by R. T. Lowe
The crowd was cheering wildly now, hanging on his every word, enraptured. Dirk felt the truth in Lofton’s words, as he always did, and believed in his soul his message would lead the country, and the world, to salvation. But today Dirk was anxious. For the first time, Dirk had disagreed with Lofton’s methods and had voiced his reservations. Not that Dirk had been asked for his opinion. That wasn’t Lofton’s style. Lofton—or one of his associates, usually Lynch but sometimes Iphi or Natalie—told you what to do and you did it. That was the nature of things. Dirk had been a dutiful foot soldier from the day Lofton had called on him. He followed orders and didn’t quibble over his tactics. If Lofton believed faking a seizure and using plates of fish to attack the well-heeled patrons at a trendy L.A. restaurant would increase his popularity, then that’s the way it went, and Lofton, of course, had been right. At the time of Dirk’s press conference announcing his ascension to Chief Spokesperson of the ERA, the once reclusive Dirk Rathman had achieved a virtual monopoly on social media, and although he hadn’t ‘broken’ the Internet, he’d come close. Today, however, wasn’t about publicity, posturing or tabloid TV. Today was about life and death. Today, people were going to die.
Lofton smiled, and on the giant screen towering behind the stage, three images of that same smiling face beamed radiantly, each stretching the length of a Suburban. “What happens to a people when they are afraid to eat the food its farmers produce?” Lofton asked the crowd. “When it poisons us over time with chemicals and GMOs or, tragically, kills us in a single day, like the thousands who lost their lives in restaurants and in their homes across six states. What happens to a people when they are afraid to drink the water? When it poisons and kills an entire town in Maine? What happens to a people when their infrastructure and transportation systems fail? When a routine trip by car, plane or train ends in catastrophe. What happens when zealots are allowed to murder in the name of self-serving, reactionary ideologies? What happens to a people when they are afraid to send their children to school, afraid to go to the theater or the mall, or to our places of work or worship? When the government stands by and does nothing after entire classrooms of children are mindlessly slaughtered by individuals using military rifles whose possession is indefensible. Yet who does the government defend? Our children? Or those who profit from the sale of such weapons?
“The government, my friends, requires just one thing from us. Fear. Because when we are afraid, we can be controlled. Our country is drowning in a cesspool of violence, sickness and death, and we look to the government, to the people responsible for our plight, and how do the cowards respond? They do nothing! And we the people of this once great country have learned to accept this blind defense of the status quo and government inaction.” Lofton pointed out to the cheering crowd. “Shame on us for allowing these cowards to ignore our pleas!”
Lofton spent a moment to quiet the roaring crowd before he continued. “But recently, very recently, we have called out our leaders for their shameful cowardice and demanded they hear our voices. We have demanded they represent us and not the interests that line their pockets with billions of dollars of blood money—the blood of the innocents!” Lofton raised a fist into the air and shouted, “The government knows who we are now! It knows we are unwilling to sacrifice our children for profit. We are unwilling to live in fear!”
The chanting began from every corner of the stadium, and the hair on Dirk’s neck stood on end: “Freedom from fear! Freedom from fear! Freedom from fear!”
“So how has the government reacted to our demands?” Lofton called out to the chanting thousands. “It created monsters. Numbered Ones it calls them. To keep us frightened and in our homes, looking again to the government—to the criminals who created them—to protect us. Yet we know their true purpose. Control. Because to the government’s dismay, we have seen the video. We have read the letter from General Shale. We know what the government has done. The country knows. So we have a message for our leaders sitting at home watching in their mansions paid for with the blood of our children. We are not afraid, and we are coming! Today, we are putting you on notice. Your time has come to an end. We are no longer going to live in fear. We demand freedom. Freedom from fear! Freedom from fear!”
The crowd returned Lofton’s proclamation, shaking the stadium with unbridled fervor: “Freedom from fear! Freedom from fear! Freedom from fear!”
