by Simon Harrak
“When the president stated he was going to declare the antagonist in this situation, who do you think he meant?”
“Me, naturally,” said Kalakia.
“And is he right? Are you antagonising the world?”
“Ask your viewers if they feel antagonised by me.”
“Why did you choose me to speak to?”
“Because you and I share the same values and principles.”
“I can hardly espouse violence and murder as part of my value system,” said Mechtkempf.
“We merely have different ways of pursuing our values,” Kalakia shot back with a cold smirk.
“How deeply have you penetrated our governments?”
“We work with your governments to ensure that wealth is invested back into your hard-working citizens who first helped create it. We do not control or manipulate your governments. They remain an independent entity. If Horst Stirner emerges victorious, that will change.”
“But you do control the media, don’t you?”
“No,” said Kalakia, shaking his head. “We hold some influence in matters of internal security. Although we do alter or quash information which threatens the safety of our people and hinders our work, we do not involve ourselves in the propaganda of your states.”
“You mentioned the underworld before as being part of the threat against you. Don’t you also have criminals in your organisation?”
“The League Of Reckoning pays no attention to the past indiscretions of its soldiers. Loyalty, tenacity and adherence to our mission are our only concerns.”
“I see,” said Mechtkempf, pausing for a moment. “What exactly do you do with all the money you confiscate? How do we know we can trust you? And what gives you the right to police the wealthy for money they rightfully earned?”
Kalakia closed his eyes for a moment.
“Thank you, Ms. Mechtkempf,” he said. “You ask firm but fair questions. Our work has been well documented. We have provided housing for hundreds of thousands of disenfranchised people. We have forced wages for the working class to consistently increase, and have reinvested wealth to create new opportunities for all. The people have given us this right through their support of us. We get results. Every dollar taken is tracked using a sophisticated software system which must be confirmed in eight different locations before the changes become permanent. Corruption and greed have plagued our organisation in the past, as it does any entity. We keep it at a minimum by enforcing death against those found guilty, all while maintaining a surveillance system of the likes never seen.”
“How far does this surveillance system go?”
“That I cannot divulge,” said Kalakia.
“And there we have it. What gives you the right to monitor us? Who are you? What’s your history, or your track record for that matter? What qualification do you hold for your position?”
“Corruption comes in many guises. It thrives by acting in duplicitous ways, through illusion, manipulation and propaganda. It is never justified. I believe that power must justify its authority at all times. When it can no longer offer a valid reason for its existence, it must be dismantled. I do not claim my position from God. I have no divine right. The leadership is entrusted to me by my people because I have proven myself worthy of it time and again. The results speak for themselves. The minute I falter, the second I cease to be the most capable person for my position, I will gladly stand down. Yet as long as I hold the goodwill of the people, and as long as greed and corruption remain, I will give my life for the cause.”
“Don’t you think transparency is necessary for power to justify itself, as you put it? Secrecy breeds corruption.”
“You are not wrong. Keep in mind that our strength has been in our obscurity. Our enemies could not strike out against a foe they could not see. The shadow is a fertile source of power.”
“And now you have stepped out of the shadow because…?”
“Our enemy struck from within, not from without.”
“I see. That brings me to the next question, one which has been on everyone’s lips since a video of him in a fistfight in London went viral. Who is this young man?”
The television screen displayed a photo of Frederich on a backdrop of a screaming crowd, his flying fist suspended in the air as the colossal Dikka’s head flew back in a bloody mess. The grim determination on Frederich’s face along with his fluttering brown locks looked iconic.
When Kalakia had first seen the picture, he immediately recalled the story of David and Goliath. The reality was not so clear cut, but that was not important. The photo would tell whatever tale the people needed to hear. In their state of fear they would relate to the small and vulnerable ‘David,’ with Frederich’s Goliath-like opponent representing the shadow of destruction hanging over them. Kalakia and Mechtkempf had discussed the matter of Frederich before going on air, and she had wanted to confirm if Kalakia was fine with her mentioning the talented Estonian in the segment. Kalakia thought long and hard, and decided that the risk was worth it. To win over the populace, he would need to present them their hero. In much the same way that Fidel Castro had ridden into Havana on the back of Che Guevara’s revolutionary fervour, Kalakia knew that Frederich’s zeal and savagery would provide him the upper-hand in the upcoming propaganda battle.
“His name is Frederich Abel,” said Kalakia. “And he is an orphan. He has no family and no fear. His life has one purpose and one alone; justice for the people.”
“Footage was released only hours ago by the Polish authorities revealing him to be the person who killed the Berlin Bomber,” said Mechtkempf. “Can you confirm this to be true?”
“Yes,” said Kalakia. “He witnessed the carnage of the bombing with his own eyes, and took it upon himself to bring retribution upon the terrorists.”
“The authorities and witnesses said they were sickened by what they saw. How can you approve of such brutal methods?”
“It is easy to judge his acts from a distance. The demonic forces of this world do not compromise or negotiate. Evil bows only to fear, and it has a reason to fear this man. He is a force of nature never before seen. He does what needs to be done. However, the people can rest assured knowing that he is on their side. He fights for you.”
