by Drew Avera
I looked down at my watch and saw just how fast time could fly when it opposed your wishes. I spit the taste of stale, dead air from my mouth and took one last deep breath before going back inside. The coroner had waited for me, sitting on the couch in the deceased chaplain’s office, just staring at the horrific display as if the answer to all of life's questions might once again be uttered from the lips of the slain.
"Time's up already?" he asked, not looking up at me.
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Grab a body bag from over there and get it ready for me," he ordered with a point of his finger.
I moved over to the other side of the room and grabbed a large body bag, removing the clear packaging from around it. It smelled of burnt plastic as I opened it. The coroner kept his eyes on the body, which made me nervous. What if the body woke up and wasn't dead after all, his brains half poured from his head? I knew it was impossible, but the feeling of anxiety washed over me anyway.
"I'm ready, sir," I said as I stood with the body bag strewn on the floor.
He rose from the couch and asked, "Heads or tails?"
"I don't understand," I said, puzzled by what he was asking me.
He cleared his throat. "Do you want the head or the feet, Burke?"
I looked at the body again and my answer came immediately to my lips. "I’ll take the feet, sir, if you don't mind."
He nodded his head and moved towards the upper body. What was left of Chaplain Harris lay slumped, head tilted to his left. The dried blood was caked all over his uniform jacket. A crucifix, half silver and half tinged with the blood dangled over the side of the chair like a pendulum. I moved to the feet, and on three we lifted the body and set it in the bag.
I watched as the coroner zipped the bag from the feet all the way to the head and closed the man inside, never closing the eyes, the chaplain's cold gaze eternally cast into darkness.
I took a deep breath, feeling uneasy. I realized almost too late why. I ran out of the office and to the front door of the building. Once outside, the fresh air did little to settle my stomach. My only relief came through a hail of spent breakfast.
With God as my witness, I hated my new job.
14
PETER DRAKE
The cigarette smoke burned my eyes. It was not something I was used to, but it only seemed natural that I explored other dangers in life to match the deeds which I was planning to do. I watched Matilda walk out of the diner with slow steps, the hours of work clearly taking their toll on her vitality. I stepped out of the alley to follow her home. The small steps that I took were perhaps as arduous for me as they were for her, but for different reasons.
I reached into my pocket and found the syringe, filled with enough juice to knock her out for a few hours. It would be plenty of time for my plan to come together.
We cleared six city blocks before she turned onto a small side street. This area of Chicago had been riddled with violence during the second civil war. Now it was just a hopeless ghetto, full of the disenfranchised Americans who had been tossed aside like the nothing that they were worth. Did I pity them? Hell no. If you can't contribute to a cause then what cause do I have to contribute to you?
I knew Matilda did not fit into my characterization of useless in the same way that Travis did, but she was bottom feeder nonetheless. Her wiles had been for nothing more than pleasuring the neural centers of her brain with drugs, alcohol, and promiscuity; the rotting of moral values personified in front of me.
She walked to a red front door that hadn't seen a fresh coat of paint in over thirty years. I saw uncut grass falling over and choking itself out. She dropped her door key and stopped to bend over and retrieve it. Now was my time to act.
"Matilda!" I called to her when she was bent over.
She stood without grabbing her key, looking at me with confusion on her face. "I thought we were going to meet up tonight," she said, her hands on her hips.
"Tell me, how could I wait that long to be in your wonderful presence?" I said with a tinge of flirtatious flair. She was a sucker for that kind of thing.
"Well, how can I refuse the company of such a young, handsome man?" She asked with a wink. I restrained the need to hurl at the thought of what she had planned. Luckily it would never happen.
I smiled at her to win her over before my silence set off any concern. "Let me grab those keys for you," I said as I bent down to fetch them.
"How chivalrous of you," she replied as she rubbed a hand along my back and rested it in between the waistband of my pants and my body. She was eager and I was ready for this to be over. I stood up and handed her the key with a toothy smile and a wink.
"Thank you," she said as she took the key and focused her attention on unlocking the door. While she was distracted, I took the syringe from my pocket and followed her inside. Before she could turn to face me, I inserted the needle into her neck and emptied it into her bloodstream. She never saw it coming.
15
STEPHEN O’NEIL
The image of my wife's body being carried out in a body bag had not left my mind for the last several hours. It was on constant repeat and each time it felt like I was there, standing over her, inches from her cold flesh and distant soul. Our children were awake now and I had no idea how to break the news to them that Mommy was in Heaven.
The weakness inside me contemplated how easy it would be for them to discover the truth, or what was being presented as the truth, from one of the many media outlets relaying the story. Each news feed presented a similar statement about complications with medicine, but I knew the truth. It was in her letter to me, which I still held in my hands. The parchment paper was moist and crinkled from the many tears I had shed and the anger that unleashed itself in a flurry of tight squeezes as I tried to wring what was left of her life from her words.
