Alternative Truths

by Bob Brown

  Jane’s blood slowed to a creep through her veins. Everything tightened. She had to get away from Calvin. He wasn’t just out to destroy her book. She didn’t know if he was a danger to her or not, but she knew damn well she didn’t want to find out the hard way.

  “Please.” She rose from the seat slowly, backed up as she spoke. “What do I have to do to just . . . just go?”

  “If you go, I have no guarantee that you’ll be safe. Like I said, they probably won’t come kill you. Not just for this.” He shook his head and looked down at the floor. “I’m to blame. Me and everyone else left who knows. When they put the bans in place, we should have ignored them. But it was . . . people were dying if they talked about any of it. It was a complete shutdown on anything they didn’t want us discussing.” He stood, reached out, and clasped Jane’s hands.

  She fought the urge to yank back. She couldn’t break out of his grip, anyway, and who knew what would set him off. Best to play dead.

  “I know you don’t understand it now, but I hope you can forgive me. I regret it, sweetie. I regret all of it.” He sighed, then took another swig from the bottle. “Go on.”

  She waited for more, expecting him to snatch her back. When he didn’t, she moved through the door. Her eyes lingered on the book again. It was ruined, but maybe there was something in there worth holding onto . . .

  No. It was a book of lies, and now it had no value in money, even. It was worthless, and Calvin could clean up the mess he’d made of it.

  She was almost out when that rough-edged voice caught her around the spine again, held her in place. “Arbeit macht Frei. World War Two, they liked that little catchphrase. Used to strike dread in the heart of every decent human being who heard it after that.” He sighed. “Work will set you free. Nazi bastards thought it was work . . . never mind. Flip the sign back around when you leave.”

  Arbeit macht Frei. Work will set you free. It dragged at something in her memory, but nothing she could grasp properly. As Jane left the shop, she flipped the sign over.

  ~o0o~

  Jane stood out in front of the county Detainee Center. It had been a boon to the town when the economy turned down, but now it was just another eyesore. Gray and stout, surrounded in a fence as tall as three men. The words stood above the entrance in clean, sans-serif font: Work Will Set You Free.

  Of course, he was just translating to German. It took her two seconds to plug it into an online translator. It did speak to the level of Calvin’s delusions, at least. He’d created some kind of fantasy, found or fabricated details that made sense to him, somehow.’

  “Hey! You!” A guard in pseudo-military gear walked up to the gate, pistol clutched in his fist. “This isn’t a zoo, y’know. No lookie-loos, if that’s what you’re waiting for.”

  “No. I’m sorry. I got in my own head.” She hiked her empty tote bag higher. “Have a good day.”

  She hightailed it back to her rundown Chevy. The door didn’t open. Her heart leapt into her throat. “Come on.” It would choose now to act up again. She jiggled it back and forth, harder and harder until . . . pop. She slid inside and slammed the door behind her.

  She forced herself to breathe, slow and deep until her heartbeat leveled out. “No one is after me.” Was she really going to let Mr. Crazy Antique Guy get into her head? The guards at the Detainee Centers were there for her protection. The people they kept in there were dangers to the United States, and every single citizen. Radicals and Muslims. Black Panthers. Threats to what they still had.

  But she still struggled against the urge to check over her shoulder.

  ~o0o~

  A knock at the door interrupted Jane’s yogurt. She was still in her bathrobe, makeup half-on, when she answered. It was a uniformed police officer. Square-jawed and swarthy. “Jane Fitch?”

  “Yes? Is everything okay?” Evacuation? Escaped Detainee?

  “I just wanted to ask you about someone.” He pulled a notepad out of his pocket and squinted at it. “A Calvin Mitchell. He runs an antique shop in town.”

  She brushed a hand through her hair. “Never met him before.”

  “We got word that your car was at his shop yesterday afternoon.” He flipped through the little notebook. “A . . . black Chevy Spark? ’71?”

