“What’s this about?” Martin asked, no longer shocked by the things he saw.
“That is a 12,000 volt fence that will fry anyone who tries to go through on their own. You can no longer stroll into the big cities around the country. You have to go through the checkpoint and be cleared by the guards.”
“What are they checking for?”
“Only that you look like you belong, or if you have official business in the city. I won’t be able to get in because I’m black. Ralph is working on a city card for me but will need another day, so I’m planning on joining you tomorrow, at least in terms of getting in. We still can’t be seen together or they’ll take us both in for questioning.”
“How does the city card get you in?”
“It’s like a work visa. Says I have business in the city, likely as a cleaner, cook, or server at some fancy restaurant. Today, I’m gonna drop you off and you can go through the pedestrian entrance. You certainly look the part so you shouldn’t run into any issues. Just walk through and start exploring. You’ll see interactive maps throughout town, and you can also call a car to take you wherever you need.”
“How long am I supposed to stay in there?”
Gerald swerved the van to the shoulder and turned on his emergency lights. “Meet right back here at nine. That gives you roughly five hours to get reacquainted with the city. Get a feel for what life is like and where things are. Tomorrow we’ll focus more on a plan; hopefully Web will have something we can build off. Now get on out there, and enjoy. Remember, you’re rich and belong – don’t act any other way.”
Martin nodded and patted Gerald on the shoulder before getting out of the van. The line of traffic went on for another quarter mile, but only a dozen or so people stood in line at the pedestrian entrance. He puffed out his chest, raised his shoulders, and walked to the line as if he had done it a hundred times before, jeans riding up his ass.
I belong here, he reminded himself as he approached the electric wall, a faint burning smell radiating from its warmth. By the time Martin reached the line, everyone in front of him had already made their way inside the city, leaving him to pass through the security checkpoint alone. Security towers stood over the entrance and were spaced as far as he could see, roughly 300 yards apart. They looked no different than prison towers, with floodlights and pacing, armed guards.
It was apparently a major issue regarding who was allowed into the city. Why have guards if there’s already an electric fence? Martin wondered.
The guard at the checkpoint, dressed in full camouflage and toting an M4 carbine assault rifle, watched Martin approach, his eyes concealed behind thick sunglasses.
“Good afternoon,” Martin said, unsure if he was supposed to stop or walk through like he belonged. He chose the latter with a shaky confidence, and was relieved when the guard gave him a quick nod.
That’s it? No ID? No questions? I could be anyone.
Gerald had dropped him off on the east side of downtown, where the state capitol stood in its usual location. Only something looked different as Martin passed through a small pedestrian tunnel and crossed to the other side of the fence. While it once had a golden dome, the capitol building was now made entirely of gold, blinding and difficult to look at as the setting sun glared off the exterior.
“Who the hell thought that was a good idea?” he muttered under his breath. The city entrance was nestled behind the rear of the capitol, and Martin strode down Colfax Avenue toward the front of the building and closer to the heart of downtown.
The sidewalks weren’t crowded like he was used to for the middle of a workday, and there wasn’t a single homeless person in sight. Civic Center Park, the space across from the capitol, was usually filled with the homeless, but only a few businessmen in suits sat on the park benches, talking on their cell phones.
Digital screens and billboards covered the exterior of many buildings, the capitol included, giving the city a feel similar to Times Square in New York with the constantly fluctuating advertisements for movies, sports, and clothing.
Martin continued along the sidewalk, reaching the front of the capitol from the lawn’s furthest corner, and turned to look at the golden building. The American and state of Colorado flags both flapped in the breeze from a towering pole centered at the front entrance. A banner hung above the entrance’s tall, golden pillars read: KEEP COLORADO PURE.
A group of students clearly on a field trip scattered across the lawn, some snapping pictures on their phones, others typing on handheld tablets as an instructor barked information about the building.
