Wherever Seeds May Fall (First Contact)

by Peter Cawdron

  “This is it,” he mumbles. “It’s over.”

  Andy gets to his feet, but his trademark bluster and bravado are gone. His arms hang limp by his side. He shuffles rather than walks off set. He’s numb.

  Power tools startup outside his home. From where he is in the garage, he can see the back door to his kitchen fall forward onto the tiles. It crashes to the floor with the sound of thunder. Broken glass scatters across the kitchen. Black uniformed figures rush in all directions with machine guns raised. Flashlights flicker throughout the house.

  Somehow, he has the presence of mind to hit pause on the computer control panel on the side of his studio garage. The broadcast switches to an image of the Lincoln Memorial. The wording, “Please hold. We are experiencing technical difficulties,” is displayed in a chyron at the bottom of the screen.

  Andy’s on the verge of pissing his pants. He has his arms up. It’s all he can do not to drop to his knees.

  SWAT disperse throughout his house. Boots pound on the floorboards. Several officers surround him in the garage. One of them grabs the Glock and ejects the magazine, opening the breach to ensure the gun is not loaded. Others run through the lounge and upstairs, checking the bedrooms.

  Andy shakes. For once in his life, he’s speechless. The officers are dressed from head to toe in black. They’re wearing gas masks and carrying machine guns, but they’re not threatening him. They have their weapons lowered and their gloved hands out, calling for calm. To his surprise, they’re not here to arrest him. Andy’s still expecting to be thrown to the concrete and cuffed.

  After a few seconds, the call, “Clear!” echoes through the house, being yelled by multiple SWAT members. One of them has Andy’s Mossberg shotgun and his hunting rifle. The officer lays them on the garage bench next to the empty Glock. The breaches are open, removing any doubt the weapons are unloaded.

  Brigadier General Nolan Landis walks in through the back of the house. He steps carefully around the fallen door and broken glass. The general is wearing Air Force camo gear along with fawn boots. A single star in the middle of his cap commands authority. The flag on his shoulder is hemmed with gold thread. He has a holstered sidearm, but there’s no doubt in Andy’s mind—the general’s ready to go to war. Behind him, Dr. Kathleen McKenzie edges through the doorway. Andy knows them, but not personally. Like everyone in America and around the world, he’s watched the daily briefings.

  “Andy Anderson, right?” the general says, walking over and offering him his hand.

  Andy’s stunned. He doesn’t shake hands outside of a testosterone-filled gun show. Andy’s never met a general, let alone someone that has the ear of the President. With a limp wrist, he accepts.

  “Quite the setup you’ve got here,” Dr. McKenzie says, looking at the studio lights. She examines the thin scaffolding used to position cameras around the set. Dr. McKenzie seems intrigued. Zip-ties hold down dozens of wires. Bundles of neatly packed network cables run across the ground to the control board. They weave their way under rubber mats to avoid anyone tripping on them.

  “Sorry about the door,” the general says.

  For Andy, it’s time to reboot the core functions of his mind. He blinks, trying to catch up with reality. The SWAT team hangs back, with just two of them remaining in the garage. They stand by the door with their guns resting in front of them.

  “What is going on?”

  The general says, “We need your help, Mr. Anderson.”

  Andy’s being played. Now the initial shock has worn off, he recognizes this for what it is—an attempt to unsettle him. Intimidate him. Control and manipulate him. Damn, for a moment there, it worked all too well.

  “Fuck you.”

  Dr. McKenzie smiles, turning to the general and saying, “I told you. People like this guy are beyond reason.”

  “Reason?” Andy says, feeling his blood beginning to boil. He points at the SWAT officers and the door lying in the kitchen. “You call that reason?”

  The general gestures toward the Mossberg. “You can’t be too careful. When you wouldn’t answer the door, we had to assume the worst.”

  “The worst?” Andy says, feeling indignant. He could have been shot and killed during the raid. “Where’s your warrant?”

