Revolution

by Shawn Davis

  Jane couldn’t imagine the difficulty of getting a spy into the maintenance corridors beneath the amusement park, and from there to the reactor, and then finally the bunker. They didn’t have blueprints for the maintenance passages or the reactor. The bunker itself was known as being impregnable. Of course, that meant impregnable from the outside; from the city itself, not from its own nuclear reactor. The maintenance corridors would have to run both ways, from the reactor to the amusement park and from the reactor to the bunker.

  But what would an agent do once he/she was inside the bunker?

  It was probably loaded with security cameras and personnel like the city above. Jane decided she would worry about that later. At least she had a plan now. Whether it worked or not was irrelevant. She had a direction she could lead her people in and that was what mattered.

  Campion stood from her chair and walked over to an intercom on the wall. She pushed the button that connected her with Rick Connelly’s private quarters.

  “Hey, Rick, you in there?” she asked.

  A few seconds elapsed and a reluctant voice answered.

  “Yeah, I was about to go to sleep. It’s almost midnight,” Rick said, sighing.

  “Forget sleep. I want a meeting with our engineers and tactical people scheduled for 12:30 AM.”

  “Some of them are in the capitol city.”

  “Recall them. I know how to get into the command bunker under New Washington.”

  ********

  Rayne couldn’t believe his luck. Not only had he escaped the sewers, but he was also closer to his apartment. The unplanned shortcut was significant because of the cold temperature, which threatened to freeze his drenched clothing to his body. After walking for another ten minutes, he turned his key in the deadbolt lock on the door of his tenement apartment.

  In his haste to get inside, Peter forgot he was still soaked with wastewater. His wet jacket still had a thin layer of ice on the surface. If the walk had been any longer, he probably would have frozen to death. The soaked clothing felt heavy and unnatural on his body.

  Rayne shut the door, bolted it, and pulled off the heavy clothing. Taking off his jacket, Rayne felt a hard object in one of the inner pockets. He reached into the pocket and pulled out Prince’s computer. The palm-sized computer felt cold, but it still appeared functional. He walked over to the coffee table in the living room and placed the small computer on it.

  I’ll check that out later. First, I have to get rid of this awful clothing.

  Rayne gathered the soiled, drenched clothing in his arms and carried it to the kitchen, where he proceeded to throw the noxious bundle into a double-ply trash bag. Now that he was out of the sewers, he was used to fresh air and the smell from his soiled clothing was unbearable.

  He knew what he had to do. The bathroom window looked out on a trash-strewn alleyway. Carrying the malodorous bundle to the bathroom, he opened the window. A cold chill blasted into the room, but it brought a welcome reprieve from the awful stench of his sewer-soaked clothes. Peter stuck his head out the window to get some fresh air and looked down four stories to the cluttered alleyway below his apartment. He didn’t see any homeless people sleeping in the trash below, so he scooped up the abhorrent pile and hurled it out the window. He shut the window and locked it.

  Rayne exited the bathroom to the living room and was still aware of a strong rotten egg smell emanating from somewhere very close by. He glanced down at his body and grimaced when he saw that he was coated with thick, black, oily grime from the sewers. Returning to the bathroom, he jumped in the shower and turned it up all the way. Peter scrubbed his body with soap until he didn’t see any more revolting black grime on his body. Shampooing his hair, he saw a torrent of black grime going down the drain. He shampooed a second time and washed his body again. After almost an hour, he turned off the shower, toweled himself off, and threw the towel in the hamper.

  Rayne went to his bedroom and changed into fresh clothes. It was a pleasure to put on soft, clean material after wearing disgusting wet garments that stuck to his skin like oily glue. He walked to the living room in his fresh clothing and collapsed onto the couch in front of his old-fashioned, non-3D television set. He picked up the remote control and clicked on the TV. He hoped a little quality programming would help him to forget his horrible journey through the sewers.

