Men on patrol and snipers on rooftops are staggered regularly two to three blocks apart, throughout the grid of the downtown streets. They are on alert against a recent increase of insurgent hit-and-run attacks.
The streets are quiet and almost empty. Were it not for the occasional military jeep or city bus, the roads would be clear. Only the few rich can pay the steep price of gasoline. Many businesses are closed, with their doors and windows boarded up. Less than one-third of the shops in the mall nearby remain open.
The people walk the streets in angst. They loathe the GPs, but they fear them more. Anyone standing out in a crowd is a possible target for an arrest, at a whim. Those breaking curfew are routinely beaten.
But there is a sublime confidence rising. Knowledge of insurgent groups, growing stronger and bolder throughout the continent, is giving people reason to hope and the courage to resist. Speaking out against the GP, even in one’s own home, was once unimaginable, but now, it is more routinely and courageously occurring.
The November day brings a chilling breeze through the open doors of the pub and across the sullen face of a lanky gray-haired bar tender. As he leans with both hands against the bar, at the far end, he stares at the empty chipped and scratched circular tables sparsely arranged along the floor. Slowly, he runs his eyes down a handful of stools in front of the bar, to glance at his lone patron.
Sitting at the bar’s center stool is the hunched form of the goateed man. Lodged in his ears are the wireless earbuds of his music player that rests beside his hand. Next to it is a glass mug containing a bitter, dark liquid. The alcohol within it suits his needs, helping him to forget that he woke up.
Every day is a day of deep regret over the chain of decisions he has made since he tried to save Paige from Sik. He believes the condition of the world today is the result of his rash decision and reckless action that day twelve years ago. Since then, in peculiar logic rooted in self-loathing, he had reasoned that inaction on his part was the best course of action. Consequently, each decision of inaction resulted in further removing himself from human events, and then eventually, in removing himself from events of the simple day. It kept him away from struggles and weighty decisions, and gave him an easier path into tomorrow. He believes that his inaction allows humans decide their own future.
However, humans, in this era, are not deciding their own future. There is evil in the world controlling them.
Raising his hunched frame, he looks at his image from across the mirror affixed on the wall, in front of him, that stretches almost the complete length of the bar. His once long, black hair is cropped down close to his scalp, and his goatee is trimmed close to his skin. The tan hue from his face that once gave him a healthy appearance is now gone, replaced by a pale facade drained of life and hope.
Staring at his expressionless image, he raises the mug, drinks from it, and sets it back down.
With a twinge of momentary regret, he acknowledges to himself, “This is me. This is me every day.”
The following week.
Dead gray clouds completely cover downtown San Diego.
Two patrolling military men are inside the pub, casually talking to the bartender.
The goateed man sits at the center of the bar, with an empty mug and again blankly stares at his image from the long mirror on the wall. Hours later, he is still there, but an additional handful of people join inside the pub, busy in their conversations.
The sun is down and night covers the city.
As darkness stretches over the pub and the other downtown buildings, it reaches out into the valleys and out further east, past the deserts and plateaus.
Almost a thousand miles away, in a dry bare valley, a rocket launcher hurls its projectile at a storage building. At the building’s perimeter is a chain-linked metal fence, with a handful guards patrolling it. The missile hisses through the cool air, and then past the guards, heating the air, as it bores a path to its target.
Two men, with night vision goggles sit in a jeep, a distance away, watching the missile. One carries the rocket launcher, on his shoulders, and the other watches the missile, as it reaches its target. The projectile penetrates a wall of the building, strikes the stockpile of ammunition within it, and explodes on impact.
For several previous nights, the two men have been surveying this storage building, in the middle of this open valley, in the Midwest of the U.S. They had observed laden military trucks enter the building, at one end and exit at the opposite end. When the trucks entered, the men noticed that the truck frames were low to the ground. But when the trucks left, their frames rode higher, above the wheels.
They conjectured that the building might be a temporary munitions storage facility. They were correct. Guns, bullets, grenades, and other weaponry were shipped there, and then distributed to other GP forces, throughout the Midwest.
The missile strike and the subsequent explosions further prove them right.
The first man speaks in English with an Arabic accent, “Very good shot. Now tell them again, with meaning.” He is Omar Malshar Gul.
The second man lowers the launcher and lifts a loaded second launcher from the jeep. He aims and fires. The missile strikes the center of the building, and more explosions blast into the dry night air, igniting a spectacular blaze, at the center of the otherwise empty valley.
Again, Gul speaks, “Excellent! Let’s go!” He quickly positions himself in front of the steering wheel and starts the engine. As he relies on the night vision goggles, he keeps the headlights off.
The second man jumps from the back of the jeep into the passenger seat.
The two quietly, slowly, and patiently steal away, as the blaze behind them gives light and fiery heat to the darkened valley.
They continue on for a distance, and then begin to pick up speed, staying off any paved roads.
Hours later, they cross into a mountainous area, at the edge of the valley. Several miles in, they radio their base, telling them of their arrival. Then, they decrease their speed. While the blackened night conceals their movement, the rocks and dirt under the jeep crunch and pop, as the rubber wheels ride over them.