Dirk looked out at the rapturous crowd, and he realized, with a sudden and stunning sense of clarity, that Lofton’s plan was going to work. ERA candidates had already been groomed for nearly every office at every level of government, and now it was only a matter of time. It might take a few years to acquire all the governorships and a majority in the House and Senate, but it would happen. It all seemed very much like a foregone—
An arm skidded across the stage and came to rest at Dirk’s feet, ragged and bloody at the midpoint of shoulder and elbow, as if a chainsaw had hacked through it. He stared down at the tiger tattoo curled around the forearm, the silver bracelet, the rings on the thumb and middle finger, the nails painted sunflower yellow. It looked like a movie prop and he took a moment to remind himself it was real. This was someone’s arm. An arm no longer attached to a body. Someone, most likely, had just died. Lofton’s plan was now underway. Here we go, he thought and sucked in a sharp breath, wiping a cold sweat from his brow. Dirk’s role was simple. Any actor could do it, and given the chilling awfulness of what he was looking at, not much acting was required. He widened his eyes, pointed aghast at the arm, and screamed as loudly as he could, the sound system amplifying his terror-filled voice throughout the stadium and beyond. “The Numbered Ones! The Numbered Ones! Run! Run! Run! Run!”
The crowd went eerily silent, taking a moment to assimilate Dirk’s warning, then screams erupted and the stampede for the exits began. At the lower level concourses, the fleeing droves stopped and turned back, stumbling and falling over each other as they tried to escape to the field. Something unseen moved through the massed bodies like scythes in a field of wheat, cutting people down. Body parts—arms and legs, heads, chunks of torsos—fountained high in the air, spinning, blood trailing out behind, spattering the protesters. In the upper sections, the Numbered Ones were out in plain sight, killing and maiming indiscriminately, without hesitation, using their teeth and hands to rip limbs from bodies, tossing them over the railings down to the panicked masses squeezed into the aisles far below. Amidst the spreading chaos, the dead and dying clotted every section of the stadium, strewn across seats and aisles, streams of blood rushing down the steps in search of lower ground. At field level, the Numbered Ones swept through the crowd like a destructive wind, annihilating one defenseless victim after another, leaving a trail of broken and lifeless bodies in their wake.
Lynch had instructed Dirk to remain calm, silent and perfectly still. The Numbered Ones wouldn’t harm him, Lynch had promised, but they had “occasions of unpredictability,” and if he felt threatened, he was to whisper Lofton’s name a single time. The cold gaze of one of the creatures, its face dripping blood, found Dirk backed up against the screen and it stopped and smiled at him, wiping its hands on its hockey jersey. Dirk resisted the urge to run as his mouth fell open, his lips beginning to form Lofton’s name, but then the creature noticed a man cornered at the foot of the stage beside the press corps and television crews and it pounced on him. The man screamed as the Numbered One gripped his head, and with a single twist, ripped it crisply from his shoulders. The young woman beside him shrieked and stumbled, tripping over a mutilated body and landing on her back. The Numbered One tossed the head casually over its shoulder, dropped to all fours and slithered on top of the terrified woman, stretching open its mouth, lunging for her face.
Lofton leaped down from the stage and struck it in the back with a folding chair, screaming heroically, “Get away from her, monster! Get away!”
The Numbered One slapped the chair, swatting it from Lofton’s hands, the force of the blow knocking him t
o the turf. The creature, blood streaking its New York Rangers jersey, reached down for her, mouth opening as if preparing to swallow her whole.
Lofton recovered quickly, throwing himself between them, shielding her body with his own. “Stay away!” he shouted bravely at the Numbered One. “Stay away!”
The Numbered One grinned with amusement, and in a color bending flash of movement, it snatched up Lofton by a leg and an arm, holding him for a moment before sinking its teeth into his thigh. Lofton screamed in pain, yet continued to struggle valiantly, swinging out with his hands, striking the creature solidly in the eye. The Numbered One jerked its head back and threw him into a row of collapsible chairs, scattering them.
Lofton, pressing his hands against the terrible wound to his leg, scrambled and crawled to get back to the frightened girl, determined to save her life even if it meant sacrificing his own. The Numbered One let loose an ear-piercing shriek and stalked toward them.