“Why?” said Mechtkempf.
“He knows no other way. His past made him savage, but his suffering has made him sympathetic to the pain of the people. He understands their plight.”
“Thank you,” said Mechtkempf with the slightest of smiles. “Those are all the questions I had. I believe you would now like to address our audience directly?”
The cameraman moved around to face Kalakia head-on, and Kalakia turned away from Mechtkempf and looked into the lens. After a moment, the cameraman signalled with his finger that Kalakia could begin.
“Fellow citizens,” said Kalakia. “I come to you today representing the organisation responsible for the equality you have enjoyed for decades. Since our inception, our mission has been to bring justice to those disparaged by the corrupt. We have indeed achieved this end by acting with impunity, and in the process, have committed many violent acts. Our success lies not in our brutality, however, but in our principles. Not once have we pursued recognition or glory, not once have we targeted the civilian population except with due cause. During our reign, inequality has been reduced to levels never before seen in history. You know this because you have reaped the benefits. Where economic hardship has reared its ugly head, we have worked with your governments to ensure ongoing prosperity for the disenfranchised, without bowing to your wealthy elites. It is no secret that once a certain amount of wealth is achieved, a person ceases to identify with the common man. They become a different species, cold and calculating, unbound by shame and unhinged in their capacity for greed and destruction. Their thirst for power is unquenchable — until they meet their reckoning. Popular backing for our global hegemony of justice remains, which is the reason your governments have thus far supported the status
quo.
“This era of prosperity for the common person is now under threat. Firstly, those few who have not benefited from our doctrine, namely the greedy and corrupt, have struck back. Like rabid dogs, their frustration has come to a head, and they have assembled behind the man who promised them the key to my organisation; Horst Stirner. It is they who have sown the recent chaos, and who seek to upend The League Of Reckoning. If you, the people, accept the lie which you will be told tomorrow, then you will have granted permission for tyranny to reinstate itself. I will be the first to admit of our evil nature, yet without us, true evil in this world would multiply beyond imagination.
“I have thus far resisted the attempts of the greedy and corrupt to reveal my identity. I do not answer to them, nor will I ever. Rather, it is my honour to come now before you, the people, to implore you to fight. Let your governments hear your might roar. Take to the streets, raise your voices, rise as free people, and declare your demand for justice and freedom from tyranny. Legitimacy and authority shall never come from above, but from us, the people. Support me, and I promise you; Horst Stirner will meet my wrath, as will his band of traitors and criminals.”
Kalakia leaned further forward and clenched his fist, presenting it to the camera.
“Do not forget,” he said. “We are the people, and we are the power. ”
26
Frederich could not understand the conversation between Camille and the policeman, but he did not need to know French to grasp what was being said. The tone of their voices gave him a general idea:
“How long is this bastard going to stay like this?”
“As long as it takes. He still has an infection.”
“An infection shouldn’t last this long!”
“Oh? I should know how long an infection lasts.”
“He can sleep in his prison cell.”
“Don’t you give me that. Let me do my job and stop interfering.”
The conversation ended abruptly with what sounded like a barrage of insults from the policeman before he marched out and slammed the door behind him. Frederich waited some seconds after the room grew silent before opening one eye slightly, then the other. Camille was standing in the middle of the room rubbing her temples. She exhaled and looked out of the window.
“You can’t keep this up forever,” said Frederich with a low voice.
“I know,” said Camille, going over to sit on the chair beside Frederich’s bed. “Two more days. I hope they will come to their senses.”
Not a chance, thought Frederich, expecting a beatdown as soon as they got their hands on him.
“I can handle myself, you know,” he said.
“I am sure,” said Camille. “Two more days. Then you can face the law.”
“I still don’t understand why you’re doing this,” said Frederich.
“I don’t need you to understand,” replied Camille.
“I’ve faced worse things than some hero cop.”
Camille sharpened her gaze, paying close attention to Frederich’s face.
“What kinds of things?” she asked.
Psychopaths. Sadists. Murderers. You name it.
“Just more dangerous people,” he said with a shrug.
“How did you get the scars on your back?” she asked. “I saw them when I was operating on your leg.”
The bear from his dream came up, towering above his tiny frame, and he blinked hard. He saw her eyes again, glowing with terror that oozed beneath his skin. He knew who she was, but could not bring himself to say it. He preferred not to go there. It was easier that way. No need to dwell on it. He also recalled his hallucination with the bear while he was locked up in Scheffler’s hole. Every time he saw the scars in the mirror, after a shower or while getting changed, he simply glossed over them. They stopped existing after a while. He was only reminded of them when people asked.
“It happened when I was a kid,” he said.
“They look strange. Not from a knife. Was it an animal?”
He nodded.
“A bear,” he said.
“I see,” said Camille with a tone of awe, her eyes glowing and lips parting. “How old were you?”
“Six or seven.”
“Where were your parents?”
