by B. C. Tweedt
After another laugh, Sam watched the rewind of the final kill. The bombs exploding, flinging their characters’ bodies in the air, bouncing against the walls and laying still. Even after the debris settled, their bodies remained lifeless.
There had been something weighing on Sam’s mind ever since the debate moderator had asked the question about Emory’s crazy claim. And now that his father had a few hours off, it was finally an opportunity to get some answers.
“Dad?”
The governor looked at his watch and then leaned back on the couch. “One more?”
“What do you think Pluribus will do?”
His dad was perplexed at the question and took on a political smile.
Sam cut him off before he could start. “I know, I know. But if somehow something happens. I’ve read a dozen ideas of what they’re up to – but what do you think? EMP, bio-weapon, poll station attacks, assassinations, nuclear …some say they still have some of the missing nuclear material from Pakistan.”
“There is no missing material. It’s all been accounted for,” he said, a little annoyed. Then he glanced toward the screen, eyeing their characters’ dead bodies, then turned to face his son. “Sam. I know people are afraid, and you might be, too.”
Sam shrugged. He was.
“But we’re the ones racking up the kills. We’re the ones with an air barrage in our arsenal.”
The screen faded to the multi-player menu. They’d been kicked off for inactivity, but neither of them moved to start another game.
“That’s what I’m afraid of. We’ve caught Plurbs in the military. In the government,” he said, glancing away for fear he’d give away his suspicion. “Maybe they’ll frame us, you know? Like hacking our systems and using our own arsenal against us?”
“That is one of the first things we thought they’d try. Foster has taken extreme measures to ensure we have the most secure systems in the world.”
That helped to know, but more questions surfaced.
“Do you think any states will actually secede?”
The governor smiled. “They won’t. They can’t. This isn’t 1861. No one in their right mind would vote their state into self-destruction.”
“But if they do?”
Impatient, the governor stood with the remote, turned off the television, and flicked off the network connection. “Foster will take back what they claimed as theirs and make sure they don’t try it again.”
“But you might have to.”
Foster had polarized the nation. Half of the country saw him as the great equalizer and the great protector of liberty. The other half saw him as an oppressor. Many already thought the same of Sam’s father. He had a lot of enemies. Men who would love to see him dead. Though there had already been attempts on his life, if he won, he’d have an even bigger target on his head.
“Yes, when I take office in January, I’ll be the one making those decisions,” the governor explained. He raised a brow. “Anything else on your mind, Mr. Moderator?”
Sam laughed, but cleared his throat. Thinking through his question made him hesitate. It sounded childish in his mind. Still, his curiosity overcame his pride. “What happens if they try to kill you again…but they do?” Sam asked, his voice catching at the end.
The governor took the controller from Sam and stored them under the TV stand. “Maybe this game does get to your head.”
“I’m serious!”
“It won’t happen, Sam.” His father sighed and adjusted his tone. “But there is a plan in place. Vice President Campbell would take over and you would go with the Kirkpatricks. Unless you’d rather someone else take you.”
His father’s eyes changed as they examined him. When Sam didn’t answer, gravity seemed to pull on his shoulders. He stood over Sam, taking on the boy’s worry. “Look. I would like to show you something. You’ll need to see it in case something does happen.”
The master bedroom was expansive, with a king-sized bed, two full couches, a desk, and another large screen TV. A massage recliner that was his dad’s favorite rested in a corner with stacks of books on the end table. But his dad wasn’t making his way to the recliner. He reached under the bed and used both hands to heft up a thick, metal suitcase. He set it on the bed and patted the mattress.
Sam came and sat by the case, anxious to hear what it was.
“Have you ever seen this case?”
“No.”
“I had it made after Des Moines – after the first attempt on our lives.”
Sam nodded, trying not to remember being kidnapped, tortured, and nearly blown to bits. “Why?”
“Because I get afraid, too. And I don’t always know what’s going to happen.”
Sam touched the case, caressing its cold, smooth edges.
“It’s DNA encoded. Takes blood and skin samples and voice password to open. If the case is tampered with, the contents are destroyed.”
“What’s in it?”
He smiled. “Things from my past.”
Sam’s fingers reached around the front, but his dad’s hand stopped him.
“Careful.”
He withdrew his hand, pondering the case and what could be inside. He knew many of his father’s secrets – the biggest being that he had worked with Pluribus. He still didn’t know why he had worked with them, but perhaps the case held the Source.
“Can I see them?”
“Not yet.”
“I thought we didn’t have any more secrets.”
“These were not up to me to share. If it were up to me, I’d share them right now.”
“Who is it up to?”
His father stared at the suitcase for a long moment, lost in some other world. He was battling some demon within. Fighting. And he appeared to be losing. But then the demon was gone and a smirk reappeared. “You will know everything, someday, Champ. But not yet.” The governor took the case and returned it underneath the bed.
“When?”
“Well, I didn’t want to scare you before. But now that you’re already scared,” he said with a smile, “I added your information to the case’s registry and synched it with a device in my heart, so that when my ticker stops ticking, you’ll be able to access the case. It will be yours.”
