by Ryan King
The madman bent down until his face was inches from Erik’s. “I really do regret this, but you forced my hand. We could have worked together, maybe even been friends, but you had to do this.” Vincent sighed. “What’s about to happen is on you.”
He pointed to the scientists. “Make a single file line behind the director. Come on, move quickly now, we still have work to do.”
They all lined up nervously, soldiers standing nearby watching.
Vincent handed the first man the cable. “Three lashes from each of you. Each strike needs to be as hard as you can, or it doesn’t count.”
The first man looked at Vincent in shock. “I can’t do that.”
“Really?” asked Vincent. “Do you really want to know what will happen if you don’t?”
After a moment’s hesitation, the man took the cable.
“I’m sorry, Erik,” he said.
“Don’t be sorry,” Vincent said. “He brought this on himself. Now get to whacking.”
The man hesitated several times before he lifted the cable up and brought it down on Erik’s back with a loud thump. The metal coupler slashed a gouge in his scalp. Erik cried out and began to bleed.
“No, no, no,” said Vincent to the man with the cable. “You have to put some feeling into it.” He turned to two soldiers nearby. “Grab him and hold him down.”
Two soldiers grasped the struggling man and dragged him over to a table. They didn’t bother to sweep off the nuclear backpack, only bent him over it. They jerked the cable from his hand and held it out to Vincent, who took it.
“This is how you do it, people.” Vincent took a small running start, whipped the cable back over his head, and brought it down with all his might. His feet came off the floor at the moment of impact.
There was a loud sickening thump, and the man screamed.
“Sha-zam!” said Vincent, grinning. “That’s what I’m talking about. Now who’s ready?”
He tuned to the whimpering man bent over the backpack. “I’ll give you a moment to recover.” Vincent then turned to a tall thin woman next in line and held out the bloody cable to her. “You’re up.”
She stepped forward with horror in her eyes.
“Come on now,” urged Vincent. “It’s easy, believe me. And let’s be honest, you’ve secretly wanted to do this for some time, right?”
The woman was crying and hyperventilating at the same time. Gripping the end of the cable with white-knuckled hands, she let out a piercing scream and then brought the cable down savagely on Erik’s back.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” said Vincent with a big grin. “That is the can-do attitude and go-get-em-ness I expect.”
They all did what Vincent wanted.
When it was done, there was a large pool of blood under Erik’s table. He had thankfully passed out long ago.
“Okay then, job well done, people,” said Vincent. He turned to the first man who he had struck. He was sitting on the floor under the table he had been bent over. “What’s your name?”
“Jeff.”
“Well, Jeff, you didn’t pull your weight. Everyone here did their jobs, but you didn’t. That means you have to make up for it.”
Jeff reached for the discarded bloody cable lying on the floor.
“No, no, it’s too late for that,” Vincent said. “Stand up and come over here.”
He slowly and hesitantly climbed to his feet and walked over to stand beside Vincent near Erik’s head.
Vincent held out a large knife and spun it in his hand until the handle was pointing towards Jeff. “Take it.”
Jeff slowly grasped the knife and found that Vincent had a gun to his head. “Cut his throat.”
“What?”
“Do it.”
Jeff looked to the others for help, but none would meet his gaze. “I...I...”
“Do you have a family, Jeff?”
He nodded.
“Any children?”
Jeff nodded and stammered. “Boy and a girl.”
“What ages?”
“Six and three.”
“Oh, those are great ages,” gushed Vincent. “Lots of fun then. Still so happy to see Daddy walk through the door at the end of the day. Do you enjoy that moment, Jeff?”
He nodded.
“Do you ever want to enjoy it again? Think about how your children would feel if they never saw their daddy again… Well, except for your severed head delivered to them. Think of what that would do to a six- and three-year-old. They might never recover, I fear.”
Tears crept down Jeff’s ashen face.
Vincent sighed and patted Jeff on the chest with the hand that didn’t hold the gun. “It’s okay,” he said softly and comfortingly. “He’s going to die anyway. You know that right? What does it matter if you do it or someone else?”
He stared at the knife in his hand.
“Like Jake Spoon said in Lonesome Dove…” Vincent tuned to look at everyone. “The greatest western epic of all time by the way. Like Jake says, ‘I’d damn sight rather be killed by my friends than by a bunch of damn strangers.’ Don’t you think Erik feels that way, too? You’ll be doing him a favor, believe me.”
Jeff reached the knife out hesitantly and then drew it back.
“Grab his hair with you other hand,” Vincent instructed helpfully.
Jeff did.
“There you go. Now pull the head back and up to expose the ceratoid artery.”
He did and then laid the knife under Erik’s chin.
“No, no, no,” said Vincent. “That’s the windpipe. It will cause him to die slowly from asphyxiation. Do you want that for your friend?”
Jeff shook his head.
“Then right there,” said Vincent, pointing to the side of the neck. “Either side works, and it only takes one. You cut that cleanly, and within five to seven seconds, he’ll pass out when his brain stops getting blood. It’s not a bad way to go, really.”
