The Road Runners were planners, ready for the worst of any situation that arose, which made the events of the last twenty-four hours push the entire population out of their comfort zone. They had never planned for a scenario where their leader and both successors were unavailable to serve in their roles, and they certainly had no game plan for negotiating Road Runner lives with a known madman. After the dust settled from the upcoming vote, laws would be put in place to address these exact matters. The last thing any Road Runner would do is make the same mistake twice.
When they woke up the following morning, none of the councilors—who had studied everything throughout history—had a clue what would come in the days following the announcement. They already sensed a shift in attitude across the organization, but figured it was the natural ebb and flow of fresh blood and a new generation coming into their lives as time travelers.
A divide had begun, starting as subtly as a chip on a car’s windshield, nearly invisible, but ready to expand with each passing day until a massive crack spread from side to side.
They met in their chambers as breakfast was served. Another long day waited, seeing as the polls wouldn’t close until seven that night, exactly twenty-four hours after they had gone live for everyone to vote. The votes would come in by each country in North America, and with everything electronic, the Council would receive updated poll numbers at the top of every hour. They planned to keep close eyes on the results, trying to get ahead of the decision and have a fully prepared statement for Uribe to deliver later that night. They hoped it would be a landslide decision one way or another, but didn’t hold their breath for that result, considering how split they had been among themselves.
The official population of Road Runners across North America was just under 4.8 million people, and by the time Uribe called for the first results of the morning, more than two million had already cast their votes overnight.
It was 10 A.M. when Uribe scanned over the polls on a special tablet synced with their voting software. “Roughly two million votes in,” he announced to the Council. “As of now, fifty-two percent in favor of rescuing Strike, forty-eight in favor of Briar.”
Councilman Martinez shook his head. “This is gross,” he said. “This is essentially a vote for the commandership without people fully realizing it.”
“What choice do we have?” Councilwoman Murray asked. “And it’s not a vote for commander, it’s a vote for the Bylaws and how the public interprets the laws. At least, I hope that’s how they’re viewing it.”
“It’s not a vote for commandership,” Councilman Pierre said. “If it was, Briar would have no chance against Strike—no one even knows his name. These early results already tell us that people are voting based on the Bylaws.”
“I agree,” Uribe said. “Now, it looks like this isn’t going to be easy on us. I was hoping for something a little more decisive, but if half the population is this undecided, I don’t see one side pulling away. Let’s dig in for the long haul today. We have nine hours until the polls close, plenty of time to draft up two different speeches in preparation for tonight. With that, we also need to plan for both outcomes. If Strike wins, how do we go about getting Briar delivered to Chris? Who is going to the mansion to have this discussion with Chris? And what will the hierarchy and structure look like if Strike assumes her role again?
“And if Briar wins, do we make a final attempt to break out Strike? Or do we let her go? People will have questions, and we need all the answers. We might want to have some of our staff reach out to the general public and see what issues are pressing their minds in this matter. That will help us prepare.”
The Council nodded in agreement.
“How many votes are we expecting to be cast?” Councilwoman Thrasher asked.
“I’d imagine close to four million,” Pierre said. “We’ll know in the next hour. If we see another 250,000 have voted, that trend will likely carry throughout the day. We did deliver this message around dinner time here on the east coast, and I’d assume many people wanted to sleep on their decision and make a sound vote today.”
“Let’s get started on everything I mentioned,” Uribe said with authority. “It may sound like a long time, but these next nine hours will fly.”
They had all wanted to speculate on the polls, make predictions, follow the trends, but Uribe had to keep them on track. They had a reputation as the most prepared segment of Road Runners, and he’d be damned if gossip would get in the way of that.
8
Chapter 8
The Council put their collective heads down and worked diligently over the next several hours. With each passing update, it was growing clear that the results wouldn’t be finalized until the polls closed. The polls came in as follows:
11 A.M. had Strike pull ahead with a 55% to 45% lead
12 P.M. saw that lead shrink to 53% to 47%
1 P.M. brought them to their first tie of the day
2 P.M. Briar took his first lead, a slim margin of 51% to 49%
3 P.M. Strike regained control at 51% to 49%
4 P.M. Briar back in the lead at 52% to 48%
5 P.M. Briar still ahead 51% to 49%
When six o’clock rolled around, the results hadn’t changed since their last check. Pierre had been correct with his projected vote total. They had 3.8 million votes counted with one hour to go, and the results still a virtual split, Martin Briar leading by an entire 30,000 votes.
They had spent all day tracking these numbers, writing speeches, making phone calls to ensure matters were in place for whatever decision was reached. Both speeches were crafted and finalized at three o’clock, and both were read over by Uribe. The speech for a Briar victory sent chills down his back, reminding him of a recently released speech transcript that President Nixon had just in case the moon landing had ended in failure and death.
Uribe didn’t want to read either speech, and was dreading how close of a call this would be. The real question that rose to the surface was whether or not to share the final numbers, or leave it vague by simply announcing the winning result.
