. She was right. He didn’t have a choice. Not without raising suspicions. But it wasn’t all bad. Even though he’d never admit it, it felt amazing being appreciated by a bunch of strangers for once, instead of being feared when he rolled into a new town.
A genuine grin grew on his lips.
Maybe, just maybe, the new life he’d been looking for had just found him.
TO BE CONTINUED IN BOOK 2
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REDFALL
Fight for Survival
Book 1
Written By Jay J. Falconer
www.JayFalconer.com
Published by BookBreeze.com LLC
Publication Date: January 16, 2016
ASIN: B01A951JCI
ISBN-13: 978-1523440269
Simon Redfall kept his head down and eyes low as he took a seat in the general admission section of the sold-out National Execution Center in Washington, DC. If it weren’t for his long hair and unruly beard, certainly one of the twenty-thousand blood-starved fans would have recognized him before the start of the most eagerly anticipated event in pay-per-view history.
A sprawling stage with a lavish red curtain was the focal point of the venue and built specifically for the government’s new Execution Channel, dubbed EC1. The arena featured sweeping sight lines to give those in attendance a perfect view of the dying criminal who would soon be unveiled for the world to see. Every detail of the inaugural event had been planned and refined to ensure wide, cross-section appeal and massively high broadcast ratings. Nothing was left to chance, not when the most hated mass murderer in modern history was about to draw her last breath with all of humanity watching and cheering.
The US government had partnered with StarBright Networks to squeeze every last dollar from what was sure to be a media feeding frenzy. The government's take of the revenue split was reported to be somewhere north of four billi
on dollars, and that didn’t include the bonus profits from the new global wagering tax being levied by the world’s governments on thousands of betting houses across the planet.
The over-under line on the official execution time was initially set at three minutes, eight point two seconds by the wizards in Las Vegas. However, Simon hadn’t been following the betting line since it was first published, so he didn’t know the current odds of this inaugural event.
The National Execution Center, or NEC as it was called on the street, was designed like an upscale Broadway theater, but on an enormous scale. Simon counted at least thirty-two ultra-high resolution TV cameras and several dozen members of law enforcement, meaning he’d better keep a low profile if he had any hope of remaining anonymous and making it out of the auditorium alive.
General admission seating was located in the balconies and divided into three progressively wider sections, each with a clear view of the ultra-high resolution jumbo screen mounted above the stage.
Below him were two VIP sections of different sizes. The larger, unprotected area on the left was reserved for friends and family of the innocent victims, while the smaller, bullet-proof glass cubicle on the right was for the expected handful of supporters of the condemned, in this case, a middle-aged business woman. Not your typical mass murderer, but one nonetheless.
The lights in the theater began to dim as theatrical, heart-pounding music rose up through the impressive surround-sound system, sending those in attendance into a chanting frenzy. A plush, red curtain opened from the middle, then a single spotlight found the Master of Ceremonies walking to the front of the stage with a wireless microphone in his hand.
The jumbo video screen above the platform flashed his name in eye-catching white letters: Clarence Williams, III.
Red, white and blue lights flashed in a rotating spiral around the stage, sending a chill of unwanted patriotism into Simon’s spine.
Mr. Williams waved to the crowd as he walked to the center of the stadium’s platform and stood in front of the execution chamber—a twenty-foot square metal box built with a single, one-way viewing window along the front.
“Citizens of the world,” Williams said, his voice booming through the PA system, “the NEC and the G20 countries of the world welcome you to the greatest show on Earth!”
The crowd cheered in response, with raised fists pumping in the air.
“Let’s get started,” he said in an emphatic voice, raising his hand and pointing an index finger up to the video screen. “We all know why we’re here today, but I’d like everyone to take a moment to pay their respects to the victims of this most heinous crime. Please direct your attention to the StarBright screen above me and offer a silent prayer for each of those who’ve been lost.”
The music waned and the crowd fell silent in an emotional hush when a video began to play on the jumbo screen. A panoramic sweep of the camera showed dozens of bodies, each lying motionless on the street in pools of their own blood. Men, women, and children—all dead—an entire busload of visiting scientists and their families gunned down without mercy.
The video stopped twenty seconds later, focusing on a single face—a tiny brunette girl the world had come to know as Deena Davis, a beautiful six-year-old who was gunned down while clutching her pink teddy bear. The corpse next to her was that of her pregnant mother who’d been ripped in half by the perpetrator’s AK-47, exposing more of her belly than should have been allowed for public viewing.
Simon looked away, unable to keep his eyes on the infamous footage, feeling a gut-wrenching pain that had become a near-constant companion for the past two years. He’d seen it countless times, as had most everyone in attendance, he figured. It had been the lead story on nearly every newsfeed he’d watched since the mass shooting happened. There was probably only a handful of people across the entire planet who hadn’t memorized every detail of the carnage, all of it captured live by the swarm of news crews on scene that warm summer day in Washington, DC.
The music started again, and so did the crowd, pushing through the emotional fog suffocating the auditorium.