  For Andy, this is a reflex response. He’s still trying to find his feet mentally. Asking for a warrant is a bluff, buying him some time. He’s surprised when the lead officer pulls out an envelope and hands it to him. With trembling fingers, he opens the letter. Fancy stationery. Official logo. Formal names and addresses. Signed by a judge. As much as he wants to read it, he can’t. His thinking is fragmented. His mind feels as though it has fractured. Reading even simple sentences is torture. All he catches on the page is the words probable cause.

  The general says, “We both know this is a ruse. Would you like to talk about the real reason we’re here?”

  “An̆duru,” Andy says with a sense of reverence. “The Prince of Darkness.”

  For all the arrogance and ego that floods his mind, respect still holds some sway. This is bigger than him. Bigger than all of them.

  “You can help,” Dr. McKenzie says.

  “You want my help?”

  “You can reach people we can’t,” the general says.

  “What?” Andy replies, surprised by the notion. “Why the hell should I help you?”

  Kath says, “Because deep down, you want to be the good guy. This is your chance—your moment.”

  Andy shakes his head.

  “Do it for Liz,” the general says.

  “Oh, no, no,” Andy replies, shaking a finger at him. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you bring my daughter into this!”

  “How old is she?” Dr. McKenzie asks.

  Andy’s not sure why he answers. He doesn’t have to. No one is compelling him. He’s not under oath or being forced to reply, but he says, “Eleven.”

  “You don’t think this affects her?” the general asks. “You don’t think she’s not out there somewhere right now watching all this?”

  “We have two days,” Dr. McKenzie says. “You can save lives. Millions of lives.”

  “You,” the general says. “Not me. Not Dr. McKenzie. Not President Aston. You.”

  Andy breathes deeply.

  Fuck this shit.

  He hates this!

  His lips tightened, but nothing more is said to convince him. They know. The decision is his. He bites at his lip. His nostrils flare. Right now, he has a choice. He could be defiant and belligerent, demanding they leave. He could restart the broadcast and go nuclear, unleashing holy hell on them, but they’re right. For once, this isn’t about numbers. It’s not about view counts, or merchandise sales, or gaming the system. Lives are at stake, including his daughter’s.

  As much as he doesn’t want to, he says, “What do you need?”

  Dr. McKenzie can’t help but smile. She knows his question is a concession. Without saying as much, he’s capitulated.

  The general says, “Your social media presence reaches millions of people we would otherwise miss. We need to warn them. We need them to take the approach of An̆duru seriously.”

  He laughs. “You really have no idea, do you?”

  Both of them are perplexed by his comment. Andy continues with, “You think I somehow hold sway over these people? I don’t. They don’t come to me for answers. They already believe this junk. They don’t trust their local mailman, let alone you or me. They want their suspicions confirmed. That’s all. As for me? I’m not the coach. I’m the cheerleader. The crowd is already behind their team. They just need to get pumped for the game.”

  Dr. McKenzie says, “But they listen to you.”

  He shakes his head. “Oh, you are in for one helluva ride.”

  “But you’ll help, right?”

  “And there’s nothing in it for me, huh?” Andy asks.

  “Nothing,” the general says. “There’s nothing in this for any of us.”

  Andy nods in agreement.r />
  “Well, I’ve only got one spare seat in here, so one of you guys is going to have to sit on the tool chest.”

  As coy as it seems, with Andy rolling a stool and chest around behind his desk, he’s avoiding the obvious tension. They wouldn’t be here unless they were completely and utterly desperate. For them, this has to be a last roll of the dice. Andy’s not the good guy. He’s not evil either, at least, not in his mind. He’s an opportunist. Sitting between them, he feels like a fraud.

  The general says, “We’ve got CNN, MSNBC, and FOX on their way here, but this is your scoop. We need to get this out on as many networks as we can, but your studio gets the credit.”

  Andy wishes the general hadn’t said that as it makes him feel like even more of a heel. They’ve compensated him when, strictly speaking, he’s fanned the flames. He points at the monitor, barely visible against the studio lights.

  “Nine million people are already online,” he says. “Nine million people champing at the bit, frothing at the mouth, waiting for the gate to bolt open. Are you sure you want to ride this bronco?”

  “Do it,” the general says.

