The Gambit

by Allen Longstreet

  I cut right hard, my knee just barely scraping the ground as I whipped around the corner onto Wisconsin Avenue. I passed a cop in the opposite lane, and as I glanced in my mirror he didn’t turn around. Smart move on his part, for if he did attempt to pull me over I’d be going over 150 miles per hour before he could even U-turn back into my lane. Let’s say I did give the officer the satisfaction of stopping me, I could have almost guaranteed that I would get out of it. I was somewhat of a local celebrity, as was Cole and the majority of the party. Although they still worked under direct legislation from the laws that were already in place, the cops, teachers, and firefighters were all ready for our party to take the White House. Sometimes out in public I recognized a face, someone I recalled having a conversation with. It hurled me back in time to the Confinement. A simple face could be the trigger that catapulted the memories forward. The planning, the ideas…it was where it all began.

  I crossed the state line into Maryland. I had called Bethesda home since the beginning of 2012, about eight months after I graduated from university. I pulled in behind the Bethesda Theater and opened my garage to park the bike. I took off my helmet and made my way to the entrance of the Whitney. Living in the D.C. metro area, life could be extremely hectic, but when I came back home, I felt like it was home.

  The automatic doors opened, and I was surrounded by the amber glow from chandeliers that filled the lobby. The soft browns and beiges were always welcoming.

  “Owen! How was work?” the concierge Ricardo asked.

  “Just another day in paradise, my friend.”

  “I’m sure, it should be smooth sailing after the polls came back.”

  “I won’t celebrate until the eighth, just to be sure,” I answered, smirking.

  “You know you guys have my vote,” he said as I neared the elevator.

  “Ah, Ricardo, you’re a good man. Have a good night.”

  He grinned from my compliment. “Goodnight.”

  The smooth hum from the elevator always was accompanied with a deep exhalation. It was a precursor to privacy—a rare occurrence in the time after the Confinement. Everyone knew my face, which made me feel so connected to the cause, but yet so exposed.

  I walked down the hallway and opened my apartment door. Mine was the last one on the left, a corner unit. It was only one bedroom, but I chose this one because it had more room than the other models. The crisp whites gave everything a clean look. I left the walls the way they were when I moved in, I didn’t have the time to decorate. I sat down on the couch and turned on the flat-screen.

  “…Tonight’s special report, the Union of Concerned Scientists is filing a lawsuit against the Nuclear Regulatory Commission, with an offer of dropping the charges in exchange for the commission to be willing to re-investigate the nuclear material collected from the scene outside of Wall Street on Black Monday. The commission has made no comment regarding the lawsuit, but their lawyer has given us a quote saying that the commission followed strict protocol in the testing of the nuclear materials recovered…”

  Yeah, sure. I thought.

  “…The Union’s report tells a different series of events that followed Black Monday. When the EPA finished their clean-up, the NRC’s final report claimed that the Strontium-90 came from a Russian source with the help of the infamous Viktor Ivankov—American-born Russian who worked at the Port of New York for almost a decade. In his later years, he was one of the lead operators for the X-Ray Radiography machine used to intercept potential anomalies shipped into the US through cargo containers. This report by the NRC poses many questions in the minds of the rest of the country and the world for that matter. Russia has made no comment on their involvement with being the source for the Strontium-90. Nevertheless, the tension between the US and Russia has been at an all-time high. Experts say if anything further were to occur we’d be at war overnight. What the Union is demanding is that the NRC and the federal government answer the hard-hitting questions that remain unanswered to the American public. Why, when questioned, does the Port of New York’s staff all reply with the same answer? That Viktor Ivankov was the mastermind behind this and the case is closed, and when the Chief of Staff for the Port is requested the images of the container which encased the Strontium-90, he says those images are classified. Why is it that the only labs the nuclear material have been tested in are those of the EPA and the federal government? But, the biggest question that has been on the minds of Americans since Black Monday is the whereabouts of Viktor Ivankov. Where was he during the Confinement? Who is helping him elude the feds? To this day he hasn’t been arrested or killed, failing to be found on any of the registries from the Camps. The closest the FBI came to apprehending him was six months ago, when they received a tip stating he had been seen at a convenient store in remote Cashiers, North Carolina—deep in the Nantahala National Forest. Upon the FBI’s arrival and inquisition of employees and patrons of the store, they were informed he had been hiding out in a small cabin nearby. When the agents stormed the residence it was vacant. There wasn’t a trace that anyone had been living there. What they did find, though, would turn out to be the most baffling piece of the case since Ivankov disappeared. It was a note left on a wooden desk, only five words long. It has been shared by millions on social media, revered by conspiracy theorists, and has only spawned more questions in our minds. Here is that note once again…

