Nation Divided

by Drew Avera

  I did now.

  “No,” I whispered as I looked at the screen. Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought this moment would happen, to witness the death of a loved one in such a horrific manner. “Oh, God, please, no.” I was never religious, but I was willing to do anything to take this away. To bring Clive back.

  A frantic knock at the door pulled my attention away from the screen, away from Clive. I wanted to ignore it, pretend no one was there until they weren’t anymore, but the knocking would not stop. On shaky legs, I moved towards the door, feeling as if I was experiencing life outside of myself, the hollow feeling of life and meaning being deflated before my very eyes. The door was only ten feet away, but I felt as if I was walking a mile as the constant pounding at the door beckoned me closer.

  It was too much.

  “Who is it?” I asked, not yet at the door to see through the peep hole. Fear threatened to paralyze me.

  “It’s Lucinda,” the answer came. It was a friend, but hearing her voice on the other side of the door was just as hard as hearing that of a stranger’s. “I need to talk to you,” she said, her voice shaky.

  My heart sank. Did she know what happened to Clive? Was she here to console me in my time of need?

  “Just a second,” I said through the door as I unlocked it. But as I pulled the door open, I realized she was not alone. “Lucinda?”

  She stood, her arms behind her back, while three men in dark uniforms stood behind her. there were tears in her eyes and the side of her face was swollen. “I’m sorry, Brad,” she said, “they made me do it.”

  “Do what?” I asked. In my fragile state, I was not thinking clearly. What did it look like? She was hurt, her hands bound behind her as three armed men stood behind her. With a clear head, I would have seen it coming, but it was already too late.

  “I’m sorry.” With those words, the dark-dressed man to her right lifted a gun to her head and pulled the trigger, splattering blood and brain matter across the wall next to me.

  “Lucinda!” I screamed. I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing. First Clive, and now Lucinda. What the hell was going on? The answer came as I looked up at the man with his gun pointed towards me. “Why?” I screamed. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  He replied with a squeeze of the trigger.

  55

  GENERAL LETTUM

  Hearing the voice of my best friend’s grandson brought me back to a time when war fighting was just another typical Tuesday. How closely President Robert Harrison sounded to Colonel Jerrod Harrison was unsettling. With three decades to think about the mission at hand, I never thought I would be emotional when this day came. But it's funny how things change when the stack of cards comes crashing to the ground. Caleb Fulton thought he could control me. But I'm not the kind of person who is easily controlled like a dog on a short leash. All my life, I've always been the one in control.

  I walked back to the presidential mansion, my fingers lightly tapping against the iron fence has I walked the perimeter. The light vibration reminded me of years of prisoners tapping on the iron bars of their jail cells at Marion State Penitentiary. Over time, echoes of the residents tapping became music to my ears, an anthem to our cause.

  As I approached the security gate, three Secret Service agents waited for me. Their dark suits, silhouetted by the bright floodlights behind them, made them look like uniformed stooges as they stood with their hands in their pockets and cigarettes jutting out of their mouths. Is there no sense of pride and professionalism anymore, I wondered?

  "General Lettum," the man nearest me said when I came within arm’s reach.

  "Good evening," I said.

  "You know we have to pat you down, don't you?" The man asked as he gestured towards the other two Secret Service agents.

  "Of course," I replied, lifting my arms into an outward stretch and allowing the two men to give me a superficial search. There was nothing they would find on me; the burner cell phone was already destroyed and disposed of. Sydney Tyler's generous attempt at providing me with it did not go unnoticed. Of course, the entire world was going to see it, and she knew it just as well as I did. After a ten-second pat down, I was let go and allowed to enter what was supposed to be the most secure property in the American Union. Amateurs, I thought as I walked towards the front door where another lackadaisical agent waited with his arms crossed and a sour expression. I knew what would happen when I approached the door, another generic pat down where they would not find the gun strapped between my shoulder blades. It wasn't really a gun, but a miniaturized version of a boom-stick often used to kill alligators on the bayou. It was close enough, though. If shit hit the fan, I knew exactly where that singular bullet was going to go.

  56

  SYDNEY TYLER

  Chicago is too dangerous for me to stay, I thought as I boarded the red line bound for Indianapolis. I had no intention of going all the way to Indiana, but I had to get out of the city, away from everything that was happening. Scanning my ticket before boarding the train, I noticed a line of large television screens showing Clive on the evening news. After giving him all the information I had about President Fulton, I knew he was going to relay that information to the public. Part of me wished I was already out of the city, before the chaos began and President Fulton thrust us into martial law. Not that it would be much different than the way things were with the curfew in effect, but having the military out marching in the streets twenty-four-hours a day was going to be terrible.

  I eased my way past an older couple as they struggled to put their baggage in the overhead storage compartment. I wanted to see Clive as he anchored the newscast. But I knew I was a recognizable person, and if I congregated with the rest of the passengers, then they would recognize me. I didn't want to cause a scene, and I was afraid changing my appearance would not be enough for people who may have seen me every day on television.

  Excuse me," a man said as he walked past in the opposite direction. He had a briefcase in one hand and an umbrella in the next as he shimmied sideways, awkwardly trying to get off the train as everyone else was boarding.

