The Power of We the People

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Glen gave a confident nod and braved eye contact. It was as if he’d passed through a portal and glimpsed the horrors of hell. Cruelty and hatred swirled in ever darker shades, enveloping and smothering, like an evil entity trying to possess him. Glen desperately wanted to look away; to run away; yet remained spellbound.

  “You think I’m stupid?” Hellhound growled.

  White-hot pain clawed the length of Glen’s back, biting and searing.

  He fell forward and curled into a fetal position. The multi-tailed whip cracked again, lashing his bare arm and the side of his leg.

  “Your family will pay for your lies!”

  The threat triggered grisly visions. Ellen savagely gang-raped like Juanita. Gabby dismembered, lying in a bloody pool like Colonel Plantagenet’s children.

  I can’t let—

  The spine-raking shriek of a child eclipsed the thunderous applause and pierced Glen’s heart.

  A Night Sector colonel was rolling a covered steel cage onto the stage.

  Please, God, don’t let it be Gabby ...

  Then, almost as if in divine response, a tremendous explosion shook the auditorium.

  41

  South of District Six, Texas

  THE ANTIQUE STAINED-glass window ruptured. Razor-edged shards rained down like multi-colored hail, and the performance hall shuddered. Vibrations traveled through Hellhound’s feet and shot up his legs, siring disbelief and confusion.

  “What was that?”

  The pops and crackles of secondary explosions drowned out his words and, in turn, were overpowered by a series of blasts so massive that the tremors knocked Hellhound off his feet.

  His gnarled hand jutted toward Glen Anthony, and he shouted, “Corral the prisoners!”

  His bodyguards ignored the order, hoisting him off the floor and whisking him into a stairwell.

  Despite his lofty title, supreme commander of Night Sector, Hellhound had never experienced combat. During basic training, he’d been dismissed from the Navy, under other than honorable conditions, then he’d insinuated himself into a drug cartel and quickly advanced through the ranks. Revered as a remorseless mercenary, he had evolved into a corrupt—albeit tactically incompetent—leader, who made sure his men feared him.

  Hellhound’s bodyguards transported him through a basement reception area and into a hidden passageway that descended three stories and connected Gramsci College’s dual missions. Above ground, the institution indoctrinated young minds into cultural Marxism. Below ground, the campus concealed a playground for wealthy degenerates who gathered under the pretense of highbrow events to secretly sate their pedophilic urges and perform satanic rituals. Sacrificial victims arrived via a tunnel linking the subterranean maze to a private airstrip, which served as a distribution hub for trafficking operations.

  Shaking off the bodyguards’ grasp, Hellhound tramped into the security control room. The few surveillance cameras that remained operational presented a grim picture. The campus was a mound of fractured stone, splintered wood, and mangled metal. Dormitories had been reduced to smoking craters; the cafeteria had been leveled, and the chapel was engulfed in flames.

  The army Hellhound had painstakingly assembled had been routed within minutes.

  This wasn’t just a drone firing a couple missiles, he concluded. This was a full-fledged bombing run.

  I underestimated Andrews. I never thought he would have the balls to bomb a U.S. college.

  Given that the triumvirate deemed the President to be an unhinged idiot, Hellhound would be hard-pressed to justify the losses. Hundreds of millions of dollars had been spent mobilizing fighters, fuel, rations, and weaponry for Bolshevik 2.0; and, now, a quarter of those resources had been destroyed.

  Abigail Webber tipped off Andrews, he thought bitterly. If Malvado hadn’t fucked up, this never would’ve happened ... And why didn’t my asset at Langden warn me about the raid?

  Irate, Hellhound retrieved his cellphone, fired off an instant message, and scowled at the reply: “I performed all tasks as per your orders.”

  Teeth gnashing, his thumbs stabbed the virtual keyboard. “You were tasked with SPYING. That involves reporting any and all military activities detrimental to The Consortium.”

  The imbecile responded, “Oh. I guess I misunderstood.”

  How the fuck am I supposed to accomplish this mission with an incompetent psychiatrist and a brain-dead spy?