“In 2039, President Poe allocated a special budget to every state to decorate their capitol buildings with as much gold as possible, as part of his Purity Now initiative. As a state, our redecoration was completed in early 2041; at the same time, the Wall of Perfection was installed and activated to ensure that only those of pure American heritage are allowed into the city.”
Martin shook his head after listening to the tour guide, feeling instantly out of place. Gerald had mentioned minorities weren’t allowed without a special type of identification, and Martin now realized that the “purity” spoken of meant nothing more than white skin and a bank account full of money. Only luxury vehicles lined the metered parking along the roads, every car shiny and polished as if they had just pulled off the dealership lot.
Martin continued away from the capitol, crossing Colfax and approaching the old Denver Post building that had been overtaken by a new media outlet called Revolutionary News Group. The moving billboard on the structure flashed the words: YOUR ONLY SOURCE FOR THE TRUTH!
More people strolled down the sidewalks, mostly men in expensive suits, flashy watches, and polished briefcases dangling at their sides. Martin didn’t see any women, but thought nothing of it at the time. Traffic hummed in the background, until a familiar tune blared out of speakers that seemed to be set up on every street corner. A trumpet blasted the opening notes of the Star-Spangled Banner as all of the video screens showed waving American flags.
Everyone who had been walking and minding their business stopped where they were and placed their right hand over their heart. Martin followed suit, not wanting to stick out as the only person not honoring the national anthem.
A woman’s voice sang the words, high-pitched and perfect, as if it had been remastered in a music studio. She held the final note for a solid ten seconds as the trumpets faded and a male voiceover spoke to changing images on the screens.
“America,” the baritone voice said. “We’ve come a long way from a once ugly history.” The video flashed through images of Martin Luther King Jr., an American flag on fire in the street, and former athletes kneeling. “We’ve come a long way from the days of hatred when people thought it was okay to disrespect our country.”
The screens changed to show a ghastly looking man, black hair slicked to the side, face powdered with too much makeup. He had a crooked smile in the image as he held a skinny thumb up.
“Thanks to the Revolution, we’ve been blessed with brilliant leaders like President Poe, who have kept America pure, and cleansed our blessed country of the hatred that almost took over God’s land.”
The still images gave way to video footage of this same man, who Martin presumed to be President Poe. In the video, he wore a black suit with a red tie, an American flag pin on one lapel, and a crucifix on the other. “You won’t find a better Christian than me to lead our country back to pureness. Trust me.” Poe spoke in a stern voice with a slight rasp underneath his words. “Trust in me is trust in a safe America. Never again will we have to fear our enemies, both domestic and international.”
Martin watched the video that reminded him of a campaign commercial with the cheesy images and sound bites, and a wide-grinning President Poe giving a thumbs-up to the camera. The video cut to a live shot of President Poe standing at a podium in front of the White House. His lips pursed together as he winked to the camera before speaking.
“Good e
vening, citizens of America. Our daily briefing today will be short. As for yesterday’s stats, nine people tried to sneak into our country illegally. All nine were shot dead.”
The small crowds that had gathered on the sidewalks cheered and howled in excitement, pumping their fists into the air.
“Seventeen Road Runners were captured and sent immediately to the execution chamber for a most torturous end to their lives.”
The mention of Road Runners sent an immediate chill down Martin’s back, and he looked around suspiciously to ensure no one had an eye on him. The crowd again ruptured in applause at the mention of dead Road Runners.
“Lastly, the country of France is considering war with us. They think we can’t take care of ourselves. Their president called me a power-hungry fool.” The crowd booed. “Do you know what I did when he called me that? I hung up on that croissant-loving son-of-a-bitch, and increased our budget for more nuclear bombs. Nobody threatens war on God’s country and gets away with it.” President Poe stared directly into the camera, into the soul of America. “So if you still want to declare war on America, be ready for your country to turn into a hot pile of French fries!”
The crowd jumped and screamed. “Tell ‘em, Poe,” a man nearby shouted. “Nobody fucks with America!”
