Nation Divided

by Drew Avera

  34

  PETER DRAKE

  I left the restroom behind, confident that any lasting remnants of Matilda's blood were removed from my body. I knew I was walking into dangerous territory and that overconfidence could get me caught. I made the silent decision that, in the future, I would take less of an active role in any of my victims' deaths if I could help it. Still, being at the brink of their departure, watching the light fade from their eyes as they died was like a drug. I knew it would not be long before I craved another hit.

  The solid oak door closed with a groan of hinges when William bumped into me.

  "Excuse me," I said, figuring I was lost in my thoughts and not paying attention to my surroundings. Apparently not, I realized when William did not move.

  "Go to hell," he replied with a malicious look in his eyes. His face was flushed, and there was a bead of sweat on his forehead despite the fact the room was not hot.

  "Is there something wrong?" I asked. William had never spoken to me like this before. I knew he was one of the people who didn't trust me due to a series of incidents involving our evaluation process, but other than that, we had never really held a conversation. I always assumed he was jealous of the fact I was smarter and better at my job than he was. The fact that jealousy turned to this confrontation was a surprise.

  He glared down at me, his brown eyes looking even darker as they seemingly burned with hate. "Yeah, there is something wrong, Peter. You're what's wrong."

  Peculiar, I thought as I stood taller to show him I was not intimidated by his show of bravado. If anything, it was annoying. "How do you figure that?"

  He looked around and lowered his voice. "I don't know what role you played in framing James in order to have him killed, but I know you had something to do with it."

  I stepped back and feigned shock at his accusation. I was not offended to be accused, hell I did it, but I was genuinely surprised that someone as weak and stupid as William would draw the conclusion. He obviously had no proof, otherwise this confrontation would not be outside of a bathroom where no one could see what was happening. Just another example of your weakness as a man, I thought, glaring back at him, calculating my next move. I could kill him in three easy steps, but I was not keen on drawing unnecessary attention to myself, and self-defense was a weak argument when the room was covered by security cameras.

  "How could you say such a thing? I would never frame anybody for anything. If anything, I tried to help him. On several occasions, I had to wake him up as he drifted to sleep on watch. You’ve seen him do it too." I shrugged, attempting to convey that it was only a matter of time before James’ actions caught up with him.

  "Liar!" He seethed as he pushed me against the wall. I could feel his hot breath on my face as heavy breathing shook his body. He was more than emotionally upset; the symptoms were physical as well. He truly did blame me for James' death. As was fitting. But as much as I enjoyed being pinned against the wall by someone who thought himself superior to me, I had other things on my mind needing my attention. This was just a roadblock in progress and nothing more, though he did have my semi-undivided attention. It was getting harder to focus with his breath invading my nostrils. The bastard ate onions for lunch. “I’m watching you,” he said, pointing at his eyes and back at me. It was a completely cliché thing to do and I imagined he would be touching himself later, thinking about how much of a badass he was. They are all badass until they are screaming in pain as you cut their flesh away, I thought, fighting back the smile threatening to spread across my face.

  “You do that,” I whispered.

  If I could have placed a bet on his response I would have won a small fortune. “I will,” he replied. I wanted to roll my eyes at him, but I knew his threat was a juvenile act of defiance. As a man, I had something much more sinister in mind as a response to his bullying. Instead of answering, I stood there and waited for him to walk away. It took longer than I would have liked, but eventually he seemed to grow conscious of the fact other people were watching. I hated to admit it, but I was slightly embarrassed by their awkward gazes as well.

  I hated to be embarrassed. My mother lived to make me look a fool in front of others.

  His eyes darted from the growing crowd and back to me, my hands balled into tight fists and waiting to unleash hell on him if given the opportunity. He eased back, turned, and walked away like the bitch he was. The crowd disbursed as well, leaving me alone and contemplating violence. But now was not the time to act. It would be too obvious. Instead, I would take my time to plan.

