The Great Crime Spike: A Dystopian Thriller Novel (Liberty Down Book 1)

by Eric M Hill

  He was predator eighty of the one hundred and twenty. He finished his dinner and made his way to his cell. It was less than a week now before this place would be in his rearview mirror. Or rather, in his girlfriend’s car rearview mirror. He was going to make up for lost time!

  That’s how he was thinking until a terrible pain tore through his rectum and abused him like a saw’s blade against a piece of wood. In fact, it was that searing, back and forth pain in the butt that had interrupted his big talk in the cafeteria and had made him abruptly leave and awkwardly head for his cell.

  He needed medical help! But this was prison and he wasn’t a punk. He had the scars to prove it. Hell would freeze over before he went to the clinic for an aching butt and let word get out that he was someone’s girl. So he gritted his teeth and walked, straining to not let the tearing of the saw make him grab his butt with both hands and scream at the top of his lungs.

  The predator prayed that no one would see the tears he kept wiping away as soon as they muscled out of his eyes. He also prayed that no one would notice how gingerly he was walking.

  “Had a rough night?” someone called out, as he passed a disinterested guard.

  Prayer not answered.

  “Hey, girl, you hear me talkin’ to you. Act like you don’t hear me if you want to,” said the taunting predator. “I’ll have you out here touchin’ yo’ toes in front of everybody and singing hallelujah at the same time.”

  He ignored the man’s taunts and the laughter of others and kept walking, knowing that ignoring him and not busting him in the mouth was an invitation for further harassment, or worse. As soon as this pain in his butt went away, he’d find the dude and knock out the rest of his rotten teeth. But for now, he was doing good to keep from falling to the floor and writhing in pain.

  His cell.

  He made it!

  It was a two-man cell that had been converted to a four-man cell by stacking two more beds atop the bunk bed. His bed was number three. There was no way he could climb the ladder in this condition. Getting in another man’s bed was a serious offense, but he had no other choice than to lie on the floor. He was the only one in the cell. Yet he thought it wiser to get on the floor.

  He got on his back and looked up at the drab ceiling as he gripped his clenched butt with both hands. He didn’t think the tearing, in and out pain could get any worse. It did. Tears rolled out of the corners of both of his closed eyes.

  Then he saw something. It wasn’t in the darkness. It was somewhere deeper. Somewhere deep inside of him.

  A woman. He didn’t know her, but he recognized her. He should have. He had kidnapped her and held her for two days before tiring of sodomizing her and finally killing her. His dark mind received a mysterious message that seemed to be spoken by millions of…not people, but some sort of things. Things inside of him!

  We are a danger to life. We must be eliminated.

  Nociceptors in the predator’s anus and rectum raced up the spine to the brain and returned instantly with the command for increased, excruciating pain.

  The predator’s screams filled the north section of the Intensive Management Unit (IMU).

  ***

  Warden Peterson knew drama was coming. How could it not be? He was at war. Stuff happened in war. Dramatic stuff. Several hours had passed since the treatment. Only Nelson had been eliminated so far. Something big was about to happen. He knew it in his gut. He was right.

  The phone rang. “Yes Blocker?”

  “It’s begun. We’ve got several predators with severely inflamed—” The Assistant Warden paused. “Sir, there are nine predators with severely inflamed anuses. They can’t walk. They can barely talk, the pain’s so bad. None of them will accept treatment.”

  “Then how do we know their butts are on fire?”

  “There was a tenth one.”

  “Was?”

  “Yes, sir, Warden. One fatality—other than Nelson.”

  “Fatality?” the warden said, wheels turning, recalling the Austin predator’s boils. “From an inflamed butt? Did he have boils?”

  “I don’t know about that, Warden. But whatever he had, it killed him. And medical didn’t mention anything about boils.”

  “There’s been no reports of disturbances?”

  “No, there hasn’t.”

  “That’s surprising. Are all of these prisoners part of the release group?”