  A chill raced across my skin. I turned off the TV as the sensation swept over me. I’d seen that same image hundreds of times on the news, and I still had the same reaction. The erratic, scribbled handwriting in all caps. Then, the deliberate, heavy-handed strikes through the word free. I shuddered once more. To some, his message might have suggested that we would no longer be free if he or the Russians committed more terrorist acts. I, on the other hand, interpreted the message to find a different meaning. That for whatever reason, and for whichever motives—Viktor Ivankov sent his five-word message blaring to the American public. We were no longer the land of the free…

  - 2 -

  The sounds of horns resonated through the air, signaling our second meal of the day. A light flurry fell from the sky, and a bitter breeze accompanied it. The lines to get our lunch stretched out for a football field in distance or more—there were three—all of them converged into the main line where we were served the meal.

  This was the ‘Nourishment Zone’ I had been assigned to, and I absolutely loathed it. The direction of our lines faced the White House, and it made me nauseated to think our president was less than a quarter of a mile away, enclosed in warmth and luxury. I pondered that if he were out here with all of us, in the frigid mid-Atlantic winter, waiting for a sad excuse of a meal, perhaps he would have hesitated before signing the executive order which initiated the Confinement.

  The smell of shit was intermingled with ground beef. If it was anything like the meat we have been served for the past three weeks, then it wasn’t meat at all. This was of a lesser quality than the meat at Taco Bell, or the canned chili that had been sitting out for hours at a family cookout. Maybe it was scraped from a can, but it tasted as if it had sat out in the sun for a day or two. There it was again, that awful shit stench—always intermittent. It was from the hundreds of port-a-johns which lined the sidewalks.

  Our line was probably one of two dozen or more in our District. The D.C. Confinement Camp was comprised of five districts. I was assigned District 1 during sorting which was surprising to me because Bethesda was closer to District 2 and 3, which were Northwest and Northeast Washington. Districts 4 and 5 were Arlington and Alexandria, and within those five districts housed the nearly six million people of the Washington Metro Area. I wondered if the other cities were in Confinement too, we haven’t been told anything at all. I glanced down at the only information I had. I was wearing it—my identification wristband.

  Screw this…I turned the wristband back around. As my line grew closer to the converging point, I sighed with frustration. I fucking worked for the governm
ent and I was still behind these fences. Were these the ‘comprehensive benefits’ the EPA offered? What I would do just to ride my bike, or to sit at a bar and have a drink. Fuck.

  From behind me, a bald, burly man walked past. The skin on his arms had turned red from the cold. He was wearing a cut up t-shirt. He looked like the kind of guy who might ride a Harley, and judging by his size he enjoyed a diet of steak and potatoes. The scent of cigarette smoke filled my nose. He must have smuggled some in when he was sorted, or the guards had sold him some. A couple feet in front of me, where the line began to converge, he cut in front of a woman and her young daughter. My eyebrows furrowed at the sight.

  I looked to my left, and then my right. The armed guards lined the rows of port-a-johns, waiting for the smallest disruption in behavior. If I brought attention to myself who knows what could happen.

