Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set

by Rebecca Belliston

  With a nod, Carrie rushed to the back wall. “Commander McCormick, sir?” Kneeling, she pushed her hair back away from her face and tried again. “McCormick?”

  The older commander groaned but didn’t move much. From the little Greg could see, his face was bruised and bloody. He wasn’t dead, but what did that matter? He would be dead soon.

  They all would be.

  Greg pictured Carrie standing in front of the firing squad, eyes wide with terror. His stomach rolled.

  Two minutes and thirty seconds until show time. The countdown on the screen continued. How long into the broadcast before they hauled them out onto the platform? Counted to ten? Started shooting?

  Greg paced. The other “traitors” in the cell watched him. In and around bodies he paced, by Carrie and McCormick, past Oliver and back again. The cell felt impossibly hot and grew hotter by the second. Sweat poured down his face.

  Isabel needed to hurry.

  That was all.

  They’d gotten her inside. She would kill President Rigsby, the broadcast would never happen, and…they’d all be shipped to Joliet’s State Penitentiary, but at least they would be alive. But if Isabel didn’t move fast, everything would be—

  A roar went up outside.

  “There he is,” Burke announced to his squad. “The president has arrived. We’ll be up soon, gentlemen. Be ready to march.”

  “No!” Greg shouted with another pound on the bars.

  Isabel was supposed to stop President Rigsby before he ever made it to that southern tower.

  Where was she?

  The television screen over Burke’s head flickered to life. In an instant, President Rigsby’s face filled the screen, smiling and victorious. His dark, dyed hair was slicked back, his suit and tie looked pristine. That same face had been plastered everywhere lately: every New Day Times issue, every bill of the new, red currency. In person, the president looked at least a decade older than his photos with wrinkles and tired skin. Yet he still had the slimy, fake smile—and hair—of a politician. He held his hand up in one long, waveless wave.

  Cheers echoed through the training facility. From the tops of the guard towers all the way to the holding cell, loud cheers sounded. And then it started. The chanting.

  “United we stand! United we stand!”

  Carrie, who still knelt next to McCormick, turned toward the screen. She and Oliver had propped the commander up in a semi-sitting position, leaned against the back wall. McCormick’s eyes were open but didn’t seem to see anything.

  But Carrie did. Her eyes went to Greg.

  “United we stand! United we stand!”

  Those huge, blue eyes just stared at Greg, filling with tears. She knew they’d lost. She knew they were dead. Greg felt like his heart was being ripped from his chest.

  “United we stand! United we stand! United we stand!”

  Each time grew louder, and with each notch in the rising volume, President Rigsby’s smile grew. His hand stayed up, victorious. He had them, and he knew it.

  He was going to win.

  He would snuff out the rebellion, killing all who opposed him, and ensuring his everlasting grip on America.

  Sudden rage filled Greg. He whirled around and shook the bars.

  “Burke, listen to me,” Greg said. “You can’t do this. This isn’t right!”

  “You dug your own grave, Pierce,” Burke said without turning away from the overhead screen.

  Cliff Watson approached the bars. A dark spot covered his cheek from where Greg had punched him. One eye was already swelling. He glared at Greg through the bars.

  “You will change out of that uniform this instant,” Cliff said. “I will not have you marching out there, dressed as one of us.”

  Fast as a viper, Greg reached through the bars to grab him by the neck.

  The man barely jumped back in time to break free. “Sergeant Burke, sir!” Cliff choked out. “We can’t have that man out there wearing the same thing as the rest of you.”

  “What would you have him wear?” Burke said, still distracted by the broadcast. “It’s not like we have a change of clothes for him. It’s fine. Just throw a bag over his head. No one will care.”

  From the large, overhead screen, Greg saw the president wave his hands in a downward motion, trying to get the soldiers-in-training to quiet down enough that he could begin.

  “Good evening,” President Rigsby finally started. “I thank you for so graciously hosting me at this magnificent training facility.” There was a slight delay between real time and the broadcast on the television, making everything sound in stereo. “It is an honor to look into your bright faces tonight. You, my friends and soldiers, are the future of America!”

