Unfavorables

by JM Butcher

  “Not at all!” I almost scream. “They’re just thoughts.” He is pleased with my frustration.

  Leaning forward, he says, “No offense, Miss Gordon, but without ever having night thoughts, you do not know how dangerous they can be, do you?”

  I shrink back in my seat. “I guess not.”

  “And, according to you, you do not know him on a personal level. So how, pray tell, do you know that he would not act on these said thoughts?”

  I sit back up. “I guess I don’t. I think he was more interested in finding some friends. He has always been a loner. He liked the attention. He wouldn’t really ever hurt anyone.” The ring on my left thumb is too tight to spin.

  “That remains to be seen, Miss Gordon. Are you aware that William Conroy was chipped quite recently?”

  “No,” I respond. My eye twitches and Soldier Stanton’s look tells me he knows I’m lying. “Well, not until yesterday. I heard some gossip going around when Bi—, when William Conroy didn’t come to school.”

  “Miss Gordon, do you believe you have been chipped correctly?”

  I bite my lip and pause. “Well, I guess. The White Coats labeled me as disturbed.”

  “Unfavorable,” he corrects me, not giving in to the discrepancy between categorization and chipping.

  “Fine. I’m an Unfavorable. If the White Coats concluded that’s the case, then yes, it is justified.” I stop fidgeting.

  “And Unfavorables can do damaging things to society, including acts of domestic transgression, if their thoughts are not properly monitored or contained, correct?” Soldier Stanton crosses his arms. He thinks he’s got me.

  “Sure, I guess. I have no experience with that. Besides, you’ve been monitoring William Conroy, correct?” I’m not giving in either.

  “Well,” he says, “that’s where the problem lies. Because his chip was installed so recently, less a month ago, we lacked the data to determine his threat level.” Soldier Wilson stops writing and looks at Soldier Stanton, as if he said something he shouldn’t have.

  Now, I lean forward. “Okay, so how did you track him down? Have you even had time to analyze his thoughts?”

  “Miss Gordon, that is classified information. Not even Soldier Wilson or I know the answer to that. We are just doing our jobs.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Miss Gordon, do you have any information that may be pertinent to our investigation, any information that may corroborate William Conroy’s involvement in a transgressive plot?”

  “No, sir. I have never spoken with him. I told you all I know about him.” I know the others know more, though. I move my bangs over my face, as my eye twitches.

  “Thank you, Miss Gordon.” Soldier Wilson stops the recording. “Thank you for your time, Miss Gordon. I apologize for any inconvenience.”

  Dunbar stands up. “Thank you, officers. And thank you, Maggie. You may head back to class.”

  I stand up and walk out. I overhear Dunbar call Olivia to the office. I know she will kick ass.

  I stop by my locker and hang my jacket back up. I look under my arms and see that my shirt is dry. I rocked that. I’m not as scared about having night thoughts after Soldier Stanton’s slip-up. He said, “Because his chip was installed so recently, less than one month ago, we lacked the data to determine his threat level.”

  I smile and walk with a little hop in my step, proud of myself for sneaking information. Melli will be proud.

  And my night thoughts will be safe for at least a few weeks.

  Chapter 6

  When we were the United States of America, it was the standard custom to honor the victims—those killed or injured as a result of cowardly acts of transgression. Although we in no way should forget those who have, and who will, lose their lives, change needs to be made. Honoring victims keeps us stuck in the past. It is time to move forward.

  In our United Republics of America, we will honor the survivors—those who represent hope and resiliency and bravery. Wear your Medals of Survival proudly. Let our citizens, friends, and enemies alike know that we will not be broken.

  Thank you. Thank God. Our United Republics of America will persist.

  -Former President Phillip Stanton, 15 June, 2026

  The next day, school is closed. The newly famous Father Warren’s Medal of Survival ceremony is scheduled for this afternoon.

  I’m grateful that we weren’t required to report for a half day. My legs hurt worse than yesterday. Lack of sleep apparently is a side effect of quitting T-Blox cold turkey.

  No night thoughts yet.

  Tyler is still sleeping when I get up, and Dad is at work. He should be let out before lunch so that he makes it home in town for the TV special of the century. Not really of the century. These ceremonies happen fairly often.