  There was one thing for sure, though. I knew in that moment outside the bathroom that William T. Burns would be the next to die.

  35

  HENRY BURKE

  Nightmares were the part of the job no one warned me about. They never told me that I would wake up in terror from the things that I witnessed in my line of work. I suppose I should’ve known better, but it was just supposed to be a job, a paycheck, something to help me make ends meet. Regardless, none of the nightmares about my line of work could prepare me for what I was about to experience.

  The world seemed to move in a way I had never experienced before. My sluggish steps felt like they were forcing their way through setting cement as I moved about the basement. The coroner was busy examining the remains of a woman whose flesh was mostly removed from her body. That left me next to "him", I realized as I faced the monster responsible for such a horrific deed. How could the son of a bitch sit and watch as the poor woman’s life left her body? I could hardly stand the sight of it myself.

  I checked his vitals as I was taught and felt a faint pulse. Surely this beast of a man did not deserve to survive the self-inflicted gunshot wound after what he had done. It felt like an out of body experience as I took matters into my own hands and brought my hand down to his bloody throat. I gripped it tightly from behind and I could feel the slowing heartbeat through the tips of my fingers. It did not take much effort and I could, feel the trembling of my body as the man passed silently into the hell he deserved.

  I felt relief instead of regret. I had done the right thing, no matter how disapproving a glare my mother would have given me. I felt vindicated for my actions, knowing full well that God put me in this point in time to do just as I have done. It was a necessary evil.

  I moved around the basement and collected a body bag to transport him in when I noticed the cold gaze of his open eyes. They were vacant and lonely, and I felt judgment in his stare. I brought the body bag over to him and spread it out along the floor. As I looked down at the task I was doing I felt the fine grip of terror overcome me. Panic coursed through my veins a millisecond too late as blood-soaked hands wrapped their way around my neck. It did not seem real, but I did not know that I was dreaming.

  I was choking as air escaped my lungs. I felt as if I were falling into a sea of darkness, but the maniacal, dead eyes of the monster I helped put to sleep glared at me with vengeance. I fought for breath and struggled under the weight of the undead evil atop me. He was stronger than I could ever imagine.

  I gasped a shrill breath and gagged. Bile built in my esophagus and burned where oxygen went stale when it was needed most. I was suffocating, and there was no one there to help me.

  Life began to fade for me, just as it had for the woman who looked down at me pitifully as the coroner sat idly by, leaving me to the rot of hell. Did he notice me? If so, why wasn’t he helping me? My heart raced towards death in a full gallop. I knew my lungs would burst soon, and I welcomed it, anything to escape the torture of was enduring, no longer thinking that I had done the right thing. The seconds narrowed in on the gates of hell, the threshold remaining open to welcome me into the darkness. Panic turned to acceptance as I closed my eyes for the last time. The monster and I would be welcomed to hell together, and I could already feel the heat of the flames lapping at my body.

  Adrenaline and fear lurched me from my bed. It was the second night in a row where I dreamed of the evil I had se
t my gaze upon a few nights earlier. I looked at the alarm clock. It was only three o'clock in the morning, only two hours since I finally fell asleep, but it was better than last night. That’s the problem with secrets, I thought, there’s no one to talk to about the horrible things I’ve done. I rested my head back against the sweaty pillow and regretted what I had done. But I knew that regret would not be the end of it.

  36

  PRESIDENT HARRISON

  I felt my heart rate increase as the smug bastard across the pond spoke. I never trusted President Fulton, but the third least trusted man in politics was the playboy Prime Minister of England. Even if what he said was true, why should I care? What business do I have in American Union politics when the ongoing reconstruction in the south was my highest priority? Besides, the well-being of my people was taken care of without the likes of the European Union getting their panties in a bunch over some vague remark. I could see if Fulton said he was going to nuke someone, but he’s not in a position to put on the big-boy pants to do that sort of thing unless he is willing to die for whatever he thinks he might gain from it.

