by B. C. Tweedt
“Where’s your American flag, Marshall?” Katelyn asked.
The group stopped laughing.
Marshall held his bike helmet under his arm as his garage door pulled up, casting light from the inside into the dusk. He cocked his head and peered at the empty flag holder by their front door. “Oh, yeah. Mom thought it was going to rain.”
Katelyn flared her nostrils. “Well, it didn’t.”
The uniformed group was dead silent and Marshall straddled his bike without an answer. Nick watched the two exchange glances, the tension building.
“I-I’ll get it up,” he said, stammering as he ran the bike to the garage, threw his helmet on his shelf, and opened the door to the inside. “Just a sec! I’ll get it up.”
Katelyn scoffed and started off before Marshall could return. Once the group was several houses down, Nick looked back to see Marshall securing it in place.
The group began to dwindle as more and more riders veered to their neat suburban homes, each one different in layout but near the same in style and color. There were community rules dictating such things, and consequences for disobedience were steep. But as steep as they were, it seemed the community knew there were much steeper consequences for other crimes – and it knew who could accuse them.
A hand retreated from curtains at one home. A woman pulled her dog inside before it had the chance to relieve itself in the yard. Shades were pulled, garage doors closed, and porches emptied before they passed. As weird as it was, the community was afraid of them. Children. On bicycles.
Nick hated it. Hated himself. But there would soon be a way out.
“What do you think of them?” Katelyn asked, pumping her head toward a house on their right. She was looking at Nick.
“Mrs. Cartwright?” he asked, referring to their English teacher.
Katelyn nodded, swerving her bike in long, slow pedal strokes.
He had suspicions of his own about her. She wasn’t afraid to allow classroom discussions on potentially offensive material. Her methods thrived on lively debate. And she posted the Constitution on the wall even though she never taught about it. If he had cared about Shepherd instincts, they’d be warning him of wolf.
“No red flags,” he stated with confidence. “Yet.”
Jordan laughed. “Yet.”
Nick pedaled along, thankful Katelyn and Jordan were approaching their home, when Sydney swerved off with them.
He braked. “Sydney?”
She glanced back. “Oh, I’m going to watch the debate with Katelyn. Tell Mom and Dad, will ya?”
He had stopped in the middle of the road, watching Sydney dismount and follow the Tomlinsons through their front door. She looked back with a smile and a wave, but added nothing more.
Nick’s heart was beating fast as the door closed behind Sydney. His eyes bounced around his head as his thoughts raced to keep up.
She’s in? Just like that?
He slammed his feet on the pedals, racing home.
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Sam watched the TV monitor, taking another sip of his Mountain Dew. Everything had been going well. His father had answered eloquently and had avoided any major blows that could ruin his lead. But the debate was far from over. After Jimmie Coates had finished with a tirade against gun control, the camera switched to the grey-haired debate moderator.
“Switching topics to you Governor Reckhemmer,” began the debate moderator, “as you are aware, a year ago, Everett Emory issued a warning on behalf of Pluribus, claiming that the government would launch an attack on states that vote against President Foster’s successor, which we’ve come to know, is you. Being that the vote is only a week away, how do you think the United States should respond to such a claim?”
Sam cocked his head. How did that question pass inspection? His father’s advisors had promised him that it would not be asked. Even the moderator looked nervous for asking it. He should. Foster will have him humiliated and fired by the end of the night – blacklisted for life. Perhaps he had already packed his bags.
“First of all, I don’t find the question worthy of our time,” his father replied.
Sam took in a deep breath, nervous for his dad.
“It is absurd to give air-time to such conspiracy theories as if to give them legitimacy. Look,” he said with a deep sigh. “What Pluribus said and what it did are two different things. If we listen to their lies, we are at risk of being deceived. Such evil doesn’t deserve debate, philosophizing, or dithering. You asked what the US response should be? Foster already responded, nearly wiping Pluribus from existence. They wanted to rip us apart, so we acted to rip them apart. While flawed, his response was what the Union needed.”
The audience erupted in applause, but Jimmie Coates held up both hands in an attempt to quiet them.
“If I may, Lil’ Hammer,” Jimmie interrupted, using his nickname for Governor Reckhemmer, “I always say it how it is – and that’s bullcrap.” He smirked as the laughter came in. “Foster put thousands of ‘em in FEMA camps, but there are ‘undreds of new militias sproutin’ up all over the country. Your buddy Foster adds new groups to the terrorist list every week, instead of our real enemies – the terrorist groups pourin’ in from overseas! Now they are salivatin’ as we destroy ourselves from within. North Korea, Iran, China – they’re posterin’ for war. Did you forget about them? Our real enemies? Before the VSA, the average American knew exactly who our enemies were. After the VSA, who knows? People are runnin’ from the government; and the ARC, once mocked, is now legitimately being considered in seven state legislatures.”
Jimmie’s two adult sons – both wearing their Air Force uniforms – gave each other fist-bumps.
“It seems,” Jimmie continued, “that Foster’s response served to help Pluribus’ cause, whether by intention or not. You approve of that response?”