  I wonder if that’s why a month of school was added to the calendar a few years ago. We used to have to make up the days that school was let out, but we don’t do that anymore. I don’t know why they called them “make-up snow days.” I’ve seen snow maybe four times in my life. Snow in Ohio is a rarity.

  If my legs didn’t hurt so badly, I might be disappointed school is closed today. Not because I want to be in school, but because I didn’t have the chance to speak with Melli yesterday. I want to know how her questioning session went. With the weekend coming up, I don’t know when I’ll be able to ask. I could message her, but I doubt that’s the kind of content she wants on her phone.

  After struggling to shower and get dressed, I limp down the stairs in spite of my legs, and make myself a yogurt-granola split. There are sausage patties and home fries left over from yesterday’s breakfast buffet, but they don’t look very appetizing. Neither does the yogurt-granola split. I need to eat something, though.

  “What’s up Margelina?” I didn’t hear Tyler come downstairs. “Throw me some of them taters and sauseege.” I act like I’m actually going to throw the plate at him, and it slips out of my hand. The dish shatters at my feet.

  “Damn, Margie. I prefer my taters and sauseege without extra glass.” He looks at the mess without offering a hand.

  “Sorry,” I say and bend over to clean up the mess.

  “No probz. I got my nola-gurt special here.” He steals my breakfast. I choose not to battle him. I’m not hungry anyway.

  I hear Tyler turn on the TV while I continue to pick up glass, sausage, and potatoes from the floor. As a shard cuts my thumb, I curse under my breath.

  Janie, I am here in Arlington, Virginia, just outside of the D.C. Memorial site to witness the crowning of a new hero. Father Warren Matthews, the lone survivor of the heinous and cowardly attack on St. John’s Catholic Church, will be receiving his Medal of Survival from the 2nd President of the URA, President Lionel Washburn. The Transgressor, whose name will not be given, disrupted this quiet town last Friday, October 5th, 2040, detonating a bomb that was strapped to his chest, leaving many dead and not many answers.

  Jim, it looks like quite the sight!

  Yes, indeed, Janie. As you can see...Hold on, let’s find the right drone lens. There we go. Janie, as you can see, the crowds are filling up between the Potomac River and the Pentagon Monument Building to celebrate the honoring of our Catholic hero.

  The sound on the TV is muted. “Hey, Margie. Have you ever heard a Catholic called a hero?”

  “I guess not,” I say.

  Once the former Pope condemned President Stanton’s quick trigger to authorize nuclear weapons on the Saudi Empire, public practice of Catholicism became almost obsolete in our country, at least in the Union. There are no Catholic churches in Ohio.

  Maybe a few exist on the Northeast Coast. People still fly their drones over what was New York City to snap images of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, at least what is still above the water. To snap images of that and the bust of Lady Liberty. There’s really no other reason to visit the City Underwater.

  Tyler yells. “Margie, did you know this Father Warren guy is non-Ivory?”

&n
bsp; Walking into the living room with a towel wrapped around my sliced thumb, I say, “Really? I had no idea they gave Medal of Survival awards to Unfavorables.”

  “He’s too old to be chipped,” Tyler responds. “Can’t believe ole’ Washburn would be down with that. Jerk. Washburn’s up to something. I bet Lexa would know. She’s smart. Way smarter than you.”

  “Oh, real nice, Ty-ty,” I shove his head to the side and squeeze in on the couch.

  “Is she coming over for the TV special?” Tyler asks. “And to see her favorite Gordon?”

  “You wish you were her favorite Gordon,” I say, grabbing the remote to raise the volume. “I’m sure she’ll be stopping by, though.”

  Jim, it looks like a tremendous scene. It’s nice to see the black, white, and red waving. I think I even hear chants of “U-R-A.” Is that right Jim?

  Right-o, indeed, Janie. I can hardly hear myself think here! Let’s see if I can get you closer to the action. Over here, we have the Smith family.

  Reporter Jim asks, “Mr. Smith. Your wife says that your family doesn’t miss a Medal of Survival ceremony?”