I was without hope, and now I was out of time. There was no easy way to tell children of loss. There was only the way that was etched in pain and grief. Would they blame themselves as most children did when hardship befell a family, the same way that I had blamed myself for my parents’ divorce? God, I hoped not.
I could hear the stomping of feet in the other room and I knew that I was moments away from being greeted by the smiling faces of happy children. Would they hate me for taking that happiness away? Could I stall the moment until later and enjoy one last breakfast with kids who still believed that all was right with the world? I felt like a monster for even thinking about it, much less eagerly wanting to heed that heed and wait.
Alas, I could not. I would not.
"Daddy!" Our youngest child, Rebecca, leaped into my arms and hugged me with a strength that defied her small frame. "What's wrong?" she asked as she looked into my eyes, still burning from hours spent in tears over our loss. I could say nothing, but I could hug her as the other two gathered around with concern on their young, precious faces.
"Dad," Taylor said. I could see the worry building on his face until I could hold it in no more.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Those were the only words that I could get out before the sobs choked the words from my throat. My body convulsed from my grief.
"What's the matter?" Taylor asked again, this time with tears in his eyes. "Where's Mom?"
I looked up with horror on my face as the question tore at my heart with every bit of malice that could be mustered into words. I had done this. I had made it so that my children would have to grow up without their mother. I was the one to blame. My decisions had failed her, failed our family. I had been a monster well before last evening. I became a monster as soon as I agreed to serve President Fulton, to act on his behalf to further destroy America and what it once represented. In some sick way, I had agreed to destroy my family.
"I'm sorry, kids, but Mommy's gone," I finally said with a hoarse voice. I didn't sound like myself. I sounded like the monster I felt like.
"Where did she go?" Rebecca asked.
Through heavy tears I answered her question. "Mo
mmy went to Heaven, Rebecca."
16
PRESIDENT FULTON
“The truth is just a metaphor for what is acceptable, Jared." I moved my wheelchair over to the window and looked out as the storm clouds moved across the Chicago sky. "He needn't think that it was a suicide in order to conform to my plans. Was it a harsh treatment for such an infraction? I would imagine it so, but he has been given multiple attempts to control his act and to conform to the standards."
Jared shifted his weight to his other foot and crossed his arms. "It's bad business, sir. I'm not presuming to tell you how to conduct business, but you need to realize that this could cause more harm than good for you." Jared was a wise man with a bit of an outspoken tactfulness that I found refreshing. Not every leader required a "yes" to every question that they ask.
"I understand and I thank you for your concern."
The billowing clouds above were moving faster now as the wind pushed them away. It was tornado weather, which was my favorite sort. I enjoyed the howl of wind and the uncertainty that the magnificent storms produced. Perhaps there was a similar kind of storm raging inside of me. "Now, tell me about the talks conducted with the Confederates and the Californians."
"The talks went as you had expected, sir. The Confederates have no desire to trade with the American Union and they said that the oppressive nature of your governing did nothing to prove we were worth their time. Of course, they are oil rich snobs and have a large portion of agricultural commodities that help them isolate themselves. California is a bit different. They are interested in furthering talks about trade. Apparently, their involvement with China did not go as well as they had hoped and their economy has suffered greatly for it. Would you like for me to arrange those talks?"
He was right—things did go as I had suspected. "Yes, but open the door for talks with the Confederates again. They have resources we need and I don't plan on taking no for an answer. Also, see what we can get out of California besides access to the Pacific trade routes. I know they have a lot of imported drugs coming from Mexico, which they use to supplement their economy; I'd like to get some figures to see if that is something lucrative for us. God knows we have enough users in our neck of the woods. We might as well make something off of them."
Jared stood tall and I could see a smile stretch across his lips. Illicit drug use was still illegal in the American Union, but it wasn't for a lack of support from the people. I just refused to legalize anything from which I would not profit.
"I will do just that, Mr. Fulton. Is there anything else I can do for you?" he asked.
"Are you in a rush, Jared?"
"It's date night with Lindsey. You know how it is," he grinned. Lindsey was not Jared's wife; she was his mistress, someone I had the pleasure of being entertained by before.
"Yes, I do know exactly how it is." And with whom, I thought to myself and I suppressed a smile.
Jared nodded his head and dismissed himself from the room as I watched the clouds part in the sky above. Sometimes storms were not as powerful as they seemed.
17
SYDNEY TYLER
The news room was empty around me as I stood in front of the now dead cameras. The teleprompter was black and void of the latest spin to be revealed to the nation. My thoughts drifted to First Lady Carol Fulton. I had met her at a banquet after President Fulton's election and she had struck me as a very nice woman. I couldn't imagine the pain of the secret she had kept from the world up until her suspected overdose. I swallowed the lump in my throat, unwilling to give in to the emotional response of losing such a pivotal member of our society, regardless of how I felt about that society.
"Great show this morning," my director, John Hall said as he walked passed me. His long hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and he looked like at one time he could have been a model. That time could not have been any more recent than ten or fifteen years, though.
"Yes, it was. But it was also kind of sad," I answered.
