Nation of Enemies

by H. A. Raynes

  The slam of the front door pulls his attention from the screen. Jonathan. After what happened at the Project Swap meeting, he needs to talk to him. The pad of footsteps through the house leads Steven into the kitchen, where he finds Jonathan’s head buried in the refrigerator.

  “I’m afraid it’s been a while since I’ve done food shopping,” he says. “You might be able to pull together a condiment sandwich.”

  “We still have some frozen meals.” Jonathan opens the freezer and pulls out a container of lasagna, one of many graciously delivered after the funeral.

  Sarah would have gone crazy to see Jonathan’s hair like this. It’s like a tic, the way he tosses his head to get the brown mop out of his eyes. As Steven considers what to say, he takes a bottle of red wine from the rack and uncorks it.

  “So.” He eyes the boy. “Ten thousand MedIDs?”

  “Um hmm.” Jonathan watches the food in the microwave.

  “Imagine my surprise.”

  The boy shrugs.

  “What are you up to?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Isn’t it? Your actions effect this family. What’s left of it. Regardless of how you might feel, I am your family.”

  “Whatever. If you want them, let me know. If not, I’ll move on.”

  “ ‘Move on’? Do you understand the consequences you’ll face if you’re caught?”

  Jonathan’s face contorts in anger. “You’re a hypocrite! You’re in the market for them. You’re out bartering for clean MedIDs. What if you get caught? What happens to me? What happens to your little empire of death here?”

  “Fair enough.” He retrieves two wineglasses from the cabinet. He pours generously into one and hands the other with a lesser amount to Jonathan. “Sit.”

  At the kitchen island, they sit on bar stools. Jonathan is tentative with his wine, while Steven takes a few rather large gulps. He’s never had a “real” conversation with his stepson. Man-­to-­man, with the potential to shift the ground beneath them.

  “If I’m going to be honest with you, I want the same in return,” Steven says.

  “Fine.”

  Because context is everything, he starts at the beginning. He talks about losing his first wife, his son and daughter, the day the Planes Fell. How he threw himself into his work, then met Sarah. About how politics never mattered to him until he watched lives spiral because of the MedID law and the war. Sarah had felt trapped, unable or unwilling to go beyond their front door, the only way out was to get high. When she died, she took his complacency and left him with a need, a drive to change things. Not by joining the fanatics, and not by giving in to the government. A new movement. About family. About helping ­people to live the lives they want to live, wherever they want to live them. Jonathan’s face softens. For the first time in their history it feels like he’s actually listening.

  “What do you want with all the MedIDs?” Jonathan asks.

  “If they’re clean, we’ll find matches—­­people looking to swap out their less than stellar MedIDs—­and we’ll transfer the new MedID to that person.”

  “So you can only use MedIDs that are over seventy-­five?”

  “Yes.”

  “What if you get a seventy-­five with a shit medical history?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Someone might have post-­traumatic stress disorder, depression, what-­have-­you, but they could live to be a hundred because of low cholesterol and strong genes. The MedID number is the potential for wellness.”

  “Why did you bring me? To the camps?”

  “You’ve lived with me since you were eight, and still I don’t know what side you’re on.”

  “I’m on my own side.”

  “You’ve been out a lot lately. You brought that girl over, the redheaded one. Shannon?”

  “Hannah.”

  “Right. And now you’re offering up black market MedIDs. I think it’s your turn for some honesty.”

  Jonathan rotates his wineglass, swirling the burgundy liquid. “You know my job?”

  “I know you have one. You’ve been rather vague about it.”

  “It’s . . . it’s, uh, this antigovernment group.”

  Steven’s heart beats faster. “What group?”

  Shifting in his seat, Jonathan’s eyes meet his. “BASIA.”

  The word penetrates him, sends a chill through his bones. Without thought, Steven throws his glass across the room. Glass shatters. Pink streaks mar the walls in an abstract piece of art. Looks like a piece Sarah might have done.

  “How could you?” he shouts. “Don’t you know? Haven’t you heard the rumors?”

  Jonathan stands, takes a few steps backward. “I didn’t join BASIA. I just took a job. They needed a tech and Hannah—­”

  “Hannah?”

  A flood of red colors the boy’s cheeks. “She had nothing to do with this.”

  “What is your job exactly?”

  “I log in MedIDs to their storage vault.”

  “That’s it?”

  “And. Shit. And they have me hacking.”

  “Hacking what?”

  “Power grids.”

  “Power grids! Of course! Your specialty. But they knew that, didn’t they?”

  Jonathan rubs his hands over his face. “Apparently.”

  “Mitchell killed my family, Jonathan.”

  “How did he get away with it?”

  “Because all of the witnesses and low-­level conspirators died in the Planes! Because Mitchell’s somehow convinced millions of ­people that Armageddon is here and if you’re not with him, you’re condemned to hell. Because he provides what looks like a safe haven for anyone who’s lost family in this war. He’s a psychopath.”

  “I just thought it was a job,” Jonathan mumbles.

  “It’s just a job. He’s just a reverend. And Hannah’s just a girl.”

