“I have come to realize just how far our allies will go to support us,” said Collins. “They are the best of humanity. It is also evident that some groups, no matter our course, will despise us. I, and previous administrations, have tried every approach imaginable. We have been stern, we have been diplomatic, we have been proactive. None of it has had any effect on the hostility from those who despise our freedoms, and it never will. Our women will always be the equals of men. Our gay community will share in all of the rights that every American enjoys.”
Isley had finished his whisper. He held his phone screen at the scientist’s eye level. He even managed a slight smile as his other hand brought the Coke back up to his prisoner’s lips. The Iranian took another sip, eyes darting between images of President Collins and Jamal Davidson.
“There is one new problem for those who would do us harm, and I am no doctor, but I am your commander-in-chief,” continued the president. “And I know they desired to create monsters.”
The Iranian turned his eyes to Joe Isley, who held the soda can and the phone. His Middle Eastern cheeks puffed with Coca-Cola, he spat his mouthful onto Isley’s phone, causing the young boy’s image to fizzle away. Isley silently wiped the cell on his shirt, placed it in his pocket, put down the soda can, and unlatched every strap that had bound the scientist to his chair.
Joe Isley then walked out the main door. As the Iranian struggled to stand on his bandaged feet, the president continued on television.
“They have made me into a monster,” said George Collins. “Not because I might experience a seizure, foam at the mouth, and hunger for a meat never before desired. No, we now have ways to combat those effects, thanks to some young folks from the streets of Brooklyn, along with their friends from under the streets of Las Vegas. I am not a monster from the disease. I am a monster because I have been pushed past the limit, and sadly for those who would do us harm, I and my advisors, are quite literally Snoop Dogg stoned all of the time. So, with apologies to all who might be offended, I say to our adversaries: from this day forward, if you bring violence toward an American citizen, be it home or abroad, we will stone cold fuck you up.”
Joe Isley watched his prisoner through the window. He pressed a button, much like the ones on his damaged phone. The side door to the interrogation room opened. The Iranian terrorist stood beside the TV that still projected the image of the President of the United States. He stared at the newly exposed exit. His first thought was that for some reason he was being released from his incarceration. Had they given up trying to break him?
In effect, they had.
But that exit was more accurately an entrance, and in walked the spitting, growling, starving P21. Jamal Davidson was in the room.
The scientist picked up the small television, squeezing it between his bandaged, one- fingered hands. It would be the only barrier between him and the perm that he created. Jamal spotted him, shot across the room as if he were The Flash, bit off the one finger that protruded from the terrorist’s cotton gauze wrap, and got his arms around him. Though half the height of the Iranian, it was over in seconds.
Jamal dragged his victim’s body across the room, the television line entangled in the dead man’s legs. The TV cord turned taut, and the plug was yanked from the wall socket. The broadcast went dead as President Collins said, “ . . . and God Bless Ameri . . . ”
LAS VEGAS
“Hey brother, wake up,” said John G.
Rob turned over and opened his eyes. The Vegas sun was filtering through the tunnels as it did every morning. “What time is it?” he asked.
“Not sure, but it is time to get up,” smiled John.
“Man, I had a dream that the president mentioned us on TV.”
“Well, that actually did happen, it seems.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah, not by name, but he mentioned young people from Brooklyn and Vegas during a televised address yesterday.”
“No shit?”
“All true, bro. Man, you look out of it. Not much sleep last night?”
“Maybe not . . . ”
“You still staying awake to guard your girlfriend while she sleeps?”
“Not to guard her. Hell, I don’t know. It’s a crazy world, John.”
Rob, clearing the webs from his brain, began to notice that the tunnels sounded different. Sure, there was the rumbling of traffic above, but nothing else. No chatter. No music.
“Where is everyone? Is Cash here?” he asked, eyes growing wider.
“Here, have your cookie.” John handed him some Exodus.
“Where is she, John?”
“I’m not entirely sure. Now, stay calm, but it seems she went somewhere with Paul. They aren’t answering the phone.”
Rob sighed. “Oh, man.”
“I’m sure it’s not what you think.”
“I don’t know what to think, Johnny. Where is everyone else, though?”
“That’s a separate issue. Russo has been arrested.”
“What?”
“Yeah, the feds got him. Probably for what he did to that deliveryman. Some of the group fled, while others went over to wherever the local FBI office is, to try and help Russo.”
“I am one heavy sleeper. Lord Jesus.”
“Hoffman is here, though.”
“Why?”
“He has a car today. Don’t ask. He has an idea where Cash and Paul might be. He said he’ll drive us before he heads to the federal building.”
Hoffman’s head leaned in from behind a curtain. “Sorry about your girl. We will get her. No worries.”
The car was a ten-year-old Beetle, barely worth any time that police might waste searching for it. The ignition had been popped. Hoffman drove while eating his cookie with Rob beside him and John squeezed into the back seat. They had been to three locations already without any apparent connection; a lumber yard, a car wash, and the Tropicana hotel. At each stop, Hoffman would exit the vehicle, go inside for ten minutes, and return without Cash or any pertinent information.
