The Government: Dark Days

by Joseph Storm

  “I’m not going to use an imaginary camera...I’m going to use a real one,” she said, stomping his foot with her sharp heels, causing him to drop the camera into her arms.

  “You bitch!” he said, gripping the pulsating throb caused by the shoe heal.

  Becky backed away, “In front of every bitch...there’s an even bigger asshole,” she said. “I’m not going to go quietly! Tell the station I quit...and they can sue me for the camera.”

  “A retard could use that thing more accurately than a woman reporter!”

  Becky pointed the camera towards the Rayburn House Building. The camera man brushed her off. “You sucked in bed anyway! Cold-hearted head-case!” he shouted, climbing into the news van, and speeding away.

  A hurt, and unsure Becky took a deep breath. She studied the foreign object in her hands. Fox was not a camera person, but figured things out quickly. “I can do this,” she assured herself, fumbling around with a mess of buttons.

  After a few moments of miscues, the digital camera was recording the scene. She zoomed in on the mercenaries in black.

  “This is Becky Fox reporting to you as an independent journalist. No one may ever hear this broadcast of truth from me...but God help us if they hear it from no one.”

  ******

  Commander Xavier Sin overlooked his team of mercenaries. They were busy relieving the Capitol Hill police force of command. The word reverberated around the nation, as the order was given from the top. ‘There’s a new sheriff in town, and he’s bringing in his own security forces.’ It was just the first of many chips to fall, as a nationwide order went out. A new system of law and order was born on American soil.

  The suggestion was planted during the debates. Judas’s constant focus on the implied sins of the police force was effective. It was combined with the constant villainization of the American Armed forces, promising that this system of “bad guys” would be replaced. There wasn’t an overnight change in public perception. The administration had years of help from films and television shows. They fused the message into entertainment, casting the shadow of doubt on the ones who helped us live in relative safety.

  The conception of the mercenary force was also not conceived overnight. In fact, it was decades in the making. Mika Sorka scoured the world for America’s global enemies. He worked with each country’s leadership to raise an army of handpicked deadly perfection.

  Many of the mercenaries were trained from childhood. The early start protected them from being hooked by the attractive lure of capitalism. Kids were purchased from the families of poor parents, who could not feed their children, only seeing a life of misery ahead. Their only crime was being born in the wrong country, under a ruler who squashed them under foot. For every child provided, the country’s leadership received illegal shipments of arms and nuclear secrets, also stolen from America. Rumors of the illegal child-sale floated around the United Nations, though their track record of inaction did nothing to stop such evildoers. It only aided them in their goals.

  The small cost of one-hundred U.S. dollars per child, allowed Sorka to acquire a blank-slated human being. It encouraged many of these families to start children farms, for the pure purpose to breed as many mercenaries as they could. However, in the end, their decision was never fueled by principle, but instead, it was money, which allowed them to eat that day.

  The children’s mission began at the ripe age of four, every one of them being denied the human emotions of love and comfort. Emotions would affect their ability to carry out orders. They were given measured food, and meager living conditions of shanty huts. Each kid was taught that they only existed to take down the force of evil, which raped and pillaged their country. This false statement was ingrained into their brains. Any wavering of their resolve was beat from them. The brainwashing didn’t take much convincing, as the scapegoat for most things was often placed at the feet of America. Its citizens were more concerned with being “liked” rather than demanding the truth be told. They were willing to trade a verdict of guilt for the mere rise of numbers in a fictional poll. The American public opted not to defend themselves against such malicious, deceitful lies, while their generosity was taken for granted. The empty minded mercenaries had no knowledge to refute those lies.

  Developed from the scientific labs of Sorka himself, was a special chemical powder, one resembling cocaine, though offering much more. The effect of one snort delivered the blissful high of an addictive drug, sending chills across every pore of skin. However, the main affect was the activation of the hypothalamus. It greatly stimulated the peripheral nervous system, granting long periods of strength surges, and hyperactive movement.

  Sorka’s main plan of action was to separate his forces into two sections of authority: Domestic Cadets, and the elite Authoritarian Guard. The latter would be a lethal force featuring the best of the best. The guard would be kept in the military bases, released only upon the heaviest of action. The cadets were the first line of control. They were less-skilled, had inferior intelligence, and certainly more expendable than their revered guard brethren. They were the doormats for the ones who mattered.

  When a mercenary would show signs of weakness, mercy, or compassion, they were downgraded to a cadet. When one showed that he could withstand mental and physical torture, speak convincing English, and sacrifice his willpower, he went to the elite guard.

  Xavier Sin personally traveled to each area: Russia, China, Pakistan, Venezuela, Egypt, Iran, North Korea, Indonesia, in addition to a few American “allies” who gladly took U.S. money, while double dealing under the table. Each country was quietly assured leadership of one global world.

  The power hungry governments drooled, jockeying for position under the table, like dogs battling over scraps of prime meat. Visions of world domination danced in their heads like wet dreams dangled from a very dry reality. Of course, Sorka had no intention of giving up such power. Once he had control of the United States’ assets, resources, capitol, and people, the globe would be his.

