And Thy Mother

by John Bromley

  The most amazing thing was that, when it was closed, the edge of the door had not been visible, even from less than a foot away.

  “Welcome to the ‘Hole in the Wall’,” Sam said, stepping into the entrance. No sooner had he done so than a shot pinged off the Wall just over his head. He looked in the direction from which the shot had come, but did not see the agent who had fired. He pulled his two comrades toward the door, while standing behind them and providing covering fire. Another bullet impacted the Wall as he went through the door. He pressed hidden switches, which quickly closed the door and turned on a string of overhead lights. They revealed that the tunnel in the Wall went forward about fifteen feet before turning to the left.

  “That wasn’t quite the welcome I had planned,” Sam commented dryly. “Anyway, you boys have the honor of being the only two in the country to see this place, other than Jim and Mike, that is.”

  “They were here before?” Peter asked.

  “Yeah, early on we had a little encounter in here,” Sam answered but did not elaborate.

  “But what is this place?” Buck asked, looking around as best he could in the dim light, trying not to feel claustrophobic.

  “This is where I hang out, when I’m in the area. It’s also the ‘nobody-knows-but-me’ way into the Ghetto, and that’s where we’re going now.”

  He led the way to the back of the tunnel, but did not make the left turn. Instead, he stood near the wall with a quizzical look on his face, listening to something behind the wall. The concrete muffled the sound somewhat, but Buck and Peter could hear it, too.

  “That sounded like an explosion,” Buck said at length.

  “There’s another,” Sam added moments later, “and it sounded closer than the first one.”

  “And, again,” Buck said. “It sounds like—”

  “A chain reaction… oh, shit,” Sam moaned. “The whole area between the Walls is a mine field. Some of the mines are placed so close together that if one goes off, it sets off the next one, and the next… and it sounds like that’s what happened.”

  Sam reached around the corner and pressed another button. Another motor ran silently and a door opened in front of the three men. When Sam saw what it revealed, he quickly pushed the other two men away and closed the door again.

  “That’s what it is, boys,” he shouted as another explosion was heard, louder and closer than any before it. “Those old mines are going off, and in a couple of minutes, we’ll have mines blowing up right outside that door.”

  “What are we going to do?” Peter asked, fear dripping from every word.

  “Nothing we can do.” Sam tried to remain calm for Peter’s sake, but he also couldn’t help feeling worried. He knew they could not retreat out the front door; they could still hear someone shooting at the Wall.

  “Just have to ride it out in here, boys, and hope the place doesn’t fall on us.”

  “Amen to that,” Buck agreed.

  Then the lights went out.

  CHAPTER 46

  Early Tuesday evening, Edwin Billings sat in his seat on the plane bound for Winnipeg, lost in thought. He had paid very little attention as the ticket agent took his money and checked him in. He had hardly noticed the security checkpoint. He was wearing a Secret Service uniform of course, which exempted him from inspection, but one bearing a different name and lesser rank insignia than his own, since “Ted” Billings was supposed to be dead. But none of this concerned him.

  He thought instead about what he had heard and seen in the last few hours. On the radio driving to the airport, in the concourses among the live passengers, he had not heard even one person discussing his “death,” let alone expressing regret about the “tragic event” and the possible dire consequences for the country. Instead, almost every non-personal conversation had something to do with Colonel Parker, and Parker's anticipated TV broadcast tomorrow night. Who would speak for the colonel, now that he was “unfortunately gone?” What was he going to say? Would the President participate, as he had been invited to do and, if so, what was he going to say?

  What a load of bullshit.

  As he sat on a bench waiting for his flight, listening to this drivel that passed for an informed discussion of national events, he came to the realization that his legacy was in jeopardy. His “death” should have been the number one topic of concern on the lips of every single North American citizen. That it was not meant only one thing.

  These people did not know all the great things he had done for them over the years.

  Now on the plane in first class, he opened his briefcase. An object inside caught his attention, and he took it out with his good left hand. It was the four-inch-long metal cylinder he had retrieved from his office. Only one end opened; it had a cap which could be unscrewed, but was held tightly shut by a plastic seal. Another object, about twice the size of a medicine capsule, contained the same substance. Billings had created these things and their contents himself years ago, “just in case.”

  Just in case... what? his mind asked itself.

  While he absently hefted the cylinder, he thought about the other things in his case. The Uzi submachine gun he had used so effectively at the White House was in there, but out of sight, buried under all the forms he had taken from Thompson's desk. The ones with the names of men who were about to become the newest members of the elite “Section Fifteen” group.

  These men should consider themselves lucky, he told himself. They would soon be on their way to the female Ghetto. They would make their donations to the sperm bank, thus ensuring the continuation of the North American species. The fact that they would then be executed for laying eyes on a woman was immaterial.

  They had a purpose. They had a mission.

  They had a calling.

  And Ted Billings had given it to them.

  What could be nobler than that?

  But... just in case, what? his mind insisted.

