The Testimony

by James Smythe

  When the reporter turned up he was far younger than he had sounded. He had a tiny little beard, beady eyes, and he wore a cap (though he did take it off when I answered the door, which I appreciated). Mrs Lieberstein? he asked, and I shook his hand. My mother was Mrs Lieberstein, I said. My name is Meredith. Meredith, he repeated, and he wiped his shoes on the mat and then came through to the kitchen. Do you want a drink? Whatever you’re having, he said, and so I poured us both iced tea. I’m sorry about your husband, he said, and then we spoke about Leonard. He put his recorder on the table and asked me questions and I just went on and on. I felt sorry for him, you know, because he really did just sit and listen to me ramble on, chew his ear off, and I don’t know how much of it was actually usable. (I didn’t read the article, though some of my friends told me that it was a very good piece.) I asked him if he wanted to see some photos and he did, so I got the laptop, talked him through some of them. I emailed him a couple to use for the story, and he finished his third glass of iced tea and said that he had to leave. On the doorstep he apologized again for Leonard’s passing, and I said, Really, it wasn’t your fault; God takes us when we’re ready. And then we had a moment, where it sort of clicked that neither of us had thought about the implications of God in all this, in Leonard’s death. Did He let him die? Did He choose to not save him? Does He even have that power? Or, actually, if it was Him saying Goodbye, is that why Leonard died? It had stopped raining as heavily by the time the reporter left, so I went for a walk in it, this must have been around four in the afternoon. I ended up in Central Park and I sat on a bench and watched the wildlife on a pond, and then I walked down toward 5th, looked at the wreckage of the bomb, which they were still struggling to clear up, walked down toward Times Square and just stood around waiting for it to get dark. The city looked beautiful at night, and I watched it all for hours, until well past midnight, until it was just drunk people stumbling along to their hotels. I was looking at the advertisements, at the sky, and I heard a crackle, and I held on for The Broadcast to tell us that God was sorry, that He wasn’t going to abandon us. It was only lightning, though, and more fool me, because when the rain bucketed down and I had to rush to get cover under an awning, I realized that I didn’t want it to be The Broadcast anyway; I wanted it to have been Leonard, back for one last message, back to say goodbye.

  Mark Kirkman, unemployed, Boston

  I think the producers forgot that I was there, in the hotel, on their business account. They either forgot or didn’t care, because I wasn’t thrown out, and neither were the Jessops. I met Joseph and his family my second day there, in the restaurant, at breakfast; I recognized them from their TV appearance, introduced myself. We ate together, told each other our stories, and then we spoke about what we thought it meant, that we didn’t hear it. We watched the news as people got sick, as they tried guessing what was wrong with them, and the Monday morning, when we heard that we weren’t going to be on the show at all – that the main stories had shifted again, and now the interest came from sick people, dying people, dead people – we spoke about what we could do to find more people like us. There must be more, we said. Anomalies like us never happened in tiny quantities, surely?

  Joseph Jessop, farmer, Colorado City

  Mark decided to ask the producers of The Role Call if they had any more names and numbers of people like him and Joe, and that took him out all day. We spent the time in our suite watching cartoons, trying to stop Joe from getting too bored. Wasn’t till he passed out in the afternoon that I managed to see the news, to see about just how many people were sick or dying, and I remember, I worried and worried that that could happen to us, to me and to Jennifer and to Joe.

  Meredith Lieberstein, retiree, New York City

  Some sycophantic relative, a cousin that I hadn’t seen in years, had left a message on my answer machine, telling me how very sorry they were that Leonard had died. At the end of it, they said, Maybe now this’ll start you praying again, praying to bring God back to us; so many years away from the fold, and look what happens. Now we’re all abandoned, we need you more than ever, and you need us. Oh, shut up, I told the machine, and I didn’t call her back, even though she left her number.

  Piers Anderson, private military contractor, the Middle East

  When we got back to England – we flew into City of London Airport, which had been cordoned off for us – we were escorted off the plane by people dressed like beekeepers, blood samples taken from each of the men, driven in black vans to a sports hall filled with beds, and we spent the entire day there without seeing a soul, helping ourselves to food from the field kitchens that were set up there. This was, we were told, standard practice after a mission: decontaminating us, checking our bloods. Then, before daybreak the next morning, we were woken up and packed into vans by more beekeepers, ushered into decontamination rooms filled with shower-heads like sunflowers, and then sprayed for twenty minutes with freezing cold water, or something like water. Keep your mouths shut and your eyes open, a man said over an intercom, as you never know where enemy agents can get. One of the men made a joke about an enemy agent getting up my arse, but none of us were really in the mood for laughing, tell the truth. When the showers were done the beekeepers showed us into white changing rooms and gave us individual piles of laundry to put on, all in pure white, like bed-sheets. You know why they make it this colour, don’t you? asked another of the men, and then answered his own question: It’s so that if you start coughing up anything they can see it, see exactly where it went. It could be contagious. They called me into a room with a giant mirror and I answered questions to a beekeeper who introduced himself as a scientist and spoke to me through a tinny speaker in his suit. After the questions about the operation, about where we were in proximity to the blast, about how long it took us to clear the area, that sort of thing, he asked questions about what we ate, where the food came from, where we slept. What’s this all about? I asked him, and he told me about the deaths. People have started dying, he said, and we don’t know why. And you think it’s related to the op in Iran? I asked, and he shook his head, then contradicted himself. Yeah, he said, some sort of retaliation. He checked my chest, my tongue, my ears. You seem fine, he said. Just another few days and you’ll be able to go home.