  “That’s mine.” Shit, shit.

  “Still driving a manual?”

  Not everyone can afford a modern vehicle. And the lanes for manually drive cars were getting less and less crowded every day. Not to mention how cheap that damn car was in the first place. But she just nodded.

  “Well, we definitely have it out in front of Mitchell’s shop. And it’s not exactly a common make and model, anymore.”

  No, it wasn’t . . . were people watching her? “I was downtown yesterday. I might have parked over there. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Well, it’s probably just a misunderstanding. He tipped his cap to her. “Sorry for bothering you.”

  “What’s the issue, anyway? Is he into something I should be worried about? Coming after me or something?” She wouldn’t put it past him.

  “He’s dead.” The cop shook his head. “Trying to figure out what happened, but between you and me, it’s not working out so well.” He rolled his eyes. “Sorry. Best if you don’t mention I said that. Official statement is that we’re working on it.” He waved the idea off, as though homicide could be shooed like a gnat. “Don’t let it bother you. It was a freak thing.”

  “He was murdered and I’m supposed to not worry?” People were dying if they talked about any of it. But that couldn’t be it. She was just remembering the words because he died. Right after she saw him, brought him the book.

  “It might not be murder at all, Ms. Fitch.” He took the cap off his head and scratched across his scalp. “There are just some loose ends. Now you’re no longer one of them, as far as I’m concerned.” He put the cap back on. “But someone else might come talk to you, if they think you might have info. So fair warning about that.”

  “So . . . I’m safe.” She wanted an answer, but she wanted to force herself to say it, too. Put it out there in the world in the hope that it would actually be true.

  “If you want, I can try to get a black and white to drive by every now and then and check. No promises, but—”

  “You don’t need to waste the resources.” She should have said yes, but she couldn’t make it come out. Too much to be coincidence, wasn’t it? Of course not. Not mathematically. Not logically . . . but he died right after warning her about everything. If she could have just listened, maybe she would know something more. Maybe she could piece it together.

  “I’ll still try. It’s not a waste.” Another tip of the cap. “I’ll let you get on with your morning.”

  Jane just nodded and saw him out the door. And then she locked it. A cop driving past. Were they part of this? Was this whole conspiracy really a thing? Why would anyone—why would the government—hide an entire war from everyone? Control the internet? What purpose could any of that possibly serve?

  Jane sank onto the sofa, no longer interested in what remained of her yogurt. It was ridiculous to put any stock in what Calvin had told her, but she felt that same slowing of the blood, the tightness and the worry. She knew she couldn’t afford to call in sick, but . . . damn it all.

  ~o0o~

  The convenience store was dead. It was almost always dead in the middle of the week. People stopped in on paydays, for the most part, or during those all-too-rare sun breaks. Neither was true of that day, and it left Jane alone with her thoughts. Her worries. She couldn’t shake what happened. Calvin dead. Cops showing up at her door. And now she knew something about it. Whatever insanity he was trying to tell her about. Did that make her a target? Was anyone a target?

  Did she actually believe this?

  She wanted to say no, to throw it all out like she did before, but it wouldn’t budge. This World War Two, Arbeit macht Frei, government cover-up thing lodged in her chest and stuck there.
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  The bells blessedly drew her attention away from her own head. It was an old woman, cane-bound and hobbling from the door straight to the counter. Jane unlocked the register in anticipation.

  The woman stopped and stared straight into Jane’s eyes. “You were there when Calvin died?”

  Shit. “I . . . who are you?”

  “Were you there or not?”

  “I didn’t do anything . . . you should leave if you’re not going to buy anything.”

  She leaned her cane against the counter. “If you were there and you weren’t a part of it, you are in danger.”

  Jane said nothing. It made no sense. Should she be worried about them? How could . . . somehow . . . “You’re here to kill me, too.”

