by Drew Avera
Too many! But the parade still circles the square and the horns still sound to the herald of applause while liberty turns to ash at our feet. They’re all blind to it, but I am blind no longer. Everything I was ever taught was a lie.
Up ahead I saw the crumbled remains of the shack. It was an access area to an underground tunnel system that could take a person all the way to downtown Chicago. It hadn't been used in years, based on the looks of it, but I knew better than to make such assumptions. I stepped closer and investigated the access area, looking for signs of a trap. Rust covered every piece of metal in the structure and the wooden pallets were all but completely rotted out. There was the smell of decay which was surely the result of rodents dying in the small nooks and crannies. I could relate to their passing. I too was rotting in a small place, my life forfeit for a cause I once believed in. Now all I believed in was revenge. I shook the thought from my mind and continued looking for signs of something wrong. Once I was satisfied, I lowered myself in through a manhole that had been obscured by debris. It was a tight fit, made to look more like a maintenance hatch than a door leading underground. Deception was key when it came to hiding a way to get behind enemy lines.
Once my feet were on the ground below, I pulled the cover back on. I tugged on a lanyard, and dim red lighting illuminated the tunnels. I chose the one leading towards Chicago and began walking, thankful for the fact lunch had been served prior to the arrival of my visitor. It was a long walk, but one I had looked forward to for the past thirty years. I just hoped I was still the man I thought I was—for both my family and my country.
39
SYDNEY TYLER
I couldn’t help noticing how cheap the department store suit looked on the young agent. The first hour of our “interview” comprised his pacing around the room, muttering to himself as if he was trying to psyche himself up to talk to me. If that was not strange enough, he was also sweating profusely by the time he sat down—and the room was chilly. I didn’t know if this was his first time interrogating someone, but I wasn’t exactly thrilled to be locked in a room with him as he stared at me. He wore a look on his face that made me think he was about as intelligent as a circus animal, and then he spoke.
"So, they just let you go?" He asked for about the dozenth time in the last twenty minutes. I was getting tired of the back and forth and just wanted to go home. I didn’t know what else they thought they were going to get out of me, but I had nothing else to offer besides a sharp tongue and I doubted they would appreciate that as a peace offering for wasting my time.
"That's what I said. I told the last two agents the same story. I thought he was going to shoot me as I felt what I thought was a gun put to my head. The next thing I knew, I was lying in the terminal where your people found me." I was more than irritated with the charade; add to it the fact I had to keep explaining myself to these government lackeys didn't make things any better. The part of me with a dark sense of humor wondered what would happen if I suddenly changed my story and sent them on a wild goose chase. I doubted it would get me out of here any sooner, so I decided to stick with the truth. At least this version of it
"Well, I think we have everything we need. Would you like a doctor to check you out?"
I rolled my eyes. That should have been their first priority if they gave a damn about me. Instead, they waste my time and before releasing me ask if I want a doctor. "I don't think I've suffered anything life threatening, thank you," I said with more than a hint of sarcasm. I swallowed the urge to tell him and his buddies to go to hell.
"Yes, ma'am." He replied. He brushed a tuft of hair out of his face and tried to win me over with a smile. It was nauseating. "If you need anything, here is my card. Call me." He pushed a do-it-yourself business card across the table, the perforated edges screaming amateur hour. I didn't reach for it. "I'm sorry for your ordeal, but rest assured we are on it. We will track these people down for you, Mrs. Tyler." The fact he expected me to be confident in what he was saying after the most unprofessional interrogation of my life was reprehensible. I have interviewed actual terrorists in Syria and Iran with more professionalism than I was shown by my own people.
"My hero," I said as I waved him off. I felt as if the interrogation lasted longer than my captivity. All I wanted was to be out of the enclosed area and to make a call without prying ears. They confiscated my cell phone, and a part of me wondered if they were going to tap it. I wouldn’t doubt it.
"Yes," he started to say something then stopped himself. It was the smartest thing he had done so far. He placed my cell phone onto the table and I snatched it up, the casing warm from being in his hand for several minutes. I thought it odd that I hadn’t noticed him holding it before, but I shook the thought away as I watched him leave the room. He kept the door open for me. As I grabbed my purse and followed him out, his business card still lay on the table. "Take care, ma'am."
I strode past him and towards the exit without looking back. As I stepped outside, I could tell by how dark the sky was that I was behind schedule. I cussed under my breath as I walked down the barren sidewalk. I wanted to revel in the fact I was free, but there was too much to do and too little time to accomplish it. It was just another stressor in my life that I didn’t need, but I knew what I'd signed up for before getting to this point. There was no use in regretting the decision now: I was in too deep. With that thought, I pushed forward, walking quickly to the cab waiting at the curb.
It was time to get to work.