  PUSH THE SLATE

  Andrew Brubaker, White House Chief of Staff, Washington, DC

  People become ridiculous. Stress makes sense depart, makes the average man act in crazy ways. Rumours started wildly spinning out of control about what was going on in the hospitals, and the crowds in the streets, still clinging onto their protests even when they meant nothing, when they would impact nothing, they started listening. The only thing more dangerous than a crowd out for blood is one that’s fearing for their own life.

  I was woken up by one of the security guys in my detail, telling me that I had to get out of the building. I had slept in the Lincoln Bedroom, because my eyes had been going, and I knew that I was slower than I should have been. Livvy told me to come home, when I called her, and I said that I couldn’t, but I promised to sleep, at the very least. Three hours I managed, and then they dragged me out of bed, told me to throw some clothes on, led me to the basement. There’s been a threat on the White House, they told me, and that was normal – it was the highest-profile target in America, and we received an average of three threats a week – but it hadn’t come from terrorists this time. There’s a group outside, and they’re at the gates. We’ve got the police out there, but there’s a lot of them. I didn’t see it until we got to the safe-house, in Georgetown, and I finally managed to get to a TV, but they weren’t joking about the numbers. The crowd was swollen, covering every bit of land they could, swarming the estate. They had pushed down the fence, and they were at the door, smashing the windows. The National Guard were on their way, or there already, but there were so many people in the crowd there was no way that this would end quietly.

  The point of the safe-house was that nobody would know we we
re there, so the cars were sent away as soon as they dropped us off. The entire block was houses full of agents, so we were safe, we knew that much. POTUS and the First Lady were already in the house, already watching the footage. Was I really that bad a President? he asked, and I shook my head. (He was using the past tense then, and I knew he was going to quit after it was all over, whatever happened.) You were in a shitty situation, I told him, and you did what you had to do. In time, they’ll remember that you protected them. I opened this, though, he said, I attacked them, and they retaliated, and now people are dying, and I am going to go to hell for what I did. He had been drinking pretty heavily. The First Lady was wringing her hands; I suggested that she went to check on their kid, and she got the hint. Look, I said to POTUS when we were alone, you did what was right. There’s no shame in that. He was crying. I never believed in Him, he said, and then He turns up and everything ended up ruined. It took all of this, and Him leaving, before I realized that He was here all along, and that when I die, I won’t be able to explain myself to Him, to explain that I was doing what was right. He’s gone, Drew, and look at the mess I’ve made. You believe in Him now? I asked, and that made him cry harder. How can you not? he said. Just look at the evidence. Then he laughed at that, like it was a joke. But, you can’t, he said, because there isn’t any evidence, not a bit, not even a little bit. It’s all about plausible deniability, right? That set him off laughing again, and then crying. I should sleep, he said, because this is all on me, now, right? All this shit is just all on me?

  I let him go to his wife, and they cried together, and then they went to bed. Security posted themselves outside their bedroom door; I sat downstairs and watched the news and drank Kool-aid that somebody had made and put in the fridge, told one of the security guys to go and get me a bottle of scotch. He came back, I drank most of it, I passed out with the footage of the protestors climbing in through the White House windows still playing. I didn’t wake up for a while, until I heard POTUS leaving his room, telling the man on his door he needed the bathroom. I heard him pat across the hallways, shut the bathroom door, and then went back to sleep. Next thing I knew I could hear the secret service guy beating on the door, shouting for him to open it, and then I heard the First Lady in the hallway. What’s wrong? she asked, and then she shouted through the bathroom door. I got to the bottom of the stairs, told them to break it down, so they did, one kick to the handle. He was sitting on the toilet. Fucking inglorious way to be found. He’s dead, the First Lady screamed, Oh my God, he’s dead! I ran up myself, checked his body, and he was, cold and pale, his eyes open, slumped forward. I called Meany, who spoke before I could tell him what had happened. Sir, the results have come back from bodies, he said, and there wasn’t anything in their systems. They died of illnesses, cancer, or pneumonia, or internal bleeding, or heart attacks. Heart attacks? I asked, and he said, Yeah, a few of them, their hearts just gave up. There’s nothing odd about any of this, apart from how many of them there are. You’re going to have another one coming to you in the next few minutes, I said, and it’ll be an urgent one. Why? Who died? he asked.

  Tom Gibson, news anchor, New York City

  Brubaker called us personally, which was odd, but we assumed it was an update on the riot. The White House was on fire, and the crews had only just turned up. We assumed that he wasn’t there any more, so we were expecting an update on their safety, information about where they were, a statement, maybe. My producer took the call, hit me to get my attention as he listened, scribbled in the air for me to give him a pen. He wrote on his briefing sheet as he listened, big letters. POTUS dead approx. 4:40AM, VP inducted later this morning. I ran to the production office, told them to stop everything. Push the slate, I said; the President’s dead.

