by Drew Avera
I walked proudly back to my desk with a few handshakes and pats on the back along the way. I sat at my monitor and watched the screens more diligently than I had in several months. The monotonous nature of the job had subsided now that I had stoked the fire, so to speak. The woman at the diner had been more than willing to help drug him, and the best part was that no autopsies are administered to those killed for traitorous acts.
I grinned from ear to ear. The fact that it was this easy to find a rewarding work environment was very pleasing indeed. And to think that only a few weeks ago I wanted to put a bullet through my own skull. Times they were a-changing.
I clicked from image to image while thoughts of the waitress with yellowed teeth and scraggly hair would be waiting tonight for her payment flashed across my mind. That was the only downside to my plan, the cost. Another smile crossed my lips as I knew the precise way to handle her lonely situation. Perhaps her payment would not cost me anything at all.
9
CHAPLAIN HARRIS
I could not help the shakiness of my knees as I exited the transporter. Despite the silent restraint of Private Bronson, I was tormented by the wavering fortitude that I had seen as he was led away. I knew that I had done more than condemn a man to death. I had nullified the last shred of faith that he had. I tried to avoid the courtyard area of the base, which was where all executions took place. I could not avoid hearing the report of the gunfire that reverberated off the high, gated walls. The concussion of the execution echoed and the smoke from the weapons wafted towards the heavens. Another sacrifice to preserve our lack of freedom, but at least I was still alive.
I entered my office in the chapel and turned on the TV. Media reports covered the massacre, which was being downplayed in order to preserve the image of our bastard president. I cursed under my breath and pulled a bottle of tequila from my desk drawer. It was illegal for me to have this bottle on base, but no one ever suspected a chaplain of wrongdoing. We were the elite in an organization of disdain.
I pulled a shot glass from the drawer, slapped it onto the desk next to the bottle and glared at it. Why did I subject myself to such a life? What good did I do in the name of God? I witnessed death every day, I even sent people to death every day. My actions and inactions had caused more discord than should be allowed. I no longer had a crisis of faith. I had no damned faith at all. I couldn't even pray because I felt unworthy to say His name.
I filled the shot glass to the brim and downed its contents. The burning in my throat spread to the rest of my body and I wondered if hell would be like this, only the burn would last forever. I knew that I deserved what was coming.
I poured another shot and tossed it back, consuming the liquid with my eyes closed. This process repeated several times until I knew I’d had enough. Not of the alcohol, but life in its entirety.
The tequila was not the only illegal thing contained in my drawer. I pulled the .9mm from its holster and chambered a round. The room was practically spinning at this point, but I was lucid enough to know that I was doing the world a favor. It did not need me or want me anymore. Any good I had in me had dried out and would never be restored.
I looked at the TV once again and saw that an officer had been executed for being a traitor. It was funny how I felt the traitor for serving the government.
"I'll see you on the other side," I said the image of the slain man on the screen.
I lifted the barrel to my temple and squeezed the trigger.
10
PETER DRAKE
"Once again, great job tonight, Peter," Captain Troy said as I was walking out the door. Another long night of work was behind me, but this was no ordinary night. This one had brought positive attention to me in a way I had never received the last ten years of working at the precinct. I was on cloud nine thinking about what the future had in store for me.
There were others in my office who would be subjected to my plot. They were the ones who had given me a hard time and treated me unfairly. They would all pay. I would make sure of it.
I rounded the corner and almost fell over the unconscious body of a junkie. His blond hair was matted to his head and he smelt of stale booze and cigarette smoke. I wanted to kick the shit out of him for picking such a disrespectful place to get his fix, but an idea arose in my mind.
Who better to take the rap for murdering the waitress than a no-good junkie?
It would be perfect.
I knelt to check to see if he was breathing and discovered that he had almost slept the effects of the drug off already.
"Hey, man. Why are you touching me?" He asked groggily.
"I'm sorry, sir. I was checking to make sure you were alright. Are you hungry?" I asked. I could see a smile trying to form on his dry, cracked lips.
"I'm starving."
"Well let's see what we can do about that. Shall we?" I extended a hand to him and he grasped it. His grip was stronger than I had presumed it would be. Lucky for me, he was clueless as to what my plan for him would be.
Together we walked silently towards the diner. It was one of the twenty-four hour variety, but it attracted only the loathsome creatures of the night. Mornings left it a barren wasteland of overcooked food and filthy counters. Together, we entered the front door of the establishment and sat at the counter. The waitress approached with a slight limp. Her varicose veins were more apparent as the sunlight shone through the plate glass windows. Hues of purple and green knots in her old legs were the sign of too many hours on her feet. Those days soon would be over.
"Good morning, Peter. I saw the news last night. It's so sad about James turning out to be a traitor huh?" She winked at me and fought to hide a smile.
The junkie next to me wobbled from side to side. I couldn't tell if it was nerves or if he was doing it on purpose. "Yeah, we are all shaken up about it at the office. You just never know who you're working with," I said. "Say, do you think you can get my new friend here some breakfast?"