  Mr. Smith, replies, “Oh, hell nah, Jim. My li’l Johnny boy and his sis Betty Lue, they ain’t missed one since they were born neither. This might be the first one ole’ Betty Lue ‘members. Big day for this family and for the U.R. of A.”

  Janie, it’s good so see such a patriotic family come together to celebrate the heroes of this great nation. Look over there. Betty Lue Smith even has the URA flag on her bib. And Johnny Smith, who can’t be older than eight, sporting the black, white, and red tattoo. Back to you at the studio, Janie.

  “Ugh,” Tyler says. He steals the remote and clicks off the TV. “I can’t watch this pre-show junk. It’s like the media has to find the most obscure families to interview.”

  “Do you even know what ‘obscure’ means?” I ask. “They probably are required to. Patriots and ratings make the URA go ‘round.”

  “Who’d you steal that one from, Margie? You hear some Prog say it?” He throws a pillow at me and cracks up. “You’re not smart enough to come up with something like that on your own.”

  “No!” I lie, “That is totally mine!” Olivia says that sometimes, Patriots and ratings make the URA go ‘round. There’s another part to it. I would have listened more closely if I ever thought it would be useful to me.

  “Whatevz. Smell ya in a minute. I’m gonna shower so I look all nice for Lexa!”

  I let him go and leave the TV off. I think I can sneak in a quick nap.

  ***

  I’m not sure how long I sleep for. My eyes open slightly when Dad opens the door and walk in. I really wake up when Tyler sprints down the stairs, yelling, “Dad, you ready to skip this and take me to the mall?”

  “Ha, you know all the shops are closed today for the ceremony,” Dad says, though Tyler doesn’t need reminding.

  Tyler snaps his fingers. “Damn.”

  “Tyler, language.” Dad is right on cue.

  I walk into the kitchen. “How was work, Dad?” I ask to be nice, but don’t really listen to the response.

  “Hey, kids. I can’t believe you’re not watching the pre-game festivities.” Dad knows we couldn’t care less about this. “I’m going to change. I’ll be right down. Get it set up. Should be starting in a few minutes.”

  The door opens again. Lexa doesn’t usually knock anymore. Ronnie walks in behind her.

  Lexa shouts, “How the Gordons doing?! I know Ty-ty over there is still trying to make that cash card. What are you doing, Maggie?”

  “Shoot,” says Tyler, “You don’t know what you’re missing, Lexa.”

  “Obviously not much with you,” Ronnie jokes and pats Tyler on the shoulder as he walks in the living room. “What’s on TV today? Anything special?”

  “Yeah,” Tyler says. “A black dude is getting a Medal of Survival.” In our house, it’s okay not to reduce skin color to “non-Ivory.”

  “Shut the front door,” Ronnie reacts. “Father Warren is black, seriously?”

  “That’s what I said! Catholic and black.” Ronnie and Tyler both laugh at that one. That’s the first time I have ever seen Ronnie give Tyler a high five.

  “Dang, Lex, if I go to the South, I can be a religious man.” Ronnie kisses Lexa on the cheek.

  “Uhh…let’s pass on that one, big guy.” Lexa looks serious. She’s disgusted that the President is making a spectacle of this. “Washburn uses whatever is at his disposal to make himself look good. Spreading his wings and acting like he gives a damn about diversity. I can’t even believe he’s making an appearance in the Southern Republic. I figured he’d turn to dust if he left his comfortable place in his great damn Union.”

  “Alexa, language.” Dad smiles, then walks over to give Lexa a hug.

  “You are such a dad, Mr. Gordon,” Lexa says, “but I love it.”

  “What’s up, Mr. G?” Ronnie and Dad shake hands.

  “All right, let’s pack in and do our civic duty to honor the survivor,” Dad says.

  He sits in his reclining chair, and the four of us squeeze onto the couch. I make sure that Lexa sits between Ronnie and me so that Tyler can’t annoy her.

  “You’re in my seat, Marger-etta stone.” This is not one of his better name-calling efforts.

  “Not a chance,” I say, much to his disappointment. “Sit your butt down next to your older and much smarter sister.” I put my arm around Tyler’s shoulders and pull him next to me.

