by Joseph Storm
THE GOVERNMENT
DARK DAYS
by
JOSEPH STORM
Book I
110,000 words
The Government: Dark Days
Copyright © 2011 by Joseph Storm
TABLE OF CONTENTS
•PART I
•Chapter 1 - The Mass Grave
•Chapter 2 - The Government
•Chapter 3 - The Package
•Chapter 4 - The Trap
•Chapter 5 - The Burial
•PART II
•Chapter 6 - The New Order
•Chapter 7 - The Twitch
•Chapter 8 - The Second Phase
•Chapter 9 - The River
•Chapter 10 - The Chase
•Chapter 11 - The Journey Home
•PART III
•Chapter 12 - The Ambush
•Chapter 13 - The Final Phase
•Chapter 14 - The Experiment
•Chapter 15 - The Reunion
•Chapter 16 - The Plan
•Chapter 17 - The Revolt
Chapter One:
The Mass Grave
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 4, 2020
Thunder crackled as the clock struck midnight. Rain spilled from dark clouds, touched by the strobing moonlight. A team of mercenaries dug into the chilled, fertile ground, slinging muddy crud behind them. These men had black uniforms, bloodshot eyes, red-rimmed nostrils, and stubbled beards. Each one was so focused on the task, they lost track of their overall goal. The order was to dig a ten foot hole, deep enough to hide a mass of bodies. They had just reached twelve feet.
“Your first task is complete!” Commander Xavier Sin yelled out. The harsh man had a thick mustache, and leathery skin. A deep scar ran from his right temple to a motionless eye of dull glass.
The insanely focused mercenaries kept digging.
“Stop digging, you mindless foreigners! If your English isn’t good enough...let’s see how this translates!” Commander Xavier screamed, firing a pistol into the chilled air.
The men dropped their shovels, standing erect with attention.
“Start the first dump!” he ordered.
Mercenaries leapt from the hole, hurrying towards a heaping mound of bodies. The lifeless masses were piled like fish at market, their flesh fresh enough to be served.
The corpses consisted of men and women, young and old. Some wore casual attire, others flag-pinned suits, but all had one thing in common. They were the roadblock to a movement that would change America forever.
The emotionless mercenaries grabbed each corpse by its ankles, tossing them into the wet chasm. Bodies landed on each other like bricks, their limp limbs fell like feathers.
Inspired by the sight, Xavier wanted to participate in the action. Although the task was below an important man like himself, he needed to place his calloused hands upon such intricate planning, years in the making. He envisioned himself one day, telling anyone who would listen, “I buried America...deep into the ground.”
A mercenary in black lifted a body, as Commander Xavier interrupted him. He focused on one face in particular. “Let me toss this one. Nothing would give me more pleasure.”
“Yes,” an olive skinned mercenary nodded, speaking in a broken Arabic accent. That one word pushed his English vocabulary to its limit. However, he wouldn’t need to know any others.
Xavier grabbed the bald corpse, 23 years of age. He struggled to move the muscular man, gripping him by the neck, forcing blood from the corpse’s partially slit throat. The commander flung the man into the pit, with many bodies to go. After it sailed down into the abyss, Xavier wiped his hands of the bloody dirt. It was like disposing trash.
Commander Sin turned away with a satisfied grin. Suddenly, an unexpected gasp sounded from the depths below. The thunder crackled again, masking the sound. The confusion caused Xavier to question his ears.
He rushed to the edge of the pit, trying to focus on the lifeless bald man. Moments before he could process details, more corpses were dumped on top, smothering the sight.
The commander grabbed a mercenary in black, “These men...no sign of survival? Any movement? Any sound? Any breath?”
“No survive,” an Asian man said in a thick Chinese accent.
An unsure Commander Xavier nodded his head, “Hurry this along, dump the lye, and seal this human garbage up...fast.”
“Sir!” the mercenary saluted.
The last body was dumped into the pit. Lye was shoveled on the top layer of corpses, allowing the sodium hydroxide to start devouring flesh. The wicked chemical would rob the identity from each one. More importantly, the evidence was eradicated from existence.
The last shovel of dirt impregnated the earth with human seed. Commander Sin was satisfied that no one lived to gasp another breath. No one could spill the great secret.
“A job well done, boys. Let’s leave this shit hole to the archeologists!” he said, climbing into a government-plated SUV, exiting the dark, unpopulated forest. The mercenaries in black deactivated two spotlights, leaving scattered moonlight to illuminate the way out.
Rain stopped, as the vehicles rough-roaded a path through the woodland. The surface was as still and quiet as the dead, although the underground was not yet at rest.
******
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 2020
The Day Before
It was election day, as the 23 year-old Congressman, Joe Striker, gazed into his bathroom mirror. He tightened his tie, straightened his jacket, and slicked his purposely shaved head to a shine. Hair was always a distraction to him. The final product wasn’t complete until he poked a sharp pinhead through his overpriced suit jacket, revealing an American Flag pin. He kissed it in pride, letting the stars and stripes awaken his memories.