  He thought about the cylinder, and soon his thoughts wandered to encompass the entire history of the Secret Service, at least since the establishment of the Thompson dynasty.

  With the early Thompsons, the strong Thompsons, the Service did as they were ordered to do, knowing that they were no more exempt from Presidential retribution than anyone else. As time passed, the Service gained Presidential favor and the perks that went along with that, eventually reaching a point where they achieved a level of power almost as great as that of the President himself.

  Almost.

  Then along came Edwin Billings.

  He had now reigned over the Secret Service longer than any other individual in its history, but he was determined that that fact would not be his only claim to fame. Fortunately, he had come along at a time of somewhat weaker-willed Thompsons.

  He had dared to suggest—indeed, to demand—the creation of “Section Fifteen,” which gave him a power of life and death previously reserved for the President only. Henry Thompson had objected at first, but in the face of Ted's bluster and threats had eventually conceded.

  His thoughts returned to the cylinder in his hand, and the one and only time he had used it before.

  Five years earlier, he sat at dinner with Henry Thompson in the White House. Only a week before, the President had signed his “Section Fifteen” law in a secret ceremony, but now he was back with a new demand. He wanted to create a mechanized Secret Service unit to combat the “growing threat” represented, in his mind, by Sam Swenson and anyone foolish enough to fall under his sway. The President adamantly refused to allow this, as this would place the Service on an equal footing with the Army. The last thing Thompson wanted to face was a group of generals angered over someone “invading their turf.” Ted made no threats this time, for he could see that the President, for perhaps the first time in his life, was not about to give in.

  Instead, he waited until Thompson was called away from the table to take a phone call—from a general, as it happened. He then carefully opened the small capsule containing the same
substance as the cylinder, which he had brought with him “just in case” the President proved intractable. Using the tip of his dinner knife, he took a small particle from the capsule and placed it on the President’s plate. It looked exactly like any of the other grains of salt on Thompson’s filet mignon.

  When Thompson returned with the butler in tow, he once again reiterated his refusal to consider Ted’s request, and Ted surprised him by responding that he understood and “well, the men wanted me to ask.” Changing the subject, Ted began a discussion of baseball, a passion of the President’s, but something Ted considered a waste of time.

  The President ate the piece of steak with Ted’s “salt” on it. He cut another and began chewing it, simultaneously refuting Ted’s argument in favor of the designated hitter rule. He started to cut another piece of meat, but halfway through doing so, he carefully placed the knife and fork on the plate, as if they had suddenly become too heavy to hold. The President’s hands then dropped to either side of the plate, as though he were resting them there. His declamation about the DH stopped in mid-sentence.

  Ted had been looking at his own plate and savoring the taste of the wild rice which accompanied the steak, but when Thompson stopped speaking, he looked up.

  “Mr. President? Sir, are you all right?” he asked, feigning alarm for the sake of the butler, who immediately came to the side of the President. Feeling no pulse, he summoned the doctor, who responded quickly, but there was nothing he could do. Ted’s poison was fast-acting and extremely potent.

  And now there is William, he thought with disdain. He was only slightly surprised when a second voice made his internal monologue into a conversation.

  The man couldn’t run a bath, let alone a country.

  William the Third.

  William the Idiot.

  Somewhere in what was left of his rational mind, Billings realized that the lack of diversity in the genetic pool had led to generations of ever more mentally-challenged people, and now it had even caught up with the Thompsons themselves.

  The obvious solution, he knew, was to have more men as sperm donors. This could only be accomplished, of course, by increasing the number of “volunteers” for “Section Fifteen.”

  That would certainly be good for us, at a thousand dollars a pop.

  Good thing William has me to run the country for him.

  But, is that good enough?

  Good enough for the country?

  Don’t be so naïve. Who gives a shit about the country? Is it good enough for us?

  No, it’s not.

  Do you want to be just the “power behind the throne” all your life?

  No. It’s what I’ve been for a long time, but I deserve more.

  We deserve to be the actual President, don’t we?

  Yes, we do… I do.

  President Billings… it has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?

  Yes, it does.

  So, how can we make that happen?

  I can’t kill William. I got away with killing a Thompson once, but twice…

  He betrayed us. He’s in the Ghetto, with Them. He deserves to die.

  It’s too bad that Jared is gone.

  Jared?

  The next Thompson. If he were still alive, he would be the President when William died.

  When William was executed.

  Then, I would rule the country through Jared.

  Why is that better than what we have now?

  Jared would let me do what I want.

  William lets us do that now.

  But, Jared—

  Jared was getting too “uppity”… too willful. He was expendable. We were right on that point. We’re glad he’s gone.

  Then… William must die, and I must seize power as the senior government official.

  Yes.

  And then, I must order all sympathizers of Swenson’s to be put to death.

  Of course.

  If I do all that, would the people accept me as their new President?

  No.

  That’s a shame.

  They don’t care about us. They think we’re dead, and they don’t care.

  They are a heartless people.