40
PETER DRAKE
Salt, or sodium, is a part of life. I'm sure William was aware of this, based on his habitual use of the salt shaker for every meal he brought in to work. His threatening demeanor had not left my thoughts, and I would be damned if I let his attitude towards me go without "Justice". I screwed the shaker back together and placed it back in its spot on his desk. He typically took eleven to fifteen minutes to prepare his meal in the staff lounge before bringing it back to his desk to consume. I waited two minutes after he left before I reached for the salt shaker, knowing it would take another two minutes to do what needed to be done and replace it. He had meatloaf today, which meant he would be gone no more than twelve minutes to prepare the meal. I paid attention to details such as that.
I reclined back in my chair and watched my monitors while I waited for him to return. The "Outliers" we're busy dreaming dreams while the real contributors to society, such as me, labored to keep a watchful eye on them. A part of me envied them their privilege to lament about our government while sucking at the same government’s tit, draining the tax dollars I had to pay for them to live a life on par with my own. Sometimes I hoped for an alert, just one reason to stimulate my evening. My finger dangled above the alert switch as I pondered what would happen if someone was to step out of line, just one inch, and I was there to see it, to raise the alarm that would drag them kicking and screaming from their beds and tossed into a prison cell. Or worse? I could see Mr. James Matthews, while he slept, his feet shifting lightly under his bedsheets, being executed in the street for owning the weapon tucked beneath his pillow. I knew it was there, but I understood why it was there. Mr. Matthews lived in a dangerous neighborhood when the cops were not around. Who would protect his home against a real threat if he did not own the Beretta? My thoughts shifted to wondering if he would use it on the incoming law enforcement that would drag him outside. Better to die in your bed trying to defend yourself than to be forced from your home and shot in the street? I looked down to see my finger resting on the switch, eager to depress it, but I wasn’t ready to end the little game I was playing with Mr. Matthews. The time would come, though, when the game had to end, and he would never see it coming. I laughed softly at the thought. I was bored, and "idle hands were the devil's workshop," as my father used to say.
I looked up in time to see William as he left the lounge and traipsed over to his desk, food in hand. I could tell by the smell it was his wife's meatloaf with a side of her garlic mash
ed potatoes. I was more than pleased to see such a meal, considering the fact theirs was a rocky relationship. He sat down and pulled his chair under his desk to reassume his duty while stirring mashed potatoes with a plastic fork. I kept sight of him out of the corner of my eye and waited for him to grab the salt shaker. The intensity of my anticipation was like a sugar rush in a five-year-old boy. I was almost jittery because of it.
A few moments later he finally grabbed the shaker and sprinkled its contents onto his food. I watched, almost salivating myself, as the deed happened before my eyes. He stirred it in and took a bite, but nothing happened. He took another, and another, and I grew nervous, thinking I might have failed. That I made a mistake and miscalculated how much was needed to harm him.
That sensation passed soon enough as he slouched forward and grabbed his throat. His back was to me, but I knew it was over for him. The dim lighting of the room and high cubicle walls obscured his view to most of the other employees. I continued watching through my peripheral until I knew he was done. His body stiffened and fell to the floor. He rolled onto his back and I could see blood oozing from his mouth and bubbling with each shallow breath he took.
He made eye contact with me for a moment, and as the light in his eyes faded I waved goodbye.
41
STEPHEN O’NEIL
I paced the suite as my children slept, full of regret for exposing the truth about Caleb Fulton. Was I doing the right thing? I thought I was, but I had a responsibility to my children, to protect them from harm even if it put myself in danger. Was I a coward for seeking refuge in a foreign country? There were many answers to that question. The fact Prime Minister Leonard believed what I had told him and was willing to help me gave me hope. It was something I hadn’t felt since Carol died.
A red light blinked on the phone, alerting me to a message. I'd been avoiding it for the last six hours. No one except Prime Minister Leonard knew I was here, but it would be dangerous for him to leave a message. What if it was Fulton and he had found me somehow? What if his men were waiting for me outside? A hundred other questions flooded my mind in a whirlwind. The more I thought about it, the more nervous I grew. I could feel the stomach pains beginning to churn as the stress and anxiety took hold of me. No amount of ignoring the red blinking light would ease my worries.
A quote came to mind: "He who sows the wind will reap the whirlwind." It was a warning not to bite off more than you can chew. I felt like a victim as I pondered the countless ways Fulton could make me pay. He already took my wife from me. What was next—my kids, my parents, childhood friends? In the end, he would see me pay if I did nothing to try and stop him. I might pay regardless of my attempts. The light still blinked ominously on the other side of the room. It was like a beacon in a foggy harbor filled with barely submerged boulders.
Finally, I had enough. There was no changing fate, no matter how much you tried. I inhaled sharply, squinting as I pressed the button on the machine, and heard static before a voice.
"Mr. O’Neil, this is the front desk. I just wanted to check in with you and make sure our accommodations were to your liking. If you need anything, please don't hesitate to ask. Good evening."
