Chatter’s CEO chimed in, saying, “I know this may be difficult for a former jock to comprehend, but we’re running businesses, not charities. And stimulating the economy is your job, not ours.”
Piqued by the derogatory reference to his career as a Major League shortstop, Kyle glared at his guest. “Three months before the electromagnetic pulse, you said, and I quote, ‘Chatter will donate a billion dollars to the Red Plus because we believe in setting a moral example. We encourage all patriotic Americans to open their hearts and wallets to those whose lives have been ravaged by natural disasters.’ Are you recanting that statement?”
The creator of Linkbook eyed the clock and traded a knowing smirk with his SpaceTrex counterpart. “You’ve got some nerve, playing the morality card, given your past.”
Flustered, Kyle said, “The Russia collusion narrative is a political witch hunt, a subversive attempt to hamstring my presidency.”
Disdainful chuckles circled the table, a unanimous consensus that Kyle was an idiot.
The SpaceTrex mogul leaned forward like a crouching tiger, preparing to pounce. “Unmute the Global News Network feed, Mister Murphy.”
They refuse to address me as President, Kyle thought. They’re arrogant elitists who relish trouncing on average Americans, just like Snowden Bryce. Frowning at the memory of his former baseball owner, he unmuted the broadcast, and a breaking news banner hurtled across the screen.
“... GNN has confirmed that three women have come forward, accusing Kyle Murphy of sexual assault, stemming from his career in professional baseball ...”
Kyle gaped, dumbfounded. He didn’t recognize the names or faces of his accusers. Like most young, wealthy athletes, he was guilty of indulging his carnal instincts more often than prudent, but Kyle had never forced himself on anyone. These accusations were contrived, and these CEOs knew this salacious hit-piece was about to break.
That’s why they were all obsessively watching the time, he thought. Is this why Carter Sidney wanted my schedule?
The coverage switched to an interview with the governor of District Two.
“... Given the serious nature of the allegations, I am reopening a decades-old investigation into the deaths of Emily Dawson and Cara Delaney. Both former mistresses of Kyle Murphy. Both died under suspicious circumstances. Americans have a right to know if there’s a predator in the White House ...”
Kyle’s jaw dropped. His blood pressure soared. “I am not a predator,” he stated, muting the broadcast. “Cara Delaney killed Emily Dawson and stalked my wife. And I have never sexually assaulted anyone.”
Gloating smirks flickered around the conference table.
“Come on,” Kyle continued, “you all know what it’s like when you’re a wealthy celebrity. Women throw themselves at rich, powerful men all the time. No coercion necessary.”
The SpaceTrex CEO scowled, virtue-signaling his revulsion. “You are morally reprehensible and a disgrace to this office; therefore, we are withdrawing from your technology advisory council.”
In unison, all six men pushed back their chairs and filed out of the conference room.
Kyle lowered his face into his hands. There would be no due process, no presumption of innocence until proven guilty. The media would propagate the lies, nonstop, following Joseph Goebbels’ law of propaganda: “If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it.”
Which brings me back to square one. How do I convince people that they’ve been duped?
The door swung open, and Admiral Rone entered, his demeanor growing in severity with each stride. “North Korea just tested an intercontinental ballistic missile. It traveled 2,500 km into space—”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Kyle interrupted. “Prior to the election, the intelligence community insisted that North Korea was still years away from having an ICBM.”
“Intelligence failures aren’t uncommon, Mr. President. Remember 9/11 and weapons of mass destruction in Iraq? But before we begin discussing potential responses, I need you to sign executive order number four ...”
35
District Nine, California
AFTER THE NATIONAL Guard secured the perimeter and airspace, Abby trudged past a flurry of medical personnel who were triaging patients. Toddlers and grade-schoolers had been locked inside cages like animals, traumatized and transformed into zombies with haunting thousand-yard stares.
Will those boys ever truly recover? Abby wondered.
She entered the school and followed a trail of dead gangbangers to a basement stairwell.