He saw her again, crawling over the dirt, her terror singeing into his being. A pulse of rage shot up, and his entire body shook. Stay out. Every one of his muscles tensed up, almost cutting off his breathing.
Camille read him carefully, then nodded.
“It’s ok,” she said gently. “It’s fine. It’s fine.”
Frederich sniffed and looked away, sensing the episode pass and his body grow somewhat calm again.
The door suddenly burst open. The policeman marched in, scowling, his moustached-face bright red. He pointed accusingly at Frederich and began screaming in French, moving gradually closer until Camille rose up from her chair and tried to hold him back. The confrontation quickly escalated into a scrum, Camille’s pure white doctor’s uniform facing off against the policeman’s navy blue authority. Camille once again proved her tenacity, holding her own against the fury of the unhinged officer. He progressed forward, pointing, pushing and yelling, while Camille dug in her heels and pressed firmly against his chest, resisting not just with her body but her words. Frederich’s leg throbbed as he sat up in a state of vigilance, ready for a fight in case the man broke through Camille’s defences. He looked around for a weapon but only saw a small metal tray on the side table with an empty plastic cup on it. The screaming grew louder, the struggle turning more frantic, before the policeman won out. Camille was pushed suddenly to the side, managing to keep her feet, but too slow to recover to catch the police officer. Frederich braced himself as the man came toward him and tried to grasp his shoulder, to which he deflected the man’s arm to the side. The officer continued to be frustrated in his attempts to get a hold of Frederich before suddenly reverting to punches. Frederich lifted his elbow and blocked a fist aimed at his head, while pain shot out of his leg again from the sudden movements and contractions. He groaned out loud when the policeman landed a hard punch in his stomach.
It was enough to force him out of his defensive posture. He reached to the side and grasped the metal tray, slamming it over the policeman’s head. The officer went tumbling backwards, the rage in his bulging eyes intense enough for Frederich to anticipate the worst. It came when he took his gun out of its holster. Frederich had a split second to act. He lunged at the man with all his might and landed on top of him, softening his fall somewhat. The impact on his leg was too much. He yelled out like a madman, the pain so great that he went out of his mind. When his focus returned, the policeman was on top of him with his fingers around Frederich’s throat. As Frederich struggled to draw oxygen, it came rushing up, obliterating any sense of reason Frederich was holding onto. At that moment, Camille came from behind and tried to pull the man off. Her sudden appearance caused the policeman’s grip to loosen, and Frederich saw his opening. He slapped the man’s arms to the side, lifted his torso and punched him in the throat. The man rolled over and grasped his neck while yelling in pain. Frederich quickly sat up and rolled over, hot in the face and panting hard. There was room for nothing else; he wanted to slaughter the bastard. The metal tray was sitting at his side with a dint in the middle. He picked it up and brought it down hard on top of the policeman’s head. Then again. His entire body was on fire. It had consumed him, compelling him to beat his foe to a pulp.
“Stop it!” yelled Camille when Frederich was preparing to land a third blow. “Don’t kill him!”
The intensity in her voice caused Frederich to turn his head automatically. He caught her eyes, which were begging him to stop. He remained frozen with his arms raised, trembling all over. The accumulated energy in his body was immense. The feeling it gave him was infernal, its instruction was clear; kill that son of a bitch!
“No,” said Camille, shaking her head. “Don’t do it. I beg you.”
&
nbsp; The vigour in her eyes drew him in, and was compelling enough to draw him away from the inferno inside. The pressure in his head eased. The policeman’s groans found their way to his consciousness. Feeling came back to his shoulders and arms, and then to his stomach and legs. Tears filled his eyes as he thawed. The rage eased back to its source. He lowered the tray and looked down at the barely conscious policeman, who had blood running down his entire face. Camille approached and cautiously reached out and took hold of Frederich’s weapon. Frederich held it tight for a moment, then released his grip. Camille carefully placed the piece of metal on the ground then kneeled beside him and the policeman.
“It’s fine,” she said, speaking softly. “Let me look at him.”
Frederich inhaled deeply as he reacquainted himself with his body, then wiped the tears from his eyes. He flipped over, grunting from the pain in his leg. Camille turned to the police officer and placed her ear next to his mouth. She then stood up and went over to the door and opened it. Frederich could hear her steps disappearing down the hallway. Moments later she came back with another doctor, a bright-eyed, dark-skinned woman in her twenties, who looked down at the scene with shocked fascination. Camille said something to her in French, and the doctor went to tend to the police officer. Camille returned to Frederich’s side and began inspecting his leg.
“Are you ok?” she asked.
Frederich nodded while in a daze. By now he had numbed out the pain; the light-headedness, the adrenaline and the throbbing blending together into a cohesive, dissociative state. So when the two burly men suddenly appeared at the door, they looked like merchants of death, dressed in all-black from head to toe and their faces cold and stiff. Frederich could do nothing, only gaze up at them helplessly. The men calmly inspected the scene before turning their attention to Frederich.
“Abel,” said one of the men. “Scheffler sent us. Let’s go.”
The man bent down and grasped Frederich’s wrist, but Camille intercepted him.