  Hellhound’s mind reeled, searching for a way to salvage the invasion of District Six. Could 2,500 men, along with weapons and supplies, be shuttled to Texas ahead of Bolshevik 2.0?

  His cellphone chimed, and he glared at the screen, but the incoming call wasn’t from the slow-witted spy. It was Colonel Marcuse from District Three.

  “Yes, Colonel,” Hellhound said, his confident tone belying his inner turmoil.

  “Air strikes just leveled my forward operating base. Thousands are dead, all weapons destroyed, and the TEradS took over a thousand prisoners. Requesting emergency resupply.”

  “Make do, Marcuse!” Hellhound squeezed the phone until the glass screen cracked then fired it into a concrete wall, inciting a fireworks-like display of glass.

  The carnage extended beyond Gramsci College; Andrews had ferreted out all Night Sector’s bases; he was sure of it.

  Our media assets can still spin this disaster into a victory, Hellhound thought, rousing a desktop computer. Sensational headlines like Andrews Orders Air Strike on Americans will drum up outrage and reshape public opinion.

  The cynic inside him whispered, “What makes you think that’ll work? The bastard’s news coverage has been ninety-two percent negative yet his popularity continues to rise, defying political gravity.”

  He scanned the headlines, pleased that word of the bombings hadn’t surfaced, and checked Ryan Andrews’ Chatter account. The idiot-in-chief had published a thread of 240-character posts.

  “Prior to the tragic death of Gorka Schwartz, the billionaire philanthropist provided testimony to federal investigators regarding a criminal enterprise ...”

  “... Comprised of cartels, gangs, and organized crime syndicates; of CEOs from Big Tech, Big Pharma, and multinational corporations; of the financial and military industrial complexes; of political appointees in ...”

  “... all branches of government; of the entertainment and news industries—The Consortium has attempted a violent coup, involving thousands of foreign fighters and weaponry intended to depose me and punish my supporters ...”

  “... These threats have been neutralized thanks to the heroic efforts of the Air National Guard, the Marines, and the Terrorist Eradication Squad ...”

  “Regretfully, The Consortium has murdered Gorka Schwartz for exposing their treasonous plot.”

  “That fucking bastard!” Hellhound growled.

  Andrews had included a video clip of Gorka Schwartz’s confession, and it had already gone viral.

  “Consortium schemes are global and diverse,” Gorka opined, “and extend beyond gun running, drug smuggling, and human trafficking. Congressmen are bribed or blackmailed into capitulation. Diseases are engineered to generate lifelong treatments, and human organs are harvested and sold to the highest bidder. Ryan Andrews will not be permitted to disrupt these revenue streams. Foreign fighters will be smuggled into the country, and he will be overthrown in a violent coup, culminating with his execution. In the streets. Like a dog.”

  Hellhound slammed the mouse against the desk repeatedly until the plastic casing cracked, then he sent an instant message to an asset at Chatter, ordering all accounts sharing the confession to be shut down, including the one belonging to the President of the United States.

  His counterpart replied, “Andrews’ account was offline for eleven minutes, then someone hacked into our systems and restored it. Mostly likely NSA. We can’t touch Andrews, and new accounts are popping up faster than we can shut them down—thanks to the fucknuts following Patriot Anon.”

  Trembling with fury, Hell
hound typed, “Take down the Internet! Now!”

  “We tried. We’re locked out.”

  Enraged, Hellhound wrenched the monitor off the desk, jerking its HDMI plug free of the computer. The cord whipped like the tail of a scorpion, smiting his cheek, and he hurled the flat-screen display onto the floor, stomping and kicking it until his foot ached. Then he slumped down onto a chair, spent from the physical effort.

  I don’t have a choice, he decided. I have to play my final trump card.

  42

  South of District Six, Texas

  CJ LOVE HAD REGAINED consciousness as Consortium goons hauled him into a decrepit ranch house adjacent to an airfield. His captors had bound his wrists and stripped him of his personal effects: the IWC pilot’s watch Missy had given him and a laminated photo of his wife and son.