  The old woman shook her head. “Do you think I could do anything to you in my state?” She picked up her cane again, moved closer. “You have a choice to make. You can either go back to your normal, safe life, or you can learn about this.” She shuffled and clunked closer, right up to Jane behind the counter. “I don’t care what you do, but it’s too late for you not to do something.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small disposable drive, the kind they used to pass nudes around on in high school. “Take it, destroy it, I don’t care . . . but this is my duty. To make up for . . . everything.” Her eyes glazed over. “It’s not enough. Can’t fix it. But at least you have an option.”

  Slowly, Jane extended her hand and grabbed the drive. She stuck it into her pocket and surreptitiously glanced to the black dome of the security camera.

  Apparently the question of belief was done: she believed. Somewhere in herself, Jane was buying into it. But what was she buying into?

  The old woman nodded. “Good luck . . . whatever you do. If you want to be a really good citizen, you’ll turn that drive into the authorities.” She sighed, offered, a sad smile, then hobbled her way back out the door.

  ~o0o~

  Jane went to the library after work. They had access stations. If this drive really was dangerous, it wasn’t as easy to track. Hopefully. Theoretically. Maybe. It was the best she had.

  She sat at the station for a solid minute, playing with the drive, considering her options. The old woman told her nothing about the contents, but Jane had ideas. It was a safe bet it had to do with Calvin and the book and World War Two.

  If nothing else, it might quell her stomach. It could stop the consistent indecision, and maybe that would make her feel better. She didn’t know for sure, but she could be damn well sure that turning it in, that destroying it, that ridding herself of the information . . . those wouldn’t solve anything. Those would leave the indecision, the unknown. They would leave her in that state of constant fear and tightness.

  She didn’t allow herself to hesitate any longer, pressed that drive against the reader. After a few seconds, the window appeared on the screen. Jane opened the folder. It was full of numbered photos and documents. No clues to what they might be.

  Jane opened one. It was an image of a gate, just like the one outside the Detainee Center. And there was the phrase: Arbeit macht Frei. She flipped to the next one. Dozens of bodies stacked up. Just bodies. No life. Thin and ravaged and naked. Jane shuddered and clicked off. But it was just more bodies. Different angles, different piles, none of them alive.

  She closed the pictures, opened a PDF. It was a newspaper from the nineteen forties. “Adolf Hitler Dead.” She scanned across the article, and it didn’t cure any of her unease. Leader of Germany. Crimes against humanity. Holocaust. That word kept coming up, and she didn’t recognize it. She didn’t dare search for it, if this all was as dangerous as everyone said. As dangerous as she was starting to believe it must be.

  More articles, more newspapers and essays from across decades, all the way up into 2023, 2024. Those grew more and more hopeless, more and more terrifying. Comparing the president and the US government to Adolf Hitler. Muslim registration. But it talked about the registration of the Jews. She’d never heard anything about it. Six million of them dead during . . . World War Two.

  Six million dead? Jane couldn’t even conceive of it.

  Later articles talked about people being offed for speaking out against the administration. Federal judges removed from their positions, moving out of the country all the sudden right afterward. All hearsay, but it didn’t paint a lovely picture.

  She closed the folder . . . or tried to. It wouldn’t go away. The entire screen froze. She pulled the drive, crumpled it in her palm, but that window remained. Her whole body tensed. Would that be enough to tip someone off? Enough to get someone coming after her?’

  After her. It was ridiculous, of course. She’d let herself get pulled into this idiocy, but there was not going to be anyone coming after her. She couldn’t explain how the old woman found her, figured out where she worked. She couldn’t explain why so many people were in on this. But it wasn’t something to get so worked up about.

  No part of Jane actually believed that. When she stood up to leave, she held the power button on the station until the whole thing shut down.

  ~o0o~

  Jane couldn’t shake it. The horrors she’d seen clung to her like thick mud. It filled her throat and blocked her breath, pressed in on her, heavy from all sides. It kept her from sleep, kept her from any semblance of comfort until she finally got up. She sat at the computer. Her webcam was on, the red light a beacon of terror. She hadn’t used it in months.