  They sit motionless. Steven’s mind is frayed, his body shaky. Anything he planned to say went out the door with this admission.

  After a minute Jonathan says, “The MedIDs. The ones I have access to.”

  “Whose are they?”

  “Everyone in BASIA.” He rolls up the left sleeve of his shirt and points to a minuscule scar revealing that his MedID has been removed.

  “He makes you take them out.”

  “I have access to all of them.”

  “How?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I won’t put you in danger. Just get out. Leave that psychopath while you still can.”

  “But what if you’re caught with your little side business?”

  “There’s a plan in place. If the situation becomes dangerous, we leave. You and I. Investors are ready to snap up Hudson’s. We’d need forty-­eight hours to get out.”

  “You’ve thought of everything.”

  “I hope so. Let me ask you something. What changed? Why are you suddenly willing to steal from Charles Mitchell?”

  Jonathan takes the bottle of wine and refills his glass. “I learned something about him that I don’t like.”

  “Only one thing?”

  But the boy looks quite sad and doesn’t offer more, so Steven leaves it alone.

  Chapter 41

  “TELL ME THE schedule again?” Richard says. His campaign team is piled into a stretch suburban cruising west on the Massachusetts Turnpike.

  “First, the orphanage in Waltham,” Carter says, consulting his phone. “Then at one there’s the League of Women’s Voters lunch. And tonight it’s the National Institute of Health dinner.”

  “Stay on point,” Kendra interjects. “No going off-­script.”

  “Yes, yes,” Richard says. “Where’s David today?” His vice presidential running mate, David Glickman, is a bit off-­beat, but he has a following and solid
ifies them as a team.

  “He’s at a rally in Wisconsin,” Carter answers.

  Skimming her tablet, Kendra reports, “Your response to the Houston bombing bumped up your polls in Texas. You came off very strong and reassuring.”

  “Easy to say the right things. Harder to execute them.”

  A low intermittent hum announces an incoming call. Carter checks his jacket pockets and pulls out two phones. He answers one. “Richard Hensley’s line. Yes, of course.” He passes it to Richard. “It’s the President. They’re connecting you.”

  Richard straightens. He puts the phone to his ear and hears a click.

  “Richard,” President Clark says.

  “Hello, Mr. President.”

  “Great interview last night.”

  “Thank you, sir. I—­”

  “Listen, Richard, I’m a family man. But when I took the oath of this office, the citizens of this country became my extended family. It’s not just my wife and kids anymore.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m going to be frank here. Your daughter could cost you the election.”

  “Taylor?”

  “As you know, her new affiliation with Patriot’s Church is well-­known. Any day now every news analyst and media outlet will have the headline ‘Hensley in Bed with Enemy Number One.’ Regardless of the truth behind your relationship, the public sees black and white. The only question they’ll care about will be: how is it that the President of the United States has a daughter who is a member of this country’s number one terrorist organization?”

  “I can’t control her actions, Mr. President.”

  “She’s made herself an enemy of the state. You can’t have anything to do with her.”

  “Actually, we’re not on speaking terms.”

  There’s a beep on the line and suddenly he hears his own voice:

  “Sounds like you were in the wrong place at the wrong time,”

  “They were after me. When I turned, they turned. It was obvious.”

  “What’s obvious is that South Bay is a rough area. Somehow you ended up in the middle of someone’s business. Drugs, probably. Could be anything.”

  “I’m not an idiot. I know those Cadillacs are owned by the Liberty Party.”

  Stunned, his mouth parts to form some kind of a response, but nothing comes. It’s a recording from the night Taylor called to accuse him of trying to kill her. They’re monitoring his communications. He supposes he shouldn’t be shocked.

  “Recognize that?” President Clark says.

  “She’s my daughter, sir.”

  “A minute ago you lied about your relationship with a known enemy.”

  Kendra is staring at him, her fingers paused midair over her phone. Dammit. He’s been faithful to the Liberty Party for thirty years. Why would they doubt him now? Finally he says, “I forgot she called.”

  “Of course. Still, it’s a concern. Imagine if this gets out.”

  “Yes. It wouldn’t look good.”

  “If you want to repair your relationship with her in eight years, by all means. But today, you need to look at her as though she’s an ordinary citizen who poses a threat. And we can’t have one citizen derailing our efforts. We won’t let it happen, Richard.”

  “I understand.” But does he? What does “we won’t let it happen” mean, exactly?

  “I’m glad we’re on the same page. What would a race be without hiccups along the way?” There’s a trace of a gloating in the President’s voice.

  “Mr. President, if you don’t mind me asking, is there a chance Taylor was right about the Cadillac following her?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The party’s efforts to keep the campaign on track have been comprehensive, understandably. I’d like to know, was the Cadillac that followed Taylor a Liberty car?”

  “I wouldn’t know, Senator. Of course our intelligence agencies use their resources in the interests of this government and its citizens. But to the best of my knowledge, we’re not mowing down constituents in alleys.”

  “Of course not. My apologies.”

  “Do well, be well, Richard.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Heat radiates from Richard’s ear as he pulls the phone from it. Kendra’s eyebrows are arched in anticipation. Carter hasn’t looked up once from his phone.