  I saw the woman gently reach for the man’s shoulder.

  “Excuse me, sir. You just cut in front of me and my daughter.”

  He didn’t even react, like he hadn’t heard her. The soft-spoken woman then moved to his side, and that was when I saw she was also pregnant.

  What kind of asshole passes a pregnant mother?

  “Sir,” her voice now a little firmer. “You jumped in front of me.”

  “No shit, lady. Now let it go and keep to yourself.”

  Her expression turned harsh instantly. That was when I left my place in line and began approaching them.

  “Keep to myself? We all have to wait for our food, so you have to too—just like everybody else. Go to the back of the line!”

  He turned around with a smirk, like this was all some joke.

  “Well, you don’t look like you’re in any condition to make me,” he said, glancing down at her stomach. He drew in his cigarette and exaggerated the exhale as he blew the smoke at the mother’s face. She started coughing. Anger surged through me.

  “But I am, asshole.”

  He laughed when he saw me and puffed up his chest to flaunt his size. In the corner of my eye, I saw the daughter pulling at her mother’s wrist. “Mommy,” she whimpered.

  “What the hell are you gonna do about it?”

  I punched him square in the face with all my strength and he staggered and fell onto one leg. The line around us opened up as people turned to watch. I lunged at him on the ground and began wailing punches, trying my best not to allow him to retaliate. His nose and lip were bleeding, then with his fist he deflected one of my punches and nailed me in the chin. I fell backward and he punched me once more—knocking my head back onto the grass. He slammed my left arm against the grass and suddenly with his right hand I saw him grab his cigarette, and he smashed it against the inside of my forearm.

  “Ahhh!” I groaned from the singeing pain.

  With the adrenaline, I used my free hand to clip him in his temple, knocking him sideways. In a quick turn, I kneed him in his groin, and then I was free. I kicked him once in the teeth and a couple more times in the stomach.

  I breathed heavily as I ceased fighting, and suddenly I heard a noise. I clutched my side in agony as the rubber bullet hit my ribs, then another on my hip.

  “Disturbance!” the guards shouted as they closed in on me. The alarms began to sound. If my fight led to a riot or upheaval, the bullets would no longer be rubber.

  The guards tackled me to the ground, and then violently pulled me up. Half of which were surrounding the man on the ground doing the same to him. They held my arms firmly and dragged me away. I craned my neck backward to find the mother and daughter. They stood facing me, holding hands as the snow swirled delicately around them. There were tears in the mother’s eyes, and the daughter waved goodbye.

  “Thank you…” Her voice trembled. “Thank you…”

  - 3 -

  I sat straight up in bed, gasping for air, and drenched in a cold sweat. As I calmed down, realizing I was in my room, I rubbed the inside of my left forearm. In the pale morning light the dark scar was just a dot, and always a reminder of my time in the Confinement.

  “Thank you…” I heard the woman’s voice whisper.

  I shook my head to rid myself of the flashback.

  Out of all the things that occurred during my three months in Confinement, that memory haunted me the most. There was not a week that went by where I didn’t dream about it. I looked forward to the winter and wearing long sleeves. People loved to ask how I got the scar, and I hated retelling it. I threw my arm around and it hit the pillow next to me. It had been a long time since I had a woman in my bed. After the Confinement, I got to enjoy somewhat of a burst of stardom.

  “Aren’t you Owen Marina? One of the founders of the Convergence Party? I saw your interview with the Huffington Post. You are so hot…”

  It always went along those lines. Don’t kid yourself, the fruit was ripe and ready, so I picked it. Many times. Although, the flings only filled a gap, a part of me that had been empty so long. I thought I had something more at one point, a relationship with substance, but that didn’t end well. So now at twenty-seven I was alone. No wife, no kids, not even a dog—just my bike. At this stage, it felt like I was engaged to my party for Christ’s sake. Then again, I imagined the wedding being a sweet one and having a blowout of a reception. I set the date for November 8th. Perhaps Goodman and Cole would walk me down the aisle.