  “Yes, sir. But they’re in no condition to talk to anyone. And I guess no one’s thinking to blame us for pains in some prisoner’s behind. But there is a development.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There have been seven heart attacks and four seizures. All fatal. None of them in the release group. They come from the West and South Complex and IMU, so they’re spread out. And all of them are T1s or T1-2’s.”

  Warden Peterson’s eyes widened. “It’s actually happening. The predator plague is spreading.”

  “We’re taking our country back from the predators,” said Assistant Warden Blocker.”

  “Yes, we are,” the warden said with conviction.

  “What happens if this thing spreads across the whole nation?” Blocker asked hopefully.

  “I think we’re going to find out. Let’s get everyone locked up until this thing runs its course throughout the whole prison.”

  The warden nearly floated back to his office. Was this actually happening? Thirteen dead predators. One of them scheduled for early release, and nine other early release predators apparently infected. Was he evil for stopping these predators? No! He’d be evil if he didn’t stop them. His smile grew larger. He may be judged by many as a criminal, but he and his staff’s actions would prevent tens of thousands of rapes and thousands murders. If that was wrong, then so be it.

  It was time to put Dr. Anderson’s second phase of the plan into motion and call Roy Reed at the Department of Corrections before that weak-kneed, predator-loving governor of theirs stuck his nose into this.

  Chapter 49

  He answered his phone without activating video. He listened to the gleeful report.

  Anderson would have been jubilant if his heart didn’t ache so badly. A thousand dead predators may prevent fifty or hundred thousand rapes and murders. But it had no power to undo the one rape and murder that mattered most to him.

  Emerald.

  It wouldn’t bring his daughter back to him. It wouldn’t give him another chance to be a good father. The reality made him feel sick to his stomach. The feeling increased as his conscience made him guiltily admit that even if he could bring her back, he’d be as bad a father as he had ever been.

  He’d behave as despicably as a heroin addict who promises everything and delivers nothing but heartbreaks, excuses for those heartbreaks, and more and more heartbreaks. He’d make lunch dates with her and not show up. He’d plan for her birthday and then forget it. He’d surprise her with a spontaneous visit only to zone out when the gift took over.

  But how much of this is the gift, and how much of it is me? Am I hiding behind ‘I’m cursed with a gift of super brilliance that takes over and turns me into a monomaniac?’ A huge anchor of guilt pulled him into deeper depths of painful possibilities. Maybe my great fault is not that I’m involuntarily pathologically focused. Maybe it’s as simple as I’m no better than the typical workaholic dad who’s not there for his family and tries to make up for it by telling himself his absence is necessary.

  Patents.

  An insane number of patents.

  Astounding physics and medical breakthroughs. Revolutionary products and processes. Thousands of disabled and dismembered veterans leading remarkably functional lives because of his research, technology, and equipment. Even a grandson of the president’s chief of staff.

  People compromised with dementia given their memories back. A Nobel prize for unraveling the mystery of the errant chemical code repetitions of chromosome four in those with Huntington’s disease, and subsequently eradicating it. Yet none of these ac
complishments nor the endless cascade of others could rescue him from the weight of his guilt.

  In a flash, for the first time in his brilliant life, he knew that his reasons for not accepting any more Nobel prizes wasn’t him being humble or selfless. The true and damning reason was he no longer accepted them because each one was proof that the only family he could be there for was the family of science. His spouse and children were chemistry and biochemistry, enzymology and genetics, immunology and neurology and medicine, physics, and a handful of other sciences.

  Warden Peterson repeated himself. “Dr. Anderson, are you still there? I said this thing is spreading like a California wildfire. The predators don’t know what hit ‘em. They don’t know we had anything to do with it. Can you believe that?”

  “That’s great news,” said Anderson. “That’s what we were hoping for.”

  The warden stiffened. “Something’s wrong. It’s not the pardons, is it? That snake hasn’t double-crossed us, has he?”