  Ed Meany, research and development scientist, Virginia

  It’s the strangest feeling in the world, seeing the most powerful man you would ever know reduced to skin, under green sheets as he waits for you to supervise opening him up, peeking around inside him, seeing what stopped making him tick.

  Andrew Brubaker, White House Chief of Staff, Washington, DC

  Ed Meany, research and development scientist, Virginia, called me three hours later to tell me that POTUS had a heart attack. There was some clotting around the arteries, he said, and so much adrenaline in his system. He just pushed himself too far. Same as the other heart attacks you’ve seen? I asked, and he said, No. I mean, some, sure, but one of them was an arrhythmia, a long-term problem, another was some sort of rupture in the walls. Find something that links them all together, I said, and he laughed, under his breath. Maybe it’s like they’ve been saying on the TV, he said: these people only got ill when The Broadcast said Goodbye, right? So maybe it’s that. We’ll find out what it is, he said, to reassure me, I guess. If there’s something in the air causing this, we can prove it, and then we can cure it. He didn’t sound convinced, but I didn’t push him.

  Mei Hsüeh, professional gamer, Shanghai

  It was the first suspicious death of an American President since the internet started, and it was barely noticed by the majority of people, because they all had other things going on. It came over the in-game chat as we hit the fifth stage of the fight against Droggs. He was in his second form: the elemental. I didn’t even look away from the screen.

  Dafni Haza, political speechwriter, Tel Aviv

  When they announced that the American President was dead, I called the Prime Minister again, using my clearance, which still worked, somehow. I think maybe they hadn’t had the time to update the protocols, or they didn’t care. She’s not here, I was told, she’s not in her office. Will she be back? Is there a number I can call her on? She’s not in the city, I was told, and you shouldn’t be either. That’s all the voice on the end of the phone said. What does that mean? I asked, but I think they had already hung up.

  Mark Kirkman, unemployed, Boston

  I had breakfast in my room, on a tray, because we – myself and the Jessops – had been told by the hotel that we were being kicked out. I hadn’t packed, and I was throwing my things into my bag when I put the TV on, saw that they were already inducting the new guy. He made a speech, subtle and delicately written, that effectively laid the blame for everything on his predecessor’s shoulders, and yet opened the door for further aggressive tactics. We all knew he was – for want of a better word – a warmonger. The President’s death, leaving America in a war-time situation? It just gave the Vice President an excuse. We started this with blood on their hands, he said, and we’ll end it the same way. This, that we will do, is right. They went to questions from the press, and the first journalist to stand up asked whether the President’s death was related to the epidemic – her word – of deaths around the rest of the world. He dealt with the question well – We don’t yet know the cause of any of those deaths, let alone the President’s, though I’m sure we’ll have the answer in due time, because our best men are working on it – and then fielded other, less interesting questions. When it was all done, flashes still blinking at the now-empty stage, they cut back to the studio, where that prick newsreader read numbers out from a sheet of paper. Three million, he said, and let it hang there before repeating it. Three million. That’s the estimated number of sick or dead people in our nation’s hospitals, as reported over the last twenty-four hours by our wonderful emergency servicemen and women. Three million. Over the rest of the world? Millions more.

  Jacques Pasceau, linguistics expert, Marseilles

  Audrey woke me up with coffee and juice and breads, though I wasn’t going to eat them. My mouth was full of blood when I woke up, my pillow smeared with a patch of the stuff where my face had been. It was dried around my lips. I ran my tongue across the hole and felt how angry it was, but I didn’t say anything to her about it. They’re talking on the news about the epidemic, she said, how bad it’s got. The President of America is dead! It’s crazy, eh? Sure, I said. She bounced onto the end of the bed like it was Christmas. Some peopl
e think it’s because God has gone, and they think we should all pray to Him to come back. What do you think? I think, I said, it’s fucking crazy. He never left because He never existed in the first place, so you’re wasting your time, hoping that He will come back, somehow make everything better. It’s worth looking into, at least, she said, and I reminded her that we were linguists, not theologians. You think this is important, I told her, you talk to somebody who might actually care about it, yeah?

  Audrey Clave, linguistics postgraduate student, Marseilles

  Jacques was being a prick, telling me that I was stupid, that my opinions meant nothing. He barely spoke to me all day after that; he was such a fucking child, sometimes.

  Mei Hsüeh, professional gamer, Shanghai

  I died trying to get Droggs to leave his pit, which was the penultimate step of the battle, and I was getting another drink from the fridge when I heard the sirens outside, in the courtyard. I looked out the window and saw the firemen taking bodies down the stairs, five or six of them, all wrapped up in their own sheets. I went Away From Keyboard for a few minutes, watched them from the balcony. On the balcony above, I heard Mr Ts’ao moaning about his throat and his back. I went back online, where the rest of the guild were luring Droggs out with flame-bait. Seemed to be working.