  “What the hell was that?” Kendra asks.

  “I need to cut off Taylor completely. It’s too damaging to the campaign.”

  “We know that,” she says. “What’s changed?”

  “She called me. They heard the conversation.”

  Kendra blows air out her lips, shakes her head.

  “Carter, get me the sign-­out database for Liberty Party campaign cars,” he orders. “I need the log for last week.”

  He may not be able to speak with Taylor, but perhaps he can still protect her and Sienna.

  Chapter 42

  BLOOD IS SPATTERED on Cole’s scrubs, on sheets and the floor. One of the last standing arenas in the city, the Boston Pavilion, had a sold-­out concert tonight. Because venues are a high-­risk target for anyone trying to make a point, shows are rare. But with high security and extra precautions, on occasion some ­people take the chance. It’s a shame so many did tonight.

  As he studies the smartwall display of ER bed assignments, Cole voice-­activates the system. Names on the monitor change or move from one area to another. He never fails to note patients’ MedID numbers. The sheer number of ­people without clean numbers is overwhelming. Can Project Swap even make a dent? Is this venture worth risking everything? He wonders if another group is out there somewhere, attempting the same thing. They could pool their resources. At night, he can’t sleep. He wanders into the nursery and watches the soothing rise and fall of Talia’s back in her crib. Four months have passed and she’s just weeks from having her own MedID implanted.

  It’s four in the morning. All but one of the thirty-­two survivors have been dispatched to recovery rooms or the O.R. Karen joins him for the last victim of the shooting who suffered only a minor wound. Behind the curtain, the patient is asleep. Cole scans the chart: Sean Cushing, MedID number 78, aged forty. No genetic markers of particular concern. No history of significant illness. Karen lifts the johnny for him to inspect where a bullet grazed the right leg.

  “Lucky guy,” he says. “Another centimeter and the bullet would’ve done some damage.” He tips the tablet with the patient’s record so that Karen can see it.

  “But look at that.” She gestures to deep purple bruising up and down his legs, inconsistent with his wound.

  “Maybe he fell in the chaos. There must’ve been a stampede to get out of there.”

  “Maybe.” Her brown eyes narrow as she scrutinizes his chart. “That’s strange.”

  “His CBC?” He glances at the numbers. “He’s anemic. Makes sense. He’s lost a fair amount of blood.”

  “But his platelet count. Is his blood clotting?”

  “Hmm.” Cole gently peels back the blood-­saturated gauze covering the wound. It gapes open, a rivulet of blood pooling on the paper beneath him. “Thrombocytopenia maybe. Let’s run a test.”

  Sean Cushing stirs, groans as his eyes flutter open.

  “Mr. Cushing, I’m Dr. Fitzgerald, and this is Dr. Riley.” He moves to the head of the bed.

  “Hi,” Cushing says. “Look, I’m fine. Can I get some pain meds and get scanned? I’ve been here like eight hours.”

  “It’s not on your medical record,” Karen says. “But are you on blood thinners?”

  “A bullet just ripped into me,” Cushing says. “I’m pretty sure that’s why I’m bleeding. How about you sew me up and we call this a day?”

  “So that’s a no,” Cole says. “Do you have a history of bleeding?”

  “What? No.” Cushin
g tries to sit up in bed, grimaces, lies back down.

  “Do you work with any specific chemicals or metals?” Karen asks.

  “No.” His tone is somewhere between bored and sarcastic. “And no, I don’t have fevers or kidney trouble.”

  Cole and Karen exchange looks. He says, “So you’ve been through this line of questioning before?”

  “Can I just get some stitches and blow?”

  The wound sealant should have worked, yet he’s still bleeding. Cole scans the history. Clean MedID. Annual physicals indicating normal lab results. Something’s missing. He could have leukemia, a bacterial infection, or a complication with his liver. Maybe these are new symptoms. Or maybe he’s lying.

  “Dr. Riley will stitch you up,” he says.

  Karen pulls up a stool and positions herself at eye level with the wound. She sprays the area with a topical anesthetic, but pricks the skin before it takes full effect. Cushing groans.

  “Help me understand something,” Cole says. “You have a spotless medical history. Clean DNA. There’s bruising that might be explained by tonight’s incident. Or not. Is there anything you can add? Something that’s not on your chip?”

  “I’m a private person, Doc.”

  “It’s interesting.” Cole traces his finger over the screen. “You have no record of any prescriptions in the past five years. Looks like you’re an exceptionally healthy individual.”

  Cushing taps his temple with his index finger. “Health is a state of mind.”

  “And if we ran more tests? Would the results show that you’re as well as your MedID file reads?”

  “Why are you busting balls? Do you really care about my personal well-­being?”

  Positioning the syringe, Karen injects pill-­sized sponges that will seek out and adhere to the source of the bleeding, stanching it. Cushing winces. The room is quiet with unease as they wait. Finally the bleeding stops. From behind the curtain, Cole produces a wheelchair.

  “You look pale,” he says. “Let’s get you some fresh air.”