  Ha. I stood up out of bed, laughing at myself for personifying our party. I was so backed up on sleep, I would either end up drinking more often than Cole, or wind up in a psych ward. Tonight though, tonight would be the moment that sealed the deal for our party. Perhaps, it would mean I could relax, work a little less, and answer fewer emails…because within less than a month, Senator Goodman would be President-Elect of the United States. I grinned, knowing that I had been a part of this monumental political awakening in our history. Even a year and a half later, I still remained shocked when people called me a ‘founder’. Who would have thought, me—a booze drinking post-grad working in Washington became a founder of something. I hope you’re proud, Mom…

  I cruised down Canal Road, weaving around cars that were in my path. This was the long way around, but due to less traffic, it was a lot faster for me on my bike. Anytime I revisited Georgetown or anything along the Potomac, I always took this route; it was very green. I could smell the water from the canal on my right, with trees surrounding me on both sides. It reminded me of where I grew up in Virginia.

  Within minutes, I was approaching the bend which looped around and revealed the university. Cars lined 37th St. NW as far as I could see in front of the Copley and Healy lawns. I had already passed the parking garage, and I was sure when the workers saw who I was they would offer to valet, and there wasn’t a chance in Hell I’d let anyone park my bike. I parked in a spot along the street, locking my bike once I stopped. I slid my helmet off and set it on the seat while I made sure my tie was straight.

  Walking down the sidewalk, I had my helmet in one hand and slipped my keys in my pocket with the other. I was a block away, and I could already see the reporters lining the entrance. I was glad I wore my favorite suit. Paparazzi tend to capture the most horrifying angles. I figured that out one night when I left a bar and saw my drunken grin on a tabloid the next morning.

  As I approached the entrance to the circle driveway, I heard a wave of chatter rise amongst the reporters. I was still a length away when the first camera flash went off.

  “Sporting the royal colors tonight I see,” a familiar reporter said.

  “Always, always.”

  “Mr. Marina! What are your thoughts on tonight’s debate? Will Goodman trample the other candidates a third time?”

  “Mr. Marina, what is your response to the accusation from the democrats and the republicans stating that your party has no real platform, it’s just fueled by the hype of the American People.”

  “Mr. Marina, Mr. Marina…”

  My name blended in with the electric snaps from their cameras—it was always dizzying.

>   I turned around to deliver my statement.

  “It doesn’t matter anymore what they think. A sore loser’s ‘statement’ is nothing more than an insult. Those same democrats and republicans were safe and comfortable whether they lived within or outside of the boundaries during the Confinement. They had immunity, and we didn’t. Remember that…”

  The reporters erupted with more questions as I turned my back to them. I looked up at the castle-like design of the buildings. Gray brick blended in with the sky. I approached Gaston Hall, where the debate was being held, and in all my years here at Georgetown I could have counted the times I’d been in the hall on one hand.

  I approached the old, wooden doors, and I spread my arms and legs out, for there were security guards who used the wand to check me for weapons. They also patted me down before letting me in. Once I entered, things were more tranquil. All the people in the finest business attire, holding conversations at just above a whisper. The stage was draped with fabrics and the podium in lights, embellished with the Great Seal. The back wall of the hall was lined with dozens of news networks that would broadcast the debate.

  As important of a member as I was in the political community, I had a moment of awkwardness. I felt like I was walking into the lunchroom on the first day of high school, nervously scanning the crowd to find some of my peers to hang out with. I was the young gun, the ‘kid’ or ‘boy’ as Cole called me. Over half of the heads in the room were peppered with gray, or just all white. I had made such a quick emergence in the political world, and although I knew I had influence, I felt intimidated. It was as if I were playing a game, and the instructions were written decades ago by all the people in this room…and since the start I had been breaking the rules.