  I didn't respond, but merely smiled and carried on about my business, trying not to draw attention to myself. I found a window seat facing the television screens and sat and watched as the train began moving slowly. I whispered a silent prayer, harkening back to my Catholic schoolgirl days, though I didn't much believe in God anymore. I struggled to not focus on Clive's report, the subtitle scrolling across the bottom of the screen depicting the truth of what I revealed to him. There was no reason I should still be alive. I knew President Fulton wanted me dead. But for reasons unknown to me, General Lettum let me go in exchange for a favor, a burner cell phone. It seemed like such a small price to pay for my life, but it was one I was more than willing to pay.

  Reading the scrolling words along the bottom of the screen, I realized I saw a panicked expression on Clive's face just as the words disappeared. His look drew my attention up to him, and having known him for years, I knew it was a look of fear.

  What the hell?

  What followed went by in a blur, and the panic on Clive's face spread throughout the passengers on the train as they watched the news anchor—and I watched a friend—be gunned down on live television. I could barely comprehend what I witnessed: it all seemed like a dream. I watched the screen as his body fell to the ground, smoke wafting in the air until the camera was turned, angled downward for people to see his lifeless body in a growing pool of blood. His eyes looked at the camera; with no light in them at all, they spoke the truth that anyone watching the broadcast was sure to understand right away.

  We're all dead.

  57

  PETER DRAKE

  When they come for you, they come in full force. I expected to get caught, after allowing my bad temper to take control and put me in a position there was no coming back from. I suppose I deserved what was coming, my negligence a poor representation of who I was as a man, as a kill
er.

  I hardly needed to rise from my seat to see the cops enter our precinct, their body armor making them look more imposing than I knew they were underneath the Kevlar plates. It was humorous how men felt impervious when their bodies were guarded by thin sheets of armor, yet that was not the true measure of manliness. It was what the mind could endure that made a man a man.

  "What the hell is going on here?" The chief asked, his voice up in pitch compared to where it usually was.

  I smiled as he the armed cops brushed past him on their way to me. The closer they came, the quicker my heart beat. It was like having sex for the first time.

  Thoughts darted through my mind faster than I could grab hold of them. I wanted to say something, to give a snide remark to the men as they grabbed hold of me and slammed me face-first to the polished, tiled floor. The barrels of their weapons pressed against my body as a muffled voice told me not to move and that I was under arrest.

  Idiots, I thought, of course I know I'm under arrest. Why else would you be here?

  Having never been handcuffed before, I found it a surprisingly tantalizing experience to have my hands bound behind me. As they pulled me to my feet, my shoulders screaming from bearing my body’s entire weight, I broke my silence. "What is this all about?"

  The cop I quickly identified as their leader answered. "Murder and arson for the bar.” He shoved the warrant for my arrest in my face, but it was too close for my eyes to focus on. It didn't matter though, I knew the details of the case and that they had the person responsible for the crime. It didn’t mean I didn’t want to toy with them as much as possible, to slow the encroachment of the inevitable.

  "That's impossible," I said as I gave a confused expression to convey they had the wrong person. All around me, my coworkers looked on, mouths agape and eyes wide. I knew what was happening was a bad thing, that I would forever go down as a murderer and traitor to the badge clipped to my belt. I had to fight back the urge to smile, because I loved the attention.

  “Peter, tell me it isn’t so,” the chief asked, his lips quivering as he seemed to struggle with the possibility of a murderer being under his command.

  I kept silent, not because what I said could be used against me, but because silence was the best answer to his idiotic question. Of course it was true and I loved every minute of it, I thought as they led me away. My only regret was not silencing more of the hypocrites running our city into the ground, but I had faith they would all get what was coming to them one way or another.

  58

  CALEB FULTON

  The lights were dim in my office as I wheeled my chair closer to the television screen. How Sydney Tyler was able to get information to Clive Williams was anyone's guess, but as I watched him report about my plans to attack the Confederates, I found it hard to fight back the smile crossing my lips. "It seems our man on the inside was telling the truth," I said as my fingertips drummed lightly on the armrest of my wheelchair. "Perhaps we should invite her to dinner some night."

  I heard a snort for the Secretary of Defense, Richard Geis, as he stretched his arm across the back of the couch. "I'm not sure dinner parties are a good idea at this time, Mr. President." I expected him to laugh at the thought of us having another dinner party, but the tone of his words made his suggestion sound sincere.

  "Well, if all goes according to plan, the only thing in our future will be a slew of dinner parties celebrating our victory. Not just of the South, but of the United Kingdom as well." I felt confident that the years of preparation for this moment was going to allow an immediate success for the American Union and the ongoing war for control of North America. The Canadians were more than willing to appease my vision of the future, and China was slowly losing its grip on the west coast.

  "You forget, Mr. President, that when you reveal your hand, it gives the enemy time to prepare," he said as he gestured towards the television and Clive Williams’ report.

