Knox

by David Meyer

  A still silence spread across the room.

  “The U.S. faced stagflation during the late 1970s and early 1980s,” Ben continued. “One of my predecessors, Paul Volcker, managed to beat back the inflation side by essentially cutting money supply growth. It worked, but it also drove the U.S. economy into a deep recession and caused high unemployment to linger for years.”

  “God, I hate this job.” President Walters leaned back in his chair and kneaded his forehead. “So, what do you propose? Juice the economy? Or attack hyperinflation?”

  Ben looked distinctly uncomfortable. “A depression is bad, but hyperinflation is much worse. Unfortunately, conventional tools won’t stop it this time.”

  “Don’t mess with me, Ben,” the president warned. “I’m not in the mood.”

  “Volcker’s strategy worked because the federal deficit was at a much more manageable level, sir. Unfortunately, times have changed. The deficit is so high, tax dollars can’t even begin to cover the interest payments. That’s why we created all this new money in the first place. To keep the U.S. government from defaulting on its debts.”

  “Damn it.” The president exhaled. “You should’ve warned me this was coming.”

  “My apologies, Mr. President, but I did warn you. Over and over again, in fact. I’ve spent my entire time in office telling you, Congress, and anyone else who would listen that the U.S. economy couldn’t continue on its debt-fueled path.”

  The president winced. “It’s just, well, I’ve heard that sort of talk for years. You know, cut the debt or everything will go into the toilet.”

  Hooper focused his attention on Ben. “There must be a way out of this.”

  Actually, there is one option available to us.” Ben stared at the president. “But our window to implement it is exceedingly short, which is why I wanted to meet with you tonight instead of tomorrow.”

  “How short?” the president asked.

  “Between this most recent riot and Secretary Horst’s untimely death, I believe there’s a considerable chance we’ll see another major stock market collapse on Monday. Such an event will undoubtedly drive the economy past the point of no-return.”

  “So, before Monday.” The president exhaled. “What do you propose?”

  “Immediate tax increases or cuts. And not cuts in spending growth. Actual, deep cuts. And not just to ordinary government programs. To make this work, we need to go after the big stuff. The stuff we keep off the books. Primarily, Medicare and Social Security.”

  “So, we raise taxes to the roof or we cut benefits people depend upon to live.” President Walters shook his head. “Americans will never accept either of those. They’ll string me up from a flagpole first.”

  Ben arched an eyebrow.

  The president sighed. “Okay, I’ll meet with my cabinet and we’ll come up with a plan to present to Congress.”

  “Perhaps you didn’t fully understand me, Mr. President. You don’t have time to work through the normal channels. Either you fix the debt problem or face stagflation.”

  President Walters adopted his most grave visage. “Are you absolutely sure about this, Ben?”

  Ben nodded.

  “Fine.” The president rubbed his temples. “I’ll put my best people on it. We’ll draw up a series of executive orders to create new taxes and implement staged spending cuts to all major programs, say, over a ten-year period. That should—”

  “I’m afraid that’s not enough, sir.”

  The president blinked. “Why not?”

  “We need to cut the debt now, not ten years into the future.”

  The president’s jaw dropped. “So, you want me to slash the deficit in a single day?”

  “Yes, but that’s not all, sir. You need to make the reduction permanent.”

  “How am I supposed to do that? I can’t stop Congress from spending money. And I sure as hell can’t stop my predecessors from ramping up the debt again.”

  “Actually, you can. Obviously, the issue is one of credibility. Simply put, the promise of a politician means nothing in today’s world. So, it’s not enough to tell people you’re going to cut the deficit in half. You need to put teeth to it. There’s a way we can do that.” Ben hesitated. “Admittedly, it’s unconventional. Way outside the box. No one will even see it coming.”

  “That’s what I like about you,” the president said. “You’re always thinking ahead.”

  Ben managed a small grin. “Actually, sir, the roots for this plan aren’t ahead of us … they lie in the past.”

  CHAPTER 25

  It’s my birthday and I’m eleven years old today.