  Locked inside a windowless bathroom that reeked of excrement, his jailers had yet to ask a question, but they had administered multiple beatings with fists and steel-toed boots. Bruises and swollen welts stippled CJ’s arms, defensive injuries that had spared his head, but he knew the worst was yet to come.

  The Consortium would stop at nothing to achieve their goals. No act was too treacherous; no torture, too heinous; no boundary, too inviolate.

  When they figure out that I was lying about Johanna Krupp ...

  A horror show of ancient torture techniques howled through his mind. CJ imagined a stake impaling his chest, gravity slowly pulling him down the pole, left to suffer for days.

  He envisioned being placed atop a “Spanish donkey,” a sawhorse with a sharp V-shaped wedge that would gradually slice through his torso.

  Then he shuddered, considering the vilest of punishments. The process would begin with a lynching and, while still conscious, he would be castrated and disemboweled. Entrails and genitalia would be burned. Next, he would be decapitated; his torso, cut into four segments—hanged, drawn and quartered.

  I would’ve been better off drowning in the Straits of Florida, he thought. Is that why Bradley told them to toss me overboard? Was he trying to—

  Explosions fractured his thought.

  The house trembled around him, creaking and moaning.

  It sounded like the shock and awe of a war zone. Sporadic booms, some deafening, some muffled as though farther away, played against a backdrop of howling fighter-jet engines.

  The bathroom door jerked open, slamming against a rusty towel rack, and a guy dressed in Night Sector fatigues stomped inside. A night stick hurtled toward CJ.

  Instinctively, he raised his arms to protect his face, and the resulting blow made his elbow feel like it had detonated. Pain shot through him, intense and nauseating, and he scuttled like an injured crab behind the fecal-encrusted ceramic toilet.

  A second impact cracked against CJ’s knee. Nerve endings throbbed, and his pulse felt like a jackhammer boring into his kneecap.

  His attacker clamped onto his wounded elbow with a savage squeeze and yanked him onto his feet.

  Bombs continued raining down as he limped through a hallway of soggy, mold-infested drywall and into an empty room. A manual, hook-mounted chain hoist dangled from a header beam, and CJ was shoved through the square opening beneath it. He wrenched his head backward to avoid smashing his face against the warped, rough-cut edge of the hardwood floor, and his training kicked in. Free falling, he bent his knees, tucked his feet under him, and relaxed his muscles to minimize injury.

  The side of his right foot struck an earthen floor, and he collapsed into the momentum, spreading the impact over the side of his leg, his hip, and his back—just below the shoulder. Joints and muscles protested, but the discomfort quickly faded.

  Is this some kind of prison cell? CJ thought, pulling himself into a seated position.

  The smell of moist dirt hung thick; and, as his eyes adjusted, he noticed a triangular passageway, wider on the bottom, narrower at the top. Wisps of dirt spurted from the ceiling with every blast, and CJ decided that being buried alive was preferable to Consortium torture.

  The goon with the night stick slid down the vertical rails of a ladder and barked, “Get moving!”

  CJ crawled forward, gingerly climbing onto his feet, and hobbled into the passageway. Wires and cables festooned the apex of the vaulted roof, supported by metal spikes and illuminated by 10-watt LED bulbs.

  Then, as suddenly as the bombing had begun, it ceased. The earthen shaft dead-ended, and the goon unlocked a solid steel door, which led to an equally claustrophobic concrete tunnel.

  CJ cocked his head, listening.

  Was that the faint sound of crying?

  Was this part of a trafficking ratline?

  Nudged forward by the bite of a night stick between his shoulder blades, he shambled on for what felt like hours. Finally, the tunnel forked into a series of corridors, and the goon ushered him through a doorway labeled security control room.

  A Night Sector general stood, arms crossed, huddled in conversation with an underling. Despite chiseled features that were sagging with age, he remained an imposing figure, tall with broad shoulders, and CJ could feel the malice radiating off of him.

  The general introduced himself as Hellhound and used a tablet to rouse a bank of surveillance monitors. A war zone appeared, smoking craters, demolished buildings, and raging fires set to the soundtrack of a child wailing hysterically.