Cozart stepped in front of her, blocking her path. “Abby, don’t.”
His protective tone stoked her anger, then avoiding eye contact, she squeezed past him.
Unlike the dusty, dank main floor, the subterranean level was newly renovated and well lit. A tiled corridor separated a warehouse of cages from a morguelike laboratory with massive, humming freezers.
Corporal Evans was seated behind a quartz desk, scrolling through computer files. His face was a glowering mask of rage; his complexion, bloodless.
Beside him, a prisoner sat bound to a chair. Dressed in a white lab coat and peering through horn-rimmed glasses, he could have been a physician at a respected medical institution.
Was he kidnapped by The Consortium? Coerced into caring for captive children?
The doctor squinted at the name tape on Abby’s uniform and said, “Sergeant Webber, I demand to speak to the commander of the TEradS.”
“Shut up, Sinclair!” Cozart barked, striding into the lab. “You don’t get a phone call. You’re an enemy combatant.”
A taunting smirk tugged at the prisoner’s mouth. “You ditched your helmet camera, First Sergeant. Have you been sampling my products?”
Fury blazed in Cozart’s eyes. He shouted, “They’re not products. They’re human beings!” and uncorked a vicious backhand smack.
Sinclair’s head jerked to the right, his glasses went airborne, and blood droplets splattered the tiled wall. Then, pupils contracting into narrow slits, he licked the blood from his upper lip. “Perhaps, you will accept a dose of my most precious commodity in exchange for a phone call?”
Receiving no response, Sinclair fidgeted in his chair and proffered a cunning smile. “Pure ambrosia—the nectar of the gods. My clients insist that adrenalized blood is an elixir capable of reversing aging and improving sexual performance.”
Abby’s stomach clenched; her hands fisted. “You’re extracting their blood? Milking those children like cows?”
“I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that. You see, the greater the pain and terror a child experiences, the more adrenaline is released into the blood, thereby increasing the potency of the ambrosia.” A chilling grin spread over Sinclair’s face, and his features darkened. “Then they are sacrificed in accordance with ancient ritual ...”
His creepy eyes darted between Abby and something behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, she noticed the room’s sole painting. The “artwork” depicted a man lying on a dinner table while two jubilant ghouls hovered over him, plates, forks, and knives in hand, as if about to tuck into a buffet.
Revulsion transited Abby’s spine, the emotional equivalent of a controlled demolition, and her legs felt weak. Acid raced up her throat, filling her mouth with bitterness, and she swallowed hard to avoid vomiting.
“... It’s a beautiful sense of closure,” Sinclair continued proudly. “The life force of a child being transformed into art through spirit cooking and consumed through—”
A gunshot truncated the statement, and Sinclair’s body slumped against the wall.
Cozart screamed, “What the fuck?”
Abby turned on her heel and marched out of the laboratory, rattled and conflicted.
Sinclair’s a kidnapper, a pedophile, and a cannibal, she told herself. The world is better off without him. But those ugly truths couldn’t completely offset the felony she’d just witnessed.
“Abby, wa
it up!” Cozart latched onto her elbow, halting her forward motion and spinning her around to face him. “Evans caught that piece of shit sodomizing a five-year-old boy ... He’s got a son that age.”
“And that makes it okay for him to shoot a bound prisoner?” Abby’s mind felt like an overwound spring; moisture was swamping her eyes; and her body began to shake under the strain.
“No, it’s not okay. But Sinclair is a sick bastard, who rapes and murders children for profit! And Evans is a good guy, a husband, a father, a man who puts his ass on the line for this country every day—”
“Is that why you didn’t want me in here?”
“No,” Cozart scoffed, indignation creasing the skin around his eyes. “I was just trying to shield you from the ugliness—”
“Don’t treat me like some fragile doll!”
Face flushed, he reestablished eye contact. “You were just kidnapped by these satanic freaks. Excuse me for thinking that you’d been through enough.”