Sam ignored the looks from the other kids, focusing on his father’s image, which the network had put side by side with Jimmie’s just to showcase his reaction. His father was shuffling his papers, shaking his head.
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“TREAD ON ME? TO THE A.R.C.! TREAD ON ME? TO THE A.R.C.!”
Cael pushed through the midst of the protestors, dodging elbows that pumped with the chants of the men and women holding signs. His heart pounded in his chest in anticipation.
He finally squirmed his way to the edge of their designated protest area, cordoned off by a traffic fence. He’d watched the cops set it up hours ago, when he was scoping the area. The fence separated the two areas that had lumped the diverse protestors into one of two groups. While Security lumped them by “Reckhemmer supporters” and “Other candidates’ supporters,” Cael knew it was more complicated than that.
Reckhemmer’s area was for those who preferred a larger, more involved government that was stronger, more secure, and powerful enough to battle many of the ills each citizen faced. Cael thought of them as Big-Government.
The other candidates’ supporters were Small-Government. They wanted the government out of their lives. They wanted as much freedom as they could get with as little help from the government as possible. Despite all the differences in race, religion, and more, it was these two camps that would form the lines if there were to be a new Civil War. The Small Government camp saw Reckhemmer as the next in line to make the government the biggest yet. If he’d be elected, many would see the ARC as a viable alternative – a government that would return to its original small size, letting the states handle the brunt of the governmental needs.
Craning his neck to see over the line of riot police, he saw Humpy’s motorized scooter in the Reckhemmer supporters’ protest area, where they were shouting, “LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT!” over and over again.
He swiped his sleeve. “Spotted. Thirty seconds.”
Humpy looked around and they caught eyes just enough for confirmation. Cael then looked away, half-heartedly joining in the
chants. He eyed the security protecting the debate hall – dozens of Merks, a few of the new four-footed riot-control drones, machine gun nests, and the obligatory hive of airborne drones swarming like gnats. There was little chance of infiltration. But that wasn’t their mission.
Cael couldn’t help but look at the faces of those around him.
They had no idea what was coming.
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The room had grown tense. Sam could feel their continued stares like the heat from the sun.
Finally his father responded. “Thousands killed in Des Moines, unending kidnappings and terror, the murders of our men and women in uniform in Georgia and the USS Coronado – though Foster’s response has had its flaws, it was a necessary justice that has made our country a safer place. They are in their death throes. Period. Are we safe from terror – completely safe? No. But the voters now have a clear choice. Do they want a leader who will use every resource at this country’s disposal to hunt and destroy our enemies, or do they want a backseat critic who sees running with your tail between your legs and forming a new country as a ‘legitimate’ choice?”
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Cael’s watch buzzed and his lip snarled. It was time.
“Hey, fatty!” Cael screamed across the barrier.
Humpy acted offended on the other side, asking the people around him if the boy had yelled at him.
The policemen who stood between the two protest areas shifted on their feet, but their black visors hid their reactions. Their gloved hands gripped batons.
“Yeah, you! Merk! My pa’s taxes paid for your scooter, didn’t they? My inheritance! For what? So you and the rest of your lot can sit on their fat butts twenty-four-seven eatin’ on government food stamps and talking on government cell phones in government houses?”
A small cadre of angry citizens had joined Humpy’s side. “I am who I am! Who is you to judge?” he yelled back. “Mi’ne y’er own business!”
“Open your fat, lazy eyes, Chunky! What happens when Uncle Sam can’t take care o’ya? What then? When the handouts stop coming?”
“I fought for this here country! They ain’t handouts! They payment!”
“Ohhh, sure! You deserve it, huh? You’re entitled to it? It’s my money you deserve, huh?”
The cops grew more anxious, drawing batons. The crowds threw in jeers, in both directions.
Humpy grew flustered. “You ungrateful li’l…what you be without ‘dem? Without what I done? Nothin’! This whole country be nothin’!”
“We’d be better off, that’s what! Moochers like you’d get what they deserve!”
“Moocher? You spoiled lil’ brat!”
“Whatch’you call me?”
“A spoiled lil’…” Suddenly, Humpy jerked his head back and grasped at his face. What appeared to be blood streamed down his forehead as he screamed. The cops spun back and forth as the edges of the crowd began to comprehend what had happened.
Humpy held up a rock with shaking, bloody hands. “He hit me with a rock!”
Chapter 20
Audrey Raines shouted over the other two candidates, “There’s another way!”
Coates and Reckhemmer quieted, acquiescing to her turn to speak.
“We must stop inciting fear and start promoting peace. We must stop sacrificing our liberties and our Constitution to the god of big government. And both sides need to give. Compromise has become a lost art, and the government must be the first to reinitiate it. Then we can expect those who dissent to follow. No more prosecuting people of faith for exercising their religious conscience. No more martial law. No more curfews. Scale back domestic drone surveillance and repeal the VSA.”
“You’re dreaming, Senator,” Jimmie said. “Gov. WreckHammer won’t do those deals. I’m the best dealmaker here. The best. Only I can make America free again!”
Reckhemmer ignored Coates’ overused slogan. “The United States has never negotiated with terrorists, and we never will.”