“Like a safe box?”
“Exactly. And you deserve to know about it. You deserve to know that I have a plan. I’m sorry I haven’t reassured you enough, and I’m sorry you have to go through all of this. All the threats, the uncertainties. But I want you to know. I’ve thought things through. As far as my power allows, I’m in control.” He smiled. “There’s nothing to fear.”
-------------------------------
Cael fell asleep counting drones. He’d heard of people counting sheep before, but drones were just as effective. He had been watching them buzz overhead, visible between the gaps in the roofs over each cell. Their little search lights played shadow games in the dirt aisles, shining on the guards’ rifles as they meandered past, watching the prisoners sleep. Cael had counted the guards, too, but that hadn’t taken long. There were eight in the juvenile section and at least twelve in the adult sections at the edge of his vision.
He felt oddly comfortable for being in a FEMA detainment center; it was heaven compared to the holding facility in Indianapolis where he had waited before the kangaroo court had found him guilty in a matter of minutes. That place had been a crap casserole, full of angry men who had no other way to protest besides emptying their bowels in the cell.
The loudspeaker was annoying here – incessantly droning on with testimonies of phony actors preaching their love of America. Sometimes there were presidential speeches, readings probably from some famous books, and other historical things – but Cael recognized it for what it was. Brainwashing. Propaganda scrubbing the inside of their ears whether they liked it or not.
But at least now he was outside. He felt at home outdoors. He’d slept many nights in a tree stand, spent days wandering throu
gh the woods a mile from home, setting and clearing traps. Sometimes he’d earned more from animal hides than his pa had at whatever job he had at the moment. That had made his dad angrier than anything. He hadn’t held back any blows.
Cael woke with a start and wiped the bangs from his eyes, making sense again of the cell and its chain-linked walls. His dream and the fear that had permeated it faded with his heart rate. For a minute he regained his composure and found another drone.
It buzzed overheard, slow and methodic.
His panic disappeared.
“What you in for?” a girl’s voice whispered.
He swung his head and squinted at the teenaged girl. Her white eyes locked on the nearest guard, but she scooted closer to Cael.
The rest of the group was asleep, as far as he could tell. He further examined the girl with a pinched nose and plump lips. Was she one of those plastics? The fake girls with fake body parts to match?
“None’uh yur business,” he answered.
The girl’s eyes shied away, but she came back. “We’re gonna be here awhile. Might as well make a friend.”
“Says you. I ain’t stayin’.”
Cael felt her gaze looking him up and down.
“How do you know that? Are you going to narc? Rat your friends or family out? If so, I can’t be your friend.”
She knew what was coming. The interrogations. The exchange of leniency for dirt on other “terrorists” or “terrorist sympathizers.” But Cael couldn’t tell her what was really going to happen. Besides, he didn’t really know. The other Wolves hadn’t told him much at all. But then again, they hadn’t needed to.
“I ain’t a narc.”
“Then what are you? Daesh? A Plurb? Oath Keeper? A Wolf? ”
Cael felt the breath leave him, but he told himself that she had no clue. Those were wild guesses.
“Shush,” he said, making nods toward the guards.
Dissatisfied, the girl retreated into herself, rubbing her eyes with her hands. “I’m not a government plant,” she said. “In case you were wondering.”
His scoff was like a laugh.
She leaned in, taking offense. “I could be.”
He turned to her with skeptic’s eyes.
“Well, you know what I mean. I’m capable.”
“No, you ain’t.”
“What do you know?”
“More than you.”
“Oh, yeah?” She halted her tirade and lowered her voice, skimming the faces of the sleepers. “Oh, yeah? I know plenty.”
“Good for you. I’m try’na sleep. Git.”
She didn’t move even as Cael found a comfortable square on the fence to cushion his head. He scooted up and yawned for effect. Still she didn’t leave. Eventually he peeked at her.
She was looking at him.
“Stop creepin’ me out,” he complained.
“The only people who don’t want to know more,” she whispered, “think they already know it.”
Her suspicious eyes didn’t roam far from his, though he avoided them.
She was smart – but still far from the truth. Cael watched one more drone hover over the tin roofs before drifting back to sleep.
-------------------------------
Sam guided his game character into a helicopter and flew around the battlefield, zigzagging between skyscrapers and shooting missiles at the abandoned streets below. He was the only active character in the whole map, but he had to keep playing in case a snooping agent came through his door to check on him. After so many months without being discovered, he still worried. Would politics always be so devious? Would he always be battling his conscience, hiding in shadows in his downtime?
He spent several more minutes destroying the city, wondering if his letter hadn’t made it to the intended recipient. More worry squeezed in through his pores. But even if it had fallen into the wrong hands, they wouldn’t understand it. It was just a common response letter to one of his fans. Why would they think to count every thirteenth letter to discover the name of his private server name? How would they know to play a video game in order to communicate with him?
He glanced at his watch. His handler was supposed to meet him in ten minutes, but his other requested visitor was late.