  "I hope you understand how serious this is, President Harrison."

  A pause after his statement indicated he was waiting for a response. "I don't see how this concerns us, sir. We southerners believe that, so long as we keep our business to ourselves, then all of the idle threats of the north will subside. We fought and died for our freedom for their pitiful excuse for democracy and we're still trying to rebuild from it. We have our peace treaty and we ain't likely to rock the boat because someone lied to get in office and made you upset by his words. There's a reason they called it "Chicago politics" back in the 1900s. Liars lie, sir. What do you want me to do about that?" I leaned back and folded my arms across my chest. As far as I was concerned, the conversation was over several minutes ago. It seemed Prime Minister Leonard wasn’t ready to give up what fight he had left, though.

  He looked redder in the face as he glared at me. I could almost see the vein bulging in his forehead even with the interrupted video connection on the computer screen. "I want your help. I want us to rally together and put this maniac down!"

  "Hold on, we can't just go in there and put a man down like a rabid dog, Prime Minister. If there were laws broken in my country, then I would be in support of what you're saying, but the AU is an entirely different country. They have their laws and we have ours, and may God keep it that way, too, if it were up to me."

  "This is ridiculous. I heard your speeches eight years ago when you first ran for office, Robert. Don’t feed me your bloody dickhead politics. Political correctness aside, you know as much as I do that Caleb Fulton is a monster. Look at the news and the massacre that happened there two days ago. Is that not criminal to you?" The man had a point. There was a time when the mighty United States of America would have put a boot to whatever asshole was killing their own people. It seemed that much had changed along with the map of our once great country. I leaned forward and took the cigar from the ashtray, puffing on it while I thought about what the man on the other side of the screen was wanting me to get my hands dirty with. I wasn’t one for getting involved in other people’s business, but the truth was our borders weren’t as defined as I would like them to be, and it was only a matter of time before what was happening in the AU crossed over into my territory.

  “ARE you going to puff on that fucking cigar all day or are you going to answer my question, Robert?”

  I leaned back and rested my hands behind my head for a moment. I had him madder than hell which was a good sign of how much grit a man had about him. My granddaddy always told me that if a man didn't have the grit for a fight, then don't take him to one. This lady's man seemed to defy my initial opinion of him a bit. "I see we're forgoing titles and such eh, Frank?"

  He exhaled sharply. "Yeah. I don't have time for formalities. I have to take the information I have seriously."

  I smiled and took another drag from my cigar. "Good," I said. "Now we can talk war."

  For the first time in our conversation, I saw the man on the other side of the pond relax.

  37

  GENERAL LETTUM

  The pristine white coveralls I wore reflected the bright florescent lights of the room as I dragged the razor over my face. I hated shaving, but being a military man, I knew appearances meant everything. You could tell a lot about a man by his appearance. You could also use that to your advantage psychologically. For example, a clean-cut military man looked friendly and professional whereas a grizzled, bearded man looked like a crazed ape intent on killing whoever rattled his cage. I saw my cage rattler approaching from the corner of my eye, but I didn’t look in his direction. He could wait.

  "Mr. Lettum, you have a visitor," the armed sentry said from the other side of the bars. He was young, naïve. Never mind the fact he seemed to think the fact I was locked in a prison cell voided me of my rank and title as a General in the Army. Kids these days.

  I wiped the last of the shaving cream from my face as another figure appeared from outside of my cell. I did not acknowledge his presence, though. Instead, I fiddled around with the items lined up around my sink, organizing them by size and function. It was the little things in life that passed the time in here.

  "General Lettum, President Fulton sends his regards." The man in the suit stood with his arms crossed in front of his body, trying to appear like a man who could hold his own in a fight. His manicured nails and primped hair made him more likely to be someone’s bitch in here, though. I knew many men like him during my incarceration. I could smell a parlor trick from a mile away, and this man knew nothing of combat. His air of superiority was as shallow as the grave in which he would be buried.