“Who is under martial law, Governor?” Audrey asked, pounding her fist on her podium. “Just the terrorists? Whose mothers and fathers are in FEMA camps? Who fears a wrong word will land them in prison? Who looks in the blue sky or sends an email and fears the government will see treason where there is none?” She stared the governor down. “The American people. Would you compromise for them?”
He said nothing.
“Then God save us.”
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Astonished gasps erupted around the scooter. Accusations were hurled at Cael across the gap, but he held up his hands, spinning to his neighbors for defense. “It wasn’t me! But he deserves it! You lying, Merk!”
A few came to his defense, just as more came to Humpy’s. The screaming became contagious, the accusations becoming more and more vicious. The chants stopped and the crowd began pushing up to the fence on both sides. The cops’ radios went wild and reinforcements hustled their way.
It was a powder keg about to go off. All it needed was a simple spark.
Buzz provided a spark and more.
Taking what he needed from underneath Humpy’s scooter, he rolled a flashbang, an EMP, and smoke grenade under the fence-barrier, bouncing to the cops’ feet and exploding with a blast of sparks and smoke and light. The drones hovering above buzzed with the electromagnetic pulse and dropped from the sky, crashing into the crowd and the thick, spreading smoke.
The disorientation sent the crowd into a frenzy long enough for Buzz to topple the fence and push several random protestors into the smoking gap. As the cops swarmed them, Buzz let out a fierce cry, “Kill the traitors!”
He was the first to cross the gap, but not the last.
Panicked cries and pandemonium had enveloped Cael, but he was two steps ahead of them all. Throwing a smaller man into the fence, he ran over the toppled section, found Buzz, and let himself get wrestled to the ground.
Buzz pinned him, sneering.
Cael glared back, with the chaos of fighting bodies and smoke mingling above Buzz in a blurred background as they waited out the worst of it. Humpy had sent his scooter zipping toward the Convention Center, programmed for detonation. For now, he waddled past Cael and Buzz, a wide smirk on his face.
Though Buzz was pinning Cael, he was also protecting him. Batons were being swung, rubber bullets being shot, and the crowds were still at each other’s throats. The shouts and screams melted into a cacophony as Buzz’s sneer slowly edged into a smile.
Cael squinted. He’s enjoying this.
But Buzz’s eyes had been averted.
Cael turned his neck and saw out of the corner of his eye what Buzz was looking at.
A ripped sign had dropped on the grass next to him.
He read the two words.
SAVE U.S.
The scooter was intercepted by a squad of riot cops. It took fire from the drones, toppled to the side, and exploded.
The crowd was seized in surprise – the chaos paused, just for a second as glazed eyes took in the fireball. But the pause didn’t last long. The chaos that followed was even more intense, with panicked bodies scattering in every direction.
Suddenly a riot cop pounced from the smoke, grabbing Buzz’s arm and shoving it toward the back of his head. In a moment, Buzz was handcuffed and thrown to the grass face-first. Still helpless on his back, Cael held up both hands, surrendering his wrists to the handcuffs.
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The commotion inside the viewing room erupted all at once. Sam saw Secret Service agents rushing onto stage toward the candidates as more stepped in to secure their families. The crowd’s murmuring hit fever pitch. Questions abounded, but the men in suits were not stopping to answer them. One man was grabbing Matthew, another two escorting Coates’ Air Force sons toward a back exit, but a StoneWater guard with his characteristic emblem on his lapel – a stone with a drop of water dripping from its
cracked center – stood over Sam, pressing his shoulder down to keep him from moving.
“Stay,” he commanded.
Sam furrowed his brow, but didn’t object. He trusted the man more than he ever had any other guard. StoneWater was the best of the best, and his father’s party had spared no expense in keeping them loyal. Their loyalty was based on money. As long as they could not be out paid, they were the most loyal servicemen available.
“Overreaction to protestor scuffle outside. Nothing can get in this building,” the StoneWater guard explained.
Near the exit, Matthew huffed, being pulled away by the Secret Service; before he was pulled out, he managed to look back at Sam in confusion.
Sam shrugged from his couch and waved.
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“What happened?” Katelyn asked, jumping up from her living room couch. “Hammer was killing them!”
Sydney tried to listen to the network anchor through Katelyn’s complaint, but when the camera switched to a view of the violence outside the debate hall, it all made sense. Smoke wafted across the expansive lawn, drones buzzed overheard, and a mass of bodies was scattering in all directions, leaving behind stragglers who were in a scrum with riot police.
“Again?” Katelyn whined.
“Plurbs?” Sydney asked.
“Yeah, that or Constitution Defense, or Wide-Awakes, or some random militia that’ll claim credit.”
Sydney crossed her arms, frustrated more than ever. Why was there violence, every time? Every big event, there was something. Every protest turned violent, every politician urging compromise was attacked, and every organization hailing peace was discredited, hacked, or bankrupted. Jeremy and Harper had filled her in on Pluribus’ work to sabotage peace and fuel fear, and it was working. She hated that they were winning, especially when there was so little she could do.