The jeep stops, and for a moment, a silence fills the ears of the two men.
Then, with an electrical hum and a churning of massive gears, the earth opens. The platform upon which they are stopped begins to lower. Soon, they are swallowed into the ground.
The following week.
Clouds have moved in and partly cover downtown San Diego.
While the same pair of black and scarlet clad military men patrols the street outside the pub, the same sniper is stationed above the apartment building further down the street.
The foot traffic is high for reasons unknown, and many people mill about. Anxiety begins to electrify the crowds; something is about to happen.
Inside the pub, the goateed man sits again, at the center of the bar. The bartender, who had just finished setting down his newly filled mug, now walks away to the very end of the bar.
The music player resting beside his mug wirelessly transmits the next song to his earbuds. In his thoughts, he knows he didn’t make that particular one play, but he also knows it was not randomly selected. Through the song, someone speaks to him in the way he listens best, wishing to show him a reflection of his soul.
He doesn’t want to hear what the lyrics have to say. Nevertheless, his desire to stay frozen, motionless, and lifeless is stronger than his desire to move his hand and turn off the player.
Thus, the sorrowful song begins.
Outside, not far from the pub, at the corner of 4th and Broadway, a man in his late-twenties has made his way to the roof of a two-story building. He stands at the very corner of the roof, at the intersection of the two streets. His medium-length red hair blowing in the November wind is a stark contrast to his purely black clothes, to the gray sky, and to the gray sea of walkers below him.
Some people begin to look up and notice him.
Knowing th
at this could be the last day of his life, the man on the roof closes his eyes and breathes in deep. Trembling, he raises his fists in the air. His act this day is done in concert with thousands of others, in thousands of other cities. All intend to raise their voices and to sacrifice their lives in one large-scale, public act of defiance.
Two more, a man and a woman, stand at the corner of two other rooftops, several blocks away. Then, more reveal themselves, on other rooftops along the downtown streets. Their black figures against the gray sky begin to catch the attention of more and more people on the streets.
A sniper notices. Silently, he crouches into position and takes aim.
The red headed man opens his eyes, shakes his fists in the air, and raises his head to the heavens. He passionately shouts from deep within his soul, “Freedom!”
His plea to the masses again bellows, “Freedom!”
Then, one after another, one person, on a rooftop, after the next, cries the word, “Freedom!” It rings out, through high and low, from one street crossing after another, and from one square block after another. Their voices crack with passion and emotion, while their fists shake up high for the heavens to see. Their souls cry out to be heard from city to city, from state to state, throughout the entire country.
As the people below look up and see the black silhouettes, their hearts begin to stir. Even though the armed military is among them, one by one, one frightened soul after another is sparked with enough courage to shout from their own fear-gripped lungs.
They shout the word, “Freedom!”
From within the pub, the goateed man senses what is happening outside. The young red-haired man shouting, on the corner of the two-story building, is familiar to him. There, five scarlet and black uniformed military men rush, one after another, out of a doorway onto the roof. They quickly swerve and slither around obstacles of the protruding vents and ducts, in order to reach the red-haired young man.
The goateed man can sense the scuffle on the roof and can feel the whoosh of the air, as the batons cut through it, striking the young man’s body. The guards mercilessly beat him. The bones on the man’s fingers, wrists, and shins start to break.
More and more people empty the buildings, restaurants, and stores, as they hear the defiant calls outside. They swarm and overcome the street.
From a vantage point, another military sniper takes steady aim. A short distance away, on the rooftop of another building, a woman clad in black shouts into the sky. The first shot pops and rings distinctly through the cold November air. Heat and smoke, at the end of the sniper’s rifle, are the telltale signs of the kill. The woman’s cry is stifled, and she falls several stories down. This day, she is one among many who will for pay in blood for freedom.
Seeing the woman fall, the hordes below are initially shocked and horrified, but then their emotions transform into fierce anger and raw hatred.
From the song in the goateed man’s ears, the mournful playing from The Cult’s lead guitarist echoes and sinks into his mind. A few chords later, the lead vocal passionately sings to him, sorrowfully calling him a broken-winged angel.
One after another, those shouting on the rooftops are swarmed by black and scarlet, being pounded by clubs and pistols, and silenced forever by rifles. On the sidewalks and streets, soldiers - converged upon by crowds filled with righteous anger - begin to fire at will into the bodies attacking them. Triggered by the gunfire, more skirmishes ensue. In one city block after another, swarms of people are either striking and overcoming individual military men, or being scattered by a flurry of panicked military gunfire.
But nothing can mute all those who shout for freedom, on all the rooftops throughout all the city streets. The word they shout cannot be silenced, and the spirit carrying the word cannot be bound.
In the goateed man’s ears, different kinds of words pierce his heart. The lyrics of the song Edie reopen wounds of guilt and regret inside him, wounds that have never healed. Every waking morning he patches and covers them, by dismissing them in his mind, but underneath those patches, they ever fester and eat away at his soul.
Mournfully, the song plays on, asking why he left the world, why he couldn’t hold on, and why he didn’t struggle to earn and reach paradise.
