by B. C. Tweedt
“Hands on the rope! Take them off, you spend the night in the pit!”
“REPENT OF YOUR CRIMES…”
There were cries to his left, toward the lower numbers. He didn’t know what was coming, but as the sounds grew louder, he guessed correctly.
His jump suit was pulled down. He was searched. The gloved hands found nothing. Then the suit was returned. Next.
A fiery hate burned inside. His knuckles cracked, gripping the rope.
The third search in twenty-four hours.
“RENEW YOUR LOYALTY….THEN RE-ENTER YOUR COUNTRY."
A full minute later, the rope pulled him forward, behind prisoner #26.
There were more gates, more security that he couldn’t see. Probably more metal-detectors and x-rays. But he tried to memorize the sounds. Buzzes. Grinding. Beeps. Soldiers’ voices.
The soldiers called out numbers in sections. Five to each section. And then they’d move further. Finally it was his turn. “Fifteen, twenty, twenty-seven, twenty-nine, thirty-three! Let go!”
He let go of the rope and was shoved forward. His shoulder hit a metal bar at the same time as his veil was removed. Rearing around in pain, he sneered at the soldier before the cell’s door was closed and locked with an electronic buzz.
Twisting around, he found he was outdoors but under a tin roof. He could see across many chain-linked cells just like his, each with four or five prisoners inside, including his own. Guards crisscrossed the narrow aisles between them, rifles at the ready. He couldn’t see to the end in any direction. The place was massive.
A young soldier frowned outside their cell and gave a short, monotone speech as if he had done so a thousand times. “Rebels. Respect the system. Repent of your crimes. Renew your loyalty. Re-enter your country with love and gratitude. America looks forward to welcoming you back.”
“What’s that crap?” Cael scoffed.
The soldier’s frown was unmoved as he pointed behind Cael and marched away. Following the soldier’s gesture, Cael read the sign behind him bathed in red, white, and blue.
Respect. Repent. Renew. Re-enter.
The teenaged girl decided screaming would help and pulled at the chain-linked walls – shaking them and rattling the roof. Cael heard the guards’ heavy footsteps and saw them converging from several aisles. He jumped at the girl, grabbing her arms and pulling her back to the center.
“Cool it, chick. That ain’t gonna get us nowhere.”
Sniffling, she quieted as the guards gathered at the door.
“We’re good now, Merks,” Cael said.
After a long pause and examination, the front guard said, “Respect the system. Don’t touch the fence,” and stormed away.
The girl took in a few shuddering breaths before turning to Cael. Without any words, she thanked him and retreated to a lonely dirt corner.
He suddenly had a thought. He was going to be rescued. He didn’t know when or how, but it would come. The girl on the other hand.
She had no hope.
-------------------------------
“When was she taken?” Katelyn asked.
“Sixth period,” Nick replied, pedaling next to Jordan, remembering Mrs. Cartwright’s arrest.
“Oh, I wish I could’ve been there!” Her face was a special kind of cruel. “Did she cry? Yell? Quote the Bible?”
“No,” Nick said, glancing at Sydney who rode on the other side of Katelyn. “When she saw the Human Rights Enforcement people she told the class she forgives whoever accused her. She asked us to pray for her. Then they handcuffed her and took her out. They came back later for her computer.”
“Ugh!” Katelyn grunted as they turned the corner by the Woodland Estates sign. “That’s what I hate about those people. She forgives me? Like I did something wrong? Who is she to judge? These people think they know everything just ‘cuz some ancient mythical book tells them so. We don’t want those kind of people in our country anyway. Let ‘em leave, I say. Let them have their own stupid country where they can judge each other all day.” The rest of the group laughed along with her as they pedaled past the guard and waved.
But then Marshall yelled out. “No!” His voice was a desperate cry that sent chills down Nick’s spine. And then he saw why.
Marshall’s house was a block up. Homeland Security vans and police cars were outside, lights flashing. A crowd had gathered in the lawn, pouring into the street.