  "And why does our beloved President Fulton send you to my humble abode?" I turned to face the man with my hands behind my back as I approached him. The bars of my cell obscured part of his face, but my eyes met his. I blinked, showing the weary labor of my old age, eliciting pity from the much younger man. Young people always felt sorry for the feeble, as if age was a handicap.

  "He wanted me to give you a message, sir."

  "And what might that be, young man?" I asked.

  "He said to prepare the missiles."

  I felt the smile creep across my face. I had been waiting years for this day. "The enemy?" I asked.

  "England and anyone who sides with them."

  I grabbed one of the bars with my left hand and pulled myself closer to him, straining to whisper a secret into his ear. He brought himself closer to me, close enough that I could smell the toothpaste on his breath. "Closer," I whispered, waiting for his face to touch the cold bars of my cell. His trust was met with the blade of my razor being inserted into his neck. I could tell by the gurgling sound and the flow of blood that I had severed his jugular. He stumbled away as the sentry looked on in terror.

  As the man fell to the floor, I pulled open the cell door and stood in front of the sentry defiantly.

  "Don't move!" he yelled as he leveled his weapon at my chest. The look of surprise was etched on his face as if it were stone. I suppose no one told him my cell was never locked.

  "Or what, kid?"

  "I will shoot you dead."

  "Oh, is that all?" I asked as I took a step closer. I could hear the muted click of the rifle as he pulled the trigger. The firing pin had been turned around by one of my men in the armory. That’s the advantage of having people on the inside. You were treated like royalty even when you were confined like an animal. My ability to win people to my side did not go unnoticed to my captors, which is what led the man dying on the floor outside my cell to come see me today. The sentry that looked like he was seconds from pissing his pants apparently didn’t get the memo as he squeezed the useless trigger again and again. I fought back the smile as I stepped closer. His weapon was as useless as his next breath.

  I watched panic widen his eyes at a feverish pace as I took another step forward. The young guard didn't have enoug
h time to pull his head out of his ass before I swiped the blade across his throat. Blood spewed onto the stark, white walls of the prison, the crimson liquid painting the surface a shimmering red. Two for the price of one, I thought as I stepped over their bodies and left them for dead.

  38

  GENERAL LETTUM

  I was already a mile away from Marion Prison before the alarm was sounded. I could hear the faint chirping of the siren as I made my way to an old access road now overgrown with weeds and small trees. It had been years since I laid eyes on it, but memory served me well, and I found it within minutes of the blaring alarm going off. I had plenty of time to escape thanks to a few "friends" working in the prison, but I still felt the need to hurry, just in case someone with a boy scout heart and an itchy trigger finger was to happen upon me. When you factor in the fact that everyone wants to be a hero, time wasn't necessarily on my side.

  After more than thirty years of incarceration, I was finally let loose upon the world. It was twenty-five years longer than I had anticipated, though. I traded my life for a cause I was beginning to think would never happen. Like an elephant, I never forget, but the sense of patriotism for which I was willing to give myself over to the enemy had faded over time. I was a dull glowing ember where there used to be scorching fire, but I was out now, and that was all that mattered. In the end, I will have lived longer than I ever expected.

  In the time since I was imprisoned, I had become friends with many wardens and guards. They were like-minded Americans who bled red, white, and blue despite what side of the war they grew up on. People make it out to be a race war, or a battle for ideals, but eventually you learn that any human willing to raise arms against another is a terrorist; it’s just that terrorism looks like heroism from the winning side. When it came to getting people to lean in my direction, to respect my authority, my ideals, I was a master at manipulation. It was simple really; you find that single chord touching their heart and tug on it with stories of preserving the freedom and democracy which was stripped away from them. Everyone is a victim of something, even when they haven’t suffered a day in their life. It is that mindset that is most easily exploited. How many of the men and women had I spoken to who weren't even alive when America went to hell?