  My jaw tightened as I looked at the screen in anticipation for what I knew was about to happen. The volume was low on the television, but the sudden report of gunfire was loud and startled me. As I watched the screen and the camera panning down to the reporter’s lifeless body bleeding out on the floor of the newsroom, I felt an ounce of pity for the man’s sacrifice. But the truth was, that pity was misplaced because for all intents and purposes, by revealing my secret, he was a traitor. "I forget nothing, Richard, I just like to display my power is all. By letting Mr. Williams reveal my plan to the world, I’m giving my enemies the opportunity to believe I am at a weak moment. His report was to be expected, but not in the way it was expected. That's what I call breaking news.” I looked over to Richard and gestured towards the phone sitting next to him. "Please have one of my aides let General Lettum know to advance the clock. We will execute our plan in eighteen hours."

  59

  PRIME MINISTER LEONARD

  Hearing President Harrison relay his story about the ominous phone call about Caleb Fulton’s plans sent shivers down my spine. Here we were, on the brink of another World War, and the story kept changing for the worse. It was only a matter of time before the climax of the story would send us all to early graves. "Well, what makes you think the person who called you was General Lettum?" I asked, skeptical that the American Union would have let the greatest Confederate General of the war live to see another day after he was taken captive.

  "I'm telling you, Frank, it was him. I know it was thirty years ago, but I met the son of a bitch before, when my grandfather went to war. I remember sitting on my grandfather's lap, General Lettum sitting across from me, telling stories about the battles they won. I'll never forget the sound of that man's voice, and thinking back, it had to be him," Harrison said.

  "You said yourself, Robert, that while you were on the phone with this person you didn't recognize his voice. So, how can you be so sure? Maybe it's just a coincidence that the person's voice reminded you of General Lettum after you saw the picture of him and your grandfather," I suggested.

  A slur of profanities escaped President Harrison's lips as he shouted into the receiver on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. Thousands of miles separated us, but I felt the heat of his rage enough that he could have been in the room next to me. "Are you calling me a goddamn liar?" Harrison snapped.

  I shook my head, thankful that this was not a video conference call, as I rolled my eyes at the man's outburst. Americans are so sensitive. "I'm not calling you a liar, Robert, I'm merely suggesting that the person who gave you the information may have been someone else. That isn't to say that the information given to you was not valuable. In fact, have you run the codes to see if they're still viable?" I tried to move the conversation in a different direction, to escape the frustration President Harrison must have been feeling as imminent war escalated. I was nervous too, but I was far more collected than he was.

  "I have people doing that now," he said. "But if these codes are viable, as soon as a nuke is deployed, we’re redirecting it right back up Caleb Fulton's ass."

  A smiled curled my lips. War was a dastardly thing, something that primitive mankind never weaned itself from and it has haunted us for millennia. But to hear the vindictiveness of President Harrison’s words and his willingness to do whatever it took to defeat Caleb Fulton was entertaining to say the least. "I appreciate your candor, Robert, but do me a favor and don't start anything until we know for sure that we can stop it," I suggested.

  The man grunted on the other side of the call, "Yeah, I got it. I'll call you back," he said before hanging up the phone.

  The sun was finally beginning to rise over the eastern horizon as I stood in silence at the window of my office. I had not slept in two days, but I did not feel like going to bed knowing the world could end at any moment. What was happening was like a train wreck; I just could not pull my eyes away from what was happening. Part of me hoped that whatever happened would happen quickly and put me out of my misery. But I knew that wasn't the logical part of my mind t
alking, but the desperate part, the part of me that I kept from everyone else. I often fell into the pits of depression for most of my life, but I coped with it well enough. I pulled shut the curtains and cast the office into darkness as I lay upon the leather couch in the middle of the room. "Maybe a few minutes of sleep won't hurt," I said under my breath as my face touched the throw pillow near the arm of the couch. With my eyes closed, and my aching body at the brink of sleep, the phone rang again.

  60

  DAVID CALLOWAY

  The interrogation room felt like it was on fire as I dabbed a handkerchief across my forehead. Sitting next to me, Peter Drake was staring down the interrogator with the cold gaze of an unremorseful murderer. Maybe that's why I'm sweating so much, I thought, knowing that a monster was sitting next to me. I chastised myself for thinking that way. Innocent until proven guilty, I reminded myself.

  "Come on, Peter, don't bullshit me," the detective said as he rubbed his hands together as if he was warming them by a fire. "Why did you kill him?"

  "Don't answer that," I said, again. The detective’s line of questioning was cyclical, always coming back to asking my clients why he killed the man whose murder he was accused of. An admission of guilt in the interrogation room would not bode well for him in the case went to court. Most jurors would look at him and find him guilty based on the detective’s words in court.

  Peter looked at me and shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

  I could tell the detective was growing tired of the way I was blocking his line of questioning. He wore the frustration on his face like a mask, but there was no public defender in the city that would allow their client to answer the damn questions this cop was tossing towards Peter Drake. Even if it was true, and Peter did murder someone, they still had the law to protect them. That's what I had to rely on, the law. I kept reminding myself of that fact, like a mantra as I sat in the hot, stuffy room, stuck in the no man's land between law enforcement officer and suspect.