Fake News

by G L Rockey

  Zack lit a Camel. Can’t overreact, that’s for the TV girls and boys. He remembered Mary’s criticism—stay objective.

  “I am objective.” He smacked the steering wheel. “How about everybody get objective. Stay calm, stay calm.”

  He lowered his window to clear his mind. As he turned right on 21st Street, he began to scan the sidewalks. Aside from small groups of two or three people standing on corners, the area seemed quiet. Maybe too quiet, he thought.

  In mid-thought, something hard smashed into his windshield. His boxer’s instincts flashed punch back. His mind answered, Forget that.

  He said, “Get out of here,” pitched his cigarette out the window and jammed the accelerator to the floor.

  As he sped down the empty avenue, a traffic light turned red. He thought stop then noticed a small crowd moving into the intersection.

  “Wrong.”

  Tensed for a possible collision, he blasted over an open space on the sidewalk, past a utility pole and back onto the street. A figure darted out, swished past; and in a moment he heard a tinkling like chimes, then a thump on the backseat. He glanced back—a brick lay on the seat.

  “What the—no!” He looked in the rearview mirror—the back window was shattered. He noticed a more distant white flash and a small bullet hole appeared in his windshield.

  “Hey! You shot at me.” Then he thought, They’re shooting at something bigger than you, Jocko.

  Accelerator still jammed to the floor, he glanced up. “Are You seeing this? Are You not just a little enraged over this?”

  Speeding through a red light, he said, “That’s what I thought.”

  Streaking along at near fifty miles an hour, he felt something coming up from somewhere that he had not experienced before—a lucid scaffolding of light. Then he felt a presence—Joe Case. He glanced at the passenger seat. He touched the seat. Electric energy.

  “Uncanny,” he said and thought, not your everyday rinky-dink root canal. Anyway, this is not the time nor place for soul-searching introspection, or ghosts.

  He braked and turned down 17th Avenue. Dodging cars, he raced through deserted intersections and littered streets. Thinking it was perspiration caused from nerves, he wiped his forehead with his left hand, then, feeling a tingling sensation, he touched his left ear. He glanced at his fingertips: blood. He took his handkerchief from his back pocket and held it to his ear.

  Calmed by the sight and smell of blood, strange night, better call Ted, he thought. He spoke Ted’s preset number.

  Two rings, then Ted’s voice: “The Boca, Stallings here.”

  “Ted, I’ve just been shot.”

  “What?”

  “Shot.”

  “As in blood?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Where?”

  “Ear.”

  “Since we’re talking, I assume outer.”

  “Funny.”

  “Bad?”

  “Naw.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Seventeenth and 21st.”

  “Get out of there.”

  “I am. I am.”

  “Jimbo called innothing new. Manny is still denying everything on that Channel 10 video tape.”

  Turned left on 836, heading to interstate 95, Zack said, “Can’t find anything on the female victim, huh?”

  “Nope-purr, nothing. Basically, the Public Information Office theory, same as before, short but sweet—drug-related, staged by opponents of Manny to embarrass the police department. P.I.O. denies those two guys were real cops. Impersonators. Jim is going to keep nosing around.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Feds issued a terror alert and cable news guys just flashed something coming out of Seattle. And they all been on the thing out of Boston.”

  “What thing out of Boston?”

  “Pyrotechnics.”

  “Pyrotechnics?”

  “Yep-purr. Looks like somebody blew up Old Ironsides.”

  “What?”

  “Yep-purr, U.S.S. Constitution, forty-four gun frigate, most famous vessel in the history of the U.S. Navy, commissioned in 1798”

  “Ted, not now.”

  “You going to a hospital, home or coming back here?”

  “Home, I’ll call you when I get there. Tell me more about Boston, Old Ironsides.”

  “Somebody blew the whole darn place up. Cable guys all reports White House sources have terrorists involved”

  “White House sources? Were the terrorists dressed like Arabs or Native American Indians?”

  “Boston Tea Party—that’s a good one.”