  I’m walking down the sidewalk, weaving past obstacles and munching on an ice cream cone. Chocolate with sliced-up peanut butter cups, my absolute favorite. The perfect way to celebrate such a momentous day.

  The sun beats down on my face, causing little beads of sweat to trickle down my cheeks. I feel the sun’s heat, its energy. But I barely notice it. No, finishing this ice cream cone without losing a single drip is all that matters to me.

  Birds chirp overhead, singing melodic tunes for all to hear. Taxis whip past me at a high rate of speed. A never-ending cascade of odors—trash, flowers, bagels, body odor, coffee, and more trash—assaults my nostrils. I’m nearly oblivious to it all. It’s nothing new, just everyday life in Manhattan.

  Some people shoot odd looks in my direction. As if I shouldn’t be out by myself. Dad says to pay such people no mind. He calls them busybodies and says he walked everywhere when he was my age. I’m fine with that. I like walking, being out in the hustle and bustle. Television can’t compare to the vibrancy of city life.

  A soft buzz, electric and frantic, fills the air. I lift my head in mid-lick. At first, I see nothing special, just people talking, walking, and gesturing. Just people being people. But this is different. Something is about to happen.

  Glass shatters.

  Time slows down for me. I hear the screams, shouts, slammed brakes, and skidding tires. I see people lifting their faces in unison, their eyes flicking from side to side. I feel the frenzied electricity in the air, like wild bolts of lightning shooting overhead.

  My chin lifts skyward. The sun is blazing now, hot enough to melt my face. A drip of chocolate ice cream slides off the cone and wets my hand.

  What’s going on? What is everyone looking at? Wait … wait a second. Is that …? No, no. Please, God, no.

  I see it now. I see the building, currently under construction, just two blocks away. It’s one of Dad’s buildings. In fact, it’s where I’m supposed to meet him. I see something else, too. Something falling from a great height.

  The object strikes the sidewalk with a sickening splat. And then I’m running into the street, dodging cars and ignoring honks and angry shouts.

  Others are moving forward, all in the same direction. And soon, I find myself surrounded by throngs of pressing people. They’re everywhere and the buzz of the crowd is that something really bad has just happened.

  I slink, push, and crawl my way forward. The crowd is hushed now and all I can hear is soft breathing and quiet murmurs.

  And then I see him. I see his cold, lifeless body. He lies on the sidewalk, face smashed and leg cocked at a gag-inducing angle.

  A few people surround him. They’re going through the motions of checking his pulse and begging someone to call 911. But even I know it’s too late. Nothing can be done. Not now. Not ever.

  I stumble forward, fall to my knees. Behind me, people are whispering that the man jumped to his death.

  One of the helpers touches my shoulder as if to pull me away from this tragic vision of life’s fragility. But instead, I clutch the man’s crumpled body and begin to sob. My voice croaks and I utter three words that send a collective shiver though the crowd.

  “Why, Dad? Why?”

  CHAPTER 26

  My soul was crushed. Just … crushed. I didn’t think it could get worse than seeing Dad commit suicide on my eleventh birthday.
But this, well, this was too horrible to contemplate.

  The video ended and I stared at the blank screen for a moment, consumed by darkness.

  “I …” Graham’s voice was quiet, reverent. “I can’t …”

  As his voice trailed off into silence, my mind turned inward. My heart started to ache. She’d been everything to me. How could I possibly go on without her?

  The screen blinked. And when it came back to life, it was empty. All of Malware’s texts were gone. Same with the videos. Erased, presumably, from existence.

  A loud click sounded out. More clicks followed. An electric hum started up, like a swarm of mechanical bees. Then bright light appeared, bursting through the broken walls and illuminating the dark vault.

  “The power.” Graham turned his head, following the light back to its source. “She must’ve turned it on.”

  I replayed the video of Beverly’s demise in my brain. Her terrified gaze … the pistol … the flash of light … I knew all of it would haunt me for the rest of my life.

  I thought back to my childhood, to Dad’s suicide. I recalled laying on his body, draped over him like a blanket. Eventually, a few construction workers coaxed me into the building. I sat there for what seemed like hours, unmoving and covered with sticky, dried ice cream.

