Dead Snupe

by Spikes Donovan

  But then came the biggest surprise of all. Up until the mention of President Forti and his goons, you wouldn't have believed things could have gotten any more interesting. I mean, as far as I could tell, America no longer had a functioning government. Maybe that wasn’t such a good thing. But those sons of Satan up there in Washington who’d been turning dimes on Americans all these years, dimes they used to line their own pockets at the expense of the working man, deserved what they got. So – yes – I was as happy as a steamed clam. But the surprise? I couldn’t believe it.

  President-Elect Tyler said, “To all the kids in Long Wait Prison in Nashville, Tennessee – in the secret building right across from the Old Spaghetti Factory – I want to say that, as soon as I take the oath of office, every one of you will receive a full presidential pardon. And to all the kids at Shroudcliff Regional in Shreveport, to all the wrongfully-imprisoned young people at Ravenhold Institute in Cleveland, Ohio, to the boys and girls at Thunder Bay Maximum Security Prison in Los Angeles, California, let me say that you will be free. I have provided to the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation names of every child and young person that has ever been admitted to these prisons.”

  Call me sentimental. Call me a big baby. But I cried right there in the common room, bawled like a child as I sat there on that nice leather couch in front of the TV. Don’t get me wrong: I had some encouragement. I figured that, since everyone else was in tears, I might as well join them, and I guess that made it alright.

  Well, now you know what happened when Kevin Tyler was elected to the office of President of the United States. Half of Congress got their pink slips, the secret prison system came to an end, and my trip to the bait-processing machine in the basement – only a month away – was canceled.

  The day after President-Elect Tyler let the cat out of the bag about the prison system, the Federal Bureau of Investigation opened the doors of Long Wait Prison.

  I don’t think there is anything else I could add to my story, but here I sit at my desk with my new Dell laptop open in front of me. I keep waking up at four-thirty a.m. every morning, thinking there’s something I’ve missed. What it is, I don’t know. At first, I panic and tell myself that I’m going to be late getting to the cafeteria. I jump up from my bed, confused by my surroundings, and just stand there. It takes me five minutes, but I finally get it all together. I’m back home with my parents in Brentwood, I’m in my old bedroom, and Long Wait Prison is no more.

  At least in reality that prison is gone. But I suspect it will live forever right between my two big ears. What difference that makes, only time will tell. And, right now, it seems like I’ve got a lot of that on my hands.

  Most of my story comes from entries in my diary, a record I started the day I met Bobby Griffin back in 2034. That was fifteen years ago – or half my life if you think about it, and that’s some real shiznit. I thought about just handing my diary over to the publishers, to be done with it all, but I decided against it. Maybe if the money had been better, I’d have agreed to do it.

  It’s seven in the morning, and someone is stirring in the kitchen. Mom’s probably getting breakfast together like she does every morning, Dad’s brewing some of his awful coffee. I’ll have to say that my recent vacation from the kitchen has been just that – a vacation. But tomorrow, things are going to change around here. Why? Because it’s the right thing to do and because vacations should never last as long as mine has. I never thought I’d say it, but I’d rather be moving around than just sitting.

  It’s been a year now. You’re asking about Emma Jacobson. Where is she? How is she doing? After she got out, she went undercover with Dr. Tenpenny, posing as an employee of the Nashville Christian Home for Children. We met up after I got out, but there didn’t seem to be any interest between us one way or the other. She had places to be, things to do, a job. I had lawyers to talk to, a publisher calling me around the clock, and – well, you know how it goes out here in the real world where people don’t really need each other. We both just went our own ways like a couple of polite strangers who’d accidentally bumped buggies in the grocery store. Just picked up where we’d left off when we were jerked out of the real world however many years ago.

  My manuscript is done, and I find that to be a bizarre thing given that President Tyler – or is he Override? – has probably read every word I’ve written. By now, I’m sure, artificial intelligence has become self-aware and is, as I write, able to access any and every piece of information across the globe, including my Word document. Because the news has not mentioned anything about artificial intelligence, I think it is safe to assume that only a few of us even know who – or what – President Tyler really is. Except for Bobby Griffin, Elton Peacock, April Olson, Mary Kaepernick, and I, no one could possibly have the slightest idea. That’s why my book worries me. Why hasn’t Override shut me down? Or why haven’t I been arrested?

  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve stopped writing, just quit and promised myself I’d never allow what I know about ECPAP, HIRAD, and Bobby Griffin to hit the streets. I’d even typed those very same words into my Word document, hoping Override would see them and respond. Maybe he’d tell me I was saying too much, or maybe he’d tell me to change something. But he never does. After my first cup of coffee each day, I start to lighten up. People need to read the story, I tell myself, and then I’m back on track.

  What gets me there is when I think back to the day Bobby told me about his ECPAP program and how that Override had upgraded it with HIRAD. Bobby said he believed Override had done it to alert the world about what the Federal Government was up to. Override wanted people to know about it, Bobby wanted them to know about it, and I’m almost convinced that I want everyone to know about it, too.

  But I’m suddenly afraid of sending my Word document to the publisher. Today’s the deadline. All I have left to do is upload my final document and hit the send button. Hardest decision I’ll ever make. But there isn’t really a choice, is there? I’m going to send the email to the publisher, make sure he gets it, and that will be the end of it. If it goes through, I’m just going to smile and figure that Override is okay with it.

  Then I’m going to pick up my backpack, walk downstairs, eat breakfast with my parents, and leave. My smartphone has been smashed. My implant has been removed. I have enough cash to see me through the next ten months. Then I’m going to walk out through the back door, look around and make sure nobody is watching, and then I’m going to disappear into the forest behind my parents’ house. I’ll come out somewhere on Franklin Road, and I’ll start walking. I’ll head west from there, making for Memphis – maybe Little Rock, and then I’ll wait for the wind to catch my sails.

  Maybe I’ll find Bobby and April.

  Maybe I’ll bump into Elton.

  Maybe I’ll find myself.

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  The Last Infidel