  “America is both the doorway and the obstacle to my domination of the planet,” Mika Sorka said. “Once I have it...I have the world. It’s the reason why we can’t use adult American citizens for an undertaking such as this, as their patriotism will cloud the way. Never trust a man with loyalty to a principle, to a country, to a God. Especially God...a myth that was invented as a distraction from your pain, created by man to keep the population in line. I’ll create an army of millions to flood every state, city, and town.”

  Commander Sin walked the well-chosen, isolated areas. They were purchased by Sorka at a hefty price. Each place was protected by the dictators of the corrupt countries, providing the most valuable thing that Mika needed: privacy. These protected, secret havens were specifically out of the eye of American satellites. Sorka’s government insiders helped assure him of that fact.

  Xavier’s one working eye nearly filled with joyful tears, as he examined disciplined rows of elite guard in tightly spaced squares. Each stood at perfect attention. The men constantly fought the urge to jitter from their experimental powder. They all knew the consequences for falling out of line would be more severe than giving into their bodily needs.

  “Let’s see them in action,” Commander Sin demanded to the Chinese master. The strict Asian man called out to the foreign command. Two mercenaries stepped forward without hesitation.

  “Duel to death,” the master changed to English.

  The men nodded, as each one faced the other. The mercenaries were unarmed, though their hands could be classified as weapons. They shook with jitters, side-effects of the chemical powder. Each man eyed the other with a hunger to kill, like two chained tigers awaiting the moment to destroy flesh from skin.

  “Now!” the master yelled, as the two mercenary guard members charged each other. One ran directly forward. The other leapt into the air, unleashing his muscular leg towards his opponent’s face and head.

  Avoiding a broken neck by just inches, the
running mercenary caught the airborne appendage. He used sheer strength to propel his opponent back toward the ground. The assault continued, as he ran forward, hurling his clinched fists at the grounded man. Facing a deadly barrage of punches, the grounded mercenary rolled away with lightning speed, avoiding an organ busting beating by just inches. With every miss, the punching man’s fist filled with blood, breaking each knuckle. He did not wince a bit.

  The fight continued on for hours. The men behind them continued to stand at brisk attention, not moving an eyeball. They were interested in the outcome, but they had orders to follow.

  Commander Xavier Sin smiled with pure pleasure. He watched the fight go on, as the sun beat down upon them. It baked their skin through the plain black uniforms of better material than anything they’d ever owned.

  As the sun set, one mercenary started to show weakness. He huffed a breath, indicating that the powder was wearing off. The man collapsed to the ground in exhaustion.

  “Finish him, damn you!” Commander Sin yelled, taking charge of the situation. “They’ll be no mercy under my command!”

  The victorious Authoritarian Guard member approached the downed mercenary. “Mercy,” the injured, tired man cried out. One word had unearthed a shameful crack in the arduous training. It revealed that this over-hyped force, might not be the inhuman, unbeatable myth it was believed to be.

  The mercenary's master turned to Commander Xavier. “He not taught mercy...I swear.”

  Commander Xavier looked down in disgust. “This is not what we paid for. Maybe our money could be better spent elsewhere.”

  The master pleaded with the commander. “This is exception...not rule!” he begged, turning his attention away from the commander. He lashed out at the injured guard, trying to ward off his own impending punishment. “Coward! That is not what you were taught!”

  The victorious guard member spit upon the defeated man. He left a slimy, yellowish load upon his disgraced, aching face. The mercenary lifted his weak victim by the back of the neck, twisting it in one swift break. Dropping his lifeless opponent to the ground, he returned to standing attention.

  “No cowards!” the master yelled, as a big smile crept across Xavier’s face.

  “Next,” Commander Xavier Sin said, craving more action and death.

  The master took a deep breath. He managed to dodge a bullet. “Who is next to step up and earn honor?” he called out. The entire front line stepped forward.

  “Now that is more like it,” the commander proclaimed.

  As each squad finished its training, Mika Sorka slowly sent sections of carefully tested men to different areas of the United States. The covert operation used a flood of money and connections to shadow their existence. Each group was assigned to a targeted area. The greatest number of men went to the American cities with the biggest police force and military bases.

  The mercenaries were ordered to blend in with society’s customs. That included, perfecting their English, tapping into culture, and spotting the difference between a leader and sheep. The underground cells awaited the call to action. The election victory was the call they were waiting for.

  The first of many national takeovers began on the streets of Washington D.C., occurring simultaneously to the inauguration. While all eyes were on Leader Judas, the dirty work was being done behind the scenes.

  The Capitol Building, Pentagon, and Supreme Court were the leadership’s number one choices for immediate takeover. Commander Xavier had more important targets on his list. He went to sniff the trail of the mole, starting with the congressional offices. His first stop: the Rayburn House.

  ******

  Joe Striker pressed the gas pedal to the floor, darting his way through the maddening D.C. traffic. It was a usual craze made worse by the historic inauguration. He could see that the transition was already taking place, as the mercenaries in black took their spots at the entrances to government buildings. A few had even started policing the streets.

