by Lars Teeney
Ernest and his militia leaders came upon their assembled militiamen and women. There were roughly two hundred of them. The militia formed into lines, four ranks deep for inspection.
“Salute President Greenbaum!” the militia captain yelled, and the militia followed the order. Ernest walked up and down the line inspecting his troops. They were all healthy and able-bodied enough, but he could hardly call this an army. Most of them carried bolt-action hunting rifles. A few lucky ones who had served in the Regime Regulars still retained their Wynham Industries service rifles or other such modern file arms. All wore nerve-wracked expressions on their faces.
“President Greenbaum! A word please!” Major-General He called out to him. He approached.
“Major-General, of course! What is it?” President Greenbaum turned to him with his rifle shouldered.
“I have come to apologize about accusing you of being part any plot. However, the truth still needs to be found out. Anyway, you and I are in a difficult situation, as I only have armored vehicles and lack substantial infantry,” Major-General He assessed the situation.
“Fortunately, Major-General, I have the infantry you lack,” Ernest gestured to his militia. Major-General He looked them over but kept a stern face.
“Yes, well, lets home that they are disciplined enough to stand the heat of battle,” Major-General He said with a degree of doubt in his voice.
“They will—just tell me what you need for them to do and they will do it,” Ernest assured him.
“Very well, I assume you are familiar with combined arms tactics? My armor will lead the spearhead against the enemy. Your infantry should form columns behind our advancing armor and then fan out once a breach has been made in enemy lines. We do have a limited quantity of anti-tank weapons for your infantry. Make them count,” Major-General He instructed. Suddenly explosions could be heard on the field of battle beyond the North Gate of town. The Chinese Army and the ‘Remnant Regime’ tanks were taking potshots at one another, probing the opposition's capabilities. Major-General He scrambled out the North Gate to his command vehicle, the “Jade Giant”. President Greenbaum ordered his captains to move their troops out of the town gate and into harm’s way. The battle had begun in earnest.
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BARBARIAN, SLAVE, & FREEMAN
Birdie sat silently in his hospital bed. He was totally transfixed on the metal “talkbox” mounted on the wall. The orderly had shown him how to summon new talking heads with the push of a button on a brick-like, handheld device. Growing up separately from all other children and being kept away from technology, he had never experienced watching television before. He had been aware of its existence but only through songs that told him to fear it. Johnny Nubia had taught the children that the Nubians had always been slaves, persecuted and incarcerated, but when he looked up at the television set, with the funny “rabbit ears”, he saw Nubian face.
“Whatchootalkin’ ‘bout, Willis?” the Nubian child would say repeatedly. It made Birdie laugh. After a while, he grew accustomed to the Nubian child’s antics and felt like he had known him. Birdie would find that he would talk back to and recite the Nubian child’s lines. Then, the Nubian child disappeared to be replaced with flashing words that he couldn’t read and strange music with a chorus of people singing about, “Different strokes to rule the World,”. He wondered if this was a tenet of the Outside World’s religion. Was he being preached to without even knowing it?
Birdie reached for the remote in the tray table, sitting up, he got a painful reminder that he had been wounded during the siege. He let out a cry when ice cycles shot through his neck and back. His shirking motion knocked the remote off the tray table and onto the floor, where the impact summoned a new channel on the television. Birdie grabbed the back of his neck and rubbed, wincing in pain. He felt the bandages on the side of his head and from where he had been shot and ran his fingers over the bulging knot that developed from hitting his head during his fall.
“This is ‘Gauntlet Seven News’! I’m Chet Straverson reporting live from the aftermath of the ‘Action’ Organization siege in the Walnut Hill neighborhood of Philadelphia. Yesterday the climactic standoff which culminated in a Police Helicopter dropping a satchel charge onto the bunker that had been constructed on the roof of the ‘Action’ townhouse. The satchel charge had exploded and partially destroyed the bunker that Police describe as, “Have given the terrorists tactical superiority over the surrounding area,”. Before Police could act and storm the house, however, a fire broke out and soon spread out of control. Despite firefighters having fought hard to contain the blaze, it was not contained. All ‘Action’ members were killed in the fire, and before the fire finally lost momentum it had consumed over sixty houses. Roughly three city blocks were destroyed before the blaze was finally put out. Police Commissioner Oscar Rodrigo was not available to comment on the botched operation, but his office released a statement,
“It is regrettable that the terrorists were only stopped after so much destruction of property, but with the actions of so many heroic police officers, we believe that the Walnut Hill neighborhood will be a much safer place.”