She looked him over with a smug look on her face. The bitch had no reason to look down on him. She was the same as him, she just didn't see it the way I did. "I suppose so. He kind of stinks, though."
I shook my head affirmatively but said, "Don't say such things, Matilda. Everyone has their struggles. You should know that more than most."
She nodded and walked over to place the order with the cook in the back. She returned with two cups of coffee and placed them in front of us. I picked up the jar of sugar and started pouring.
"You know, friend. I don't yet know your name," I said while pouring. I attempted to speak in as friendly and sophisticated as possible. I knew most people felt inferior when you spoke to them a certain way. It was a form of manipulation I enjoyed immensely.
"Travis. My name is Travis, sir."
"My name is Peter. It's good to meet you." I extended my hand for him to shake and he took it. I made eye contact with him and he seemed to wince, almost as if I had scared him.
"It's good to be in your company, sir," he finally said once the color returned to his cheeks.
I found him odd and decided to end the conversation there by just patting him on the back. I didn't need much information on him. I just needed him to be seen in the diner. I looked around and could see two women in the corner looking over at us, at him most likely.
Good, an alibi.
Matilda came back with a plate for Travis and set it in front of him. I pulled out some cash and placed it in on the counter to pay for the meal and coffees. "Look here. I've got to run, but I’ll meet up with you this evening, Matilda. Is that alright?"
Her lips curled into a smile as her answer. Her loneliness was her biggest weakness, and I was going to use it to my advantage.
I winked at her and left the diner behind, making a point to wave at the ladies in the corner booth on my way out.
11
STEPHEN O’NEIL
I sat while my wife and children retired to bed for the evening. The same clips of me portraying the
President aired over and over. Each time my hesitation in answering the reporter’s question seemed to linger for much longer than the previous airing. I knew it was all in my mind, but I was thinking that I was about to lose the last hopeless bit of sanity I had left.
If not for my family, I would have eaten a bullet a long time ago. I couldn't help but feel that I held power in this business relationship. I might not really be president, but the citizens of the American Union believed that I was. What if I was to die?
What if indeed.
The gears that were turning, contemplating my way out, suddenly stopped. The answer to that what if is that my family will be executed like animals. I would not be here to protect them, so what would I be saving them from?
I was under constant surveillance. They called it protection, but it was really censorship. It was really a life in prison.
I tried to stretch the weariness from my body before standing. It was one in the morning and I needed to sleep. The faux position as president demanded that I keep up appearances while the real President Caleb Fulton ran things behind the scenes. Everyone in the administration knew the secret, but it was well hidden from the people. I imagined that even if society was to find out the truth, Fulton would still hold a lot of power in this new government.
I say new, but this failed-democracy-turned-dictatorship had been in existence for almost fifty years. The fall of America, the true America, had happened before I was born. I still remembered the stories from my father about how great it was when he was a kid. My grandfather held his America in an even higher regard.
But it was nothing like it used to be. “Freedom was a chain to enslavement,” President Fulton had said. The enslaved feel entitled to everything. They toil for their wages and their handouts, never once realizing that they leached from the true contributors of society. It is through oppression that a man finds his worth. Through gritted teeth he learns to truly live.”
Raving applause surrounded me after I spoke those words during the campaign. How could people believe that? How could people willingly give up freedom from exploitation for serving a government that hates them?
I walked silently to the bedroom and opened the door. The lights were off, but I could still see Carol’s pale form. Usually she snored, even though she denied it intensely. I smiled at the thought of how she turned up her nose at the thought of snoring when while laughing she would occasionally snort. I found it more endearing than she did.
I moved over to her and pressed my lips to her cheek to kiss her goodnight. As I pulled my lips from her skin I noticed something slightly off about her. I pressed the back of my hand against her cheek where I had kissed her and her skin was cold and stiff.
"No!" I said as I tried to nudge her awake. "Carol!" I practically shouted as I shook her by her shoulders, but her body had been dead for at least a few hours. Her joints were stiff and I knew the sad truth was that it was far too late for me to save her.
I picked up the phone and dialed for security.
"Yes, sir," the operator answered.
"Yes, I need a doctor," I said with tears in my eyes.
"What's wrong, sir?"
Through choking sobs, I answered. "My wife is dead."
12
SYDNEY TYLER
"I'm not saying that the President is heartless, I'm just saying that declaring war on citizens by labeling them terrorists isn't the best way to run a 'free' country. For instance, my opinion on the matter would have me executed in the streets if I lived there. It's a shame really. The liberty for which the United States was known for its greatness eventually led to its downfall. I'm not saying that it was a deserved punishment for the philandering culture that freedom created, but justice is sometimes unjust..."