  The first station Rayne flipped to had a hovercraft advertisement on it. He watched the lame commercial until it faded to black. He remained on the channel and waited. The screen brightened and his eyes widened as he realized he was about to view another televised execution. He checked the clock on the disc player next to the TV and saw it was 9:00 PM. He leaned forward on the couch to get a better view.

  It’s a little late to be running a live execution, isn’t it?

  “Welcome to Monday Night Justice!” the television announcer stated, exuberantly, from the middle of a wide black stage. “The program where you, the citizen, get to see your tax dollars at work in the Criminal Justice System!”

  The handsome young announcer flashed the camera a preternaturally white set of teeth, which Peter guessed probably cost him more than his yearly salary. He carried an oversized gray microphone, wore a black tuxedo, and had his hair slicked back like a black helmet. A bright spotlight followed the youthful announcer as he walked the stage toward a group of shadowy objects.

  “As you all know, on Monday Night Justice, you get to see your country’s democracy in action! In the old days, criminals spent years and years in prison before finally being tried and judged. Back then, every state was different and many states never utilized the death penalty as a punishment for heinous crimes like murder, rape, and armed robbery.”

  The announcer paused dramatically before he reached the shadowy objects and became exaggeratedly solemn.

  “Today, things are different. Today, the federal government has made the justice system fair, so criminals who commit the same crime are given the same punishment in every state. A criminal will no longer be put to death in one state for committing the same crime that another criminal has been given a life sentence for! No longer will one prisoner be randomly electrocuted while another is given lethal injection! Today, you, the viewer, vote on the criminal’s punishment, according to how you judge the evil of his deed! You decide the method of his death! What could be more democratic than that?”

  The camera and the spotlight panned right, focusing on the first in the long line of objects. The spotlight illuminated an ominous, black, antique electric chair like the one in Andy Warhol’s famous painting.

  “For those of you with an interest in old technology, we have the ever popular electric chair!” the announcer exclaimed as the camera panned in on the dreadful object. “This little baby has given many a criminal a high-voltage Absolute Judgment!”

  The camera panned to the next setup on the black stage. “And for you traditionalists out there, we have the ever popular firing squad!”

  The camera focused on a line of five, fully armored Federal Police Officers standing at attention holding assault rifles.

  “The firing squad is a classic choice! It brings with it an element of chance because you never know which bullets are responsible for bringing the evildoer to his Absolute Judgment! Remember, in keeping with tradition, one of the officers’ rifles contains only blanks!”

  The spotlight moved to a sterile-looking white operating table containing hand and leg restraints. An oversized hypodermic needle rested on a tall metal tray beside it. The camera zoomed in on the needle while the announcer continued his enthusiastic oration.

  “And for those of you with a gentle turn of mind, we have the mercy of lethal injection. Our compassionate government realizes that not all crimes are the same, and there are some lawbreakers who deserve mercy! For them, we give a quick, painless Absolute Judgment!”

  The announcer paused dramatically and began again.

  “Next, we have the ever popular medieval punishments, which are reserv
ed for the most despicable lawbreakers! First, there’s the ever-painful rack! Guaranteed to straighten out the most heinous criminals!”

  The camera focused on a medieval wooden torture rack complete with ropes and pulleys.

  “And finally, for the worst of the worst….”

  The camera focused on the far end of the immeasurable stage where four massive black horses had been drawn together in a rough circle facing outwards. Ropes attached to the horse’s saddles stretched from their backs to the arms and legs of a human mannequin. A loud whistle followed and the four powerful horses began tugging in opposite directions, stretching the mannequin’s limbs. The doll’s plastic limbs tore off like brittle tree branches in a storm.

  “This ancient punishment from medieval England ensures the worst-of-the-worst a fitting Absolute Judgment, which will literally have them falling apart with guilt!”

  The audience cheered. Rayne almost threw up.