The Mayor has vowed to investigate the incident, amidst outrage from community leaders, specifically those from the African-American community,” the reporter continued his long-winded report. Birdie could not believe that all the Nubians were dead. All the anxiety and outrage came back to fill his head. A blinding headache overtook him. He cried. As he was in his middle of sobbing, two Philadelphia Policemen strutted into his hospital room. One, wide of girth, with a fuzzy mustache on his upper lip, beady eyes and a red nose, and the other tall and lean, with a hairless head that was shaved to the scalp. Birdie looked up and tried to compose himself, through his tears, but the sight of the officers terrified him. The Fat Cop dropped himself down in the visitor’s chair and looked up at the television.
“Hey Cooper, get a load of what’s on tube! Talk about karma, holy shit!” the Fat Cop remarked, and let out a laugh that terminated with a snort.
“A fitting end to the whole lot of those terrorists if you ask me, Dino,” Cooper, the hairless cop hovered over Birdie like a raptor over its kill, “So, you’re Birdie Nubia. You’re lucky to be alive, son,” he said, hovering closer. Birdie said nothing and stared back with wide, fearful eyes. The laughter and snorting of Dino continued as he watched the newscast.
“Listen to me good, Birdie Nubia, we are good cops. We are the reason that you were saved and you’re getting the treatment that you receive. But, there are bad cops out there that want you to stop getting expensive medical care—on the taxpayer’s dime! They would rather have you out on the street—by yourself! You don’t want that—do you, Birdie?” Cooper hissed, he smelt blood.
“N-no, I don’t want that!” Birdie managed to say, through sobs.
“Good, that’s good to hear. Dino and I are gonna protect you, Birdie. But, I need you to do something for me, Birdie. Otherwise, we can’t protect you. Can you do that for me, Birdie?” Cooper asked, glaring with predatory eyes.
“Y-yes,” Birdie replied.
“Okay! When they come to get you to give your side of the story—Birdie—you need to tell them that Jamal had a gun, and he was going to shoot! Do you hear me, Birdie? You need to tell them that Jamal had a gun and that he said “I want to kill me some pigs!”. You tell them that, Birdie, and we’ll protect you. Got it?” Cooper asked, grabbing Birdie by the arm he pulled Birdie closer.
“Hey! What are you two doing in here? Get your hands off Birdie!” Sergeant Zhukov yelled as he entered the room, then he realized what was happening. Dino, jumped to his feet to stand at attention, with flesh waves rippling over his large frame. Cooper let go of Birdie and walked slowly toward Sergeant Zhukov.
“Easy, Sarge, we were just checking in on the patient—making sure that he had everything he needs—we wanna protect him,” Cooper said with a smile. Sergeant Zhukov got
into Cooper’s face.
“You listen good, Cooper. If you approach this witness without permission again, I’ll have your badge!” Sergeant Zhukov growled.
“Hey! Chill out, Sarge. I was just checking in on, Birdie! Remember what I said!” Cooper exclaimed as he looked at Birdie, walking toward the door.
“Badgering a fucking witness, Cooper, excellent police work!” Sergeant Zhukov yelled as Cooper and Dino left the room. Zhukov approached Birdie, who choked back tears. He placed a gentle hand on Birdie’s arm and he instinctually flinched.
“It’s okay! Sorry, those two came in here to scare you! There won’t be any more visits like that. Listen, Birdie, don’t do what whatever they told you to, just tell the truth of what happened when the investigators question you. Okay?” Sergeant Zhukov said, trying to build trust. Birdie looked at him and realized that this man was different than the other two.
