by Drew Avera
"Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the American Union," he announced. Everyone stood as I took my place at the head of the table. They knew I did not appreciate applause and I welcomed the silent reverence more than anything.
"Thank you," I said. I looked around the table and acknowledged each of my guests with a nod. My Secretary of Defense, Mr. Thomas, was seated farthest from me, and at the middle of the table were two distinguished guests. General Lettum and Sydney Tyler sat across from one another. Both looked out of place at the table.
"That was a very dramatic exit you made by burning your house to the ground, Mrs. Tyler." She looked nervously at me as I spoke. "Perhaps a bit too dramatic, considering the explosion caused damage to other homes in the neighborhood. Luckily no one was hurt."
"I did what I thought was necessary," she said. There was a coldness to her voice. I expected that kind of hate, though. It wasn’t every day your life was turned upside down by someone who held your life in their hands.
"It's interesting you say that because I wonder if our friend, General Lettum, felt it was necessary to kill one of my men during his escape?"
Lettum scratched his chin where gray stubble was starting to grow. His blue prison garb was soiled with sweat and dirt, but other than that it was well kept. "I wanted to go out with a bang, Sir," he replied. There was no humor in his words. I did notice a tinge of contempt, but I didn’t know if it was directed at me or if he was just weary from his escape.
I snickered slightly before responding. "Yes, well that you did. I trust you were able to access the missile silos with no problems?"
He cracked his neck when he looked at me. "Yes, they were untouched for years and everything was in working order as you said it would be. All I need is to establish a connection and program the target information into the computer. The silo will control the site outside the city as well as the site in Kansas. The Confederates will be powerless to stop the launch."
I smiled. Lettum had a way of being so matter-of-fact that he came across as robotic at times. I had to admit, I was impressed at his efficiency. To escape prison, access the silos, and get to this dinner within a narrow window of time was beyond impressive. It was damn right god-like. "Well, I look forward to bringing them to their knees after all these years. I'm sure you are as well."
He nodded as our food was placed on the table by the servers.
Mr. Thomas addressed Sydney. "Mrs. Tyler, is everything in order on your end?"
She looked up with tears in her eyes. "I don't want anything to do with this. I'm done. I can't handle this," she said.
I took a bite into the roll I had just buttered and nodded to Mr. Thomas to handle the situation.
"It's too late for second guessing us. We put a lot of time and energy into this plan and you can't walk away now," he said. His tone implied much more than he said. She would not walk away, that was for sure.
"Please, don't do this," she pleaded. She was distraught over the loss of life in the future. I wouldn't be surprised if she loved Prime Minister Leonard after all.
"Mr. Thomas is right. It's too late." I dropped the rest of my roll onto my plate as General Lettum ate his food quickly by shoveling it into his mouth. It must be a prison habit, I thought.
"I won't do it," she snapped. I watched her stand up and move quickly out of the room and towards the front door. I waited to hear it shut before speaking again.
"She needs to be silenced," I said.
General Lettum dropped his fork onto a near-empty plate and stood up. "I'll handle it," he said.
I nodded. "Very well." He stepped past me and I could tell the years had been good to him. He still looked like the same strong man I got to know thirty years prior. There weren't many men on this planet I could trust, but I knew he could potentially be one of them. He owed me his life, and that was exactly what I was after.
50
PETER DRAKE
The day was shaping up to be a rainy one. With the wind blowing, the pellets of water felt like they were coming at me sideways. I stepped into the alley and stood in front of McCarthy's, feeling relieved that the tall buildings shielded me from the onslaught of pouring rain. The sign said closed, but I stepped down towards the door which was three feet lower than the sidewalk and street. I pushed at the door and was surprised how easily it opened. A bell accompanied it.
"We're closed until noon," a voice called out as I leaned my umbrella against the wall and shook water from my hair. I walked to the bar and took a stool near the bartender who had his back to me. He turned, "I said we're closed."
I stared at him as he glowered at me. "I'm not here for a drink. I'm here about last night," I said.
He continued to clean the counters and organize things before responding. "Yeah, what about it?"
I took a breath and second guessed myself about whether or not this was worth it. "I wanted to apologize. I was drunk and not myself last night."
He slapped a rag onto the counter and leaned his muscular arms against it. The light hit the reddish hairs in his beard and the color seemed to make the blue of his eyes pop. "It's funny you should mention that. I've worked this bar for thirteen years and you know what I have learned in that time?"
I shook my head, “no.”
"I've learned that when people are drunk they reveal who they really are. They don't have tact or a filter to soften the blow of the words they say. They are more real when they are under the influence. The truth comes out." He resumed wiping the bar down.
"I didn't mean anything by what I said."
"No? I find that hard to believe. In fact, I should kick your ass for disrespecting my family like that," he said. His breathing was eavy as he spoke and I could tell he was riled up.
"Family?" The question fell from my mouth without me wanting it to.
