Mind Power- America Awakens

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Why did they choose this site for a polling station? she wondered, gazing at the neo-classical courthouse. The three-story gray marble building reminded her of the White House, minus its north portico. Between each symmetrical tier of windows, stone ledges circled the structure like a belt; and four soaring columns connected the main entrance to a roof capped with stone balusters.

  “Hey, Lady? Are you a registered Democrat or a Republican?”

  “What’s it to you?” Tom demanded, protectively edging his eighty-year-old body in front of Missy.

  Her inquisitor was fortyish, nearly seven-feet tall, and barrel-chested—a veritable human billboard in a neon-yellow T-shirt that featured a hand-drawn Gadsden flag, a rattlesnake coiled above the words don’t tread on me. “I suspect registered Independents are being discriminated against, forced to vote at this courthouse.”

  Tom licked his parched, discolored lips as if lubricating them for speech. “Muh wife’s a Democrat, and she got to vote at the school.”

  “I think this power failure’s intentional,” Gadsden Guy was saying. “They’re trying to deter Independents from voting because we support Murphy. Not their Democrat and Republican puppets.”

  Matthew began writhing in Missy’s arms. “Pot-ty,” he whined, his little fists rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  She excused herself from the conversation and hustled toward the polling station’s entrance. Night Sector soldiers formed a human barricade across the double doors, and the sight of them reignited fear and anger.

  “My son needs to use the bathroom.”

  “Water’s out along with the electric. Find another facility.”

  Taken aback by his curt manner, Missy asked, “Can you at least tell me where the nearest restroom is?”

  The soldier shrugged.

  “Pot-ty!” Matthew wailed, his tone indicating that time was running out.

  Irritated, Missy jogged toward Odessa Street. Abandoned businesses would have restrooms and, at this point, she didn’t care whether the toilets flushed.

  She dashed into a beauty salon, past a door dangling by a single hinge, past toppled barber chairs and shattered mirrors, to a small room marked with a universal restroom symbol. The odor was noxious, and she cringed at the sight of insects hovering above the sludgy layer of excrement that coated the floor.

  Not happening, Missy thought.

  Flashing a bashful smile, Matthew announced, “Too late!”

  A warm, wet sensation was spreading over Missy’s hip as she backtracked to the salon exit, then her heart sank.

  A rambunctious mob was advancing on the polling station, brandishing an anarcho-communist flag—a rectangle divided into two triangles, one red, one black. Dressed in solid black uniforms, faces masked, they looked like Night Sector soldiers with crowbars and baseball bats instead of rifles.

  We need to hide!

  Missy sprinted deeper into the salon and charged up a set of stairs. Midway, her foot slipped, her knee crashed against a wooden tread, and a sharp pain radiated outward.

  Frightened by the jarring fall, her son began to cry.

  “Matthew, honey, Mommy re-e-eally needs you to be quiet right now.” She gulped in a breath to hold back her tears and limped up the remaining steps. “Bad guys outside. We have to hide.”

  Maybe it was divine intervention or the anxiety in her voice, but her sleepy-eyed toddler expelled a sigh and rested his head against her shoulder.

  The second story of the salon was a storage room with a pitched ceiling and an octagonal window. Missy stumbled over a layer of debris discarded by looters and peeked through the dirty glass.

  The mob was hurling rocks and bricks at voters, chanting, “Ex-ter-min-NATE ... the yel-low SNAKE!”

  Panicked voters stampeded into the courthouse. A small group of men tried to stave off the attack, gallantly absorbing blows in order to buy time for the women, children, and elderly to reach shelter.

  Missy retrieved her Chi-phone and dialed 911. A pre-recorded message informed her that all circuits were busy.

  Damn it!

  “Ex-ter-min-NATE ... the yel-low SNAKE!” The mob’s blood-thirsty chant grew louder, faster; their beatings, more vicious.

  Yellow snake ... the serpent on the Gadsden flag, Missy thought as tears streamed down her face. They aren’t trying to intimidate us. They’re trying to kill us!