  Eventually, Mom arrived. She quietly took my hand, led me away. I didn’t remember much else about that day. I didn’t remember where we’d gone and whether or not we’d eaten lunch or dinner. The only thing I recalled was lying in bed at night, listening to Mom sobbing into her pillow.

  I never asked her how she got over Dad’s death. Frankly, I’m not sure she ever did. Part of me had always wondered if that was the reason she disappeared years later. If she’d just reached the end of her rope and couldn’t go on any longer.

  Graham exhaled. “We should go.”

  I stooped down and gathered up the Capitalist Curtain papers. Rolling them into a tube, I stuffed them into my jacket pocket.

  People don’t need reasons to live. But they sure as hell don’t hurt. And as I followed Graham out of the vault, I felt something take hold of me. A purpose, if you will. A reason for going on.

  You’re dead, Malware.

  CHAPTER 27

  Why’d she turn on the power?

  Mulling the question over, I hiked through the crumbled masonry wall and the broken drywall partitions. Malware had my grandfather’s papers. She’d killed Beverly and deleted the evidence from my satphone. In her own words, the game was over. There was no reason to keep playing around with us.

  We entered the main portion of the basement and headed for the stairwell. I took the lead, racing up the steps two at a time. At the top, I saw more lights, heard more humming sounds.

  I paused on the landing. The lobby’s overhead fixtures were now brightly lit. But otherwise, nothing had changed. The floor was still made of concrete, still torn up in places. The walls were still unpainted and covered with spackle. I still saw wheelbarrows, raised platforms, that Welcome to The Falcon! sign, and lots of dust.

  A new sound, a soft clicking sound, filled the quiet lobby. Then light blazed and a blinding array of colors plunged into my eyeballs. Sirens blared. I heard screams, shouts, smashing metal … all the sounds of urban warfare. And above it all, a distant chant …

  “You can’t run, the revolution has begun! You can’t run, the revolution has begun!”

  I glanced at the front door.

  It was open.

  Berserkers ran up and down the streets. Most wore hoodies and jeans, which I supposed was as close to an official outfit as a riot could get. But I did see a topless girl as well, flashing her bouncing tatas for all to see.

  “This must’ve been Malware’s plan all along,” Graham said. “Get the papers and then turn on the electricity. Open the doors and let the rioters do their thing. They’ll destroy the basement, the vault, everything.”

  I patted the rolled-up papers in my jacket pocket. “Not everything.”

  “I would’ve let well enough alone.” The voice, gruff and determined, filled the lobby. “But an offer like this? It’s too good to pass up.”

  I shifted my gaze. Looked at the speaker.

  It was Saul.

  He stood off to one side of the lobby, backed by his masked cronies. They reeked of vodka and sweat.

  Offer? What offer? What is he talking about?

  Saul’s eyes, dark and focused, blazed holes through mine. Then he glanced at his gang. “Hurt them, cut them, beat them within an inch of their lives. But don’t kill them.” His voice turned cold, menacing. “That’s my job.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Graham wheeled around. Moving quicker than I’d ever seen him move, he ran back to the stairwell and hightailed it up the steps.

  I sprinted after him, my tuxedo shoes clomping against the grit-covered stairs. Behind me, I heard angry voices and shuffling sounds. Then rubber soles scraped against the steps and the chase was on.

  Up and up we ran, passing the second floor, third floor, fourth floor, and so on. By the time we reached the eighth floor, Graham was beginning to wheeze. His pace slowed and by the ninth floor, he was gasping for air.

  “Take the next door,” I whispered.

  He grunted and scaled another two flights of stairs. Behind me, I heard footfalls drawing closer and closer.

  Graham reached the tenth floor and darted through an open doorway. I followed suit and we entered a small, unlit entrance hall. Two-by-fours, metal brackets, paint cans, plastic tarps, and other construction materials were gathered together in a nearby heap. Darkness … weapons … all in all, not a bad place to make our stand.

  I glanced at Graham. He stared at the ceiling with his one good eye, gulping at oxygen like it was in short supply. “How much have you got left in the tank?”