“How can we honestly be this divided?” Uribe asked as they waited for the final, decisive results at seven o’clock. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“I hate to say it,” Councilman Ryan said. “But I think Chris may have won the war. He backed us into a corner with no easy way out. He stuck a dagger right into the fabric of our organization.”
“You’re being dramatic,” Councilwoman Murray said. “We always unite and move forward.”
“This isn’t normal,” Ryan added. “Did none of your staffers share what they heard speaking with the public?”
Everyone looked around at each other in silence.
“You’re either in the dark or afraid to admit the truth,” Ryan continued, slightly snarling as he spoke. “Bad things are headed for us. I don’t know where all of the rage has come from, but it’s strong right now. People are threatening to leave the organization, burn buildings down, even kill in the name of Commander Strike.”
“It’s true,” Councilwoman Lewis said. “I heard the opposite. People will be outraged if we hand over Briar, baffled that we would violate our own Bylaws, especially to give in to Chris’s demands.”
Uribe let out a long sigh, shaking his head. “These are trying times, but I believe we will prevail. We may be divided, but we’re still united against Chris. I don’t see how either result changes that fact. People aren’t going to magically start liking Chris to spite us. Road Runners have always recruited intelligent individuals and free thinkers. A simple vote shouldn’t make our people irrational all of a sudden.”
“I agree,” Murray said. “I think emotions are high, but no one is actually going to leave us. And if they do, they become an enemy to the organization where we can promptly take care of them.”
Ryan shook his head, but kept any additional words to himself.
They reached the point in the night where there was nothi
ng left to discuss, no speeches to write, no plans to prepare, only a time to wait. A thick cloud of tension hung over them in their underground chambers, and they had no idea of the current mood around the continent. The news coverage on their private network ran all day, full of tons of speculation and debates on what to do. They had watched it for an entire two minutes in the morning before deciding it was best to turn it off for a somewhat peaceful day.
The clock on the wall ticked past 6:30, and no one said a word for the next thirty minutes.
* * *
When seven o’clock struck, Uribe stood from the table and paced circles, fidgeting with his fingers, removing and replacing the wedding band that had left an indent on his ring finger.
Every hour throughout the day, a staffer had dropped in to inform Uribe that the voting software had successfully refreshed its data, prompting him to update the room with the results. Now they waited for the final confirmation.
When 7:03 struck, Pierre cried out, “What the hell is taking so long?”
“Relax,” Ryan said, raising a hand. “The final vote takes an extra minute or so to calculate. The system goes back and sweeps every country for any straggling votes it may have missed, then does a recount to ensure the results we see are set in stone.”
At 7:05 a young man with greasy black hair entered the room, his face and eyes exhausted. “The system has updated, and the final poll results have been uploaded for your review.” The young man, who Uribe believed worked for Thrasher, disappeared back out the door.
“No matter what’s on here, I want you all to know that I have full confidence in this group to maintain a peaceful future for our organization,” Uribe said.
The tablet throbbed in his trembling hand. Uribe couldn’t recall a time he had ever felt nervous since joining the Council, but there were apparently firsts for everything. He swiped his thumb across the screen, already loaded to show the poll results.
The others watched, eyes glued to his every movement.
He lay the tablet on the table before bringing it back to his eyes for a closer look. He skimmed over the screen, which showed nothing but a final vote count for each option, a time stamp, and a special asterisked message in big red letters that said FINAL.
“Our results are in, folks,” Uribe said. “If you didn’t think this was an important issue to our people, then think again. We topped 3.9 million votes, meaning nearly one million members did not cast a vote.”
“That’s the biggest voter turnout in the history of this organization,” Ryan said.
“And each vote was worth it. I can’t imagine this being any closer.”
“So what speech are you going to deliver?” Murray asked, impatience dripping from each word. It was the nicest way of her asking him to hurry up and share the damn results.
Uribe looked around, as if paranoid they were being listened to. “I’m not going to say aloud, just for the sake of sensitivity.” Instead, he placed the tablet face up on the table and slid it across to Murray. “Read it and pass it along. Let’s keep this completely confidential until it’s announced.”
The answer made its way around the table while Uribe crossed the room to the podium to prepare for his upcoming speech.
9
Chapter 9
“Commander Strike was so close to killing that piece of shit and if they forget about that, we’ll have to free her ourselves.”
Stephen DeVito stood at the front of a room filled with thirty other Road Runners. They were underground, of course, and had been having these nightly meetings for the past week. They met under no official name, just a shared passion to rescue Commander Strike. Each night they discussed possible ideas to save their beloved commander.
Stephen had been a Road Runner for eighteen years, having lived through nine different commanders, and never seeing one of them make an actual attempt at taking Chris’s life.
Until Strike.