  “Mommy, doan kwy,” Matthew said, patting her damp cheek.

  Sniffling and wiping away her tears, she whispered, “It’s okay, Doodlebug,” then used her Chi-phone to record the atrocities. Could facial recognition software penetrate their black masks? Or were these savages going to get away with assault and battery?

  The mob fanned out, surrounding the courthouse, then a fiery hail of Molotov cocktails pelted the building. Flaming glass bottles smashed ground floor windows, and within seconds, bright orange flames were protruding, licking at the gray marble.

  Trapped voters threw open second- and third-floor windows, and thick black smoke billowed out. Sooty-faced victims began taking turns, leaning through the openings to inhale clean air.

  How could the fire spread so fast? Did they douse the building with an accelerant?

  A nauseating current zipped from head to stomach.

  Water’s out along with the electric.

  Did these monsters deliberately cut off the water before setting the building ablaze?

  If that Night Sector soldier allowed us to use the restroom, we would be trapped in that inferno.

  How long before Tom and the others succumb to smoke inhalation?

  Oh God ... What if they set this salon on fire?

  Chapter 4

  DAY 629

  Wednesday, November 9th

  9

  District Six, Texas

  SERGEANT ABBY WEBBER stared up at the bank of monitors inside the high school gymnasium. The ceiling was draped with red, white, and blue streamers, and beneath it, an army of supporters had gathered to await the election results.

  As of 0200 hours Central Time, the returns showed her father locked in a virtual tie with Carter Sidney; and bleary-eyed newscasters were growing increasingly distraught.

  “... Social media has lit up tonight with Americans demanding to know why the votes for a dozen states have yet to be reported, and we’re being told that those tardy returns from Districts Four and Six are expected momentarily ...”

  Lips puckering into a cynical smirk, Abby leaned into Bradley and whispered, “The fact that my dad’s from District Four and currently governor of District Six? I’m sure that’s a coincidence.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidence.” His easygoing, boyish smile was subdued, almost forced, and concern was glinting in his hazel eyes. At six-foot-three with broad, muscular shoulders, he usually exuded an aura of granite toughness, but tonight he seemed strangely vulnerable. And distant.

  He’s worried, Abby thought, noting the tension in his chiseled jaw. Crooked Carter Sidney and her stupid war crimes tribunal.

  A hush fell over the gymnasium as the vote totals finally updated, then a stunned silence gave way to a jubilant roar.

  Popular vote: Sidney 38%, Conn 15%, Murphy 45%

  Electoral College: Sidney 202, Conn 30, Murphy 306

  Bradley scooped Abby into a celebratory hug, and his mouth swooped down, capturing hers with a velvety kiss. Around them, people were bouncing and hugging and cheering. The entire room was electrified.

  Whispering against her lips, Bradley said, “Thank God Patriot Anon was right.”

  “Patriot Anon?”

  “An anonymous guy on the Internet. He knew that Rone asked your dad to run for President and predicted that the polls were wrong. He said brace for a political earthquake.”

  “He’s right about that. The future just got a hell of a lot brighter. Consortium corruption is going to end, and we won’t be railroaded for atrocities we didn’t commit.”

  Abby pulled back from the embrace to reassess Bradley’s mood
. Most of the concern had lifted, but not all.

  Something else is bothering him, she decided, making a mental note to raise the subject after the victory party.

  At the behest of the future first lady, family members gathered on the stage and exchanged congratulatory embraces. Nikki was turning cartwheels; Billy was in his own little world, performing an odd robotic dance; and Ryan and Franny were hugging Sybil.

  After Abby’s father delivered his victory speech, thanking supporters and volunteers, the merrymaking cooled to a simmer, and the newscast became audible again.

  “... Kyle Murphy has won the White House,” the sullen news anchor reported. “Everybody is crying. And so upset. And it is the end of their world ... And you are awake, by the way. You’re not having a terrible, terrible dream. You’re not dead and you haven’t gone to hell. This is your life now ... This is a different earth than it was twenty-four hours ago ... And the world has to be concerned tonight, that the shining light of democracy has gone dark ...”