  Andy shakes his head, saying, “It’s your funeral.” He works with a keyboard and mouse hidden out of sight below the desk. “And we’re live in five, four, three.”

  Andy sets the broadcast to start with a narrow headshot, excluding the two of them.

  “And we’re back,” Andy says, smiling as he slips into his online persona. Although he uses the pronoun ‘we,’ no one can see the others, not yet anyway. It’s the royal ‘we’ of Truth@War. Dopamine fires within his brain, making him feel good, rewarding him. They say power is the ultimate drug, but for Andy, it’s adoration. He’s at home under the bright studio lights. When he looks into the camera lens, he’s able to forget his outstanding bills, his divorce, and his overdue car payments. Already, he can feel adrenaline surging in his veins. The chumps beside him have no idea what’s about to unfold.

  As there are three of them in his homemade studio, Andy’s got to control the narrative. He needs to keep his AI broadcast software focused on him until he’s ready for the reveal. It’s time to amp up the audience for his guests. He slaps his hand on the desk, knowing precisely how his rant will be covered by the cameras. Braggadocio will keep the others out of sight.

  “It happened! It finally happened! I’ve been raided!”

  Kath flinches. Nolan sits back slightly. You’re welcome, Andy thinks, unable to suppress the smile on his face.

  “Goddamn SWAT burst through the back door. There’s fucking glass everywhere. I counted six inside. Haven’t been outside yet, but emergency lights are flashing across the windows. There’s got to be at least a dozen more waiting in the wings. Jesus fucking Christ, that was intense.”

  He gestures with his hands, making as though he were pulling a long gun hard into his shoulder. “Machine guns out. Black tactical gear. Gas masks. Gloves. Combat boots. Stormed through every fucking room, breaking furniture, searching for guns, drugs.”

  His social media counter rockets toward twelve million. Comments flash by. Andy keeps an eye on the transmission monitor. He doesn’t want the image going out to contain the others—not just yet. Andy knows his audience. He’s got to prime the pump.

  “So here I am. I’m in the studio with my arms raised, expecting 9mm of red hot metal to punch through my rib cage. I think. This is it. Fuck. This is how I die, bleeding out on the concrete.

  “And then they stand down. They lower their guns. And I’m like, what the hell? I don’t know what’s happening.

  “It’s then I see him walking in through the back door like a boss. Brigadier General goddamn fucking Nolan Christopher Landis!”

  Again, Andy slaps the table in front of him, only this time he uses that momentum to rise out of his seat. He jumps with excitement, pushing his seat back, knowing the constant motion will keep the focus on him. Although his behavior seems chaotic, he’s avoiding a wide-angle shot from kicking in. He’s got to stay active or fourteen million people are going to see who’s sitting on either side of him.

  “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” he yells, pointing at the ceiling. “This is it. It’s that thing out there. The goddamn fucking Prince of Darkness. We’re two days out and they’re raiding me!”

  Andy leans on the desk, edging closer to the main camera. Both the general and Dr. McKenzie shift their seats further away from him. They’re shell-shocked by his performance. Hah. Fucking amateurs!

  “Why? That’s what you’ve got to ask. Why raid me? Why raid Truth@War?”

  He thumps the desk, playing to his audience as he says, “You!”

  Andy steps back. As he’s on his feet, he knows which cameras will be used. The monitor confirms he’s the sole subject. Time to bring the performance forward.

  “They don’t want me. They want you!”

  He laughs, pointing at the camera.

  “They want to talk to you!”

  He sits, pulling his chair closer, saying, “I’m not fucking with you. I know right now, some of you are thinking, goddamn Angry Andy Anderson is yanking my chain, but I’m not. Here they are. And they’re here for you.”

  With that, he pulls a couple of wireless lapel mics from the drawer, realizing his motion is being tracked. Andy doesn’t need to look at the monitor to know that, in turn, they’ll both be visible.

  “General,” he says, handing him one mic before turning the other way. “Dr. McKenzie.”

  “Thank you,” they both say, which Andy finds hilarious. They’re too goddamn polite.

  He slaps his thigh, laughing as he says, “Oh, welcome to the wildest mother-fucking rodeo on this asshole of a planet!”