"Yeah, the black family you were harassing last night, I’m married to their sister. I'm sure your daddy has a racist term for that doesn't he, you piece of shit?"
I had no words to describe the sensation I felt. I hated my father, but I was obsessed with him lately. This man standing before me with hateful accusations was being hostile towards me and I felt threatened. I wanted to retreat the way I did when I knew my father was about to hit me.
"Hey, I said to get the hell out," the bartender said. I must not have been paying attention. "Get out or—" he didn't finish the sentence before I grabbed him behind the head and slammed his face into the bar. Glass shattered and teeth flew from his mouth as I repeatedly slammed his head down with all the strength I had.
I let him go after the dozenth of so time and his body fell to the floor behind the bar. I should have felt panicked, but instead, I felt collected, alive. An idea suddenly came to mind and I grabbed bottles of vodka and poured them over his body and covered the bar and surrounding area. I must have emptied more than twenty bottles, but time seemed to fly by. I could hear the man fighting for air and he drowned in his own blood.
Before I left, I tipped over all the candles in the bar and flames soon erupted. The bar was old and lacked automatic fire extinguishers so I knew it would burn for a while before being put out. I just hoped the evidence would burn as well.
I looked down at my hands and was relieved to see I was wearing gloves. I didn't remember putting them on this morning and I was sure I looked ridiculous walking around in summer with gloves on. It was almost like I had planned for this; almost. I smiled and winked as the bell above the door jingled when I stepped back into the rainy Chicago day.
51
PRESIDENT HARRISON
The phone rang in my bedroom as I was reading Personal Memoirs of U. S. Grant. There were only a dozen or so words left of the chapter, and I was interested to see his thoughts on the first American Civil War. The second time the phone rang I was pulled out of the letter he had written to his wife, lamenting about the loss of lives endured by both sides. I contemplated his words when the phone rang for the third time and I answered. "Yes?"
&
nbsp; "The missiles are prepared," a voice said. It sounded like an older man on the other end but other than that, I did not recognize the voice.
"What? Who is this?" I asked, setting the book on the table next to me and putting the phone to my good ear
"The missiles are prepared," he repeated, there was no new information, just the same words I had heard a moment before.
"What's going on here?" I asked. I hated ominous calls, and most of them were hoaxes, but this one felt strangely familiar. Besides, only a handful of people knew my private number. This had to be something other than a hoax.
There was a pause on the other side before the voice spoke again. "Your grandfather was a brave man. He knew the meaning of sacrifice and he fought hard. You should be proud. He would be proud of you," the man said.
I was in shock. "Who are you?" I asked, “and how do you know my grandfather?”
"The missiles are prepared," he repeated one last time before the line went to a dial tone.
I cussed under my breath as I jumped out of bed and moved to the wooden chest at the foot of the bed. I opened it and immediately smelled history; the stale and long-forgotten memories of time gone by. There were uniforms and knives belonging to my grandfather, but those were not of interest to me. I grabbed a photo album from the chest and sat it on the floor in front of me.
I opened it and turned several pages before finding what I was looking for. It was a group photo of my grandfather's unit during the war. My grandma had told me it was taken just days before the execution. My grandfather was a Colonel and served under a man named General Lettum. According to reports, Lettum was the only survivor and was incarcerated for life. He was the only man alive who knew my grandfather during the war. Was that who called just now?
I pulled the picture from the album out of curiosity and looked closer at the man I assumed was on the other line. I turned the photograph over and saw a series of letters and numbers written on the back in red ink. I knew that only the Officers in Charge used red ink in the military. The writing had to be Lettum's and I thought I knew why he called. These were the launch override codes. Prime Minister Leonard was right! We were going to be attacked, but now we had an advantage. Once the missiles were deployed, we should be able to override their flight path and avoid complete and total destruction. The only question was how many missiles would be launched. We might have the override codes, but we didn’t know when the missiles would be deployed. I brought the picture over to the bed and picked up the phone to call an emergency meeting with my military advisors. We may have received the biggest advantage in the history of modern warfare, and I needed to do something about it. I just hoped it was enough.
52
SYDNEY TYLER
Summer nights in Chicago were almost always chilly after a rain. I pulled my suit jacket tighter around me before taking my cellphone from my pocket. "Did you get all that?" I asked.
"My God, Sydney! How long have you been involved?" Clive asked on the other end. He didn't waste time with idle chitchat. I could hear the desperation in his voice. I felt it too, like a bad premonition.
"Years," I answered. "Look it's not safe to talk. I'm going to send you the correspondence for you to sift through. You need to get the truth out there." I was dealing with a lot more than buyer’s remorse with my involvement. I was genuinely afraid of what was about to happen and I felt guilty for what part I had to play in it.
"Yeah! I just can't believe this," he said. "Send it right away, I'm waiting at my computer now."
"Alright, I'll call you tomorrow," I said before closing the call. I stuffed the cellphone back into my pocket and hastened my steps.