  “And for our final punishment,” the announcer began solemnly as the camera panned to the far right of the stage, revealing an old-style movie projector. “A chance to appear on the popular television show, You Bet Your Life! Ladies and gentlemen, the fact is that there are some rare criminals who demonstrate the traits of courage and ingenuity, who deserve a second chance. These intrepid evildoers get a chance to bet their life on America’s number one television show, You Bet Your Life!”

  The announcer gestured to a large movie screen, which had lowered behind the black stage. The screen lit up with a scene from ancient Rome. It showed a replica of the interior of the famous Roman Coliseum. The camera zoomed in on two armored gladiators doing battle in the center of the arena with ancient weapons.

  A helmeted gladiator brandished a net and a trident, while the other swung a Roman short sword. The camera zoomed in on the gladiators as their weapons clashed in a flash of sparks. The camera panned right to show the raucous cheering of the packed Coliseum audience in the impressive stands surrounding the battle arena. The announcer continued his oration as the gladiator scene continued.

  “As most of you know, You Bet Your Life is the show that gives some lucky convicts a second chance by allowing them to compete for their freedom and a cash prize of ten million dollars! Inmates who volunteer for the program are asked to sign a waiver, where they agree to risk their life in the arena for a chance at freedom and ten-million-dollars! You Bet Your Life also accepts courageous contestants from the general public! Brave and desperate people who are willing to risk their lives for the prize money! It’s been done before! Bob Smith of Kansas City, Kansas was one of the average citizens who volunteered for the show. As most of you know, he made it through all ten rounds of fighting to achieve the title of Weekly Champion and took home ten-million dollars!”

  The camera zoomed in on the smiling picture of a muscular young man wearing a black suit leaning on the roof of a sleek sports air-car.

  “Bob Smith is now living a life of luxury! So tune in to You Bet Your Life every Tuesday at 8 PM eastern, 9 PM central on this station to see the chills and thrills of live arena combat!”

  The camera focused on the Coliseum again. The on-screen gladiator armed with the trident tripped his opponent’s legs with his net and impaled him through the chest. The camera zoomed in on the gladiator’s bloody chest as he clutched at the shaft. He gritted his teeth and dropped to the ground holding the shaft with both hands.

  “So as you can see, ladies and gentlemen, this innovative game show takes no prisoners!” the announcer said, grinning widely at the camera.

  The camera panned down the stage, focusing quickly on each implement of torture starting with the electric chair and ending with the old-style movie camera.

  “So you choose, America! Will it be the electric chair or the chance of freedom in the gladiator arena on You Bet Your Life! It’s up to you!”

  The camera and spotlight moved abruptly back to the young, tuxedoed announcer, who now wore an expression of poorly feigned solemnity.

  “And now, for our first criminal, a little background….” he began, as another camera focused on the movie theatre-sized screen.

  The excessively solemn face of another announcer filled the large white movie screen. The camera zoomed back to reveal a tall, middle-aged, distinguished-looking, gray-haired gentlemen wearing a gray suit, holding a microphone up to his perfect teeth. A high gray wall topped with barbed wire loomed in the background.

  “Hello, I’m Rick Stark, reporter for Monday Night Justice. I’m standing outside the Frump National Penitentiary, waiting for the corrections officers to bring the perpetrator out to the hover-van that will take him to our television studio. Earlier this evening, the perpetrator was tried and convicted in a court of law in less than two hours by utilizing indisputable videodisc evidence. As you all know, years ago when the Justice System was in chaos, it took months to try dangerous criminals in courts of law and often years for their sentences to be imposed. The Justice Reform Act of 2046 put an end to that. Today, most trials are completed in a few days and if the evidence is indisputable like today, a few hours. This video disc speaks for itself.”

  Rayne sat on his couch riveted to the screen as the scene changed to a wide, dark city street surrounded by low, dilapidated buildings. A chill crawled down the back of his neck as something about the scene struck him as familiar. He suddenly realized it was the same road he and his friends had traveled on earlier tonight to get to their homes!