  That brought another round of cheers.

  Greg needed to kick something. Where was Isabel? From the camera angle, it looked like Rigsby stood where McCormick assumed he would, in the upper southern guard tower. So what had happened? Isabel should have let Kearney and the others inside by now.

  Where were they?

  Or were they about to join Greg and Carrie—and too many others—in the massacre?

  “As you know,” President Rigsby said into his microphone, “the last six years have taken its toll on our precious country. At the heart of our economic struggles…”

  Greg couldn’t stand to hear another word. Not a single one. As Burke’s guys nodded in agreement, Greg grabbed the bars and rattled them again.

  “Burke, listen!” Greg yelled. “Oshan, don’t be a part of this. This is gonna be a massacre, the first execution like this in the history of our country. This is wrong!”

  The only response was President Rigsby’s voice.

  “Some have taken advantage of our economic struggles. They have trampled the very laws under their feet that you are fighting to protect,” the president said. “They’ve stolen your dignity and sense of safety. If we are to regain our former greatness, these illegals must be eradicated. A nation cannot be strong if its people are not strong, and we must be strong!”

  The crowd cheered again.

  Strangely, Greg realized that most of the cheering was coming through the overhead television speakers and not the open door, as if they were supplementing the broadcast with extra applause.

  “Burke!” Greg snapped. “These people here have done nothin’ wrong. Burke!”

  Burke gave him a buzz off wave.

  “Now we must do what must be done,” President Rigsby continued. “That means rooting out the traitors among us, even at the lowest levels.”

  Traitors.

  Greg spun to the person next to him. “Why were you arrested?” he asked loudly.

  The man looked startled. “Uh…I was living illegally on government property.”

  “How does that make you a traitor worthy of death?” Greg said.

  The man shrugged.

  Turning, Greg took in the next person, an older woman slumped at the shoulders and so thin that her hands looked skeleton-esque.

  “Why were you arrested?” he asked loud enough to drown out the broadcast.

  “They caught my clan a month ago,” she said. “They took my granddaughters…and…”

  As she broke down crying, a man grabbed Greg’s arm.

  “They arrested me and my family because we wanted to leave Aurora’s municipality,” the man said. “Have you seen those places? We couldn’t stay there.”

  All at once, people around Greg sharing telling their stories. Unable to pay dues. Stole medicine for a child. People who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “Burke, are you listening?” Greg yelled through the bars. “These aren’t traitors to the country. These people don’t deserve to die.”

  Burke’s shoulders stiffened. He could hear Greg well enough, but he pretended otherwise.

  “How many of you had a fair trial?” Greg called to the holding cell.

  “Silence!” Cliff Watson shouted at him. “Not another word!”

  �
��How many?” Greg said anyway. “How many went through the legal system? After y’all were charged and arrested, how many had proper sentencing? How many got a lawyer? Had their rights read to them?”

  Burke’s curiosity betrayed him. He glanced back. So did several others in the squad.

  Not a single hand rose.

  “Pierce,” Burke growled, “if you don’t shut up, I’m going to have to shoot you before I shoot you.”

  Greg glared right back at him. “How many of you know somebody who died because of President Rigsby?”

  Every hand shot up, including Oliver, Carrie, and McCormick’s.

  For a second time, Greg’s eyes locked with Carrie. He counted every person she had lost—they had lost. Her parents. Jenna. Greg’s mom. Richard’s first wife. Women Carrie had met in prison. People in Kearney’s camp. McCormick’s wife.

  “How many,” a weak voice said from the back of the cell, “know people who have died from this virus Rigsby created?” McCormick tried to sit taller and ended up coughing. But he continued. “How many watched them die in your arms?”

  Hands stayed up.

  That did it.

  Burke whirled around and stormed over to the holding cell. “So help me, all of you shut up!”

  “Or what?” Greg challenged, separated from his former comrade by metal bars. “You can’t kill us. Not yet. Not here. Not so privately. So what are you gonna do?”