"It's reckless to be so conniving while on your enemy's property," a man said.
I turned around quickly and saw the man who was seated across from me earlier. "It's not what it looks like," I said. I hoped he didn't hear the fear in my voice.
"Of course, it isn't. It hardly ever is," he said. "Take for instance, my standing here after you ran away from a private meeting with President Fulton and our little exercise we've been planning for so long. What it looks like and what it is are two completely different things."
I stepped back. "How's that?"
He smiled. "Do you think I wanted to rot in a prison cell for thirty years just to see my plans go to shit?"
"No," I whispered.
"Good, so turn around and walk in front of me with the most fearful look on your face you can manage. We're going to walk away now and you're not going to fight or scream, or else I will kill you as I was instructed. Do you understand?" He said everything so matter-of-fact that I had no other choice than to listen. The authority in his voice was terrifying.
I nodded and turned around as I was instructed. I felt his knuckles dig into my back, but I could tell he wasn't holding a gun. Still, I was worried about what was going to happen. Prison had a way of making people crazy. “Where are we going?”
“No questions. Just walk.”
I took the first of many steps, not knowing what was going on, but relieved that we were leaving President Fulton’s property. Was I safe with this man, his knuckles shoved into the small of my back as if he were escorting me to an execution? I didn’t know for sure, and I was more than a little afraid to find out.
53
CLIVE WILLIAMS
Nausea was something I was used to. Growing up gay in a small town full of bigots made the taste of bile a normal occurrence anytime I was nervous, but this was something much scarier than being bullied or harassed on the playground. The cameraman counted down from five with his fingers before we went live. It was just like every other time, but I knew that was about to change. What I had to say was going to have a damning effect on society as I knew it, and I was now complicit in something that could get me killed. What would Bradley think?
Three. I blinked, trying to focus on the prompter.
Two. I brushed a tuft of hair out of my face.
One. I took a deep breath.
"This is Clive Williams, and I have just found out that President Fulton is planning to bomb England and the Confederate States of America. The plan has been in place for years and our own Sydney Tyler was part of the plan. She was sleeping with Prime Minister Leonard in an attempt to gain national security information to report back to President Fulton." The words poured out of me in a flurry and I felt as if I couldn't breathe. I didn’t read anything on the prompter, it was something about the weather and the effect the rains were having on humidity. None of that mattered. I just spilled every ounce of information I had gained from Sydney into my monologue, hoping that the producer would not cut me off.
I looked directly at the camera and continued speaking. "I have evidence sent to me by Mrs. Tyler and I am afraid she is now dead, or is in danger, by revealing this information to me. I have forwarded the documents to all of the national leaders in an attempt to foil their operation." I wasn’t lying. Moments before I sat in front of the camera, I emailed the information to every media outlet and government agency I had contacts with. It was the only way I could be sure the information would be used if something was to happen.
Movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. I looked away from the camera as military men entered the room and aimed their weapons at everyone. This was exactly what I was afraid would happen, but I could not stop. Not now.
"The military has come to shut us down! They don't want you to know the truth," I yelled. Desperation flooded my mind and my heart felt as if it was going to explode. I looked at the camera again and noticed the flashing red light was not blinking. The cameras were off.
Fuck.
"People have the right to know!" I screamed. The men leveled their weapons at me. "You can't do this. If Fulton gets away with this, millions of people are going to die!" I tasted bile again. It was something I experienced every time I was about to be attacked. It was like a sixth sense; that pain was coming and I couldn’t do anything to stop it. "Please," I sai
d before a hail of gunfire erupted in the small room. As I fell, I noticed one camera was still on. Did the people witness what just happened? Did they see my murder on national television? Did Bradley watch me die?
I would never know.
PART III
54
BRADLEY WILCOX
Watching Clive’s death happen before me felt like I was watching a movie. In only a few, brief moments, Clive went from revealing a secret about President Fulton planning to nuke the South, to being raided and shot by an unknown organization. I blinked several times, trying to refocus on reality and get out of the sickening, alternate version that I hoped and prayed I was experiencing. The result of my pleading was the same image burning in my mind and the horrific climax of a heartless person positioning the camera to Clive’s dead body. I was heartbroken, but I could not look away as blood pooled under him from multiple gunshot wounds. My eyes burned, but I didn’t know if it was from my tears or the fact I was no longer blinking. “Clive,” I whispered, reaching out for the screen where my lover lay. The feed was deadly silent.
Was everyone at the studio dead? Was I dreaming a hellish nightmare?
I pinched myself, hoping to wake from the terrible thing I witnessed, but reality was taunting me, forcing me to live through the moment. I wanted to vomit. I wanted to cry. Hell, I wanted to die. My lover was gone, taken from me in the most violent way I could ever imagine, and I could not take my eyes off him, staring back at me as the camera closed in on him. Someone was there controlling the camera, showing the world what happens when you reveal the truth. He told me he was in danger, but I didn’t believe him.