This sparked a stronger passion than usual toward a commander, making her an instant favorite among those who sought justice for Chris Speidel’s wicked ways. Everyone had their preference of what a commander should focus on. Some preferred them to strengthen the lives of Road Runners by allowing more missions and giving a sense of purpose to the population, others liked a commander who sought a peaceful end to the war with the Revolution. And then there were people like those gathering in the basement every night, believing the execution of Chris should be the only priority for the organization. They felt the Road Runners would forever be shackled to him as long as he existed, not allowed to fully grow into their unlimited potential. Chris was a monster with a Road Runner body count that made World War II look like a walk in the park.
Stephen had an imposing appearance, standing tall, wide, and a facial expression that seemed stuck somewhere between pissed-off and contemplative. He had lost his mother and grandmother directly at the hands of Chris, an event that sparked his thirst for revenge for the rest of his life. As long as Chris lived, he’d never experience joy. He wanted nothing more than to tear the old man apart, limb by limb, maybe even throw the bastard on a grill and eat him just to make certain that his body no longer existed.
“Whatever news is delivered tonight is great news,” Stephen continued to his crowd of eager onlookers. He paced from left to right as he spoke and all eyes followed his every movement like a tennis match. “If the people vote for saving Strike—which they should—then our government will finally get off their ass and get her out of that hideous mansion. Who the fuck is Martin Briar, anyway? Has he ever posed a threat to Chris? He’s just some nobody, disposable. We can make the sacrifice and never look back, because Strike will be too busy looking forward.”
A few people clapped, but it was far from a resounding applause. They liked to get rowdy at the end of these meetings instead.
“And if the people vote to save this Briar scum—and they’d better fucking not—then we get to make the trip to Alaska and bust Strike out ourselves. The government will be sitting back and moving on to whatever nonsense they want to worry about next. That’ll leave a wide open window for us to swoop in and get our woman. It’s the least we can do if the people really want to leave her to die with no dignity in that mansion.”
“Mr. DeVito,” a man sitting in the front row called out, half-balding as the lights gleamed off the top of his head. He stood and pushed his glasses up the ridge of his nose. “Have travel arrangements been made, just in case? I ask because that’s a very long trip from here in Iowa. And we only have two more days until Chris said he would kill her.”
“Mr. Frazier, I appreciate your concern, but we are well on top of these logistical matters,” Stephen said. This man had been a Road Runner for only six months and got dragged to these meetings by a friend, ending up a passionate member of the cause and always chiming in. The man sat down and returned his focus to Stephen.
“Has everyone completed their practice for the week?” Stephen asked, receiving dozens of nods in return. Everyone in this coalition was assigned various tasks to practice in their anticipated journey of breaking out Strike. They spared no expense as they prepared for a seemingly impossible task. Some spent all day at the shooting ranges, becoming comfortable with various guns. Others studied espionage and stealth, while some hit the gym and bulked their bodies to look like the Incredible Hulk.
They still didn’t have an exact approach for getting into the mansion, but they wanted all of their bases covered, leaving no potential weakness for exploitation.
“Good,” Stephen said to the room, energy rising. “This group works harder than anyone else in our lazy government in trying to get Strike back. I’m proud of each and every one of you. I really hope it doesn’t come down to us having to take this on ourselves, but if we must, I can’t imagine a better team to hit this motherfucker’s mansion.”
This caused the crowd to erupt—standing, clapping, whistling, and howling like savage loons.
“Are you ready to get our commander o
ut of that fucking hellhole?!” Stephen shouted, met with more thunderous applause. When the room returned to silence, Stephen continued in a much more relaxed tone. “In about fifteen minutes, Councilman Uribe is going to come on that TV screen and announce our fate. Tonight all our planning will go into motion. If we’re traveling to Alaska, you know what to do. I don’t want any emotional reactions. We need to carry ourselves with class and go about our business. For now, the bar is set up in the back of the room – enjoy some snacks, enjoy the evening. Thank you.”
One final round of applause and everyone stood from their seats, either chatting in the rows or making their way to the back of the room. The bald man worked his way to Stephen, causing him to sigh while he turned to grab a bottle of water off the table behind him.
“Stephen, do you have a moment, please?” the man asked.
“Ah, Mr. Frazier. What can I do for you?” Stephen asked, promptly sticking the bottle in his mouth.
“I know I’m new, but I really want to be on the flight to Alaska if it comes to it.”
“Mr. Frazier, we have policy in place for a reason. You need to be a Road Runner for at least one year.”
“I understand that, but why does that matter? It’s not like this group is an official part of the Road Runners. We’re just a group of Road Runners taking a matter into our own hands.”
“We put that measure in place to ensure we have experienced time travelers going on these dangerous missions.”
“If I may, who cares? If danger is the question, what does experience matter? I’m willing to risk my life for this cause. Shouldn’t that be enough?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“No, you’re not making it simple. I would think for a task as grave as this you would want all hands on deck. Anyone willing to go should be allowed to.”
Keeper of Time (Wealth of Time Series, Book 4) Page 5