At the ripe age of 21, despite being four years under the congressional age limit, the public demanded his election to the government body. Such an honor was due to his prior heroic actions in the Second Afghan War. In response, the congressional authority overlooked the meaningless rules, rewarding his leadership in the heat of battle.
An outcry of citizens made Striker a national hero. His story hit the airwaves, causing an immediate response. The young man, riddled with bullet holes, lay motionless in a hospital bed. He took a drag from a half-wasted cigarette, “When can I return for round two?” he asked, exhaling a large plume of smoke into the clean air. “A marine never leaves his mission...or his brothers behind.” His bravery echoed throughout the world, showing that Striker was not only a physical force, but a moral one too.
He had been sent into an Afghan town, bordering a volatile, lawless region in Pakistan. His mission was to root out Taliban fighters. The vengeful men had retaken control after the United States left in 2014, once again, forcing their evil will upon its citizens.
Joe Striker entered the humble home of a dirty, bearded man, his scarfed wife, and two children. “Taliban?” Joe asked, holding up a picture of the twice-outlawed Afghan leader, Mullah Omar.
The woman stayed silent, making eye contact in a way that translated beyond words. Her bearded, angry husband screamed at her in his foreign tongue of Pashto, telling her to answer quick, and absent of fear.
Tears entered the woman’s eyes, as her two children clung to her in the greatest of concern. In apprehensive fear, the woman shook her head no, displaying the universal language of gestures. The look in her eyes said something different. It was the way she looked at her husband like a stranger, not a spouse. The way the kids feared their dad like hostages, not a father.
“Thank you, ma’mn,” Joe said abruptly, as he exited the shabby hut.
Sensing something very wrong, Striker snuck around to a small crack in the wa
ll. He witnessed the husband beat his wife to the floor. The man kicked her, as the two children jumped in front of their mother. They inherited the next beating.
Joe gripped his weapon, kicking in the hut door. “Back up!” he yelled.
The husband shouted at Striker, moving toward him in a threatening manner. “One last time...back the hell up!” Joe yelled, pointing the automatic weapon at the Afghan.
Suddenly, three bullets riddled Joe’s back. He spilled to the ground. All three missed his vital organs by a millimeter, going clear through to his chest.
Three members of the Taliban stood behind him, their weapons still smoking. They screamed in Pashto, causing the husband to scream back. He pointed at the wife and kids. The enemy soldiers turned their attention away from Joe, ready to execute the innocent family of three. They failed to notice Striker quietly dragging himself across the dry, earthen floor.
Striker gripped his weapon tightly, as the fake husband turned to discover him. Right before he could sound the alert, Joe mowed the three Taliban down to the ground. Their limp bodies spilled like dominos.
The impostor husband pleaded and begged for mercy, as the very injured Striker, rose to his feet. The Afghan woman ran to Joe’s aid, propping him up with all her strength.
Joe aimed the weapon, as the Afghan woman placed her hand on it. He paused. Pulling a picture from her soiled and worn gown, she revealed the image of her real husband. She didn’t have to say a word. Joe realized that the impostor in front of them caused her husband’s disappearance. Her spouse, like so many in that war torn country, was rounded up by the Taliban. He was executed, discarded, and lost his identity to a scum-sucking pig. His wife was used, children abused, and resources of the poor family were transfered to the evil regime.
Striker loosened his grip on the weapon. The woman embraced the imposing gun into her fragile arms, blasting the abusive man to pieces. Joe watched the face of the woman, seeing the virtue robbed from her. He gazed over at the children, who didn’t flinch an inch at the sight of such violence. Striker could only pray that his family would never experience a world like that, becoming complacent to such a moment of pure horror.
Joe snapped back to reality upon hearing his wife’s comforting voice. He exited the flashback which replayed in his head often.
“You almost look as sexy in that suit, as you did in your marine uniform,” Jenny Striker said, joining him in the bathroom. She sported a plump pregnant belly of nine months, staring at her husband with love in her eyes.
He smiled at his curvy, brunette wife, placing a hand on her face. Her pureness reminded him how grateful he was for everything. His most grateful thanks was to live in a country that awarded him the purple heart for defending honor, not defiling it.
“No uptight suit can ever compare to the sex appeal of camo,” he replied.
Jenny kissed his cheek, “There’s no denying that...but there is something I can think of...which easily tops them both.”
“And what would that be?”
“No clothes at all,” she smiled, kissing Joe’s lips with the softness of microfiber, the sweetness of sugar coated candy.
“You sure know how to distract a man from his congressional duties. I want to get down to the voting station before people arrive. Since we have no other choice than to stay in D.C. instead of our districts...I might as well pander to the TV cameras.”
“The sun hasn’t even risen yet...you have time. Besides, there is one wife counting on her husband to perform his husbandly duties...which are equally as patriotic in my mind! My pre-congressional husband always had time for a quickie!”
“I’m still that man...just more...refined. I guess that’s what they call it.”
“Where I come from, refined is translated as boring,” she said playfully.
“Guilty as charged. I’m just a bit distracted, I mean...one victory could change it all. Our country is at stake...our entire system could end by tonight.”
“Well...let me distract you a little more,” she said, kissing him again.
“I think we’ve traded places in the last nine months. Is it possible that you caught my sex drive?”