  Zack checked his hanky. The bleeding had stopped. He lit a Camel. “Did you happen to hear the President’s latest proclamation on terrorism?”

  “Yep-purr, interesting.”

  “Interesting is the understatement of the day. I’ll call you when I get home.”

  “Yep-purrhold it. NBC is reporting on that Seattle incidentholy smokes, will you look at thatI’ll bethis is getting nasty.”

  “What?” Zack said.

  “Hang on a second.”

  Impatient, Zack flipped on his radio that was still tuned to all-news WAME: “initial reports put the number of casualties at over one thousand. White House sources report that the attack at Seattle International airport was chemical and that foreign terrorists are involved”

  Ted came back. “Zack.”

  Zack turned his radio down. “Go ahead.”

  “Chemical attackdropping like fliesSeattle International closed.”

  “I heard, radio.”

  “Must have just happened. TV nets are all switching to coverage.”

  Zackary’s thoughts were those familiar ping-pong balls bouncing off a cement floor. He reflexively crossed himself then realized what he had done and said, “Haven’t done that for a while.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Whata ya think?”

  “Unthinkable times we live in,” Zack said.

  “Nothing is unthinkable these days, especially the unthinkable.”

  “You think?”

  “Yep-purr. Oh, by the way, the Internet is out.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Yep, called couple places, they’re all out of commission—satellite failure, problems, something. A lot a terrestrial microwave relays are wacky, too. Still getting landline emergency stuff, A.P., phone text, FAX is working…I’m gonna call AP.”

  “Right, I’ll call you when I get home.”

  Zack turned his phone off and glanced in the rearview mirror. The world looks different through shattered glass, he thought as he turned south onto I-95.

  Scanning the expressway he noted, except for police cruisers going in the opposite direction, red and blue lights flashing; the expressways stark emptiness.

  The emptiness thought brought up that anxiety something from somewhere.

  “What is that?” He rubbed his chin. “Could it be fear trying to tell you something?” He glanced around, “You trying to tell me something?”

  He listened for a response, but there was nothing. He touched the passenger seat again. Nothing.

  “That’s what I thought. Anyway, I’m listening, just in case. I would definitely like to hear something, anything.”

  He glanced at the bullet hole in his windshield, “I think I said this before, but with all due respect, do You think that maybe You made a mistakethis whole creation thing—earth, man, woman, Satan, original sin, Genesis, snake—wasn’t there an easier way? And why do You go the Eve, not Adam?

  Zack felt nauseous and thought he heard something. He couldn’t be sure. Then another presence was there, an odor like rotting flesh. The presence raised his level of doubting; and then, he remembered earlier bouts with doubt and always that rotting flesh odor hanging around. He had a hunch from where the smell came.

  “Is that you, Louie?”

  Nothing.

  “Figures.”


  He sped along 95-South. “So, Jocko, what are you afraid of, Heaven or Hell?”

  He answered himself, “Could be both,” and out of nowhere Joe Case’s presence popped into his mind. He squeezed the steering wheel and raced toward Pompano Marina, Veracity and home.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  9:45 p.m. EST

  Russ Parker’s cohort, the skinny cop on the Channel 10 video, boarded the fifty-foot yacht End Zone for a promised once-in-a-lifetime adventure. Food, booze, Miami Dolphin cheerleaders, a cruise to the Bahamas–what more could you want.

  Offering him a drink on deck, a buxom hostess assured him that the Dolphin cheerleaders were just a deck below with Russ.

  Knowing Russ’s preference for male partners, he said, “You sure it’s Russ?”

  The hostess laughed and told him the cheerleader would all be up soon.

  Two miles out to sea, on his third Jack Daniels and coke, snacking down a dozen clams’ casino, waiting for the Dolphin cheerleaders, a red fire axe severed the cohort’s head just below the Adam’s apple. Toes still twitching, head whole, the eyes retaining a surprised expression, the remains were carried astern and thrown to the sea and circling sharks. No one would ever know.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  10:15 p.m. EST

  Home, in the parking lot of Pompano Marina, after inspecting his shattered rear window, Zack made his way over the narrow wood jetty to Veracity. The channel brackish water calm, reflected in the surface was the dim glow of the Marina’s lights.