Abby studied his brown eyes, searching for deception, for indications that Sinclair’s death was premeditated. Instead, she saw an unflinching sincerity and a protective affection that made her uneasy.
“Why’d you ditch your helmet camera?” she demanded.
“For Christ’s sake, Abby! It caught a ricocheting bullet. If I intended to kill the guy, he would’ve been dead before you entered the school.” Anguish replaced the indignation in his brown eyes. “Abby, please ...”
“What do you want from me, Cozart? Are you asking me to lie?”
36
District Nine, California
MISSY AND MATTHEW had been hiding in a neighbor’s basement since the fire. The peculiar, humming ball of light had reduced the two-story home into a ghostly footprint of white ash. There were no charred beams, no stainless-steel appliances, no ceramic fixtures; facts that spawned troubling questions.
House fires burned at 1,100 degrees Fahrenheit, not hot enough to destroy most metals. So where were Tom’s tools? Tilli’s cookware and silverware? And why did the surrounding foliage emerge untouched? What kind of high-tech weapon did that?
Stop dwelling on questions that don’t have answers, she scolded herself. Devote your energy to escaping the district.
Twice, she had attempted to bypass the checkpoint with a group of neighbors, only to be turned back by a high-tech digital wall. Unlike a physical barrier, this was a network of autonomous UGVs—unmanned ground vehicles—tanks the size of a golf cart that were armed with machine guns, grenades, and cutting-edge detection systems.
If I find that Night Sector soldier, would he help us clear the checkpoint? she wondered.
The man had looked right at her, cowering in the woods while the fire blazed, and, inexplicably, reported that no one was there.
He was a heaven-sent miracle, Missy decided. And it’s going to take another one to escape District Nine.
She knew that Xenia, their gracious host, couldn’t continue to feed and shelter them, and that the penalty for harboring a fugitive would be death.
I can’t keep endangering her, Missy thought.
She penned three quick notes, a thank you for Xenia, a good-bye for Tilli—who insisted she was too old to flee on foot—and an explanation for CJ in case he showed up looking for her.
Missy scooped her napping toddler into her arms; then, with two bottles of water, three apples, and a dead Chi-phone stashed in an old purse, she set out for the digital wall, this time heading due south.
She crossed the grasslands and hiked up a steep hillside, weaving between scrub and canyon live oak. Matthew seemed to grow heavier with each stride; the crest, more distant.
Every step brings me closer to CJ, she told herself.
“Is he even alive?” a wicked voice whispered. “If they know your alias, they know CJ’s. And they know exactly where to find him.”
But, he’ll be protected on a military base.
“All it takes is one Night Sector thug with a shoulder-launched missile to shoot down his aircraft.”
No! He’s flying Whiteside, chauffeuring the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The security at Anolachia is top-notch.
“The Consortium would never let him off that easy, with a quick, merciful death.”
Missy cringed, recalling the enforcer who had threatened to peel the skin from her face. “Degloving,” he’d called it, and he’d produced hideous cellphone images, human faces hanging limp like rubber masks.
Fueled by acute fear, she reached the crest and scanned the horizon. Tracks from the UGVs formed a five-mile scar that stretched east to west, yet none of the robotic minders was visible.
Did Night Sector camouflage them during the day? Or were they docked somewhere, recharging their batteries for nocturnal patrols?
Missy descended the hill, propelled by gravity. She was certain that soldiers were about to pounce and deliver her to The Consortium. Emotion exploded. The trauma inflicted by her first husband rushed back, feelings of helplessness and entrapment. Daman had been a money-laundering lieutenant within The Consortium, abusive and cruel; and when Missy initiated divorce proceedings, he’d threatened to subjugate her to a world of drug addiction and sex slavery.
That’s what’ll happen if I get caught, she thought. But what will they do with Matthew?
Missy hastened her pace as if she could outrun her past. She traversed the UGV tracks, expecting to hear the bloodcurdling shriek of a siren or to feel the bite of a bullet.
“Mommy?” Matthew squirmed in her arms, his little hands rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Um hung-gwee.”