Shots rang out, echoing through the stadium.
The Numbered One stopped and glanced around. Then it gave Lofton a final lingering look and bounded off, disappearing into the tunnels behind the end zone.
Dirk stared down at Lofton, eyes wide, and this time it was no act. The details of Lofton’s plans were rarely disclosed to him, and this, apparently, was one of those details. The girl Lofton had protected was holding onto him with trembling arms, crying into his shoulder, thanking him for saving her life. All around Lofton, an army of photographers and camera crews were capturing the final scene in today’s tragedy. Lofton’s heroism had not gone unnoticed. Nothing, Dirk realized, had been missed. That was Lofton—he left nothing to chance. Dirk suppressed a bitter smile, staring out at the aftermath of the creatures’ rampage. The ERA’s domination of American politics was no longer a question of time. It was inevitable. It was now.
Chapter 25
Convalescing
Felix and Allison stared up at the TV mounted on the wall in Caitlin’s hospital room, shaking their heads in wonder. Sixty-seven dead and nearly 300 injured, yet a single story-line was dominating the coverage of The Rose Bowl Massacre: ‘Lofton Ashfield’s indomitable heroism and valor’. The entire event—from Dirk Rathman’s introduction of Lofton until the storming of the stadium by state police and the National Guard—was filmed and photographed from a thousand different perspectives. Media from all over the world had descended on the Rose Bowl and the nearby hospitals where the wounded, including Lofton, had been transported.
“‘The Rose Bowl Address,’” Allison muttered, disgusted. “Can you believe they’re actually calling it that? Move over Lincoln and that whole Gettysburg thing.”
Felix grunted and looked over at Caitlin, sitting up in bed, crisp white linens tucking her in at the waist. Harper and Lucas were at her side, talking to her, trying to make her smile. Caitlin had needed stitches to close the bite marks, and the ligaments in her shoulders were sore and swollen, but otherwise, the doctors thought she would recover just fine from the strange and apparently random attack by the man she “never got a good look at.” The story Caitlin had told the hospital staff hadn’t required much coaching from Allison. Probably, Felix thought, because it was far less terrifying than what had actually transpired.
“I can’t believe we didn’t see that coming,” Felix complained, his attention turned to the TV again. He felt like he had failed in some capacity, but he honestly didn’t know what he could have done to prevent the massacre. He hadn’t known there was going to be an ERA rally at the Rose Bowl, and even if he had, how could he have possibly anticipated Lofton was going to set his monsters free on the crowd? Felix had little reason to feel guilty or responsible, but he was the Belus, so wasn’t he supposed to thwart the Drestian’s plans? The thought nearly made him laugh. Compared to Lofton, he was insignificant, a mosquito with a broken stinger trying to pierce the thick hide of an elephant.
“The ERA?” Allison replied, rubbing a hand over her arm, wincing. “Never even occurred to me Lofton was behind it. It’s genius really. He created a grassroots political movement, used a celebrity to attract followers, then orchestrated this whole thing with the Numbered Ones. He used his own monsters to kill his own supporters and now the whole world thinks the U.S. government killed seventy people because it’s afraid of the ERA and what it stands for. It’s brilliant. The ERA will control everything by the end of the month. Genius. Fucking genius.”
“Yeah,” Felix grunted. “I’m so happy the guy’s so goddamn smart.”
Allison snickered.
“Hey,” Felix said to her as if something had just crossed his mind, though he’d been waiting to ask her until the time was just right. “You okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” she replied absently, keeping her eyes on the screen.
Felix dropped his voice to a whisper. “Well, you know, you…you killed that guy.”
“Killed that guy?” Allison echoed, giving him a disappointed smile. “I put my foot through his fucking face.”
Felix stared at her, eyes widening. He wasn’t sure if Allison actually felt no remorse or angst or any other emotion from killing the man—the first person she’d ever killed—or if this was a continuation of her diatribe from the steps of St. Rose where she’d accused him of being wimpish and self-indulgent for feeling guilty about killing people who would murder them without hesitation if given the opportunity.