  If I didn’t know better, just another night, he thought.

  He reached Veracity, boarded, stood on the aft deck, and pondered the past few hours. Two plus two kept coming up five and, lousy at math, even he knew something was screwy. He muttered, “The fear thing, combined with a feeling-in-the-bones hunch and rotten flesh smell is akin to a seven-day hangover.”

  He sucked his teeth, went down the three steps into the cabin, snapped a light on, went to the “head’s” mirror and examined his ear. Not that bad, just the tip. He wrapped a Band-Aid around the wound, went to his custom-made two-stool mahogany bar and poured three fingers of Glenlivet into a highball glass. After a sip, he glanced at the video phone at the end of the bar, thought about calling The Boca but instead picked up his TV remote and clicked on a twelve-inch television that nestled in the polished mahogany wall behind the bar. Satellite News Network popped to life.

  Drinking, he sat on a bar stool and increased the volume.

  At a news desk beside a rectangular monitor a blonde with “Sally Smith” superimposed over her chest talked, “and we have breaking news from the Big Apple. We switch to WNEW’s Paul Winkle for a live report.”

  TV video switched to a shot of Winkle, mike in hand, breathing heavily as he reported: “We just arrived here a few minutes ago, at the corner of 69th and 51st. It’s an incredible scene, unfolding as we speak. Police units are everywhere. As we now have it, a gang of youths stopped the burned-out vehicle you see behind me. They apparently then raped a female passenger and set the car on fire.”

  Sally: “Paul, can you hear me?”

  Paul: “Yes, Sally.”

  Sally: “Who is that man standing beside the burned-out car, the one wailing?”

  Paul: “We think that’s the raped lady’s companion.”

  Sally: “Oh. So, what’s the guy wailing about?”

  Paul: “Something about his wife.”

  Sally: “Can you get him to talk to you?”

  Paul: “We tried, but he just breaks down and wails.”

  Sally: “Is his wife still, ah, there?”

  Paul: “I think she’s, ah, in the car, remains, they’re roping it off, crime scene.”

  Sally: “Could this be retribution for what happened in Miami?”

  Paul: “It would appear to be that, yes.”

  Sally: “Doesn’t bode well for the present situation, does it, Paul?”

  Zack pressed the mute button. “Do you believe that idiot? ‘Paul, can you get the wailing man to talk to you?’” He shook his head. “What does that TV jackknife expect the man to say? ‘Well, guys, in fact, I’m feeling really quite good, cause, you see, they just raped and killed my wife’”

  He looked up.

  “It’s me again. Are You seeing this? After six thousand years we’re still not past the cockroaches by much, are we?” Zack stood and shook his head. “Nobody is home.”

  He took a long drink, snapped the TV off and let his thoughts distill.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  10:25 p.m. EST

  Ten minutes of distilled thought later, still no answers to “nobody is home,” Zack punched Ted’s The Boca speed-number into his video phone. In a moment an image of Ted appeared.

  “Ted, I’m home.”

  “I see. You okay?”

  “Yes. You see that garbage from the Big Apple?” Zack moved closer to the phone’s camera.

  “Yep-purrsay, that bandage on your ear, that where you got shot?”

  “That’s it, Band-Aid.”

  “How did you get shot there?”

  “My luck. Anyway, anything new?”

  “Fox News is reporting—get this, from a reliable source—the entire U.S. military is on alert, whole kit-n-caboodle.”

  Zack looked at his drink, thought, for some strange reason, of The Three Stooges, said, “Maybe it’s the booze,”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, Ted, we’re really talking, right? All this is not a dream, right? I’m going to awaken and this nonsense will be gone, right?”

  “You wish.”

  “That’s what I thought.” He sipped. “What about the shooting stuff here in Miami, where I was?”