  “Ah, thanks sis, but that’s a bit too close. Give me the remote.”

  Tyler grabs the remote and clicks the power button. We all anticipate that President Washburn’s or Father Warren’s face will be on the screen when it fades in. Instead, it is another face. It is the mugshot of a teenager with brown hair and a little dirt-colored fuzzy mustache. It is Billy Conroy.

  Underneath the mugshot is a running caption: BREAKING NEWS: DOMESTIC TRANSGRESSION, MILLS’ OHIO OFFICE, DEATHS, INJURIES.

  Mills Pharm and Tech is the largest pharmaceutical company in the country, maybe even the world. According to Olivia, Patrick Mills is responsible for the production of ninety-five percent of the pharmaceutical products used in the United Republics of America. This includes ECT for mania, FCT for depression, and SPT for depressive-mania. I don’t know the full names. Oh, and SFT for anxious disturbance. Then there’s T-Blox.

  Mills not only produces drugs for illnesses of the mind, he also controls the drug market for craving disorders, heart ailments, and chronic pain.

  Nobody ever sees Mills, but everyone knows he’s there behind the scenes. The news rarely mentions his name, and he has not appeared on any magazine covers. Dad says that Mills is the driving force behind the government, that he finances a large portion of governmental resources so that the White Coats and the Gray Coats maintain their roles.

  Above the caption are words that freeze my body in place. Goosebumps flood my arms. I’m sure my face is as pale as a ghost.

  SUSPECT AT LARGE: WILLIAM CONROY, AGE 14, UNFAVORABLE.

  “Turn that up,” I gasp with whatever air is left in my lungs. “Turn it up. And be quiet.”

  We have some tragic breaking news. Fugitive Unfavorable William Conroy is at large, a person of interest in the bombing at Patrick Mills’ Regional Office located in South Columbus, Ohio. Dr. Patrick Mills has been reported to be safe in California on business. However, the pharmacists and production agents at the plant are not. It is estimated that more than forty-five employees did not leave the office when most businesses and schools shut down for the Medal of Survival Ceremony. That is just an early estimate. Deaths and injuries are certain, but we do not have an accurate number at this time.

  William Conroy, a freshman at Crosswoods High, a suburban Columbus high school, was reportedly detained from his home by Gray Coats on Tuesday, October 9th, on suspicions that he was plotting an attack on the country. At this time, we do not have any information regarding if he was released from custody or if h
e managed to escape. All we know at this point is that William Conroy is indeed the prime suspect in the explosion that occurred at 12:33 p.m. Union Time. We will take a quick break and bring you back to live coverage.

  “Billy?” I choke out. This cannot be true. “But how…?

  Ronnie says, “This has to be a misunderstanding. He was in custody yesterday. They asked about him.”

  “Seriously.” Lexa turns to me. “What the hell? You don’t believe this crap, do you?”

  I stay silent. I stare at the screen, waiting for Billy’s face to reappear.

  “No,” Ronnie says, “no way. They said they had him. And nobody gets away from the Gray Coats. They must have let him go.”

  “Why would they release a freshly detained Unfavorable?” Tyler asks.

  I whisper, “No…Billy…He didn’t…He didn’t…do this…Billy didn’t do this…He couldn’t.”

  The four others in the room look at me, not sure what to say. They probably don’t even know why I am so affected by this. Lexa and Ronnie might. Not Dad and Tyler.

  We return for special coverage of this breaking news. Again, if you’re just joining us, the Mills’ Plant in central Ohio has suffered a horrible transgressive attack. The motives are unclear, but we have confirmation that the suspect is William Conroy, age fourteen. He is still at large and is expected to be armed and dangerous. It is unlikely that he acted on his own. Please, anyone in the area, stay inside. Lock yourselves inside and continue watching our coverage for updates. We have it for you here on Channel Six. We take you down to the scene with u-NBS reporter Vanessa Plank. Vanessa, what can you tell us?

  Hi, Janie, yes, what we are seeing here is a definite act of transgression. First responders are still planning on ways to enter the rubble. As you can see, the building has been completely demolished. I have been told we are looking at multiple Transgressors and multiple explosives.

  Vanessa, we only have suspect, though, correct?