He put both hands in his pockets and looked at me with deep set, green eyes. "Celebrities die, it's the memories we have of them that make them live eternally. Think back to every president who served in the United States; you have some great men who will be forever remembered. And you know what? Those memories we carry with us are unfortunately a lot better than the actions those men and women were actually responsible for." He shrugged his shoulders as if his point was supposed to comfort me.
"Thanks a lot, John. Now I get to revel in the fact that Carol Fulton's death will allow me to think better of her than she really was. That's a nice way to put it," I said with as much sarcasm as I could manage. His words hit me hard for some reason. I know that I didn't know the woman very well on a personal level, but something about the nonchalant way in which he dismissed her life made me feel that he was a heartless son of a bitch.
"Hey, I meant no harm. I was just trying to point out that her memory will remain. You don't have to be so damned sensitive. If I would have known you felt this way about it, I would have asked Clive to give the report." He looked at me with more disdain than he ever had before. Perhaps I had overstepped a boundary between us. Maybe that unfortunate lapse in judgment on my part made him curious if there were things that I was hiding. Things like my opinion on the so called "Outliers" and the "threat" they posed against the American Union.
"I'm sorry," I said, trying to fake a smile. I was a professional actress like most news anchors. He bought it. "I'm just a little more emotional today for some reason."
He chuckled. "Yeah, I get that." He turned to walk away without saying goodbye and left me alone in the large, darkened room. The few lights that remained were reflecting off the camera lenses and monitors around the room. The large window that served as a divider from the control room showed my reflection. My pale skin danced against the window as the closing exit door shifted the refracted light around the room.
I could see in my reflection the woman who the citizens of the American Union saw every morning when they woke up and got ready for their day. She was the woman who brought them the latest news, informing them of what was ahead. I wondered if they realized all I really did was spin propaganda as I stared into a camera that fed me my lines. I was nothing more than a puppet, and I hated what I had become. Perhaps in a different time I would have been an honest woman, content with her life and settled with a family.
I hoped that opportunity had not passed me by. I pursed my lips in a smile as I thought about my trip to London to see my boyfriend. Perhaps there was more to my relationship with Prime Minister Frank Leonard than either of us could see. My heart felt lighter for thinking so.
I walked out of the newsroom and left the morning of sadness behind. Tomorrow would be a new day, a better day.
18
PETER DRAKE
A basement in a low-income neighborhood would serve as an appropriate place to conduct my business. I had surveyed the property and found that the homes on either side of Matilda's house were vacant. Her basement was fairly large and had only two windows allowing light to penetrate the dark.
"Perfect," I said. I checked on Matilda's unconscious body as it may in a heap on the floor of her living room. Her gray hair was a mess and what was left of her makeup was smudged. It didn't matter to me. Everyone died regardless of their outward appearance. You didn't have to dress for a ball in order to be tied and tortured. You just had to be there.
I left Matilda tied to a drain pipe in the basement as I left to collect my scapegoat, Travis. I found him precisely where I thought I would, at the diner.
I entered through the front door and found that it was mostly empty.
"Hey, buddy," I said as I popped a squat next to him on a barstool.
He looked at me startled and greeted me in return. "Hello again, Officer," he said while nursing another cup of coffee.
"I thought I told you my name was Peter," I chided with a playful slap on his back. He chuckled nervously.
"My bad, Peter,"
he said.
I grinned. "That's better. How was the meal?"
He leaned in a bit closer before speaking. "I don't recommend the eggs, but the bacon was pretty good."
I nodded my head and lifted my hand to get the waitress’s attention. She stood before us only a few seconds later.
"How can I help you, sir?"
"Yes, could I get a plate with extra bacon and no eggs?" I asked her, twiddling my thumbs.
"I think we can do that," she said with a smile. "Would you like a coffee while you wait?"
"Yes, please," I answered and watched the younger woman walk away. I imagined a time in my life when I would have found her attractive, but I knew the kind of filth I would find in someone like her and I shook my head at the thought.
"Is there something wrong?" Travis asked me.
I looked at him and showed a toothy grin. "There’s nothing wrong at all, my friend."
19
STEPHEN O’NEIL
I lined up the medicine bottles in front of me and read the labels. Nowhere on either one of the medications did it say that it was unsafe to use with alcohol or other medications. Not that Carol was a heavy drinker by any means, but let's face it; I needed her death to be an accident. I couldn't fathom the idea that she was willing to end her life and leave our three children without a mother. If that was the case then I could already feel the bitterness build as I thought of how selfish an act suicide is.
I could hear the TV in the next room while my kids watched a program, trying to remove their thoughts from our loss. I wondered if it worked or if they were just too numb to cry anymore.
Carol's funeral was scheduled for tomorrow, and I knew that the viewing was going to be difficult. I had never been comfortable at funerals. I didn't want to share my emotions with the world, so instead I always suppressed them. The only problem with that were the odd looks from people expecting you to cry, thinking that you were a robot if you didn't.