“No! No!” Marshall blasted ahead of the group, pedaling like a mad man and jumping from his moving bike, letting it collapse in his lawn as he ran inside shouting for his parents.
The group sped up as well, halting in the street as the spectacle unfolded before them. Marshall being dragged outside by a burly policeman. Neighbors shouting at the cops, pleading with them as the cops held them back, trying to put up caution tape. Men in HRE coats taking boxes full of files and electronics to their van. A police Scorpion drone in a stationary hover above the home, unnoticed by most.
And Shepherdess Katelyn was smiling. Smug. Proud.
Nick felt sick.
Marshall broke free, running at Katelyn. “You! You did this!”
Katelyn startled and nearly fell from her bike as Marshall rushed her.
“Why? Why? I’ll kill you!”
A policeman snagged the boy before he reached Katelyn, but Katelyn had dropped her bike and curled her arms at her chest. She lowered them with a huff as he was thrust toward a police car. “You’ll kill me? You hear that officer? That was a threat!”
A frail, middle-aged woman was close behind the policemen, making her way to Katelyn with her hands clasped, as if praying. “Please, please…” she pled, glancing to the other bikers in uniform, “Stop this. Stop it.”
Katelyn pulled up her bike and struggled to get on. A throng of neighbors was behind the woman, crowding in. Some were crying, but others were angry. They shouted at her, called her names.
“Stop what?” Katelyn said, beginning to pedal away. “We’re protecting you! It’s for your own good!”
“Please…”
“For the community!” she yelled, pedaling harder.
The other bikers pounded the pedals, speeding after Katelyn, leaving the shouts and the lights and the chaos behind them.
Nick looked over his shoulder as the others did, dumbfounded by the scene erupting in the middle of a pristine suburban street. The houses and yards remained beautiful and clean on the exterior, but the insides had been gutted and ruined. Though there was no violence, there was revolt. A small-scale revolt, but one nonetheless. It had been ripping families apart across the nation, and this community hadn’t been immune.
There would be no reversing it. Katelyns were everywhere. Mrs. Cartwrights were everywhere. There were those who wanted to force tolerance, diversity, and equality, and there were those who thought doing so would destroy all three. They could not be reconciled. Nick knew what was coming. Rubicon would fail.
“Who was it?” Jordan grumbled, gritting his teeth.
Nick eyed Katelyn. For a long time she didn’t say anything, her grip tight on the handlebars.
“Was it them? Wyatt? Jackson? Chloe?”
“No,” Katelyn answered at last. “I did.”
Jordan huffed, pumping the pedals until his eyes rimmed red. He was upset with her. Nick could tell. Somewhere deep inside his inflated chest, maybe he had a heart.
“I’m scared,” Katelyn muttered after another rider had left to his home.
She’s scared? Of all people… Nick snarled, daydreaming of ramming her bike into the nearest light pole.
But Sydney replied, “Crazy,” snapping him from his daydream.
“Can you stay at my place tonight?” Katelyn asked her.
Nick glared at her even while staring straight ahead. But she said yes anyway.
-------------------------------
“Dallas, Texas,” Dan began pointing at the screen in the war room where
an image of the city appeared. “Some might tell you not to mess with Texas, but this is a mess in Texas.”
Greyson sat back in the chair, still relishing the fact that he was allowed inside. After so long, he’d finally made it. And it was underwhelming. He had awed at the room and computer equipment for the first few minutes, but the room had been much larger, cleaner, and exciting in his mind.
“It’s been the center point of the loyalists’ efforts in the South. They know that Texas is the key to the ARC. Without it, the ARC has little chance. Texas alone has one quarter of the nation’s oil, one-third of its natural gas, and is energy independent. It’s the only state with its own power grid. That means Uncle Sam can’t turn the lights off without a fight. If it were its own country, its economy would be the 10th biggest in the world. It has two of the largest military bases in Fort Hood and Fort Bliss. And I hate saying it, but it has the guts and guns to give one heckuva fight.”