  Striker watched in sickness as tourists posed for pictures with mercenaries. They didn’t realize that these weren’t theme park characters, but the total opposite of a fantasy. The public was unawarely embracing what could eventually enforce the death of their freedom. Celebrity had become so important to the American way of life that it seemed to override everything, even the most common of sense.

  He pulled into the gated entrance of the H-shaped, Rayburn House Office Building. A mercenary awaited him at the gate. The man in black stared strangely at the vehicle’s front end damage. He wondered why such action had already taken place. These were supposed to be the calm days.

  Joe pulled up to the window, taking a deep breath. He shifted into character.

  “Accident?” the mercenary in black asked.

  “Yes,” Joe said in his most convincing Russian accent.

  “Tree no friend to car,” the mercenary responded, as he studied Striker’s injuries on his face. The man in black had the look of suspicion, as he hand-scanned the stolen badge on Joe’s black jacket. The scanner beeped once, giving a number, 22550. That particular code indicated Russian territory. The mercenary was also of Russian descent.

  “повреждения лица плохи,” the mercenary said, testing Joe with casual conversation about face injuries being the worst kind.

  “они чувствуют себя худшими, чем они смотрят,” Striker responded, saying that they feel worse than they look.

  The Russian mercenary laughed, showing a sign of trust.

  Striker’s accent was impeccable, as his marine unit had done more training than just physical. They sought not only the strongest, but the brightest. The Afghan area was bordered by Uzbekistan, a satellite of the broken Russian territories. Each soldier was schooled in the local dialects and languages. It gave them the ability to communicate or detect any outside forces infiltrating the area.

  The mercenary dropped his disbelief in the origin of his colleague. He opened the gate, allowing Joe to drive the government SUV into the garage. Striker had managed to do the impossible, penetrating a heavily guarded government building. Now, he hoped that his office hadn’t been searched yet.

  ******

  Becky Fox strolled around the Rayburn Building. She searched for some type of evidence that would support her accusations of misdeed. Being the savvy news reporter that she was, Becky knew that the answers would never reveal themselves on the outside. She had to get inside to move past the trust, and get to the truth.

  Realizing that simple men followed a simple genetic code, she took a deep breath. The buxom blonde unbuttoned her blouse, untucked her hair from a neatened bun, and cringed in disgust. It wouldn’t be the first time that she sold her principles to get a story. One instance in particular, nearly cost her life. It led her career to the unfortunate position she was currently in. “Story is more important than self,” was her undoing.

  As the years went on, Becky swore she would never do a compromising undercover story again. However, a story as important as her country’s fate prompted her to suck it up, tuck her memories away, and take one for the nation. She approached the security gate of the Rayburn Building, ditching the camera inside a large bed of flowers.

  “Hey there, handsome,” she said, swirling her blonde hair through the air. She blinked her long lashes, and unleashed her ruby-red smile on the mercenary in black at the gate.

  The man puffed out his chest, seeming to soak in the praise. “Yes,” he said, trying to maintain his sense of control and authority.

  “I just love a man in uniform...is that cotton or polyester?” she asked in a convincing ditzy girl tone of voice.

  “It not matter,” the man said.

  “Oh...such a bad boy, let me feel,” she responded, placing her hand on his arm, feeling his large muscle. “Forget the fabric...I prefer what’s underneath.”

  The man cracked a small smile, as she squeezed his bulging arms. He clearly was not an elite Authoritarian Guard, and
had missed his morning dose of white powder. “You like?”

  “I like. Do you think I can have a look around inside this big building?”

  “No.”

  “Just a little look...you can stay with me the whole time...just you...and me,” she said, winking. “I’m in town for the inauguration...and I’ve never seen a building as big as this.”

  “You and me?” he asked, understanding that some things translate beyond words.

  “You betcha.”

  He called over to another mercenary inside the security booth. “Take over...I must escort.”

  The man nodded. He took Becky Fox into the bowels of the Rayburn House. If she was going to score a lead, it was now or never. However, she accepted the fact that it could mean imprisonment or death.

  ******

  Joe Striker made his way through the lobby of the Rayburn House Building. The place, which was once filled with congressional members was now a mercenary haven. Striker kept reminding himself that he was one of them, standing tall and victorious, rather than darting from view upon every suspicious gaze.

  He made his way up the steps into the upper wing, where his congressional office was located. As he passed the rooms of his murdered colleagues, every door was busted open. Desks were being torn apart, closets emptied, and walls were cracked open.

  He approached his office, arriving there at the last moment before his space was under siege. The room adjacent to his had just been torn to pieces. Striker approached his office door.

  The mercenaries in black were heading to Striker’s office, ready to search the contents. They stopped him.

  “You got?” the Arabic mercenary asked.

  “I got,” he responded.

  “I help.”

  Striker cringed, but nodded. “Yes.”

  The Arabic man barked orders to his partners. “Start next room!” Striker kicked open his office door.

  “We start,” the mercenary said.

  Joe knew that the package was in his bottom desk drawer, along with some other random mail. He immediately started pulling out the drawers around it, hovering over the drawer, trying to protect it.