MC Williams swung an arm up, bringing the house lights up along with it.
“StarBright Networks is proud to present to you, live, this afternoon, the execution of a vile, despicable criminal. Right here, in the execution chamber behind me, is the woman who slaughtered sixty-four innocent men, women, and children, and did so in cold blood.”
The crowd roared, chanting for action. “Die! Bitch! Die!”
Williams continued, raising his voice. “Those of you in preferred seating, please bring your attention to the viewing window behind me. Citizens in the balconies, please keep your eyes locked on the StarBright display above. And to our billions of viewers watching from around the world, don’t move from your television! This is the moment you’ve all been waiting for! . . . Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you Public Enemy Number One, the most hated terrorist in modern history!”
Then the MC said the name of the criminal: “Tessa Jane Redfall!”
The knot in Simon’s stomach doubled in size when he heard his wife’s name being broadcast to billions of live viewers, bringing home the grotesque reality of the moment.
The lights inside the chamber beamed on, showing the weary face of a slender blond woman strapped to a vertical stainless steel table.
The crowd cheered and stomped their feet in unison, keeping with the beat of the theatrical music, while the video feed zoomed in on her tearful eyes. Each time the stadium shook with foot-pounding thunder, it felt like a nail being driven farther and farther into Simon’s heart, condemning him to wander the halls of anguish alone.
Until now, everything Simon had been through since the killings happened felt like a waking dream—a horrific quagmire from which there was no escape. He’d been forced to watch his life unravel one thread at a time, feeling as though he was watching a sick, demented play through someone else’s eyes. Someone who was never married to the love of his life—a suburban, well-educated wife who went off the rails and killed a busload of dignitaries and their families.
He hadn’t planned to be here today to witness Tessa’s execution. In fact, only four days prior, he was traveling on foot, making his way to the next town in Oregon, where he’d find yet another vacant cardboard box in an alley to sleep in before continuing his volunteer work at the nearest shelter. But out of nowhere, an unseen force rose up and stopped his wandering quest of penitence, turning him around and bringing him here to Washington. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was something powerful inside that he couldn’t control.
At first he thought this unexpected voyage to DC was brought on by mounting remorse for what his wife had done. However, after careful reflection during the long bus ride to the East Coast, he decided it had to be more. He’d certainly accumulated his share of regret over the years and knew how to handle guilt, especially back when his days were consumed with running his former security conglomerate, Ghost Works, LLC.
The NEC’s music continued, picking up its beat. So did the crowd, working themselves into an even bigger fury as the MC pranced around, leading the bloodthirsty mob like an angry cheerleader.
Simon wasn’t sure how he’d feel after his wife of two decades was brutally killed on stage, but he felt compelled to be here. His own personal nightmare was about to end after a grueling twenty-four months in the making. All the while, his insides had been locked in a permanent struggle between love and hate—tearing him apart in the process. His love affair with Tessa began blissfully in high school and hadn’t taken a single moment off in the years that followed. But that all changed in a heartbeat one bloody afternoon in the nation’s capital.
Simon swung his eyes to the attendees below him in the two reserved VIP sections. But his attention wasn’t on his wife’s side of the family. It was on the families of the victims. His wife was guilty. He knew it and the world knew it. There was no denying what happened and who was responsible. Her monstro
us crime had been caught live and from multiple angles by the cameras covering the scientific conference and its arriving VIPs.
The same set of videos had also gone viral across the Internet, which was now privately owned and operated by StarBright Networks, a wholly owned subsidiary of Indigo Technologies. The spread of her disgrace had unified the entire planet, giving the opportunistic media plenty of ammunition to crucify his wife—and him right along with her.
The pressure across Simon’s chest tightened even more as the lights in the execution chamber began to flicker, grabbing everyone’s attention like last call at a neighborhood bar.
The image on the video screen changed to show a wide-angle shot of the condemned—his wife, the slayer of women and children.
Simon couldn’t tear his eyes away.
Tessa was crying hysterically, knowing a painful ending was near. Her arms, legs, and torso were pinned the table but her head was not, and Simon knew why.
The USA Today newspaper had run an extensive series of articles quoting various StarBright ratings analysts and technicians, who outlined the scientific process behind the new execution system. The network had found through the testing of various focus groups that pay-per-view sales and the betting pools would be exponentially higher if the inmate could move her head and make eye contact with the cameras situated around the chamber. And they’d be even larger if the audience could hear the criminal beg, plead and scream for mercy.
As a result, StarBright’s motivated construction crews had spent the past few weeks installing far more cameras and microphones than originally planned, hoping to reap the windfall as ratings skyrocketed and wagers mounted.
Congress and the White House had sanctioned this new revenue stream, hoping that public executions would become the new national pastime and generate the pile of money needed to keep the country’s multi-trillion dollar budget shortfall in check.
Simon knew a desperate US government would resort to almost anything to keep the doors open, but what surprised him was how quickly the rest of the world jumped on board. The approval of live PPV executions raced through the various governing bodies across the planet without a hint of opposition.
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