  “They know my dad’s going to throw their treasonous asses in jail,” Abby scoffed.

  “The Consortium’s world is ending—literally,” Bradley said. “Your father promised to drain the swamp. That’s why they hate him so much.”

  It wasn’t lost on her that the last American President who spoke openly about dismantling the CIA and restructuring the Federal Reserve ended up with his brains splattered on a Dallas roadway. An assassin had already sheared off the upper lobe of her father’s left ear. Would he be that lucky next time?

  Abby offered a silent prayer for his safety, then she felt Bradley’s lips nibbling on her neck.

  “Wanna sneak out early?” he whispered. “Have a private celebration?”

  Her emotions whirled and skidded; her heart rate increased. It had been so long since they’d made love, always separated by thousands of miles. “Right after Sidney concedes?”

  “Deal.” Bradley pulled back, and the intense desire burning in his hazel eyes made her skin prickle with anticipation.

  “... Dr. Nathaniel Cavendish, the pollster who predicted a landslide victory for Carter Sidney, joins us to explain how he got this so wrong.”

  “Quite simply, I underestimated the military vote,” Cavendish said. “Since the EMP, everyone aged sixteen to forty has been indoctrinated, I mean inducted into the armed forces and—”

  “Doctor, I’m sorry to interrupt,” the host said without a trace of apology, “but we’ve got breaking news.”

  The coverage switched to Carter Sidney at a podium, flanked by her husband and advisors. She was a temperamental pantsuit princess whose facelift procedures were rumored to exceed her age; and despite touting core values that changed even more frequently than her hairstyle, the blonde, blue-eyed banshee had come within a whisker of winning the presidency.

  What’s with the purple? Abby wondered, noting that the ties worn by Sidney’s entourage were the same shade as her pantsuit. That can’t be a coincidence.

  “I know what you’re all thinking,” Sidney began. “What happened?”

  The camera panned the somber crowd, a sea of shell-shocked, tear-streaked faces.

  “A series of terrorist attacks happened, targeting polling stations in California, Illinois, and New York—districts favorable to progressive platforms like mine.

  “These deadly attacks have raised serious questions. Who are these terrorists? Are they connected to foreign entities? Were they colluding with the Murphy campaign? And this is not wild speculation on my part. There is evidence of a clandestine meeting immediately prior to Kyle Murphy announcing his candidacy. What business did his son-in-law, Bradley Webber, conduct with Vladislav Volkov, a known Russian agent?

  “These unanswered questions are a threat to our peaceful transition of power. Therefore, as a patriotic American, I am calling for ... an investigation and calling on ... my supporters to fight for justice ... by any means necessary!”

  Chapter 5

  DAY 630

  Thursday, November 10th

  10

  District Nine, California

  GLEN ANTHONY WAS A middle-aged, balding man with charcoal-gray eyes and a lanky frame that was twenty pounds underweight. Sometimes, it was hard to fathom just how much he’d changed in two years; from a briefcase-wielding corporate lawyer with a manicure ... to a hammer-wielding construction worker with calluses. Glen had become the “blue-collar riffraff” he used to deride, and in the process, he’d learned to respect all workers, regardless of occupation.

  Clutching a cardboard box to his chest, he trotted up the porch steps, eager to show Ellen his bonus. Glen unlocked the front door and strode into the open-concept family room.

  “Daddy!” His four-year-old daughter barreled from the kitchen and leapt into his arms, knocking the package to the floor.

  “Hey, Hon, how was your day?” his wife asked, greeting him with a kiss.

  Welcomes like this never happened during his days as a practicing attorney. Back then, he was lucky if Ellen peeked over the top of her iPhone.

  Armageddon restored the American family, he thought wryly. Then giving Ellen’s backside a surreptitious grope, he said, “What’s for dessert?”

  “What’s dessert?” his daughter asked.