With her left hand, she fetched an apple from her purse.
Matthew took one bite then exclaimed, “Down!”
Allowing the two-year-old to walk would slow progress to a crawl. She couldn’t risk it. “Sorry, Doodlebug. Mommy’s in a hurry.”
Missy jogged toward a paved road, blinking at the sight of a white pickup truck parked on the shoulder. A middle-aged woman dressed in faded jeans and a red shirt was changing a rear tire. The words Mariupol General Store had been painted over a peacekeeper logo, and the truck bed was filled with firewood.
After an exchange of pleasantries, Missy said, “How much farther is it to Mariupol?”
“About thirty miles,” the woman said tucking a renegade strand of jet-black hair behind her ear. “You need a ride?”
“That would be a lifesaver ... and I mean that literally.”
Missy watched the woman tighten five lug nuts using an X-shaped metal tool then climbed into the passenger’s seat. She made small talk throughout the drive, careful not to reveal too much about her identity. Matthew was enthralled with riding in an automobile; fingers perched on the window, face peeking out like a curious canine.
He’s too young to remember life before the pulse, she thought. What was once ordinary is now extraordinary.
Just outside the town limits, they passed through an armed checkpoint, a ragtag band of civilians with hunting rifles. No red and black flags, no Night Sector pyramids. Relief flooded through Missy’s limbs, warm and relaxing, leaving behind a deep sense of exhaustion.
The town of Mariupol was quaint, its main street packed with colorful, Danish, Tudor-style buildings reminiscent of a porcelain Christmas village. The truck coasted to a stop outside a general store, and Missy offered her chauffeur an apple as payment for the ride.
The woman declined with a wave of her hand. “I was making the trip anyway. Are you looking for somebody in particular?”
“Anyone with a working phone,” Missy said, returning the apple to her purse.
“Sorry. District Nine cell towers don’t reach this far, but our civilian militia has a ham radio. Their headquarters is in that yellow building on the corner.”
Missy slid from the passenger’s seat, set Matthew down, clamping a firm grip on his wrist, and walked fifty yards on legs that felt like spaghetti.
The sunny, three-story building had a bullet-scarred wooden door and iron
-railed balconies that reminded her of the French Quarter in New Orleans.
The captain of the militia had a horseshoe mustache and wispy gray tufts of hair above both ears. His battle-hardened blue eyes scrutinized her as though she posed a threat. “Are you a Night Sector messenger?”
Insulted, she replied, “Hell no! I just escaped their tyranny. My husband’s a Marine Corps Pilot stationed in District Three. Is there any chance you could send him a message over your ham radio?”
His chapped, peeling lips pursed. “At the moment, no. Night Sector is jamming our airwaves ahead of the siege.”
“Siege?” Missy repeated.
“Governor Zeller issued an ultimatum a few days back, which the people of Mariupol vehemently rejected. Since then, Night Sector has skirted our defensive perimeter and established checkpoints to the east, west, and south, essentially encircling us, our orchards, and our farms.”
Night Sector expanded their borders; that’s why the UGVs were gone, Missy thought, tears welling. All that effort and I’m still a prisoner ... in a town that’s about to be attacked ...
37
40,000 Feet above Georgia
BRADLEY STARED THROUGH the windshield of the UC-35A, a military version of a Cessna Citation. At the behest of Admiral Rone, General Quenten had provided his jet and Pilot, the same assets that had spirited Abby away from Washington after she’d dispatched Aaron Burr.
Bradley looked askance at CJ, amazed at how intertwined their lives had become.
I owe him for stealing that Consortium Little Bird. I hope Ryan and Kyle can get his family out of District Nine.
Fleetingly, he wondered if that had been Wingnut’s motivation.
Did he gamble that rescuing Abby would make me, Ryan, and Kyle indebted to him?
The Marine Corps Pilot retrieved a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket, shook it against the air to unfold it, and said, “Latest Patriot Anon post. Have you seen it?”
Mind Power- America Awakens Page 14