  Burke reached down to grab the nightstick he usually wore but had probably been confiscated with Greg’s gun. His hand came back empty. If he stood even a foot closer, Greg could have grabbed him and shaken some sense into him.

  “You will not silence us,” Greg said, chest heaving. “Not until our last breath. Look around, Burke. Open your eyes. This is wrong, and you know it.”

  Burke turned to Cliff Watson. “I’m done with this. Give me a gun!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cliff Watson shuffled out of the room.

  “If you go through with this,” Greg continued, glaring through the bars, “if this brutal, barbaric execution is televised for the whole country to see, it’ll start a full-scale retaliation like this country has never seen before. Human life will no longer be sacred. Blood will be spilt on both sides.” He looked Burke directly in the eye. “Don’t let that happen. Stop this. Now.”

  Oshan watched them, waiting, looking unsure. The others in the firing squad did, too.

  The president’s voice rose theatrically. “We will stamp out this resistance! Your children and your children’s children will hail your names as the ones who returned America to its purest form. Today we start that purification. Today we will remove the undesirable elements from among us.”

  “That’s our cue,” Oshan said. “Burke, we’re supposed to march the prisoners out now.”

  Cliff Watson returned, wheeling in the cart of laid-out rifles. He started handing them out. That seemed to break the tension. The firing squad refocused, lining up, now armed and ready.

  Somebody took Greg’s hand. Carrie. She’d given up helping McCormick and joined Greg by the front of the cell, preparing to march out with him. Her hand felt as cold as he did. She clung to him like he clung to her. They would stand together out there. They would fall together.

  Carrie.

  “Guess how she and I got inside today,” Greg said loudly. “Not a single card. Not a single paper. All I had to say was that I’d brought in more prisoners for the execution, and they waved us right through. Do you know a single name of the people behind me, Burke? Do you know their crimes? For all anybody knows, I picked up three random citizens on the street and brought them in today. But who cares, right? Rigsby has to have his demonstration, so grab whoever stands closest?”

  “Three?” Cliff said, turning.

  Greg didn’t even bother rubbing it in the guy’s face that three of their original group now wandered freely through the training facility.

  “As if that isn’t bad enough,” Greg said, voice rising, “the guy I was impersonating wanted to bring in teenagers. Children, Burke! To be shot on live television. And you wanna know what your buddy, Cliff, there said? Sure. Bring them on in. The more the merrier. Are you listening to me, Burke? Burke!”

  “She’s pregnant,” Carrie said, gesturing to a woman huddled on the floor. “That woman there is pregnant.”

  For a second time, Burke’s eyes betrayed him. He glanced back to see the woman and flinched when he spotted her bulging stomach.

  “This is wrong,” Greg said. “I know it, McCormick quit his job because he knew it, and you know it, too. So listen to your gut and do something while you can. Don’t let these people die.”

  “Burke,” Oshan said nervously, “The president is stalling out there. He’s just saying the same thing over and over, waiting for us to bring the prisoners out. We need to move.”

  “We will bring these traitors to justice!” the president roared, throwing a fist in the air. “United we stand!”

  The crowd chanted again, but the longer they chanted, the more obvious it became that it wasn’t the crowd outside at all. It was all broadcast garnishing.

  Burke locked eyes with Greg, hard as steel.

  Greg shook his head, voice lowering. “For all you know, the guns will be aimed at you next. America is better than this,” he said, borrowing a phrase Carrie had said months ago. “I know it is. This is not who we are.”

  Cliff Watson huffed. “I’ve heard enough! Release the prisoners now.”

  Burke shoved a finger in the guy’s face. “I’m in charge here. We don’t move until I say move.”

  “Greg,” Carrie said, nudging his arm.

  He turned to see Oliver working toward the front of the cell, holding Commander McCormick up by the waist.

  “Burke,” McCormick said weakly. “Oshan. All of you. We’ve worked together for a long time. You know I am a man of principles, and so are you.” He coughed and winced in pain. “Do the right thing, gentlemen. You’re the only ones who can now.”