  Gabby was two when the pulse hit, too young to remember sorbet and rugelach.

  “Something sweet, like you.” Glen tickled her belly, engendering a spiraling cascade of giggles. He loved that sound. The pure joy, the innocence, it was rejuvenating to his soul.

  “I thought I’d try something new for dinner,” Ellen said, returning her attention to the boiling pot atop an electric hot plate. “Beans and rice instead of rice and beans.”

  Smirking, Glen squatted down and scooped up the cardboard box. “I’ve got a better idea. How about a nice juicy steak?”

  A ripple of laughter greeted him as he entered the kitchen. He eased his daughter onto her chair and slid the package onto the countertop.

  “What’s steak?” Gabby asked, drumming her fork against her dish.

  “It’s a kind of meat,” Ellen explained. “You’ve never had it before. And probably won’t for a long time.”

  “I beg to differ.” With the flair of a magician, Glen opened the box and conjured up two premium cuts of filet mignon with lacey marbling.

  “Real Beef? Are you kidding me?”

  “We finished restoring the Smith farmhouse ahead of schedule, just after the old man slaughtered one of his steer, so we all got steaks for a bonus.”

  Ellen lifted the pot of rice from the hot plate and replaced it with a cast iron frying pan. His wife seasoned the steaks with salt, pepper, and a sprinkle of garlic then dropped them into the searing hot pan. The meat sizzled and hissed, and the savory smell of beef filled the kitchen.

  Fearful that the delicious aroma might attract uninvited guests, Glen shut the sliding patio door. He liked his neighbors—just not enough to share his bonus.

  “People are saying that the polling station fire was arson,” Ellen said, turning the filets. “That Night Sector deliberately killed those people.”

  Glen frowned. Night Sector was a civilian militia who claimed to be protecting district residents from fascists. It sounded noble and altruistic until he realized their definition of “fascist” included anyone who disagreed with them about anything.

  “Don’t go spreading gossip about Night Sector,” he told his wife. “Leave that hornet’s nest alone.”

  Ellen wrapped a pot holder around the cast iron handle and hefted the pan from the hot plate.

  Salivating uncontrollably, Glen stabbed the steak with the tip of his knife and transferred it onto his dish.

  His wife began carving the end of her filet into bite-sized pieces for Gabby. “Everybody thinks Night Sector’s behind the rash of missing kids too.”

  The thought dampened Glen’s appetite. Without a firearm, the only way he could protect his family was to stay under the radar.

  “Ellen,” he
snapped, frustration and fear edging into his tone. “Can we just enjoy this meal?”

  A jarring thud shook the house.

  Glen flinched, Gabby screamed, and the front door gave way in a flurry of splinters. Four Night Sector soldiers charged into the house, rifle barrels leveled on Glen and his family.

  “What do you want?” Ellen demanded, shielding their sobbing daughter. “We’ve already paid our protection fees.”

  The bastards had established checkpoints outside grocery stores and coerced “donations” that equated to a quarter of every family’s food supply.

  “Mmmmmm Mmm.” The squad leader tore off his balaclava, exposing his acne-scarred face and a pyramid tattoo that enclosed his left eye, then he settled onto a chair and helped himself to both steaks, eating with bare hands and chewing noisily. His sneer dared Glen to object.

  Ellen’s face was scrunched; her shoulders, heaving; and Gabby was bawling hysterically.

  Infuriated at the sight, Glen sputtered, “Take the steaks and get out.”

  “I give the orders, and I take whatever I want.” Pyramid Eye nodded, and a fist bored deep into Glen’s gut, knocking the breath from his lungs. Then Two Night Sector thugs dragged him out of the house.

  Where are they taking me? What are they going to do to my family?

  11

  District Six, Texas

  THE SECOND FLOOR above the District Six sheriff’s station had served as Murphy-Andrews headquarters during the campaign. Security upgrades had been implemented, computer systems installed, and the conference room had been converted into a SCIF, which now served as their transition command post.