The message was over, followed by a dial tone. I expected the tone to cut off after a few seconds, but it didn't. Instead, I heard a whirring sound that seemed to come from the master bedroom. I walked towards the sound and stopped short of the door. I paused for a second as the sound grew louder and the pitch of it elevated. A knot formed in my throat a moment before detonation; it was a moment too late.
42
CALEB FULTON
Sirens blared in the distance as a statewide manhunt ensued for General Lettum. I wasn't surprised by his escape, just that it had taken so long to happen. I maneuvered my wheelchair around the desk and peered through the window. The sun was going down, and he had been free for almost six hours. Traveling by foot would bring him to me by morning, but if I knew Lettum like I thought I did, then he would be here much sooner. I knew he would expect me to know he was coming, to not be surprised by his actions. I did and I wasn’t. Everything was going according to plan.
I decided to wait him out. He took the time to send me a message by killing my assistant so it was the least I could do to accept his company. I opened the drawer of my large oak desk and grasped the revolver, which had lain dormant for years. I hadn’t shot it in more than a decade and it was heavier than I remembered.
I opened the cylinder and checked to ensure it was loaded; you couldn't be too careful when it came to dealing with escaped prisoners. Six percussion caps looked back at me like so many eyes, so I closed the cylinder and placed the weapon in my pocket before leaving my office. Dinner would be served soon, and I didn't want my guests to be left waiting. I just hoped Lettum would make his entrance with less grandeur than his escape. That is, unless he was already downstairs and waiting. I didn’t doubt it, but I also didn’t want to assume he was here and peaceful. It had been a long time, and people changed. Regardless whether he was at the dinner tonight, I wasn’t looking forward to the questions that would await regarding his escape, but this was part of the plan I had kept secret for so many years: he was my ace in the hole.
The door clicked shut behind me as my wheelchair rolled down the hallway on shiny hardwood floors. The light reflected off the surface and made the hall feel so much brighter than the darkened sky would have provided. I turned my chair to the right at the end of the hallway and that was when I heard it.
It was the sound of company.
43
SYDNEY TYLER
There wasn't much in my life I regretted, but this was shaping up to be one of those times. My thoughts drifted to Frank and all the plans we had for when his time as Prime Minister was over. My heart was in the right place, but sometimes you just get sucked into things in life that are beyond your control. Was this that time? The hard truth was that now was the time and I was about as likely to be able to change my circumstances as a prisoner of war could change their own.
My cellphone rang again. It was Frank—I knew it without even looking at the caller ID. The message queue was filling up and I knew I had only a day or so before things would be thrust into motion, leaving my life as I once knew it behind. I resisted the urge to check the messages because I didn't want to hear his voice again. It was going to be too hard just moving on with my life.
I begrudgingly stood up and sauntered over to the kitchen for a beer. I was just like my mother, always drowning my bad decisions in another drink, but this was different. It was larger than any of her problems. It was a matter of national security, and my part in the deception was one that could either cause or prevent a war. If you asked me, I would say it was going to cause the biggest war in human history. There were too many egos and emotions involved to exact change without an escalation into war.
The phone rang again.
I chugged the beer and set the bottle down, the condensation on the glass dripping onto the granite countertop and pooling along the bottom of the bottle. I couldn't take this anymore. I had to do something to escape the torment of my situation. I opened a drawer and fumbled through it until I found a box of matches. Placing them on the counter next to the now empty bottle, I stepped over to the stove.
The pilot light danced erotically. I lowered my face and blew a puff of air, extinguishing it. My nose was soon met with the smell of that natural gas additive as I grabbed a few scented candles from the cabinet. Cinnamon was my favorite scent this time of year, and it was only fitting that it would be the last fragrance I would smell in this house. I had to get out of this life, or at least this version of it. I couldn’t afford for anyone to know where I was, or if I was alive.
I lit the candles in the dining room and placed them on the table. Doubt flooded my mind as I suddenly wondered if the candles would do the trick. I decided I would need something more certain and walked over to a lamp and shattered it. Nest I took the cord and unplugged it before strippi
ng the insulation off with a knife. I twisted the bare wires together and plugged the cord back in. Almost immediately I could see the arcing and spark created by the short between the two wires. Then came the adjustment of the timer for the light to come on in the dining room in an hour. I wanted the house to be full of gas before the sparks started flying. This will work, I thought hopefully.
Satisfied, I walked out of the house and left the life I knew behind. I didn’t know what the future would hold, but I knew it was none of the things from my past. Those days were gone. As I closed the door behind me, I could hear the phone ringing one last time.
“I’m sorry, Frank,” I whispered. “You have no idea how sorry I am.”
44
PETER DRAKE
My world was spinning. So many people falling before William’s lifeless body, trying to resuscitate him; to reanimate those vacant eyes. They were staring at me, still and distant. I could see reflections bouncing off them. Actually, they were shadows more than discernible reflections, but I saw them nonetheless.