“You know what they say about prego women?”
“Not really, but I’m starting to imagine...and I sure as hell like it,” Joe said, smiling from ear to ear.
Jenny embraced her muscular husband, gently letting gravity take them to the tile floor. “My suit, it’s gonna get wrinkled....oh the hell with the suit!” Joe exclaimed.
“That’s the man I married!” Jenny said excitedly, as the two passionately intertwined like the most twisted pretzel. His wife loosened the tie from Joe’s neck, pulling his shirt open, revealing some scar-pocked reminders of the life he once led. It was one absent of high-priced dinners, private jets, and the ability to vote his own pay raise.
Joe pressed Jenny’s life-filled belly into his broad chest. He held her tight, licking the nape of his wife’s neck to her inner ear. The passion seeped from them both, entering into the most passionate five minutes of their lives.
Striker collapsed after the heat of passion, as Jenny lay ready for more.
“Duty calls,” Joe said.
“There are penalties for going AWOL...soldier.”
“You asked for a quickie,” he said.
“And you delivered on your promise...quite the politician you’ve become. Let’s hope the publics’ needs last a little longer.”
“I aim to please...well...at least deliver,” he said smiling, going in for one more kiss. “I’ll be home at a decent hour, maybe we’ll even have something to celebrate?”
“I’ll be sure to bring the whipped cream,” she seductively offered. Joe retightened his tie, and Jenny moved in for another seductive kiss.
“Do you think you could stay pregnant forever?” he asked.
“If you don’t mind taking on the back pain and morning sickness, I’ll gladly keep the raging hormones...the good ones.”
“Deal,” Joe said, as they embraced again.
“Do you believe we’re really going to be parents? A boy! I bet he’ll turn out just like you! A tough exterior...with a heart of gold!”
Joe put his finger to his lips, in a quieting motion, “Shhh. Don’t tell my secret. But...if our son has my heart, I hope he gets your looks. There’s no competition in that department.”
“Don’t be so sure of that, handsome,” she said, gazing into her husband’s eyes like he was the only man to ever exist.
“You’re the only one I’d want to bring my child into this world. I just hope there’s still a world left to bring him into. I feel like we’re watching the beginning of the end, and his life hasn’t even begun,” he said with a worried voice.
“Honey, no matter what happens...we’ll make it the best beginning it can be. We’ll raise him the way we were raised. Values...respect...everything this country has always stood for.”
“It’s why I ran for office in the first place. To remind Americans that for all the bad out there...they have it pretty damned good. Whether they realize it or not.”
“You’ll win reelection, even if the results are meaningless. Just promise me that you’ll never stop believing, stop fighting. If for nothing else...for our son.”
“You have my word,” he said.
They both moved towards each other’s lips, as they were suddenly interrupted by a bang from the living room door.
“What was that?” Jenny screamed, as Joe held his finger to Jenny’s lips.
“Stay here,” he said in calm concern.
Striker opened the sink’s cabinet doors, reached into the far back corner and yanked out his gun of choice. It was a 8 3/8 long barreled Smith & Wesson classic model 29, nickel plated and polished to a dark shine. The prized possession was Clint Eastwood’s weapon of choice in the Dirty Harry movies. Striker rolled out the loading chamber, spinning six massive holes filled with thick .44 magnum, gold plated bullets. Each one possessed high velocity and a recoil
that could knock an average man on his ass. The deadly works of art were constructed of 250 grains, tipped with a hollow point, traveling at 1200 feet per second. The hollowed cavity bullet tip expanded outward upon impact, decreasing penetration and ripping more tissue and organs along its journey. Every pop was like an opera of pure destruction.
“A gun in the bathroom?” Jenny asked.
“Don’t let this monkey suit fool you...A marine is always prepared,” he said strongly. “Don’t move...and don’t make a sound. Promise me.”
“Be careful...please, baby. Don’t be a hero.”
Joe Striker crept into the hallway, quietly closing the bathroom door. He snuck behind the hallway entrance wall, eyeing two mercenaries in black searching around the house. They had silencers on their guns, and ambitious looks in their eyes.
Striker slowly cocked the hammer of his weapon, aiming toward the mercenary’s head. Right as he placed pressure on the trigger, a fist clobbered him in the back of the neck. He crashed violently into the ground.
Xavier Sin laughed loudly, entering the scene like a ham marinating in a stew of arrogance. The mercenaries ran over to control the situation. “Amateur! I expected more from this...national hero, my ass! He fell for the oldest trick in the book...send loud, clumsy decoys in the front...strike your enemy from the back.”
The mercenaries approached Joe, their guns still drawn. They kicked him, trying to elicit a response. Striker didn’t budge.
“This pussy is down for the count,” Xavier declared. “Tear this place apart...find the package! This guy fits the profile...the mole would reach out to a man like him! One untainted by politics...not yet, at least. Find it now!”
The mercenaries started emptying desk drawers and turning over furniture. Xavier smiled with pleasure, watching the maniacs move at an inhuman pace. Suddenly, a splitting noise sounded from the bathroom, one louder than the commotion already in progress. The look of opportunity came across the commander’s face.