From above, the positions of other snipers are speckled throughout the grid of the downtown streets. Their aim proves deadly. With the rhythm of a metronome, their shots shatter the air, one after the other.
The goateed man lifts his mug and drinks from it.
Slowly, he sets it down.
Then, his thoughts turn again to the roof of the two-story building, and he recognizes the young man being beating and dragged away. He is sure of it. They once lived in the same neighborhood. He saved the boy from a car wreck, many years ago.
Allen, the redheaded teenager whose actions were once reckless and self-serving, as a youth, are now measured and self-sacrificing, as an adult.
The goateed man had once felt both the responsibility and the concern to risk his life to save Allen, and now he feels neither. He feels nothing.
With another unimpeded strike of a baton landing on his bloody head, Allen loses consciousness. The men continue to pound on his limp, broken body. They swarm over and cover him. From far away, their violent, shadowy figures can be seen in the skyline; the swift rise and fall of their black clubs are clearly distinguished.
With a sad somber fade, the song ends.
While staring into the dark liquid in front of him, he mumbles one word. It is the word that represents all that he cannot have, but also represents all that he has made his pale and solitary world to be.
“Paradise…”
* * * * * * *
Returning from investigating the explosions in Los Angeles, Agents Etelson and Stevens ended their two-hour drive and came back to the third floor of the San Diego FBI Field Office.
As they sat across each other once again, at their usual desk, Etelson asked, “So, did your artist get that composite posted yet?”
“Yeah, I’m looking at it now, Ett,” Stevens responded in a mumble, as he clicked the links on his laptop screen.
“Oh, cool. Lemme see.” Etelson pushed her chair back and walked her way around the desk, to stand behind Stevens.
In a moment, an image of Sik appeared.
“Yeah, that’s Mr. Jarhead,” Etelson commented. “Could you open up the first composite and show ‘em side by side?’
“Sure, I got it.” Stevens opened a folder in his laptop’s file system and double-clicked on a file. When the image appeared, he resized and moved both images, so that they were next to each other. He asked, “Not too different from each other, huh?”
“Yeah, not bad. Two witnesses and two very close composites.” Etelson nodded. “How about the other one? Mr. Goatee?”
“That was the first one I looked at. The artist said that the woman wasn’t quite sure about this one…less than fifty percent sure. Seems that she was still a bit drugged and groggy, when she saw him inside the ambulance.” As he spoke, he clicked around to open the next composite.
It appeared on his screen.
“Wow. Hmmm. He’s got long hair, but I don’t recognize this guy,” Etelson remarked. “Do you?”
“Can’t say that I do. That’s a shame.” Stevens rested his elbows on the desk and clasped his hands together. Then, he turned his head to the side to Etelson and said, “I think we should pay Mr. Goatee another visit anyway.”
“Agreed. We ought to do that.” Etelson walked around the desk and returned to her chair, and then leaned back. She continued, “Let’s send out the second composite of Kessian and the pic we have on file of him, from when he was arrested for the pool hall brawl…give them to the media, hotels, and motels, etcetera.” After pondering for a moment she picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk. She then asked, “So, are you over your amazement of how well the parents of Mr. Hoodie, Mr. Jarhead, and Mr. Goatee named them?”
Stevens grinned, “Not so much
, but I’m easing out of it. Why?”
“Well, I’m thinkin’…” Etelson responded, “How plausible could it be that Kessian and Mr. Goatee are working together? I mean, considering these days how almost everyone wants to be some kind of internet phenomenon or some reality TV sensation, that these two are coordinating to create some ‘evil villain versus super cool hero’ scenario.”
Stevens continued that thought and asked, “And the motive is money? Popularity and money? The money motive certainly fits. Mr. Goatee hasn’t had a job for a long time. About five years, I think.”
“Yeah,” Etelson said, leaning back on her chair, “And who knows? He could be making connections right now. These serial kidnappings and murders have garnered quite a public interest…especially after these latest fireworks and major landscape remodeling in L.A. I was just looking at all the videos being posted on the internet of the explosions and the collapsing buildings. If he were really the one on the scene helping people, he can be a very popular guy, once he steps forward. A hero to all, I’d say.”
“But why would Mr. Goatee contact authorities like us and draw the attention of the FBI? If we figure him out, he stands to lose quite a bit, and then ends up being Big Bubba’s pretty-boy playmate in jail.”
“To make it more believable maybe? But I agree. It’s a risk to take to directly get us and police involved and start nosing around - considering how super amazing my sleuthing skills are.” Etelson winked. Then, she dropped the pen on the desk and put her hands on top of her head. “Well, let’s put that scenario aside for now. And assume Mr. Goatee is an innocent guy, on the one hand. And on the other hand, Mr. Hoodie and Kessian are conspiring to perform this murder, destruction, and mayhem. Help me out with a motive for why they would pick Mr. Goatee to be involved in their schemes.”
Stevens leaned back on his chair, clasped his hands on top of his head, and began swiveling in his chair. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about this. What did the note say that Mr. Goatee got with the wine bottle? ‘You’re late and it’s time to play our epic game’? Something like that. They’ve got to know each other.”
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