“What?” Allison said, laughing at his reaction. “You may have noticed he was eating our friend.”
“I did notice. Thanks for reminding me. It’s just—”
Allison interrupted him. “Remember on the drive back from the Cliff Walk how I told you it was only the beginning?”
Felix nodded.
“My only regret is he ruined my favorite boots. Those aren’t cheap, you know.” She glowered down at her feet. Back at the house, they’d decided they couldn’t scrape off the man’s brains and blood from the boots so Felix had torched them. Now she wore only socks, which a physician’s assistant had noticed and remarked on, though Felix figured he was only trying to flirt with her.
Felix laughed. Now he knew she was joking. He studied her, her face expressionless, eyes on the TV. Or was she? Was Allison honestly more concerned about ruining her boots than having to live the rest of her days knowing she had taken someone’s life? Killing a person, in Felix’s estimation, regardless of who it was or what they’d done, was no small matter, and at the very least, it seemed appropriate to regard the act with a certain sense of gravity and reflection.
“You scare me sometimes,” Felix told her.
“Good,” Allison replied, elbowing him in the ribs, which caused her to wince again.
Harper came up beside Felix. The three of them stood there in silence for a while watching a slow motion replay of Lofton throwing himself in front of a gape-jawed monster about to dismember a helpless young maiden crawling away frantically and slipping as if she was on ice. “I’m not sure how he’s the bad guy,” Harper commented. “I mean, look at him. And that speech was, well, brilliant. Sorry, I know he’s really the Dredgerton.”
“Drestian,” Felix and Allison corrected.
“Right.” Harper frowned at the screen. “It’s really genius, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, he’s very clever,” Allison muttered sourly, keeping her eyes on the TV. “How’s Caitlin?”
“Okay,” Harper replied, glancing over at her. “Guess we won’t really know till the pain pills and sedatives wear off. The nurse said they want to keep her here tonight for observation.”
“Did you guys tell her?” Felix asked, tilting his chin up at the monitor in case Harper didn’t know what he was referring to.
“Most of it,” Harper said. “We messed up the Source explanation pretty good so you might have to help with that. Sorry—it still confuses me. And she asked some questions about the Protectors we couldn’t answer.”
Allison seemed to bristle at the word, shoulders rising with tension.
On
TV, they were switching between images inside the stadium—triage stations treating bloodstained ashen faced victims, white sheets spread over bodies—and outside where reporters were providing live updates with the Rose Bowl’s iconic columned entrance in the background.
“Hey Felix,” Harper said softly, lowering her voice. “I just wanted to tell you that…that what I said the other day at the Caffeine Hut, well, I don’t know, I mean, sometimes I say shit just to make a point and not because I mean any of it.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “So I was thinking maybe we could, I don’t know, hang out sometime or something?”
“Okay,” Felix said. Not knowing what else to say, he added, “Sure.”
Smiling shyly at him, Harper bit down on her lip for a moment, then turned, Felix’s eyes following her as she returned to Caitlin’s bedside.
“Sure,” Allison repeated mockingly. “Now that you have superpowers, she likes you again.”
“What?” Felix said, and when Allison only gave him a weary shake of her head, he went back to watching TV. He heard the sarcasm in her voice but didn’t have it in him to consider what she was thinking. Harper wanted to hang out. So what? He didn’t think it meant anything. They hung out all the time.
A cart rolled past the room on squeaky wheels and an irate voice traveled down the hall. “That’s a joke! We kick him out of office he’ll just golf and drink fancy cocktails until he’s a hundred. You think that’s justice? He needs to go to jail for what he’s done! You heard Lofton. They’re all criminals. If Senator Hastings gets away with this, I won’t shed a tear if someone goes vigilante on his ass.”
Allison cocked an ear toward the hall, shaking her head.
“I think I’m gonna head back to the dorm,” Felix sighed, looking down at himself. “I’m still wearing those clothes I stole.”