by Jay Phillips
“Fuck this shit,” she said out loud as she shut her eyes. Within a millisecond, she was inside each of their minds, pushing through and past their psychic protection like it wasn’t even there. She mentally ripped them apart, tearing away at their minds as if she were wielding psychic bullets, removing from each and everyone of them the psyche that made them who they were, wiping away their thoughts, erasing their memories. And it was all so easy.
She opened her eyes and watched as a hundred plus soldiers, including Peterson, all fell to the ground in unison, each landing on the hard linoleum floor with the same blank expression on their face, each set of eyes completely emptied of life.
She stepped out of the elevator and walked across the building’s lobby. All of the guards, all of The Agent’s faceless soldiers, continued staring into nothingness, their minds as blank as a clear sheet of paper. She reached the outer doors and stepped in front of the digital touch pad. She inserted the set of numbers she had taken from Peterson’s thoughts earlier, remembering them all as if they had been written into her memory. For all intents and purposes, they had been.
The doors opened, and she stepped out into the still pouring rain. She walked across the front of the building, passing through the large parking lot without thinking about looking back. In the distance, just down the road, she could see the truck The Detective had “borrowed.” It suddenly occurred to her exactly how much she had lost over the past day. Not only had she almost lost her sister, she had lost the two men she cared the most about in the entire world, and she lost a little bit of herself as well, the part of herself that still held any kind of innocence, the part of herself that didn’t find it easy to rip through a hundred minds without a second of hesitation. That part of herself, she realized, would never be recovered.
Despite Adam doing the majority of killing, she knew The Detective would take the blame for the death of The Seven, and she wasn’t sure that was a bad thing. Throughout the rest of the world and most of the states, the demise of America’s rulers would be met with celebration and joy. They would celebrate him as a patriot, a champion. They would worship him as the hero she knew him to be. He deserved no less.
She crossed the road to the truck, The Detective’s hat and the journal still firmly clutched against her chest. She opened the door, climbed into the driver‘s seat, and shook the water out of her hair. The keys were in the ignition, exactly where he told her they would be. She cranked the truck and placed it in gear. She was going to drive to the hospital where her family waited for her, all the while hoping in silence she would be able to see through the rain. She swore this storm was never going to end.
XXX
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Final Journal Entry [Found on page 100]
Journal Entry [Found on page 53]
Journal Entry [Found on page 78]
Journal Entry [Found on Page 48]
Journal Entry [Found on page 67]
Journal Entry [Found on page 71]
Journal Entry [Found on page 39 of the journal]
Journal Entry [Found on page 78]
Journal Entry [Found on page 57]
Journal Entry [Found on page 79]
Journal Entry [Found on page 31]
Final Journal Entry [Begins on page 100]
Journal Entry [Found on page 14]
Journal Entry [Found on page 64]
Journal Entry [Found on page 57]
Journal Entry [Found on page 61]
Journal Entry [Found on page 41]
Journal Entry [Found on page 54]
Journal Entry [Found on page 37]
Journal Entry [Found on page 38]
Journal Entry [Found on page 38]
Journal Entry [Found on page 69]
Final Journal Entry [Begins on page 100]
Journal Entry [Found on page 37]
Journal Entry [Found on page 52]
Journal Entry [Found on page 65]
Journal Entry [Found on page 75]
Journal Entry [Found on page 82]
Journal Entry [Found on page 31]
Journal Entry [Found on page 62]
Journal Entry [Found on page 42]