Greyson nodded, tapping his fingers on the desk from pinky to thumb as he glanced around for a pen to take notes. Instead, he saw Asher across from him, tapping his fingers from pinky to thumb. The boy smiled at him.
“Texas has called for a state convention after the election. Each district will elect a delegate. Of the 150 districts, more than thirty are in the Dallas-Fort Worth area. While Governor Sterling is on many people’s list for ARC president, Dallas’ mayor, Mayor Becker, is the loudest of the loyalists, tightening his grip on his loyal city in a rebel state.”
Greyson’s headache was getting worse. He couldn’t imagine anyone voting to leave the country when they knew it would lead to a war more horrible than any other in history. There was only one thing that made sense to him, and he had to ask. “Can Texas secede peacefully?”
“In theory, yes. But President Foster’s made it clear. He views any secession as illegal. Basically, he wouldn’t recognize it. So he’d view it as a rebellion of individuals. They’d be terrorists, not an opposing army – no matter what uniforms they decide to wear.”
“Is it illegal?”
Taking a deep breath, Dan leaned against his desk. “That’s the question the entire country is wrestling with.”
Greyson had been wrestling with it himself, reading whatever Civil War materials he could find in the library. “But what do you think?”
“I’ll tell you what I know. The United States seceded from Great Britain saying in their Declaration of Independence that it is the right of the people to alter or abolish their government if it ever prevents them from securing life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. There are too many similarities between the Revolution and today to ignore.”
Greyson felt himself looking past Dan. He hadn’t read that in his own research. It was a new perspective. Had the American Revolution been a kind of civil war? It kind of made sense – part of Great Britain breaking off and fighting a war to be a new country. But if that war was hailed as just, why wasn’t the Civil War? Maybe secession would be a new revolution, with the ARC as the new America.
“Even if it’s legal, boys,” Dan said, speaking to both him and Asher, “It doesn’t mean it’s right. The ARC has a long list of things that are wrong with the country, and they’re right on many of them. But it doesn’t mean we give up and leave. The government’s power is given by the people. And we have the power, at least for now, to alter our government. So we do just that. And we fight for peace. We do everything we can to save this country peacefully.”
“Amen!” Asher said, pounding his fist on the table.
Greyson startled at the sound. Suddenly he felt unsafe, confused, and very afraid.
It could actually happen.
The story of America’s demise had started years ago, and he had only seen the tip of the iceberg. Clips of the chaos in Congress, the politicians yelling at each other. The hatred spewed on social media over race, religion, and politics. The fear of attacks. The violent crackdowns. Conflicting media taking sides on every issue. How was he supposed to know who or what was right? How was he supposed to choose a side when he was just a kid?
Was he on the right side now?
“But…what happens if states do secede? Which side will we be on?”
Dan sighed, glancing at the ceiling with a long shrug. “We’re on peace’s side.”
Greyson nodded, unsatisfied with the answer.
“If that means we stand in the gap – we do. As always.”
Greyson’s head hurt. He rubbed at his temples. But as he did so, the answer started to make more sense. A simple answer in a complex world. Peace. He was on peace’s side. Peace could be his anchor – something to hold onto when winds were pushing him in all directions. If people were trying to kill each other, he’d stop the killing. Whoever was doing the killing was his enemy – no matter what banner they were flying.
He took in a deep breath as Dan continued.
“But until then, we find out who’s behind the curtain. Who is stirring up the violence? For several years there’s been some dark things happening inside our government that we’re just starting to get to the bottom of. If they’re true, we need to find out how to root it out.”
That was more like it.
“And that’s where your mission comes in, Orphan.”
Greyson snapped to attention, looking again at the picture of Dallas’ skyline.