“Why are we stopping at these random places?” asked Rob.
“You will see.”
“Do people at these locations know Paul or something?”
“Some.”
Hoffman’s phone, or whoever’s phone he was using, signaled an incoming text. He looked at it.
“Shit,” he said.
“What is it?” asked Rob.
“They are taking Don Russo in front of a federal judge. We have to go there to support before we continue. I’m sorry. It is my duty to him.”
“Let me see that phone,” demanded Rob. Hoffman handed it over and he read the text.
Russo being brought to fed court now. Plz come.
This is some serious shit, thought Rob as he saw the police vehicles surrounding the downtown building. Hoffman had parked several blocks away as captaining a stolen vehicle into a nest of cops was too brazen, even for him. He had also given Rob the phone so that he could try to call Paul and Cash as much as he wished. Still no answer, but he kept at it. A woman in a pricey business suit took them through the metal detectors after Hoffman told her they were here to support Russo. They were then scanned by an electronic wand, frisked, and sniffed by an enormous dog.
They made it to an elevator and soon emerged in the presence of yet more police.
Don Russo smoked a little black market dope in an underground tunnel and he is treated like fucking El Chapo, was Rob’s initial thought.
A door opened and he, John, and Hoffman suddenly saw Russo. Not naked. He wore a pair of sweats and a Raiders tee. He was plopped on one of the many courthouse benches. No handcuffs. Beside him sat Phaedra. There was Skunk, Quinn, and the others. They smiled. Rob turned to look for the judge’s bench. It was hidden from view by a flowered trellis, beneath which stood a feminine figure, clothed in the white wedding gown that Phaedra would often wear while silver mining. The veil was down, but he knew it was Cash. She clutched a stunning, cascading bouquet of pink an
d burgundy orchids. The thought crossed Rob’s mind that she might be marrying Paul, until the latter approached and shook his hand with a smile. Rob turned to see John and Hoffman, the accomplices, grinning.
He had questions, but Cash was at the front of the room in a freaking wedding gown, so he just went right for her.
Her face was only partially hidden by the veil, but he couldn’t resist. “I really hope that is you under there, babe.”
The kick to his shin reassured him.
“You really weren’t supposed to see me yet, I guess,” she said, “but maybe it still counts if you don’t see my face clearly.”
“Right,” he smiled, not knowing what to do with his hands. “I think I’m supposed to be the one standing here waiting for your entrance.”
“Logistics,” she replied.
“You look so beautiful,” he said, “but I’m wearing an old tee with a 1968 Buick Skylark on it.”
“We have a suit for you,” said John from behind. “Obviously we couldn’t dress you earlier because of the surprise. There’s a room through there for you to change.”
“But . . . what about a marriage license? How can we . . . ?”
“It’s in the room, with the suit. Come on.”
John led Rob toward the side door, opened it, and they saw the new suit dangling from a wooden hanger.
The hanger was being held high in the left hand of the President of the United States.
He extended his right, “George Collins. Congratulations, Rob. It’s an honor to meet you.”
Jaw drop. After a moment, Rob took note of the several helmeted guards and sundry other people hovering around the president. All of the cops he’d seen, and the extreme security measures, suddenly made more sense.
Rob clutched POTUS’ hand, mumbled something or other, and turned to look through the open door at Cash. Her silk-covered head just nodded. Still squeezing Collins’ hand, Rob then turned his eyes to John G.
“Errr,” offered the president, “do you want the suit?”
“Oh, yes. Sir,” stammered Rob. “I’m just . . . with her in that gown . . . and now you . . . it is a lot, Mr. President.”
He took the suit. Collins patted his back and added, “I’ve brought some of the crew with me. I know you’ve already met.” He pointed to the far side of the room, just behind some of the security team; there stood Doctors Anderson and Papperello-Venito. Rob smiled.
“All right,” said the president. “Our groom here needs a place to change, so let’s all maybe head into the main room.”
As they all filed out, Rob received quick hugs from the two doctors. He watched everyone leave, yet he couldn’t help but focus on Cash standing out there in the main room. She appeared to be so alone. He waved her in. She shook her head. He waved more forcefully, and she came to him. He closed the door behind her. They were alone.
“Put the flowers down,” he said softly. She placed them on a table beside his plastic-wrapped suit and his chosen Fleetwood Mac compact disc. He lifted her veil. She made a short motion to stop him but changed her mind. He placed a finger under her chin.
“How did all of this happen?” he asked.
“Well, I’m not exactly sure. Paul and his mom—she’s here, too, by the way—were in contact with the White House doctors, and it seems that Don Russo . . . ”
“Don Russo?”
“Yeah. He is extraordinarily persuasive.”
“I’ve heard,” smiled Rob. “What I need to know is . . . ”
There was a hasty knock on the door, but Paul and John G rushed in without awaiting an answer. Paul held an electronic tablet.
“We got it,” he said to Cash.
“Oh,” she responded, as if she’d forgotten. Paul handed the device to her. On the screen, waving, were her Aunt Margie and cousins Laura and Jen.