  Rodeo

  Andy looks at the two SWAT officers standing by the rear door.

  “Okay, there’s too much mustard in this horse shit sandwich. While we’re hanging, waiting for the other networks to arrive, let’s take some questions. We are live in the pre-game.” He addresses the audience, looking down the nearest camera and saying, “Anything you want. We’re going free-fire. Shoot questions to me in the chat. I can’t promise we’ll get to all of them, but ask anything you want.”

  Dr. McKenzie says, “Ah, we’re really just here to—”

  “Oh, no,” Andy says, waving a finger at her. “It don’t work that way, babe. Before we get to what you want, you have to answer what we want.”

  The general nods. He gets it. This is a two-way street.

  “And here’s our first question, picked at random from M. Chisom in Salt Lake City, Utah. Be honest about 5G. It causes viruses and cancer, right?”

  The general makes a polite gesture toward the doctor.

  “Oh,” Dr. McKenzie begins. “Okay. What can I tell you about 5G? Alright, 5G has been around for a long time. And by a long time, I don’t mean ten or twenty years, I mean 13.8 billion years—ever since the Big Bang. It’s only recently we gave it a name.

  “You see, 5G is part of the electromagnetic spectrum, just like visible light. The only difference is 5G is less energetic than light. If you’re standing beside a 5G tower with a streetlight, you’re getting higher wavelengths of energy from the light than the tower. So, no, it doesn’t cause diseases like COVID-19. It couldn’t. It’s simply not energetic enough.

  “Besides, 5G has always been around. All we’re doing is giving it some structure instead of leaving it as a random, chaotic mess of static. Oh, and get this, part of the 5G spectrum was used for television back in the analog days. So it’s nothing new—just a new name.”

  The general says, “Change can be scary, but new doesn’t mean bad.”

  “Exactly,” Kath says, “And sometimes, new is simply rebranding.”

  Andy raises an eyebrow, surprised by what he’s hearing. “Okay, did not know that. Right. Next. Mighty Mouse from Houston, Texas, asks, What about vaccines causing autism?”

  Dr. McKenzie jumps at the question, saying, “My brother has Asperger’s, so this one is personal for m
e. Do you want to know? Do you really want to know? Because I won’t take any crap on this.”

  “I want to know,” Andy says, loving the heat she’s injecting into the subject. “Hell yeah, we all want to know. Tell us, doc. Let us have it.”

  She pauses. Her complexion changes. Her cheeks flush with color. This strikes deep. Andy baits her.

  “I don’t want no fancy words,” he says. “Don’t try to blind me with science. Give it to me straight, doc. No bullshit.”

  “No bullshit,” she says, composing herself. Andy can see she’s trying to channel her anger. He’d rather she let fly, but she’s methodical.

  “In 1998, a single study said the measles, mumps and rubella vaccine caused a ‘development disorder.’

  “The study stopped short of saying autism, but that was the implication. Here’s the thing, though. It was based on twelve children. Just twelve. Since then, there have been studies that have looked at well over a million kids and… crickets.

  “Turns out, this guy lied. Not only did he look at a small number of children, he lied about the results. Even though his lies were exposed, a lot of people are still afraid of vaccines. And all because of one asshole!”

  Yeah, Andy thinks. This is more like it. Let the fire rage. Ratings, baby. Ratings.

  “When the COVID-19 vaccine came out, people were scared of side-effects. Side-effects? They forgot about the actual effects of COVID-19 itself. I guess we’re always scared of the boogeyman hiding in the closet. It was crazy!”

  Andy can see the passion in her eyes. Dr. McKenzie’s thinking about slamming her hand on the desk in mimicry of him. He can feel it. She likes being unbound. Andy wants to tell her not to hold back. He almost says something, but he doesn’t want to break her train of thought.

  “Do you know what’s really interesting?”

  “Hit me,” Andy replies.

  “Back in 1998, there were already nine studies looking at whether vaccines caused childhood diseases. They all concluded there was no evidence for the idea. Since then, there have been over nine hundred subsequent studies looking at vaccines and autism. Not one of them has found a problem. Not a single one. And yet people are still afraid.”