  They don’t deserve our love and devotion.

  They don’t appreciate all of my efforts and sacrifice.

  They don’t deserve us.

  So… if I can’t be the President…

  Then no one should be.

  Someone must lead the country into the future.

  The country is at a crossroads. We must become the President. Now.

  But… the people will reject me. I know this.

  Then, all is lost. Without us as President, North America has no future.

  I agree.

  They deserve no future. That is why we brought… this.

  (He suddenly remembered the cylinder, which he was still idly fondling in his hand.)

  We must be the President, to navigate the country into the future.

  They will not let me be the President. I know that. They will stop me.

  Then, the country deserves no future. It must not have a future.

  I must stop the country’s decline.

  And we will.

  It was often said that pain clouds a person’s judgment. Even though Ted was still in pain from his broken arm, he had to disagree. He could rarely remember thinking so clearly in his life.

  CHAPTER 47

  The mine explosions eventually stopped, allowing Sam, Buck and Peter to sigh with relief. None of them had been hurt, but a large piece of the tunnel ceiling had fallen down, blocking most of the path between them and the “front” door in the Wall. They now had very little choice but to go out the “back” door, which Sam once again opened.

  The land that was revealed differed markedly from the lush wooded terrain outside the Wall, or the neatly ordered, small-town appearance of the female Ghetto. This land was all very uneven mounds of dirt, with no trees and only the accidental bush or bit of grass.

  “This is the ‘no-man’s-land’ between the Walls,” Sam said. “About every ten or so miles, they got automatic anti-aircraft batteries in here. There is—or was—land mines and such all over the place. And every once in a while, just for fun, they got some razor wire where you’d least expect it. But the good thing is, there’s no people.”

  “Sounds like you’re familiar with this area,” Buck observed.

  “More than I’d like to be. I spent a lot of time in here, clearing out a path all the way through to the other Wall, where there’s another door that I made, into the Ghetto itself. Now, it’s gonna be dark soon, so if we’re gonna stay on the path we need to leave now, ‘cause these things don’t have headlights.

  Buck looked where Sam was indicating ands said somewhat dubiously, “Bicycles?”

  “You were expecting, maybe, a helicopter?” Sam asked sarcastically. “Remember, everything that comes in here has to come through that little door I made. Be glad you don’t have to walk the whole ten miles. I’ve done that, too.”

  They climbed onto the bikes and pedaled as hard as they could. Sam led the way, for he was the only one familiar with the path. Fortunately for them all, the land between the Walls was mostly flat. After about an hour, they reached the inner Wall without managing to blow themselves up.

  Leaving the bikes outside (“for the trip back,” Sam said, which brought a groan from Peter), they went through another door similar to the ones in the outer Wall. The outline of this doorway was easy to spot, since it did not have to be camouflaged. This took them into a tunnel somewhat narrower and lower than the one in the outer Wall, since it only proceeded through the Wall and did not contain the rudimentary living quarters of the outer tunnel. It was, however, lighted.

  When they reached the door at the far end of the tunnel, the one which would take them into the Ghetto, Sam readied the Uzi he had taken from Ted Billings and signed to his partners that they should remain silent and stay behind him.

  He cracked the out
er door open and peered through it. Unfortunately, a Secret Service agent happened to be standing nearby and happened to glance over and see the opened door. Two quick and relatively quiet bullets kept him from vocally expressing his surprise.

  Sam looked in all directions and saw no other agents. He quickly got the other two men out of the tunnel and closed the door. Like the outer door, the edges of this one were impossible to detect.

  Sam and Buck exchanged a few words, after which Sam spotted an SS agent and moved toward him. Buck heard Sam identify himself to the man as “Billings,” and smiled inwardly. He knew that, in the gathering darkness, Sam’s resemblance to his “half-brother” would make this claim hard to refute. Indeed, the agent decided not to take the chance of disbelieving Sam, and quickly rendered the most precise salute Buck had ever seen outside the military.

  “Get the word out,” Sam could be heard telling his “minion,” “there’ll be a meeting of all agents in this area, and I want it broadcast to all other men in this entire compound. There’s a very important matter we must deal with. See to it, or face the usual punishment.”

  This brought an audible gasp from the man. He knew what that meant.

  “One other thing,” Sam said as he turned to go, “between now and then, there is to be no killing of women.”

  “None?” the man was surprised.

  “None at all,” Sam reaffirmed, “for any reason whatsoever. I have my reasons. Anyone who disobeys this directive will answer to me… personally.”

  Now the man was genuinely afraid. The “usual punishment” was death, but he knew from stories told within the Service that answering to Billings “personally” was even worse.

  Sam started to walk away and then turned back to the man.

  “Why are you standing there, asshole? Move!”

  The man ran off as fast as he could toward the nearest SS hangout. Sam headed off in another direction.

  CHAPTER 48

  When the flight attendant came through the first class section, Billings asked him if champagne was available on this flight. Assured that it was, Ted asked for the largest bottle they had.