  Despair cut through CJ, and he swallowed hard, reassuring himself that Matthew was safe, on a guarded Air Force Base, under Secret Service protection.

  “Think your son is untouchable ...? Think again.” Hellhound stared at him with the bewitching eyes of a serpent, weaponizing silence, waiting for an opportune moment to strike. “A hacker disabled the alarm system; a diversion distracted Kyle Murphy’s security detail; and it didn’t take much to coax four-year-old Billy to unlock the window ... A Santa hat, fake beard, and sedative-laced lollipop.”

  The words were a battering ram pummeling his heart.

  It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true.

  Hellhound’s finger slithered over the tablet, and CJ gaped in horror.

  Locked inside a small dog crate, face soaked with tears, Matthew was shrieking for his mommy; and in the background, he saw Bradley strapped to an old-school electric chair, then the feed cut out.

  Oh God ... Matthew ...

  “You have committed treason against The Consortium,” Hellhound declared. “Embezzled two billion dollars, kidnapped Gorka Schwartz, murdered Senator Conn, stole Pulverulentus, and destroyed White Rabbit. For this, your son will endure every depraved torture I can conjure up. And you, Chris ... tian ... Love,” he hissed, his voice oozing contempt, “will have a ringside seat. With every soul-crushing scream, you will know that this was your doing.”

  “Take it out on me. Not an innocent child.” CJ’s forceful order emerged as a pitiful plea, earning a scornful laugh.

  “I find your histrionics arousing.” The general’s hazel eyes slanted toward his underling. “Bring me ... the boy.” Unbuckling his belt, he added, “I wonder whose screams will be more pleasurable. Matthew’s? Or Captain Love’s?”

  Certain the belt wouldn’t be used for a whipping, CJ’s pulse tripled. His wounds throbbed ferociously, and he expelled a guttural moan, giving voice to the wretched, incapacitating fear that was rampaging through his body.

  The prospect of this demon defiling his son was more than he could bear. It was a psychological wood chipper, pulverizing his moral compass and shredding his oath to the Constitution. “I-I-I ... I’ll give you whatever you want. Just don’t ...” CJ’s voice broke.

  “Perhaps, we could work out a deal ...”

  A sliver of hope sprouted inside him. His fate was no longer important; Matthew was all that mattered; and fleetingly, it occurred to him that Hellhound’s brand of torture surpassed being hanged, drawn, and quartered; the bastard had weaponized parental love.

  “... How about,” the general continued, “your son’s freedom in exchange for the owl?”

/>   The sliver of hope began gyrating like a fan blade, slashing and piercing. “The owl was ... was destroyed,” CJ stammered. “In-in-in Russia. When the aircraft blew up.”

  Lowering the zipper of his pants with dramatic flair, Hellhound addressed his underling. “Restrain Captain Love and set up cameras. One to memorialize the sodomy; a second to record the father’s conniption.”

  “No! Wait! I-I-I have a buddy at NSA. I can get you classified information ... SAPs! I can get you special access protocols and ... and ... and ... backdoor access to weapons systems. I’ll do anything. P-uh-le-e-ease!”

  Hellhound raised an eyebrow in contemplation. “I might be persuaded to sate my needs elsewhere if ...”

  Fidgety and desperate, overwhelmed by anxiety, CJ blurted, “If what ...? Just name it! I’ll do anything to protect my boy ...”

  Chapter 8

  Day 721

  Thursday, February 9th

  43

  Langden Air Force Base, Texas

  EXHAUSTED FROM THE impromptu raid on Gramsci College, Abby Webber slogged into the TEradS wing of the barracks, sandwiched between Wachter and her teammates. It was just after midnight, and music was pulsing from the upper floor, Hip Hop clashing with Salsa and Country; and the humidity-laden air was infused with the odor of burnt popcorn.

  “Yo, Webber. I owe you an apology,” Vezeto said. Her team leader was a First Sergeant with flat, bushy eyebrows, a terminally serious square face, and a Hungarian temper. Blunt and loud, at times bordering on rude, he was quick to reprimand his teammates and even quicker to defend them from outside criticism.