  Peter assumed the television camera was attached to the front of an anti-grav vehicle because the street flew by in a linear perspective until it closed in on a sea of lights moving on the streets below. Peter sat upright when he realized it was a scene of hundreds of people carrying torches and signs in the street.

  The protesters!

  The camera zoomed in on the front of the demonstration where Martin Prince was striding confidently down the street surrounded by enthusiastic demonstrators. Some were shouting slogans and many were carrying signs and placards. The middle-aged reporter’s voice interjected into the scene.

  “The well-known Civil Rights activist, Martin Prince, organized a demonstration earlier this evening in Inner City. Prince has been an advocate for disadvantaged people for several years and specializes in organizing peaceful demonstrations. Today’s demonstration began peacefully….” the reporter let his words hang, ominously, as the television camera zoomed in on Prince himself.

  Prince, the handsome black man in his mid-thirties, wore a dark blue sports coat and dress pants. He strode confidently at the head of the crowd, shouting words of encouragement to his supporters. Unfortunately, the poor sound quality of the broadcast did not allow for any of his words to be understood. All the viewer could identify was a garbled shouting that faded in and out.

  The poor communication mattered very little as, seconds later, Prince’s voice was completely drowned out by a metallic thunderstorm. The camera caught his expression of surprise and terror as he realized his group was being fired upon. Prince shouted something else, which couldn’t be understood because of the automatic gunfire, and gestured for the people around him to take cover on the ground. Seconds later, his chest exploded in a red flood as a hail of bullets struck him.

  The television camera recording the tragic event wavered wildly, blurring the picture and accentuating the chaos, as the cameraman appeared to have a moment of panic. The distraught cameraman was able to swing his camera around to the left and focus on a black anti-grav limousine hovering near the front of the crowd, sparks flying from its rear windows. The camera zoomed in on a maniacal, wild-eyed face in the window of the limousine, grimacing in pain or madness as he fired an automatic pistol into the front of the crowd. The face was clearly that of Peter’s friend, Henry Johnson.

  Peter was sickened by the expression of abject terror on Henry’s face as he held the weapon. His pained expression and wild eyes showed he was under extreme duress. Peter knew the ignorant viewer would mistake Henry’s expression for one o
f crazed madness, but someone was forcing Henry to do what he was doing by inflicting pain or shooting him up with drugs.

  The television camera then panned away from Henry’s terrified face in the limousine window to the object of his handiwork at the front of the crowd. The camera zoomed in on blood, guts, and screaming people. The studio audience groaned as they watched the protesters collapsing in puddles of blood.

  How could Henry still be firing that automatic pistol without reloading? Peter wondered. Has anyone thought about that? There has to be more than one gunman firing into the crowd. A lone gunman with a single automatic pistol couldn’t keep firing uninterrupted into the crowd for the entire duration of the scene, causing the damage being shown. But gullible spectators are going to believe what they see on the screen regardless of logic.

  Rayne sank down dejectedly on the couch as the scene switched to a pair of Federal Police Officers escorting Henry down a courtroom aisle. Henry had his hands cuffed behind his back and wore a stereotypical orange jumpsuit. The expression on his face was completely numb and devoid of emotion.

  Peter didn’t know if he had been drugged or was just exhausted from the ordeal. Either way, he still couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He had been there when it happened and he still couldn’t believe it was real. The broadcast of the assassination seemed like a violent television program with state-of-the-art special effects.

  The voice of the reporter startled Peter out of his dejection.

  “The video disc evidence of the tragedy was filmed by a reporter at the scene covering the protest march. With this indisputable evidence, the assassin, Henry David Johnson, was tried and convicted in less than two hours. Federal Law requires a sentence of Absolute Judgment for aggravated first-degree murder. Now the only question is what method. What does this heartless killer deserve?”