  “No, no, it’s not the—”

  “Bad enough I’ve got to worry about state charges. I’d hate to have to worry about federal charges, too. ’Cause there’s nothing that man won’t do, you know?”

  “I know that better than anyone. No, he hasn’t issued the pardons yet, but he’ll come through. He has to. The president needs a lot more dead predators before he can claim to be our messiah. He needs me to help him, and the cost of my help is presidential pardons for everyone who assists in this extermination of predators.”

  “I hope you’re right. I called Roy at the Department of Corrections. The transfer has already begun. We’ve transferred a lot of the prisoners who’ve shown symptoms of the treatment to other prisons. The prisoners still haven’t caught on. They think we transported the infected prisoners to hospitals. Hopefully, in a few days, this plague or whatever it is you’ve concocted will be in every state prison in Washington. It’s not like you don’t have enough Nobel Prizes. But too bad you can’t get one for killing predators.”

  You’re right. I don’t need another Nobel Prize, he thought. “Then I have to hurry. It’s amazing this thing hasn’t gotten out yet,” said Anderson.

  But that was all about to change.

  Chapter 50

  President Cuning’s naturally tanned complexion glowed with the news. Getting Anderson on board had been a long shot. And as desperate as he had been to get him to create a crime suppressant drug, it had always been a matter of desperation, not true faith that he could actually do such a thing—and he hadn’t.

  He had failed at creating the utopian drug just as the government had failed. But the arrogant sack of hyper brain cells had created the next best thing. Some kind of a something or another that identified and killed predators. And only predators. What kind of brain was in this man’s head?

  “One of these days we’ll crack his skull and find out whether he’s an alien,” said the president, not serious about Anderson being an alien, but deadly serious about cracking his skull.

  “Predators are dropping like flies, Mr. President,” the chief of staff steered him back.

  “Yeah, it won’t be long before predator deaths reach critical mass. That’s when the fun begins. Those bums on the Hill won’t only give me STOP. They’ll give me whatever I want.”

  “Like it or not, that’s how the Founding Fathers set it up. No way to stop the will of the people when you get enough of them demanding something. No matter what it is. Congress will be putty in your hands, Mr. President.”

  And that’s when I can finally get rid of Anderson. “I’ve been thinking, Hal.”

  “Always a good thing, Sir. Especially for a president.”

  “What if I don’t issue the pardons? Or what if I issue the pardons for everyone except Anderson? After all, he only requested pardons for those who assist him. And once predator deaths reach the tipping point, I don’t need him. Not any longer.”

  The chief of staff heard the anger in his voice. Anger was often behind very dumb decisions. “There are pros and cons, Mr. President. You’d be sticking it to your opponent, yes. But if the people give you credit for legislation asking for authority to stop predators,” he waved his fingers at the pun, “how much credit will they give the man who created the device that makes STOP worth anything? Besides, an apparent alliance with Anderson gives you the halo you need.”

  Cuning’s countenance darkened. His blood boiled. He understood the logic. But this one man was a threat to his plans like no other. The only other thing the man did when he wasn’t creating something was denouncing him and funding and empowering those who fought against his plans to gain more power.

  A bitter memory of Dr. Anderson’s Two-Bit Dictator speaking tour surfaced. The man had humiliated him for three full months on television, at universities, and anywhere else with a sofa or platform. If that old worthless Constitution had given him the powers he deserved as president, he wouldn’t have to put up with opposition. He could crush it.

  He forced a relaxed expression that his chief of staff recognized as fake. “You’re right, Hal. Can’t let my anger get the best of me, can I? It wouldn’t be presidential.”

  Chapter 51

  Dr. Anderson knew he was in a race against premature exposure. He went to as many prisons and jails as he could before he finally got the call he thought would’ve come sooner. He was standing beside Chief King at the Austin city jail when it came.

  “It’s out, Dr. Anderson. On every channel. They know.”