"Let me stop you there, Prime Minister Leonard," I said. The older man hesitated to stop speaking, but it was nothing that a simple muting of his microphone could not handle. The British Prime Minister was one of the most vocal advocates for restoration in the American Union, and he had gone on record as saying that the split in the United States had been a decision made by a weak government. Cession was not what killed America, but a lapse in the moral integrity of the country as a whole. He might have been right, but I could never say that on this side of the political line.
The cameraman focused on my face as I spoke, the cold gaze of noncommittal eyes streaming to the millions of viewers of our news program. "We are stopping the interview with Prime Minister Leonard to bring you breaking news. It has been confirmed by President Fulton's liaison that his wife, Carol Fulton, has been found dead due to a suspected chemical reaction with medication. Her doctor has stated that under normal conditions, her use of prescription medications should not have caused such a reaction, but his words have fallen under scrutiny by other physicians who have called him a careless quack.
"First Lady Fulton is survived by our President and their three children, Taylor, Quinton, and Rebecca. Services have not yet been scheduled. More information will follow once a full autopsy has been conducted. The family is in our thoughts this morning. We are sorry for your loss, Mr. President."
The commercial break following my report removed my image from the large screen in the room. I had not expected such a tragic event to take place in our nation's capital. The Fultons had always seemed like such a well-collected family. Never would I have thought that such a thing would happen to a family that cohesive.
"Are you alright, Sydney?" Prime Minister Leonard asked through the still active satellite feed. It took me a moment to respond.
"Yes, Frank. I'm fine. I'm just a bit shocked by the news," I said, forgetting my manners and calling him by his first name in front of stray ears. We were personally involved, and I wasn't thinking about hiding that fact at the moment.
"It is shocking," he said. "I think that there may be more to it, though."
"Like what?"
"I'd rather not say, but when you fly in tomorrow we can discuss it."
"Alright, I look forward to seeing you. It's been a long time."
"Yes, two weeks is such a hardship for being away from me," he joked with the big, toothy grin that I found so attractive to his otherwise rugged features.
Frank Leonard was one of the youngest serving Prime Ministers in recent history. He was also a huge advocate for freedom both in England and other countries. That was why he was so popular; he supported others with the causes that he backed.
That was what drew him to my radar in the first place. I couldn't believe that it had been two years already. I was a lucky gal. I had a sexy man in my life, complete with a foreign accent. I was the envy of all of my friends.
"Easy, mister, I just meant that being away from all that London has to offer was kind of tough. I made no mention of you whatsoever," I laughed at my own attempt at a joke. One of the things that I loved about him was his way to ease tension in a room. No more than two minutes ago I was caught in the shock of the latest newscast. Now, I was smiling as if the tragedy never occurred.
"I knew you just loved me for my address."
Still laughing I said, "You got me! I'll see you tomorrow, alright?"
"That sounds great. I can't wait to see you!" he said with a flourish of accent just for me. And with those words we signed off from our satellite connection. Once again, I was in the newsroom and the thirty second warning had started. I read over the newsfeed once more to prepare for the next segment of the broadcast.
It was about an execution and a suicide.
13
HENRY BURKE
This was the first time I had to touch a dead body. My unit had simulated this kind of thing many times during training, but nothing comes close to resembling a lifeless body. The touch, the feel, the smell, even the feeling in the room was different than I had imagined.
"We have a Caucasian male subject. Approximately thirty-two years old according to his identification card. He had brown hair and brown eyes, but none of that is distinguishable at this ti
me. Cause of death is a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Based upon evidence found at the scene, we have reason to believe that illegal alcoholic consumption may have been a factor. We will need to wait for a toxicology screening in order to be sure," the coroner spoke into a recording device as I took pictures of the scene. It was grotesque to say the least.
"Do you need any more photographs, sir?" I asked, hoping for a reprieve from what my eyes had beheld. I couldn't even look at the deceased for more than a few seconds without feeling the need to throw up.
"Is it getting to you, Burke?" he asked without a hint of concern.
"It is, sir. I've never seen something like this before."
"You have ten minutes, then come back and help me prepare the body for transport." Mr. Price was a cold man. He had served the government as a coroner for over twenty years and, in that time, he had probably seen hundreds of thousands of bodies. His gray hair hung over the collar of his shirt and his glasses dangled crookedly on his nose.
"Yes, sir, thank you," I said as I hurried out the door. The office felt like a coffin and I had no reason to want to return, but it was my duty to do so. To think I had joined the military to work on aircraft, not play coroner's lackey all night. I guess it wasn't meant to be.
I stepped outside as the sun had barely begun its ascent into the sky. The sheen of light reflecting from the edges of the clouds looked majestic. I was infatuated with the sky. Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to fly, to absorb the sunlight from twenty-thousand feet above the ground.
Instead, I was stuck with the dead. I had checked into my command only four days ago and I already hated it. Serving my country wasn't what I thought it would be. My father had tried to tell me before I left for training, but of course at seventeen I thought I knew everything. It was now obvious to me that I had a lot to learn.