Poe hesitated, as if he knew the masses in the streets were cheering. “I want to thank you fine citizens, as I do every day, for the giving me this chance to lead our country. Nobody loves America more than me. You can try, but I simply have more love to give. If I have to get in a cage and fight President French Fry, then that’s exactly what I’ll do, and you know I’ll give him a good ol’ American ass whooping.”
More howling and fist pumping.
“Let this serve as a reminder that if anyone ever badmouths America, you have the right to take matters into your own hands. I can’t be everywhere at once, so I have to rely on you, fine citizens, to keep our country pure. Now, I want you all to enjoy your evening, eat a nice dinner, and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow is a new day with new opportunities to keep America pure. Our work is never done, but that’s why we stay in business. I’ll see you all tomorrow. God bless you, and God bless the United States of America.”
The crowds gave one more round of applause before promptly returning to their days.
Martin continued down the sidewalk—more leery and constantly looking over his shoulder—as he approached 16th Street Mall. He studied everyone he passed by, half expecting them to pull out a gun and shoot him simply because he was a Road Runner. But no one so much as looked in his direction.
The world as he knew it was gone, replaced by a totalitarian society where everyone likely lived in fear of one thing or another. Martin felt it walking down the street, the screams of the past radiating from the very concrete he walked on. An invisible hand was present above each and every person, providing both a sense of safety and a threatening tension to remain a loyal citizen. Or else.
For the first time he could ever recall, Martin felt terrified for his life.
I need to get this medicine and leave.
114
Chapter 21
Julian crouched behind a bush along the sidewalk, his heart drumming in his ears. He’d been to Bill’s house a half dozen times before for dinner, typically with Commander Strike joining them. A black iron fence surrounded the property, enclosing a manicured front lawn split by an S-curve walkway to the front door. He stepped out from the bush, studying the house concealed by darkness. Inside Bill was lying peacefully in bed, dreaming about rescuing Strike and becoming an instant hero in the world of Road Runners. Julian still had no idea what to do once inside. Do I try to break in and kill him in his sleep? Should I knock on the front door and have him let me in? I can always blackmail him with his recorded voice. Julian shook his head, knowing Bill wouldn’t fall for such a trap.
Even in the cold Alaska night, his palms turned slick with a nervous sweat underneath his gloves. He chose the latter option for entering the home, and checked over his shoulders for the hundredth time to ensure no wandering eyes were on him. It was almost midnight in the quiet, family neighborhood, leaving no one to mind him.
The front door seemed to scoot back with every step Julian took up the walkway, never seeming within reach until he actually pushed the doorbell with a shaky finger. The urge to vomit suddenly crept into his throat as he took a step back and waited for the door to open.
Nothing happened after a minute of waiting, prompting Julian to ring the doorbell a second time. Wake up, old man.
The waiting curbed his nerves to a dull, distant tremble, but they immediately returned when the sound of the door’s lock rattled in front of him. The door swung open to more darkness, the tip of a long rifle extending out to Julian’s face.
“God dammit, Bill!” he shouted. “Put that thing down, are you crazy?”
“Julian?” Bill’s voice asked from inside. The rifle vanished and was replaced by a groggy-eyed Bill, gray hair splayed in every direction like someone had just run a rubber balloon over his head. “Are you crazy? Why are you ringing my doorbell in the middle of the night? You know how paranoid I am.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I should’ve called first, but my head has been so flustered these last couple days. Can I come in?”
Bill sighed and turned on the inside light, revealing the living room behind him. “Come in,” he mumbled, clearly wanting nothing more than returning to the deep sleep he had been so rudely awakened from.
“Thank you. I’m sorry for intruding on your night like this, but I know if we don’t talk, I might never sleep again.”
“Have a seat on the couch.”
Julian stepped into the living room. Bill was a simple man with no wall decor or anything that showed signs of life. His living room consisted of the lone couch that faced the mounted flat screen TV on the wall. A loaded bookshelf collected dust in the back corner as the only other item in the living room. The house could’ve been staged for real estate showings as Bill kept it clean and spotless of any clutter.