“Carrie! Hi! Oh my God, a wedding gown! We knew it! Where is Rob?”
“He’s right here,” she smiled, as Rob popped into frame, waving.
“What the heck are you wearing, young man?” asked Aunt Margie.
“Long story,” he answered.
“Well, you can’t get married in that thing!”
“I promise I won’t,” he said.
“Where is Uncle Reg?” asked Cash.
“Oh, Caroline, wait till you see,” replied her aunt. “He is much improved! Well, he was really great last week, but he’s still lots better than when you guys left. Praise God!”
Laura repositioned the camera so that her dad came into view.
“A wedding without me?” he smiled. His cheeks were full and flushed, his eyes clear and vibrant.
“Uncle Reg,” was all that Cash could say before her throat tightened. The tears were building, and that wouldn’t be optimal since she was wearing much more eye makeup than she normally would.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he said. “Is that my favorite mechanic there with you?”
“I hope it is,” laughed Rob.
“You look like you almost have your old tan back,” said Cash, fighting her emotions.
“Really? Nice! They’ve been letting me out in the courtyard some. The weather’s been good. Not summer, but decent!”
“That is amazing! You know, I have a feeling that we might just be coming home very soon.”
“No kidding? As man and wife, too!” he smiled.
“You know I’m bringing you those brownies and cold milk, first thing.”
“Caroline, you should only know the kind of brownies I’m eating these days.”
“She knows, Dad,” said Laura, laughing. “We’re all eating the same stuff.”
Still battling tears that she didn’t want her family to see, Cash had an idea. “We are going to take care of a few things, then we’ll get you back on video chat. Don’t go anywhere, guys. We love you.”
She gave Paul a nod, telling him to disconnect. As her family said their goodbyes, Uncle Reg had one final comment, before the feed was lost. “The happy couple,” he said to his daughters, “Rob and Cash.”
Silence.
“I told you,” whispered Rob, the gentle white bridal veil brushing against his lips.
“He called me Cash?”
“Yep.”
She looked down at her bouquet.
“Hey guys,” said Rob to Paul and John, “can we have a minute, please?”
As Paul and John emerged from the side room to the main, they saw that the White House doctors were seated on a bench with Dr. Anita Chuang. Standing by the trellis was the smartly-dressed woman who had ushered John, Rob, and Hoffman through security. She was addressing the assembled guests.
“I am Colleen Ipalook. I know that President Collins had the great pleasure of meeting with all of you earlier . . . ”
Collins stood off to the side, in conversation with another man behind a helmeted security team.
Russo, seated with Phaedra on one of the benches, leaned in and asked her, “Who do you think is carrying that nuclear football?”
Ms. Ipalook continued, “Before our bride and groom enter, and as we await the honorable Judge Ruvnick, who will preside, I want to go over some of the nuts and bolts of our package. A sort of thank you to your wonderful community for your patriotic service regarding the recent challenges facing our great nation. There is a newly refurbished community residence on Flamingo Road, not far from your current . . . dwelling . . . that has just received brand new beds and appliances. It is for your use, and your use only. There will be counselors on hand with regard to job training and placement, medical treatment, any possible addiction issues, and the like. Of course there will be no cost to you. We had intended a debit card issuance for the purpose of purchasing clothing, essentials, and what have you, but due to time constraints and difficulties with regard to harvesting proper identification, we do have packages—one per person—containing a generous cash stipend to help you all with your transition.”
Applause.
“Now you’re talking my language,” yelled Rus
so, fist in the air.
“Mr. Russo, we will talk later about your particular circumstance.”
“Whoa, now. What does that mean, lady?”
“In a moment, sir.”
“You can tell me now. I got no secrets from my people.”
Ms. Ipalook glanced over at the president, who nodded. She trained her eyes on Russo.
“Mr. Russo, there was a government employee delivering Exodus at your location. He sustained serious injuries during the performance of his duties. While, due to extenuating circumstances, no charges will likely be sought in the case, that gentleman has a family and will need to be compensated in some way. I’m sure you would agree that your intended stipend would be a good start toward that.”
“Hmmm,” replied Russo, “sucks to be me, but when you’re right, you’re right.”
“Naturally, you are still entitled to all of the benefits at the new Flamingo Center,” she said.
“Yeah.”
As John and Paul looked on from the side of the room, a large fellow accompanied by an attractive young lady walked up to them. The big man was grinning.
“Hello,” said Paul. John G smiled and gave a polite nod, before turning his attention elsewhere.
“That’s it? A nod? You don’t recognize me with those new eyes, Daredevil?”
John was stunned. Even President Collins looked over when he heard the name of one of his comic book heroes invoked.
“Willie?” asked John, already knowing the answer.
“Damn right. Be real now, am I better looking than you expected?”
The men embraced.
“This is my sister, Michele—even prettier than me,” he said.
“A pleasure to meet you,” responded John, extending his hand. “You are stunning, and your brother literally saved my life.”
“I know,” she smiled. “Super Willie has a knack for that.”
“Whoa, you’re the dude from John’s bus ride to hell?” asked Paul
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