  It turned off as if commanded by her thoughts, but her hackles still raised. She unplugged it and turned it away from her. She’d heard of people spying through cameras . . . would they do that? To a US citizen? That couldn’t be legal, could it? They abolished the Patriot Act for good when Jane was just a child, outlawed it and anything else like it.

  There had to be a way to find out if this was all real.

  Rapidly, a thought formed, grew in her sleepless brain until it filled her. There was no reason she couldn’t or shouldn’t do it. As long as she could afford it. She searched for tickets to Germany. If this was a conspiracy from the government, it wouldn’t stretch across national borders. Nobody else liked or respected the US. Not anymore. They certainly wouldn’t take part in protecting their citizens from the truth.

  The tickets weren’t cheap, but not bad enough they were impossible. Payday loans, dipping into her savings, her couple of paid vacation days saved up . . . she could swing it.

  It was all completely insane, wasting money that way. It sounded unreasonable, even on no sleep. Unreasonable, but not entirely out of the question.

  If she still felt it was right decision in the morning, or in a few days . . .

  Jane’s computer screen flashed blue, displaying white text.

  Not a coincidence.

  ~o0o~

  It took some doing. Jane sold things. She lied to the payday loan clerk about her sick, dying mother in Germany. She sublet her apartment for far less than she should have. But she was there, at the Jewish Museum Berlin . . . and they had it. They not only knew about the Jews and the Holocaust, they remembered it clearly. Tears welled in her eyes at the thought of it, the unbelievable loss. Inconceivable. Too much to wrap her brain around. It was all documented.

  Jane’s knees shook as she saw real, physical copies of the images from that drive. The bodies. The emaciated forms, skin pressed to bone. The children. So many children . . .

  “Are you an American?” A woman in heels clacked up to her. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun and her eyes gleamed with light and warmth. Even through the heavy accent, Jane could hear the pity in her voice. The sadness.

  “I . . . I am.”

  The woman nodded. “I’ve learned the look.” She sighed. “You won’t go back. No point lying about it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your passport, will be denied when you try to go back. If you push it . . . don’t push it.” She sighed. “They don’t let people back in after they come here.” She draped an arm around Jane’s
shoulders. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.”

  Jane couldn’t even bring herself to doubt it anymore. She would try, of course. She would go to the airport, but any hope of getting on the plane drained out of her when the woman told her as much. Jane was getting used to strangers knowing more about her life than she did.

  “Why?” She looked into the woman’s eyes. “Why did this happen?”

  “I don’t know. Just theories.”

  “Then give me a theory.” Anything. Anything that could be some sort of answer, some sort of explanation.

  “It was when my mother was a child. She told me about it. But I know the US government built the Detainee Centers. They put supposedly temporary travel bans on Muslim countries. Then they started registration, to keep track of Muslims in the country. They tried to convince the rest of the world to do it, too.” She pointed to the image of the gates. Arbeit macht Frei. “Everyone said it was the same, that it was a repetition of the concentration camps. Auschwitz. Buchenwald. Dachau.” She sighed. “Muslims instead of Jews, but the same. Except they had a playbook of what worked and what didn’t work.”

  “How could they do it so fast?” It couldn’t be real, couldn’t be true . . . but it was.

  The woman closed her eyes tight. “It started long before any of this actually happened. All the historians say it started almost a hundred years ago.”

  As old as the book, and the articles on that old woman’s drive. “Did . . . was it six million people who died? In the . . . Holocaust?”

  The woman nodded. “It was. It was a tragedy.” She pulled her arm away. “I know some others like you. They can help you find a place to stay. Unless you really want to try and get home.”

  “It won’t work.” It was numbing to say it herself. Numbing because it was true, and she knew it. She was stuck here. “I shouldn’t have come.”