“There’s going to be an attack. We don’t know if it’s Cicada yet or not, and we don’t know what kind of attack it is; but if our intelligence is correct, it will happen in two days. This man,” he said, clicking a mouse to show an image of a Twitter account with the handle PatriARC, “is a Pluribus plant inside the ARC movement in Dallas. He directs the protests. We believe he’s one of their so-called Wolves; and he’ll know about the attack.”
The Twitter account’s profile picture was an American flag with no stars. “What’s he look like?”
Dan shrugged. “We don’t know.”
He nodded, trying to comprehend how exactly he would find him when he had no idea what he looked like.
“Your mission is to identify him, or her, and then get to safety. We will take it from there.”
Asher smirked at him. “That’s it? I could do that.”
Greyson laughed. “I’m guessing it’s not just a Where’s Waldo. Though you are good at those.”
“That’s right,” Dan replied, flipping through a slideshow of violent pictures of rioters breaking windows, flipping cop cars, and beating downed drones with baseball bats. Then came pictures of riot cops shooting paint guns, armored vehicles in suburban streets, and a map of the city with a red perimeter drawn around it. “You’ve no doubt heard that downtown Dallas, including city hall, is following the pattern of New Orleans, Oklahoma City, Birmingham, and dozens of others. First, Mayor Becker has placed it under curfew. No one on the streets after 10 p.m. Second, out of fear of ARC instigators from other states infiltrating the peaceful protests, the city is on lockdown. There are checkpoints at every major entrance to the city. And that means none of the protestors want to leave for fear of never getting back in.”
He showed pictures of a tent-city grown up in the middle of a city park and then a barricaded checkpoint on an exit ramp.
“Third hasn’t come yet, but it could happen any hour. Martial law. Military rule. We can bet Becker will do it before the vote to try to get order. Already, intelligence tells us hidden anti-aircraft cannons and surface-to-air missiles are active surrounding the city. This is why you will be jumping in. We will release you before the no-fly zone and you’ll wing in to reduce your visibility. You’ll land on 2 Dallas Main Center, a skyscraper on the eastern edge of the LockDown Zone, make your way into the pro-ARC camp, gain their trust, make your identity known, and make contact with us when PatriARC reveals himself. They know who we all are, Greyson. But you’re the only one they’d let close to PatriARC.”
The mission was clear, though he knew there were many more details to come. He was ba
it, again. That’s why they were allowing him to go. While Rubicon could easily infiltrate the protest camp, with or without martial law, they couldn’t gain the good graces of the Plurbs. But because Greyson’s video had gained him some notoriety in the Plurb world, the Plurbs would want to take him to their leader.
To be killed.
But Greyson smiled, playing with the leathery scar on the back of his left hand. Despite the danger, despite the possibility he would be shot again, and despite the feeling of being used, was the satisfying idea that they needed him.
If he were a grenade, the pin was pulled.
“When do we go?”
Chapter 26
“Grenade!” Sam yelled.
To his surprise, a Secret Service agent opened the door with his gun drawn. But it was only Sam and his dad playing a video game, the TV’s light making kaleidoscopes on their faces and the walls.
The governor laughed as his fingers pushed at the controls. “It’s okay, Tom. Just a game.”
The agent smiled, glanced around the room once more, and left.
Sam and his father shared a laugh as they continued to battle onscreen. A futuristic game of humans versus aliens, the first-person shooter was the most popular game in the country.
“Incoming air barrage!”
The screen suddenly lit up in red and orange as the controllers shook in their hands. They knew it was over before the screen told them.
“Wow,” the governor said, setting down the controller. “That was quick.”
“They had that one guy that was racking up the kills,” Sam complained. “You get twenty in a row you get an air barrage that kills everyone on the other team.” Sam scrolled down the list of their opponents’ names. “It was ARCsNemesis.”
The governor laughed. “Good name.”
Sam scrolled down to his own name – SammerHammer22 – and the governor’s name – POTUSpowns. “I like yours better.”