“Okay,” Birdie agreed with a meek voice.
“Good, good. I’m going to try to arrange for your mother, Kesha, to see you. But, I can’t promise anything—okay?” Sergeant Zhukov offered.
“Okay,” he replied.
“Alright—hey, you shouldn’t watch this crap! Here I’ll put on some ‘Nature’, that’s always calming, for me at least!” Sergeant Zhukov picked the remote and turned it to a nature program, which was documenting the lives of prairie rabbits. Sergeant Zhukov set the remote down and started to walk toward the exit.
“You hang in there, Birdie Nubia!” he said, then he took his leave. Birdie watched the television set intently. The rabbits onscreen were highly agitated and began hopping erratically. One of the kits was far from the borrow, and its mother hopped toward it, but then ran back to its burrow as an eagle swooped down from the sky with talons outstretched. In the clutches of the eagle, the kit was carried into the sky. Birdie pressed the power button on the remote and decided to try to get some sleep.
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Sergeant Zhukov exited the hospital and started back through the parking lot toward his personal car. He could hardly believe that P.P.D. officers were badgering the witness as Cooper and Dino had done, but when he thought about it further it did not actually surprise him. Commissioner Rodrigo was under scrutiny from up high, due to growing public outrage. The Mayor who had ordered the raid on the ‘Action’ house was now trying to publically distance himself from the operation. The Mayor’s office was shifting blame down the chain of command, and that blame was falling squarely on the Commissioner. There were also rumors that the Department of Justice would launch its own probe into the affair. The whole sorry pyramid scheme of power was maneuvering to cover tracks, shift blame, and spin doctor the events of the siege. Sergeant Zhukov felt sick to his stomach about the whole affair. The only thing he could do was make sure that the officers involved in the Jamal and Birdie Nubia shooting would receive justice. He just hoped that Birdie Nubia would not cave to intimidation and would speak the truth.
Zhukov reached his car and fumbled for the keys in his pocket. He dropped the keys clumsily on the pavement and reached down to pick them up. He noticed that something had interrupted his own reflection in the paint of the driver’s side door of the car. There were scratches—somebody had ‘keyed’ his car. The scratches formed letters. He got up and stepped back to examine the extent of the scratches. When he took in what it spelled he was shocked and angered,
“Nigger Lover!” it read. The letters had been carved into the paint with exceptional hatred and anger.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
Evan Nubia rubbed his weary eyes. He had just started reading addendums to the main file, and he had yet to start reading a Birdie biography that had been written two decades after the ‘Action’ siege. He was thoroughly enraged by what he had read so far. Evan had developed a splitting headache. Adding to his worries was that Consuela had boarded a fishing trawler en route to Nicaragua. He felt that her trip would be hazardous, and may prove ill-fated, because she alone, despite being as good as she was, she would not be able to topple the Societatum Pentagram. He hoped that she would have second thoughts and turn around. Evan had thought about offering to accompany her and help her fight the Order, but there was too much at stake at home. He was needed here. On top of it all, he had received word that China had invaded the West Coast and that a large ‘Remnant Regime’ had struck out from Texas to meet them and to reconquer California.Things were coming to a head so he had to stay.
After he had seen Consuela off, he had driven his motorbike to Chesapeake Beach, Maryland. He had returned to the mansion where the fateful encounter with Inquisitor Rodrigo had taken place: Kate Schrubb’s residence. When Evan had pulled into the winding driveway, he could tell right off the bat that the estate had been looted. Many windows had been broken out, and graffiti covered the exterior. One instance of the graffiti read, “M.O.S.S. listens still!”, another line read, “Long live the Shrubs!”, with the family name misspelled. It was obvious to Evan that the security system was inactive, and the front door was off its hinges. He peaked into the foyer where his fight with Inquisitor Rodrigo had occurred. He had found that the bodies Inquisitor Rodrigo and Kate Scrubb had been removed. Evan saw no sign of them. He looked out onto the weed-infested, brown front lawn, and then thought to approach the orchard off to the side of the property.