“Can I get you a drink?” Bill asked, clearing his throat of his deep sleep.
“I’m okay, thank you.”
“Well then, what can I do for you that couldn’t wait until the morning?” Bill spoke with as much resentment as he could muster, but Julian was too nervous to notice.
“I feel like we’re not seeing eye to eye right now, and I want to make sure we’re on the same page. We have to be if we’re expected to lead the Road Runners, and that’s the part I feel you’re not understanding.”
“What part?”
“Leading. I may be the Commander now, but that means you’re my lieutenant. I’m just as concerned about getting Strike back as you, but it’s also now our responsibility to lead the Road Runners. We can’t just leave our millions of members to run on autopilot, especially in a time like this.”
“You haven’t shown any effort to get Strike back. Someone needs to.”
“Bill, we have entire teams dedicated to rescuing her. Eyes are on Chris’s house around the clock, and meetings are constantly taking place to devise a plan to get her out of there. And she hasn’t even arrived there yet. You need to trust what we have in place and help me lead the Road Runners through whatever comes next.”
Bill nodded, his eyes gradually clearing of the fog from his snooze. “I see your point, but I feel like I owe it to Strike. After everything she’s done for me, I’d feel guilty if I kicked back and waited for someone else to rescue her. I have to be involved.”
“I know she saved you, and you certainly do owe her your life, but Bill, you can influence a lot from your new position of power. You can lead these groups working on her rescue and implement whatever strategy you want. You have my full blessing.”
If I can get him to commit to the bomb right now, I won’t need to get rid of him, Julian thought, a confident smirk spreading over his face.
“I know that, but it still seems wrong to not be the
one out there physically doing something. I can’t make myself sit still while all of this is going on.”
“You can have it both ways. You can implement the strategy from the top, and join the troops out in the field. You’ll be like a modern-day George Washington.”
Bill chuckled a hoarse sound that could only come from a man in his seventies. “That’s a generous offer, Julian, but I know what this is all about. You want me to approve that bomb and are offering me—bribing me—into doing it.”
Julian’s smile snapped into pursed lips, a flash of rage bursting through his head. “Bill, I’m not bribing you. I’m making you an offer where we can both get what we want.”
“Except what you want puts Commander Strike at an incredibly high risk. There are too many unknowns.”
Julian fought the urge to shout, and kept his most professional face and composure. “Unknowns like what? This has been researched through and through.”
“We can’t drop a bomb on the mansion if Commander Strike is inside. That’s essentially assassinating our own leader.”
I’m your goddamn leader, Julian thought, hot anger tickling every nerve in his body. He thought Bill had smirked at him after the snide comment, but couldn’t confirm if it was real or in his head. “She’ll be in the basement,” he replied in his calmest voice.
“We don’t know that for sure. It’s not like she’s some regular Road Runner being held hostage; she’s our leader, and Chris knows that. For all we know, she’ll be held in a cage in his office. Besides, there has never been a study done at the mansion to know what effects a bomb would have. What if it blows up the basement with it?”
This was always a hot topic for the team who studied the mansion and spent many hours trying to find a way inside without putting lives at risk. The fact that they couldn’t get close enough to the mansion without the risk of a bullet in the head spoke volumes to how effective their investigation had gone. The discussion of a bomb had come up before, after it was learned that fifty Road Runners were trapped within the house, and it wasn’t until Martin had shared his knowledge of the basement’s existence that the topic was revisited. The bombs the Road Runners had in storage would surely destroy the mansion, but their impact to the ground beneath it remained in doubt. Commander Strike refused to take the risk of dropping the bombs if it had a chance of killing the fifty hostages. Multiple simulations were run and bombs were dropped on replica structures to gauge an explosion’s impact, but they simply lacked the knowledge of what the inside of the mansion was made of. Each material they tested returned various results, leaving them back at square one.
Wealth of Time Series Boxset Page 67