Jeff was still holding Erik’s head up by its hair. His knife hand trembled.
“You can do this,” said Vincent. “I believe in you, partner.”
The knife went down quickly and forcefully. Blood spurted out in a thick burst and then fountained onto the floor. The others in the room uttered groans and cries.
Jeff dropped the knife and stepped away.
“Good job,” said Vincent, giving the man a giant bear hug. “Well done indeed. I’m proud of you.”
Vincent holstered his pistol and turned back to them all with his hands on his hips. “All right then. Break’s over. Time to get back to work. You need to clean this place up first, and then get to work.”
“Work on what?” asked Jeff woodenly.
“Good question,” said Vincent. “What is it you all used to do? Before the end of the world.”
“We made rockets,” the tall woman said tonelessly.
Vincent smiled. “I want you to make me a rocket.”
Chapter 2 – Words of Advice
Ernest Givens looked nothing like he had weeks before when Sergeant Booker had visited him. Neither did his home. Both were now tidy, neat, and respectable. He had also gotten rid of all the alcohol the first few days. It had been rough not drinking after that, but it gradually got better.
He was still stunned by the amount of public support he was encountering. People really were ready for a change. The events of the past six months scared them greatly, and there had even been several protests, peaceful so far, about the currency fiasco and electricity rationing.
There was a knock on his door. He looked at his watch. Jenny, his volunteer campaign assistant, must’ve been early.
Opening the door, he was shocked to find Reggie Phillips standing there.
“Mister President?”
“Sorry to drop in like this,” said Reggie. “I would have called, but most of the phones don’t work anymore and I didn’t have your number anyway. I hope you don’t mind.”
Ernest pulled the door open. “Not at all, com
e on in and have a seat. I have to warn you, I’m on my way out soon.”
“It’s no problem, this shouldn’t take long.”
“Would you like some hot tea,” offered Ernest. “I just made some.”
“Yes, thank you.”
Ernest set out two cups on the living room coffee table and poured hot tea into each. He found Reggie looking at the pictures on the wall.
He pointed at picture of Ernest and his unit in Afghanistan. They were all smiles. Of course…they had just arrived and hadn’t taken any losses yet. “I envy you that.”
“You shouldn’t,” Ernest said. “Lots of memories and great friends, but also loss and pain. I lost my family, my friends, very nearly my sanity. What you see here is all I have left.”
“Yet you’ve helped a lot of people,” said Reggie. “What you did on the Long Walk will be told for generations...if we last that long.”
Ernest looked at his watch again. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to get to what this is about. I have to leave soon.”
“Certainly, I apologize. Can we please sit?”
Ernest nodded, and they both sat across from each other and their cups of tea.
Reggie took a hesitant sip before setting it back down. “I want to tell you that I’ve been impressed with what you’ve done so far. The people obviously like you and you’re a natural leader.”
“You’re worried I’m going to win,” Ernest said with a smile.
Reggie shrugged and sipped his tea again. “I’m sure you would make a great president.” He pointed at the picture again. “You’ve been a leader enough to know the burden it carries. You’re not coming in blind or with naïve ideals.”
“The people want a change.”
“They always do when things are going badly,” said Reggie, “but not all change is good. So often the average citizen thinks that leadership is about better or worse, various degrees of satisfaction on a linear scale.”
“And what do you think it is?”
“In our case, with the JP? It’s about survival and non-survival.”
Ernest shook his head. “That’s too easy of a justification to do whatever you feel is necessary and then say it was better than the alternative afterwards. The theoretical end that never occurs can’t justify whatever means you decide is best.”
“Maybe,” Reggie accepted, “but we are hanging by a thread here.”
“And whose fault is that?” asked Ernest. “Not even talking about Fulton and the disgraceful relief effort, what about the fuel currency fiasco? What about the food lines? What about the malaria epidemic?”
“All terrible,” said Reggie. “Many botched decisions and I take responsibility for most of them, but remember, we’ve just come out of a long war. Our country was occupied by an evil dictator, and I don’t use that term lightly. All in all, we can count our blessings.”
“Tell that to those in Fulton or the people who trusted in your paper currency. Better yet, tell that to parents of hungry children this winter because we don’t have fuel for the tractors in the fields.”
“You are very good at identifying problems,” said Reggie, “but as you know, being a leader is about solutions. You’ve gathered quite a following by pointing out where we went wrong, but what will you do to fix things if you become president?”
Ernest was silent.
“You need to think about it, for everyone’s sake. There is a good chance you’ll win and you need to be prepared. You’ve gone pretty far on anger and frustration, but you better have a plan.”
“And you’re here to help me with that?” asked Ernest sarcastically.
“No. I’m actually here to ask you to tone things down. Everyone is on edge, and much of your talk has come close to causing people to do things they might regret.”
“You can’t lay that on me, most of them are angry about things that happened under your watch.”
Reggie sighed in frustration. “I’m not here to cast blame or defend my actions. I’m talking about what is best for everyone. If you win, great. I’ll be a loyal citizen and help you in any way possible. I promise you that. If I win, I’ll continue to do the best job I can, but neither matters if we blow ourselves apart as a nation.”