As he approached the unkempt orchard he saw a large apple tree that stood alone, away from the other fruit trees. When he moved closer he saw that there were two mounds of dirt and a two crosses erected at the head of the mounds. On the hastily constructed crosses were written the names of Inquisitor Rodrigo and Minister Kate Scrubb, followed by the phrase, “Martyr of New Megiddo”. He had seen enough, so he returned to the mansion. Because it was close to nightfall he decided that he would stay at the mansion for the night, and so he had found a bedroom on the third floor in good shape, and bedded down for the night in it. There, he had read more of the file and had become digested with the aftermath of the ‘Action’ siege, all those years ago. Evan, decided that he had enough of this day, and desired for it to end, so he put out his plasma lantern and went to sleep.
In the morning, before he had a chance to start up his motorbike and drive off, he had been flagged down by a man, also riding a motorbike.
“Hades! Hades-Perdition? Is that you?” the sweaty man inquired after he had stood his bike up and removed his helmet.
“Yes, that’s me. Although we don’t use those code names anymore. Call me Evan! What’s up?” he asked with a cocked head.
“I bring a message for you, Evan. From the Apostate militia in New York! They have received word that the Neo Railroad and Apostate fleet is returning from Europe. Gale Whirlwind is aboard—I believe you know her as, Greta?” the messenger informed him.
“Yes! Thank you! I will start off for New York as soon as possible to meet them!” Evan exclaimed. He thanked the messenger, then the messenger bade him farewell and started his motorbike. Evan smiled at the news that his old friend was returning home. As, Evan walked toward his motorbike, he had noticed that the messenger had dropped his bike to the pavement with the motor running.
“Is there something else I can help you with sir—” Evan stopped mid-sentence when he saw the man, standing with his eyes rolled up in his head, mumbling unintelligible words.
“Everything okay, sir? Are you having a seizure—” Evan stopped talking, dropped and tumbled out of the way when he saw the man pull a pistol from beneath his leather coat.
“Apostates must pay for the death they have brought to the nation!” the messenger fired erratically into the hedges that Evan had sought refuge in. Evan maneuvered quietly behind the man, who clearly was not a trained fighter. Evan grasped the lion head cane and promptly struck the man across the back of his head, dropping him instantly. Evan grabbed the pistol that had fallen to the ground a stowed it away in his pack. Evan stood for a minute in disbelief. He speculated that the messenger must have been an agent of the ‘Remn
ant Regime’ forces, who had been contracted to assassinate Evan. He figured that the less time he spent lingering the better, so he started his motorbike and sped away.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
ALL TOGETHER IN ONE PLACE
Consuela could hardly believe that after all this time away from her home that she would finally be able to see Nicaragua again. She had missed her family so much and had feared for their safety over this last year. It had broken her heart that she had no way of contacting them during that time. Also, adding to her anxiety was that the fishing trawler that she had contracted to ferry her back home was old and rusted and struggled to make its way on Caribbean waters. Soon she was at her first port call on her homeward bound cruise: Kingston, Jamaica.
When the trawler that she traveled in had radioed ahead for permission to come to port, the Captain had announced to the Port Authority that his ship carried a special passenger: the Apostate, Angel-Seraphim, the name that the President and Prime Minister of Jamaica had known Consuela by. The Port Authority had communicated this fact to the government and soon they had been granted permission to come to shore. Soon, Consuela had disembarked and had caught one of Jamaica’s signature checkered cabs, which were the official vehicles of the Two Tone Party that ruled the Island Nation. The checkered cab drove away from the port, and along the relatively pristine, white sandy beaches, where fishermen and revelers both scurried about in labor and leisure. Healthy looking palms swayed in the light breeze, as she watched a coconut come loose and fall to the sand below. The driver soon steered the cab through the packed streets of the downtown district, with its busy bazaar and food stalls. The unordered traffic moved to and fro across the streets, slowing the cab to a crawl, but no one seemed to be in a hurry here, so road rage was minimal.