  Mary pushed into the video picture. “I tried to tell you not to go over there. You okay? What’s that on your ear?”

  “I’m fine,” Zack said.

  “Let’s see.” Mary shoved further in front of Ted.

  “I’m fine, just a scratch.”

  Ted looked over her shoulder. “CNN reported, ’bout fifteen minutes ago, near-anarchy in Boston, Chicago, Detroit, LA.” Ted went into vocal thought, “Anarchy is an interesting concept unique to humans. On the one hand, freedom; on the other, chaos. Now, in the so-called lower animal kingdom”

  “Does it hurt?” Mary said.

  “What about Jimbo? We hear anything new from him?” Zack said.

  Ted, still looking over Mary’s shoulder: “Nope. I’m going to call AP and see what’s up with their dot-com.” Ted slipped out of the picture.

  Mary settled in closer to the phone. “Zackary, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. How are you doing?”

  “What a ya think?”

  “About what?”

  “I’m almost finished up here, maybe I could come over and heal your boo-boo.”

  “No.”

  Ted pushed his head into the video frame. “Zackary, you ready for this?” He held up an AP fax. “Associated Press just moved a story, Marines are expected to seal off the District of Columbia within the hour.”

  Zack plunked his glass to the bar. “Say again.”

  “A.P. says Marines will seal off D.C. within the hour.”

  After a pause, Zack said, “That’s what I thought you said.” He clicked his TV on.

  A BREAKING NEWS graphic filled the screen.

  Zack said, “Folks, note the time and day, and the breaking news graphic on your TV monitors. You will most probably be privileged to have this bronzed someday.”

  Ted and Mary glanced toward television monitors in Ted’s office. Zack increased his set’s volume.

  NewsNow anchor Rock Hardy was speaking. “and now we switch to our Washington correspondent, Marty Pucket.”

  The video switched to a graying Marty standing in front of the White House.

  Hardy: “Marty, what’s up?”

  Marty, in a state of controlled excitement: “In an unprecedented move, President Armstrong has evacuated the entire
Office of the President to Camp David. The President’s media adviser, Dr. Barbara Lande, reports the EIC got a tip that a terrorist missile attack on the White House was imminent. In addition to the evacuation, to protect government property, President Armstrong has ordered the immediate quarantine of the District of Columbia. All public access to the District is denied except for authorized military and select government personnel. We have also learned, from White House sources, that the President will make what they call ‘an historic speech to the nation’ Monday morning at ten o’clock Eastern Time.”

  Hardy: “What about people who live, work in DC?”

  Marty: “As I said, authorized military, select government personnel only. Some Senators and a few Representatives are in town but most are back home for the Labor Day holiday recess. Difficulty returning, air traffic is chaotic. Airports are closed, for obvious reasons.”

  Hardy: “Obviously. Ah, what about you, Marty, do you have to vamoose out of there?”

  Marty: “We’ve been given an hour to evacuate.”

  Zack muted his TV. “Maybe mint-flavored Fleet will help.”

  “Not funny,” Mary said.

  Zack said, “Benny can’t do that, can he, Ted?”

  “Looks like he did,” Mary said.

  “Well, he can’t, goddamn it!” Zack smacked the bar.

  Ted said, “Yes, he can. Protecting government property and”

  “And Benny is public property, so to speak.” Mary smiled but it fell flat.

  Ted continued, “The Executive has extraordinary powers guaranteed by the Constitution in situations of national emergency. It’s how a constitutional democracy reacts to crises. Origins are in the Greek city-states and the Roman Republic”

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” Mary left.

  Ted centered himself in front of the camera. “American political theory of emergency government was derived from John Locke, the English statesman”

  “I know who John Locke was.”

  “Locke argued that the threat of national crisis requires broad executive emergency powers to be exercised by the Chief Executive, since in some governments the lawmaking power may not be able to respond with sufficient speed, like Congress, not in session, it’s up to the Executive branch in times of emerg”