Ernest thought for a few seconds and nodded. “Okay, I hear you, but I’m going to keep telling people the truth.”
“It’s not as much about what you tell them as how you tell it.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“One way gets them looking towards the future and solutions while the other causes them to burn with anger and look for people to blame.”
Ernest smiled. “One way lets you off the hook whereas one doesn’t.”
Reggie dropped his head in frustration. “Fine. See it that way if you want, but let me ask you, which way is better for the people?”
There was a knock on the door followed by Jenny sticking her head in. “Ernest, it’s me, you ready?”
“Sure, come on in.”
The pert former advertisement executive strode in and froze at the sight of Reggie. “What’s he doing here?”
“I was just leaving,” said Reggie, standing. “Thank you for the tea.”
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” said Ernest, “but it’s time for a change. Everyone knows it.”
Reggie smiled and nodded, walking towards the front of the small house. “Maybe so.” He was at the door when he turned to look back. “One more word of advice.”
“What’s that?”
“Pick a vice presidential candidate. Believe me, the burden is heavier when you carry it by yourself.”
“Goodbye, Mister President,” said Ernest.
Reggie walked out and closed the door softly behind him.
Chapter 3 - Grieving
They buried Bethany Taylor in a small field near the cabin they shared. It was a place they had been happy for a short period of time. Nearly two years of stress, uncertainly, and chaos, but also happiness. The ceremony was attended by nearly everyone in New Harvest who could make it. Bethany had known and helped most all of them.
Nathan realized that practically all of these mourners, people who were close to Bethany and were his neighbors, were strangers to him. His time was spent elsewhere. Most of the people he knew well could not make it.
Even their son Joshua was not at his mother’s funeral. He almost certainly did not even know she had died.
He endured the funeral and muttered condolences woodenly, willing it to be over. Nathan was relieved when it was over. When he didn’t have to shake hands and thank people and pretend to welcome their intrusion into his grief. There was a hole in his existence that he knew would never be filled.
As the days went by, he settled into a sort of routine. He spent time with River, his mother, and Alexandra. He also tended and expanded Bethany’s vegetable garden. Grief was ever-present, a pit that he walked around trying not to fall in, but the days went by if not peacefully, then tolerably.
Fishing became his alone time when people didn’t worry about him. He had discovered if he was sitting alone doing nothing, people fretted over him, whereas if he were doing the same thing with a pole in his hand, no one cared. Besides, he liked fishing, and they all needed the protein.
He found himself thinking about things purposefully for the first time in years. Not just about family and what they had all been though, but the new world they inhabited now. He worried about what type of world River would grow up in, and if there was a chance she could be happy.
Happy was a relative term, he learned the hard way. Before N-Day, happy had much different connotations than after. Happy now equaled the basics: food, shelter, security. Everything else was now a fairy tale.
This is how it has been throughout most of human existence, he thought. Brief periods of civilizations and decency surrounded by wanton lawlessness and chaos. We could easily descend into the later here if we’re not careful.
Nathan again looked out to his right
. There in the distance he could see the dam. The dam that produced free electricity that kept the darkness away. That was the only thing really keeping the night at bay, he realized.
Sure, there had been civilization before electricity, but they didn’t expect it. Didn’t know what they didn’t have. Happiness is relative, after all. Without electricity, life is harder, and most people in the JP weren’t ready for that.
Nathan heard someone coming up behind him, but didn’t turn. It was likely his mother coming to check on him, pole in hand or no.
Colonel Carter sat down on the driftwood log beside him and looked out over the still water.
“Luke,” said Nathan. “You didn’t bring a pole.”
“I’m sorry about Bethany,” he said.
“Thank you. It meant a lot you were at the funeral.”
“It’s a hard thing losing a wife,” Luke said wistfully.
Nathan turned to look at him. “I didn’t know you were married.”
Luke nodded and smiled. “Long time ago. Met and married at my first duty station. She was coming to pick me up at the airport. My unit was returning from a security rotation in the Sinai. Drunk driver ran a red light and killed her. I waited at the airport for hours while she lay on a table at the hospital and fought for life. By the time they connected the dots and got me there, she was already gone.”
“Damn,” said Nathan. “I’m sorry.”
“God, how we loved each other.”
Nathan was silent.
“That was twenty-three years ago, but not a day goes by I don’t think of her. Miss her.”
Dropping his head, Nathan thought of Bethany.
Luke laid his hand on his shoulder. “But it does get better. It doesn’t hurt to think of her anymore. I don’t focus on all the times I let her down, but on the good times we had. And I remember how she loved me, how we loved each other.”
Nathan shook his head and quickly reeled in his line. He looked at the hook. “Look at that, some damn fish picked my pocket.” He re-baited the hook and cast again.
“I know it’s hard,” said Luke, “but we need you to come back. You’re still the Chief of Defense.”
“I’m not going to come back,” said Nathan. “It’s time to focus on my family.”