  “Thank you,” he answered, and ended the call. “Chief, it’s out. It’s on the news now. You said you’ve shut down television and all other communications, right?”

  “As soon as you started. But jail’s a different world, Dr. Anderson. Prisoners will find a way. Good thing we finished before word got out. I got a feeling it’s about to get really interesting. Let’s go see what they’re saying about us.”

  Chief King took Dr. Anderson to a room where several of his higher-ranking staffers were riveted to a large television screen. Two news reporters were seated and facing the camera, piranhas in a journalistic frenzy, gorging on every new detail of the fleshy story.

  “Jerry, the reports just keep coming in. Americans incarcerated in federal and state prisons and jails all over the nation are dying by the scores. Texas and Louisiana and Oklahoma and Arkansas. Here’s Mississippi and Georgia.”

  “Predominantly southern states,” said Alvin.

  Jerry blinked hard a few times and pushed his neck forward, looking down at the small screen in front of him. “A huge outbreak at the Washington State Penitentiary. Two hundred and sixty people dead, apparently all prisoners.”

  “There’s no way this is a coincidence. The president asks Congress to pass his so-called STOP legislation, and now only days later a mysterious disease—”

  “Is it a disease, Alvin?”

  “We can’t say definitively yet what it is. But what else can it be, Jerry?”

  “That is an interesting question that demands an answer. I’m not a statistician or epidemiologist, but what are the chances of this occurring right after the president asks Congress to pass an unconstitutional bill to kill—basically murder—Americans behind bars?”

  Alvin jumped all over the insinuation. “And if that’s not compelling circumstantial evidence that something is amiss here, that is, besides the deaths themselves, there is the smoking gun that the only deaths reported are those of prisoners.”

  “What random disease kills only prisoners?” asked Jerry.

  “Unless the disease was administered directly to the prisoners,” Alvin added accusingly.

  The other reporter looked shocked at the possibility of what his colleague was implying. “I’m trying to think of another word to give it, but…” He shook his face with a troubled look. “Well, Alvin, that would be mass murder.”

  “An impeachable offense,” added Alvin. “More than that—a criminal offense.”

  “And not just for the president, ass
uming he’s involved in this,” said Jerry, “but there are dead state prisoners, also. That may mean this conspiracy of mass murder has the involvement of governors.”

  Both reporters’ insides were dancing. A conspiracy of mass murder by the president and several governors…and who knew who else? Why, this was the greatest domestic news story since the impeachments and convictions of Tunnelly and Woodruff.

  “Wait a minute,” said Jerry, “I’ve just received news of an interesting observation concerning the deaths, and this is interesting. It appears that only T1s and T2s are dying. T1s and T2s refer to the top two violent crimes: murder and rape, respectively.”

  “So only murderers and rapists are dying?” asked Alvin.

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  “And there’s more,” said Alvin. “Most of the deaths, the vast majority of them are concentrated in state prisons in the South and Washington State Penitentiary in the West. Surprisingly, there’s only a handful of city or county jails affected. And there’s something else. There’s an unnaturally high number of prisoner deaths in the federal prison system—and that’s sixteen states we’re talking about—but total number of federal prisoner deaths is only a fraction of state prisoner deaths.”

  “Perhaps that’s because most murders and all rapes, unless they happen on federal property, are adjudicated under state law,” said Jerry.

  “Brilliant assessment,” said Alvin.

  Jerry looked thoughtfully at his colleague. “Assuming that President Cuning is involved with these mysterious prisoner deaths, do you think he’ll get away with it?”

  Alvin was about to answer, but a thought jarred him. “We haven’t said a thing about the brilliant elephant in the room.”

  “Doc—tor An—der—son,” the reporter said, in wide-eyed surprise, his journalistic saliva sliding invisibly from the corners of his open mouth.

  “That would be like the wolf and the lamb working together,” said Alvin.

  “Maybe more appropriately the wolf and the billy goat,” said Jerry.