“Okay,” the guard said. “You’re good.” He turned and looked at the rest of us in the room in turn. “I want to see identification from all of you.”
The older man in the Weber shirt jumped up with a surprising amount of joviality. “I got it right here,” he said. One of the other guards scanned the man’s papers with an unusually large camera, which wirelessly transmitted the results to the guards’ arm screens. A pleasant beeping sound, not unlike the sound of scanning something at a checkout counter, signaled that the man was okay.
“Thank you, sir,” the short guard said. “Next, please.”
“You want to check this one,” the old man said, pointing at me. “He’s not from around here and I don’t know who he is.”
I felt myself tense up. What the hell could I do to get out of this? It wasn’t bad enough I was trusting that the paperwork Howard Sims had arranged for Grant Sullivan would hold up to the computerized scrutiny to which it was about to be subjected, but I would need to deflect suspicion from the men running the equipment.
“Okay,” said the lead guard. He looked at me. “You’re up. Present your papers.”
The term “papers” was a bit of a misnomer, actually, since all the data was contained on my phone’s screen.
I held out my phone and the third guard scanned the screen with his camera. I held my breath, until the beep sounded. I exhaled probably more loudly than I should have.
“Weren’t expecting a positive result?” the short guard asked me.
“No, it’s not that I had any reason,” I stammered. “I just always expect the worst, you know?”
“In simulations our equipment produced one false negative for every twenty million scans. You can trust it.”
The question was, did he trust me? He continued to eyeball me in an uncomfortable way.
“Where are you from?” the man asked.
“Outside Philadelphia. I’m looking for work.”
“Uh huh. Tell me about your family. Were they involved in the war?”
“Enough!” said a gruff voice. The guard and I both turned, and one of the two men from the other end of the bar was walking toward us. His friend put a hand on his shoulder and tried to stop him, but the gruff man brushed it off. “Leave this guy alone,” he said. “His paperwork checks out.”
“And how about your paperwork?” the guard asked.
“Don’t you people have more important things to do than hassle us?” the guy from the bar demanded.
“There is nothing more important than loyalty to President Weber,” the guard who had scanned my phone said. He walked over to the gruff man and scanned his phone, while the third guard went to the gruff man’s friend. The friend’s phone triggered a sound that was not a beep but an angry buzz.
The short guard studied the readout on his arm. “Byron White, forty-five years old. Says you were caught on camera by loyalists in a protest last month.”
The man named Byron began to hyperventilate. “No, sir, that couldn’t have been me.”
“You know the penalty for disloyalty,” the short guard said.
“No!” the gruff man yelled. “Enough! Leave us alone!”
“Hold him back,” the short guard said to the others. They grabbed the gruff man by both arms.
“Dave!” Byron cried. “Let him go!”
“On your knees,” the short guard demanded.
Byron obliged. He was visibly shaking, and his breath came in ragged sobs. “Please…no…”
“Byron White, you are charged with crimes against the Confederate States of America and its president, Wolfgang T. Weber. The penalty is death.”
“Praise the name of the prophet,” the old man muttered.
“No!” Dave shouted. He strained to no avail against the guards holding him back.
The short guard fired his assault rifle. The sound was deafening. I turned away so I wouldn’t see Byron White obliterated.
Dave broke free of the guards and took a swing at him. “You fucking bastard!”
The other guard drove the butt of his gun across Dave’s face. Dave fell to the floor and the guard kicked him in the midsection, knocking him over. He aimed the gun at Dave, who was struggling to get back to his feet.
“Where’s the other one?” the short guard asked.
I looked to the pool table. The guy playing there had bolted.
“Let’s go,” the short guard said.
The guard aiming at Dave hesitated. “What about him?”
“Record it in the system.”
The guard holstered his gun, then turned and followed the others.
“My apologies about your store,” the short guard said over his shoulder to the bartender. “President Weber will see that all cleanup and repair is handled. Thank you for your loyalty.”
11
I waited until the Loyalty Guard had left the bar. Somehow, I managed not to look at what remained of Byron White, but I heard Dave weeping over Byron’s corpse and it occurred to me that there may have been more to Byron’s execution than his appearance protesting in an online video.
The siren still sounded throughout the town. I got back in my car. My license plate would have been cleared when my papers checked out, so it seemed unlikely anyone would hassle me, not with the loyalty inspections ongoing.
I drove to the edge of town and plugged my car into a charging station. I sat catching my breath and processing what I’d witnessed. There were going to be more victims of the inspections, whether that meant imprisonment or death. Weber was weeding out the opposition little by little.
I realized for the first time just how right Howard had been. The world was hanging in the balance. The very soul of the human race would be decided by however this American conflict finally played itself out, and I was somehow one of the unfortunate chosen to confront the horrors firsthand.
Two conflicting ideas struggled in my mind. On the one hand, the rural areas were a great risk to me. That part of my brain begged me to find the safety of something that more closely resembled home. On the other hand, the red zones were exactly where Howard Sims needed me to operate. Ethos was the right kind of place, but maybe it wasn’t far enough away from Philly.