He double-checked the network connection and glanced at the door. If they found out he was online…
Finally another character joined; Sam’s heart jumped. Then so did his character – leaping from the helicopter and beginning his free-fall as the helicopter descended pilotless, in a haphazard spin until it blew apart in the ocean.
His character parachuted onto the street below, next to a statue of a general riding a bucking horse. Ever since their first meeting they had chosen to load this map and to meet at the cowboy general.
When the other character came, Sam smiled.
It’s just a character.
But the character had a ponytail sticking out from the back of her combat hat. She wore a military vest over an absurd pink tank top and carried a grenade in one hand. She never was much for guns.
He typed. [Missed u.]
Her character stopped near him. Her response appeared under his. [Missed u 2. U ok?]
[Yeah], he replied, [was rushed out quick. how r u?]
[ok. Finally getting somewhere. I am going in their house 2nite.]
Sam scrunched his brow in concern. [alone?]
[sleepover]
He guided his character closer to hers and looked to the right and left as if shaking his head. [careful]
She shook her head in reply. [can’t be. Found out G is in now. Attack is soon.]
[in where]
[dallas]
Sam heard a sound outside his door. He listened.
Silence.
He watched the door, praying the knob wouldn’t turn. He turned to the laptop screen. The progress bar was at 86%. Thirty seconds, they had said. It had been thirty already.
He glanced at his dad’s picture frame. Dad, Mom, and young Sam on the Great Wall. They were all happy. Without a care.
The progress bar finally reached the end. 100%.
Frantic, he pulled the thumb drive from its side and shoved it in its pocket; he clicked away the progress bar and wiped his fingerprint before shutting the laptop. Then he was out the door with the drive in his pocket and the first of many deep scars on his conscience.
The light under the door remained. No shadows.
He turned back to the screen and then at his watch. His handler, the one who gave him instructions and had arranged for the thumb drive virus dump, was to meet him in a few minutes. He would want Sydney to leave. Though Sam had demanded communication with her in exchange for his spying efforts, he didn’t want to push their generosity. He’d have to be fast. [hope he is ok. I have news 2.]
[what?]
He told her about the safe box, its security, and how he planned to pass it on after his death. [he said he wasn’t able to give it 2 me yet. Someone won’t let him.]
[wow. I’m sorry.]
[sorry?] he asked, confused.
[he’s ur dad.]
Sam tried not to take offense. He knew she probably didn’t mean it in a bad way. But still. He felt the same way. Despite all his words and passion, his dad was connected to the terrorists, and Sam still loved him more than anyone. Politics had its way of corrupting anyone, and it had latched on to his dad somehow. He saw it when he sat in on the campaign meetings – the way they talked about people like brain-dead pawns. He saw it when each attack raised the excitement level in the campaign office at the same time as it raised his name in the polls. Fear was driving people to his dad – the ultimate protector and self-described shepherd.
Perhaps that was why he had worked with the terrorists. They were giving him a political victory. Maybe he was using them?
Sam shook the thought from his head and stared at the statue of the cowboy general holding his sword into the air as if
calling his troops onward. But the thought came swelling back and he typed at the controls.
[can you make someone’s heart stop without killing them?]
Chapter 27
Greyson knelt inside his hut, pushing the last of his clothes into his pack. What else to take? He scanned the pictures poked into sticks on the wall. The drawings Asher had given him – epic battles, drone-animal hybrids, and Kit eating a rat named Pluribus – made him smile. But then his eyes registered pleasant surprise, and he reached and pulled one’s corner up. His own drawing of his dad was underneath. A horrible picture that probably wasn’t even close to accurate. And there were more behind Asher’s pictures. For a moment he was lost in memory, but he snapped back to business.
The hut was nearly empty now, except for his sleeping bag. Should he bring it? Where would he sleep in Dallas? He started to roll it up, just in case, but stopped halfway through. Pushed in the dirt and hidden under the bag, was his red hat with a white ‘G’ on it.
He stared at it. His instincts were to grasp it, wipe the dirt from it, and put it on his head. But it had been months since he’d worn it last. He’d unceremoniously set it aside one night and had forgotten about it. The truth was clear. He didn’t need it anymore.
His dad didn’t want him anymore – why would he want his hat back?
His dad had dared him to “let me go.”
It was about time he did.
“Got everything?” Jarryd asked from outside the tent.
“Think so,” Greyson said, backing out the front entrance. He tugged his backpack over his shoulder and turned toward the cliff where he was half-expecting the helicopter to suddenly appear. “I don’t think they’ll let me take half this stuff, but they didn’t exactly give me a packing list.”
Jarryd eyed the goggles resting on top of his head, his full fanny pack, and the gaiter around his neck. “Well,” Jarryd began, reaching in his pocket. “I have something else for you to take.”
Greyson smiled, gazing at the mountainscape as Jarryd struggled to fish a black bag from his tight pocket. “Frickin’ skinny jeans! There!” He raised the bag toward Greyson and pumped his chin. “Open it.”