  Burke closed his eyes for five full seconds.

  Then, with a huff, he shook his head and reached into his pocket.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  Extracting his keys, Burke unlocked the holding cell and motioned to the people inside. “Get out of here before I change my mind.”

  Greg jumped into action.

  He ushered Carrie out first.

  “Go,” he told her. “Down the hallway back the way we came. Show the others where to go. I’ll bring up the rear and make sure we get everyone out.”

  “No!” Cliff Watson yelled, running forward. “You can’t let them—”

  Sergeant Burke rammed the butt of his rifle against the back of his skull. The man dropped onto the floor with a thud, unconscious.

  The squad guys stared in shock. Greg just pushed the prisoners out of the cell faster. “Go, go!”

  “What are you doing, Burke?” Oshan yelled. “You can’t ignore the president! You can’t just let them go!”

  “Yes I can,” Burke said. “And so will you. We’re going to do what our commander trained us to do, Oshan. We’re going to do the right thing.” Burke turned back to Commander McCormick and came to a full salute. “Sir, what are our orders?”

  Startled, McCormick stopped in the cell door, leaning heavily against Oliver. Carrie had the group halfway out of sight, but she stopped as well, watching things unfold like Greg was.

  Slowly, one by one, the men in black, crisp, identical uniforms mirrored Burke and came to a full salute. In seconds, two dozen men in fancy black uniforms were saluting a man who some of them barely knew, all for the hope of something different—something better and less barbaric.

  Face pinched with pain, McCormick nodded. “That’s more like it, gentlemen. Now, shut those outside doors. Lock them down, and let’s move. We’re heading the other way, into the heart of things. We’ve got to stop Rigsby, and we don’t have much time. Burke, give Pierce a weapon.”

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nbsp; One of the men rammed the doors to the outside shut with a loud bang. Sergeant Burke raced over to Cliff’s rifle and tossed it to Greg.

  Greg caught the gun, freezing with indecision.

  Waving the last of the prisoners past her, Carrie watched Greg, waiting for him to follow.

  He gripped the rifle. “Hide them in the women’s bathroom,” he said. “I’ll come back and help when I…when we…” His voice faltered. He couldn’t finish. Their chances weren’t good. They were outnumbered a thousand to one. Carrie seemed to know it, too.

  Swallowing, she nodded. “I love you, Greg. Go.” Then she took off, running behind the others.

  When Greg turned back, Oliver Simmons blocked him. The guy still wore his orange prison tent, looking pale, tired, and pitifully weak. Hopefully he still had enough strength in him to do what had to be done.

  “Help Carrie get those people to safety,” Greg said. “In fact, take this gun. You’ll need it. Guards are everywhere.”

  Oliver pushed the rifle back at Greg. “You go with Carrie. I’m going with your commander. I need to see this through.”

  Burke, Oshan, and the others huddled around Commander McCormick as he gave quick instructions about where they were headed and how to reach Rigsby.

  Somebody pounded on the outside doors. “Hey, what’s going on?” a guy’s muffled voice called. “Open up!”

  “No,” Greg said to Oliver. “I already know McCormick’s plan. Plus, I’ve gotta help Isabel and Kearney—somethin’ must have gone wrong gettin’ the rebels inside. But Ashlee Lyon is waiting outside. She has Jamansky’s car, so just—”

  Oliver’s eyes popped open. “Ashlee’s here?”

  “Open up!” The pounding grew louder outside.

  Greg turned Oliver around. “Yes! It’s gonna be a bloodbath, but I’ve been trained to do this. Get out while you can. Get Carrie and the others safe.”

  “You’ve had a few weeks of training, Greg!” Oliver shot back, digging in his heels. “I’ve been Rigsby’s slave for years. Years! I know how to hunt people, and right now, nothing would make me happier than using the gun meant for Jamansky to right some wrongs. So go with—”

  An explosion blasted the hallway.