I decided to chance the border crossing while my papers were newly cleared. There would actually be two border crossings. A small sliver of West Virginia pokes up between Pennsylvania and Ohio, so I’d have to cross into it for about twenty miles before I could get to my target state. Columbus was never actually going to be my destination, mind you. The city at the center of Ohio was held by loyalists like everything else, but the population was not friendly toward Weber. I needed to find something more akin to Ethos.
I unplugged the car, having restored a hundred miles of range in the ten minutes I’d been waiting, and started to drive down the street back toward the highway. A quarter mile down the road, I turned the car around.
There was something about what had happened to Byron and Dave that stuck with me. I didn’t know these people, but in that tavern I had seen all sides of what was happening in the country. I was never prone to “hunches” but there was something telling me I needed to investigate deeper into what was happening in the small town of Ethos if I was going to understand the nature of the dictatorship that occupied our country.
I knew that my story held up better under the notion that I was just passing through town on my way to look for a job. To stay too long in any one place without any evidence of how I was paying to live would raise suspicions. I’d seen where those could lead. Still…maybe one night wouldn’t hurt.
I cautiously reentered Rose’s Tavern. Since I’d left, the bar had emptied out. Somebody had removed Byron’s body and cleaned up the blood on the floor. All that remained was the bartender. He stood motionless behind the bar, leaning on his elbows with his head in his hands.
“Are you okay?” I called.
At first, he didn’t acknowledge me, but slowly his head came up. “It’s a lot,” he said.
I pulled myself onto one of the stools. “You said this was the second time in a month. This has happened before?”
He shook his head. “Nothing like this. I’ve heard about people being executed on the spot, of course, but I’ve never witnessed…”
He looked to me like he might vomit or pass out.
“Maybe you should sit down,” I said.
He nodded. “Okay. Okay.”
He came around the counter and walked toward the far wall. I followed and sat across from him at a table a safe distance from the site of the cleaned-up murder.
The bartender rubbed his bald head. “My name’s Vernon, by the way.”
“Grant.” I extended my hand and he shook it. “The guards said you turned somebody in before for being disloyal.”
Vernon winced. “Yeah. I’m fucking ashamed of the fact, but I did it. I had no choice. You see what happens. We’re lucky we can even sit here and talk honestly without them bugging every fucking place. And I’ll bet you they will be doing that before long. Their drone network picks up sounds from a good distance, or so I’ve heard, and they’re casting a wider net every day. I saw two of the fucking things just on my way in to work today. In Ethos. Like a rebellion is going to take root in our little nothing town.”
“I’ve seen the drones back where I come from,” I said. “What happened to the man who was killed?”
“A few police came and took him. Even the local cops have to do the bidding of the Loyalty Guard. Just how it is.”
“Where do they take the bodies?” I asked. “I can’t imagine Dave wanted to let them take his friend.”
“Oh, they were more than friends,” Vernon said. “They’d been together forever. Not a very well-kept secret. As to your question, I have no idea.” He leaned toward me and spoke quietly. “I’ve heard rumors.”
“What sort of rumors?”
He sighed. “Crazy shit. Science experiments on the corpses. That kind of thing. And that’s just the dead ones.”
“I don’t follow.”
“There are others who get picked up for acts against President Weber.” He winced again. “Like the poor bastard I had to turn in. People have claimed to see sentries on duty who they swear look just like someone they know who got pinched by the Loyalty Guard.”
This caught my interest. “Has anyone ever spoken to one of these people?”
“You mean has anybody gone up to somebody they think they know? I’ve heard stories. The guards just stand there silently. Like if nobody is causing a problem, they don’t know what to do. Like they’re half-computer, half-fucking-zombie.” He held up his hands. “I’ve heard this from numerous sources, but it could still be bullshit or just confusion. I don’t know. You didn’t hear it from me, at any rate.”
“Got it. I’d heard stories that Weber was playing around with some pretty out-there stuff.”
“Well, yeah. If there’s something to exploit out there he’s going to find it.” He paused. “So, Grant, you’ve decided to hang around? Not in such a hurry to get across the state anymore?”
“I don’t know. Honestly, I’m a little shaken up by everything. My instinct was to turn and run but I kinda just want to get to bed and figure it all out in the morning.”
“Fair enough. There’s a Holiday Inn Express about five minutes from here that probably has the best accommodations within a fifteen-mile radius. Not a luxury deal, but at least you know what you’re in for.”
I laughed. I was amazed at myself that I could produce that kind of sound after what I’d witnessed. The mind is a crazy thing sometimes. “Thanks. I’ll head over there in a few minutes. You gonna go home?”
“Yeah,” Vernon said. “I knew when I got out of bed this morning this day was going to be fucking awful. Like a premonition, you know? But I didn’t know the half of it.”
I got up and shook his hand. “Thank you for sitting with me,” I said. “And for your hospitality. I’m sorry for what happened here.”