  “More …” He gulped at the air. “… than enough.”

  I didn’t doubt his heart. But his body, well, that was a different matter. He’d pushed it hard during the riot. Now, his face was bright red and his muscles shivered uncontrollably. A straight-out brawl with Saul’s gang was out of the question. We needed a different plan.

  Separate entranceways, sans doors, lay on either side of the hall. Taking the lead, I hurried to the left and entered a long hallway filled with partially completed rooms, sitting areas, and other nooks and crannies.

  Turning left again, I jogged to the end of the hallway and saw another corridor to my left. Most likely, following that corridor would eventually lead us to the opposite side of the entrance hall.

  “They’ll need to split up to cover this floor,” I said. “Let’s set up an ambush, quietly bash a few heads. Then we’ll make a run for the stairwell.”

  Graham inhaled again. “You had me at ‘bash a few heads.’”

  The guts of a large apartment lay off to the side. There wasn’t much to look at, just unpainted walls, dark corridors, dusty windows, and tarp-covered floors.

  I entered the open doorway and stole down one of the corridors. In one of the rooms, I found some pieces of wood. They were roughly cut and lying in a heap against a wall. I picked up two pieces, handing one to Graham and keeping the other for myself. Then we took up position just inside the room, on opposite sides of the doorframe.

  I stood there silently for a minute or so, thinking about Beverly. Remembering her looks, her scent, the way she tasted, the sound of her voice.

  A series of faint footsteps brought my memories to a halt. The footsteps paused, drifted away for a bit. Then they returned and moved a little closer to us. Then they drifted away yet again. This cycle repeated itself a few more times.

  “Sounds like …” Graham paused. “… just one person.”

  “Dibs.” Secretly, I hoped it was Saul. I would’ve preferred Malware, but that wasn’t an option.

  Shoes scraped against plastic tarp as someone entered the apartment. He proceeded to walk through the place, checking each room and moving on.

  The footsteps gre
w closer and closer, louder and louder. And then he was right outside the door. A hard smile crossed my lips. My fingers tightened around the wood.

  A head popped through the doorway. It belonged to … yes, it was Saul. His eyes glittered when he saw me. His grip tightened on a knife and he started to back up. But I was already swinging. The wood smacked into his face and his eyes rolled to the back of his head. As he sagged to the ground, I grabbed hold of him, hoping to keep him from hitting the floor too loudly. Then I saw him.

  The second man.

  Grinning wickedly, he sliced his knife in my direction.

  Graham swept into the corridor like a knight riding a steed. Extending his arms, he slammed the wood into the man’s gut. The man tried to shout as he crumpled over, but only managed a small gasp. Shifting gears, Graham jabbed the piece of wood into the man’s skull and the guy fell still.

  Quietly, I set Saul on the floor. “I thought you said there was just one of them.”

  Graham grinned. “Close enough.”

  I retrieved the two fallen knives and handed one to Graham. On a whim, I rifled through Saul’s pockets and found a smartphone. A few flicks of the fingers took me to the texting program.

  Graham glanced down the corridor, toward the main hallways. “Anything interesting?” he asked.

  “I think I know what Saul meant by an offer he couldn’t pass up. Malware put a bounty on us.” I held up the screen so he could see it. “One million dollars apiece.”

  CHAPTER 29

  “One million dollars?” Graham arched his mouth in snooty fashion. “Please. I’m worth way more than that.”

  “What about me?”

  “I’m easily equal to ten of you.”

  “Only if we’re going by body odor.”

  It felt good to banter a bit, especially after all that had happened. But the effect was only temporary and after a few seconds, I found myself feeling hollow all over again.

  I studied Saul’s phone. It showed two pictures, side by side, along with an accompanying caption. The pictures were of Graham and I, neck-up, and taken that very evening. The caption read, Wanted: Cy Reed & Dutch Graham. Crime: Betraying the revolution. Location: 1199 Madison Avenue. Reward: One million dollars apiece, untraceable and delivered to the bank account of your choice for proof of death. The final line was one I’d seen before, Malware Approved.