“Not your fault,” he said. “Go get some rest. And if you decide to hang around, don’t be a stranger. But I guess you gotta keep moving. Need to find a way to pay the bills.”
I thought about asking him if there would be a job opportunity at the tavern, but I could tell the business wasn’t good enough to justify an employee and I couldn’t work for peanuts as a charitable gesture without raising questions. I just nodded instead. He turned and made for the bar and I went the opposite way toward the door.
I got in the car and drove to the hotel. A giant LED billboard a few hundred yards before the parking lot showed the news coverage of the evening’s loyalty checks. The scrolling text told me that twelve states had been partially checked, resulting in over eight thousand arrests and several hundred authorized executions. There was no reason to believe that those numbers were true, since everything on the news couldn’t be trusted, but I had seen one execution myself, and I knew there had certainly been more.
Murders, I thought. Those people who died tonight were murdered in cold blood. I gripped the steering wheel in sweaty palms as I pulled into a spot in front of the hotel.
I checked in, scanning my fake credentials at the front desk. The embedded screens around the lobby displayed the endless news coverage of the “successful” loyalty raids. My head was pounding from the ceaseless reports, and I was incredibly relieved when I shut the door to my room. In Weber’s CSA there was truly no safe haven, but it did seem like my sponsors had set me up quite nicely to avoid detection.
I flopped on the bed and tried not to hear the sounds or picture the images of that poor man’s murder. I thought about everything I’d learned from the bartender and the questions that information raised. Zombie detainees? Science experiments? It all sounded so ridiculous, but when I thought about what I’d seen anything seemed plausible. I hadn’t heard anything that specifically bizarre back home, other than the legends of the war’s superheroes and villains slugging it out, but then who did I really interact with? And how much did I truly pay attention to the world around me? These thoughts swirled around in my exhausted brain until I fell asleep.
12
The next morning, I decided to interview some of the locals around Ethos. I had gleaned enough from talking to Vernon to make me realize average folks likely had surprising insight into what the Weber administration was up to. That made me think there was so much more going on than anybody was talking about openly.
I was curious about the distinction between those who were openly executed by the authorities and those who were “pinched,” in Vernon’s vernacular. I found a diner about three minutes down the street from the tavern. Two large trucks parked at the far end of the lot told me this was a hangout for those passing through.
I went inside and thought I could identify the truckers immediately. They sat at opposite ends of the room, but both were large men with a hard look to them. A man and woman sat in a booth, and an older woman in an apron busied herself behind the counter.
You might think I’d be put off in some way by how quiet and nearly empty Ethos seemed to be, but you have to remember this was the world I knew after all the fighting. Ethos was a small town, so things were maybe a bit sparser than I was accustomed to, but only by a hair. People had died. Others had been arrested. Of those who remained, we shared a sense of unease. For most people it was better to stay inside. Not that staying in the house would spare anyone from the raids, mind you.
“Looking for something?”
I turned in the direction of the voice and saw the woman behind the counter watching me. I realized I’d been scanning the room, taking stock of the occupants and maybe keeping an eye out for signs of any public executions that had taken place the night prior. I felt embarrassed to have been caught in the act and my face heated up as I stammered my response.
“Sorry, um, hi. I’m just here for breakfast.”
“Well, come up and order something then, dear. I won’t bite.”
I went up to the counter a
nd sat down. The waitress, whose name was Nicole, passed me a tattered and stained menu.
“Thanks. You all do okay in the loyalty inspection?
I saw her wince and take a step back. “You with the Guard?” she asked in a hushed voice.
I smiled. “Not at all. I’m just passing through your town and I had to be there firsthand for an inspection last night.” The memory of the execution I’d witnessed passed through my mind. My smile evaporated and I shuddered.
“Didn’t sit well with you, I take it.” She poured coffee out of a large pot into a white mug. She pushed the mug next to my menu. “Here. There’s cream and sugar in the carrier right there.”
“Thanks,” I said. It was rare since the war to find the kind of artificial sweeteners I preferred. A series of tariffs and interstate taxes led many businesses to source locally, and that meant mostly natural food products.
“We didn’t get inspected last night,” she said, “but we had one a little over two weeks ago. Had a customer removed for some error in her papers.”
“Removed? You mean killed?”
She shrugged. “If so, it wasn’t done here. I’ve heard stories of the public executions, of course. There are several floating around about last night’s inspection.”
“Yeah. Like I said, I saw one myself.”
“Sorry to hear that, dear. Do you want to order?”
“Yes. Thanks. Could I get a cheese omelet and a side of bacon?”
She nodded. “Let me just send that in and we can chitchat.”
Nicole walked into the back and was already on her way back out before the door to the kitchen had finished swinging.
“So you saw somebody get taken in by the authorities,” I began. “Any idea what happened to her?”
“I’m gonna guess you’ve heard the stories,” she said.
“I’ve heard some things,” I replied.
“Well, I don’t have any information about the girl they took the other night, but I have heard from people who know people they say got zapped in the head or something. Like they aren’t the same. You know what I’m saying?”
The Magic Book Page 9
