Dawn of the Unthinkable
Read Dawn of the Unthinkable Online
Authors: James Concannon
Tags: #nazi, #star trek, #united states, #proposal, #senator, #idea, #brookings institute, #david dornstein, #reordering society, #temple university
This book, some twenty plus years in the
making, would not have been possible without the support and
contribution of some very important people in my life.
First and foremost, Ms. Stacey Kucharik,
owner of Polished Print (
http://www.polishedprint.com/
), who made
corrections, suggestions and gave encouragement to bring the book
to life.
Matt Schmidt, my awesome nephew who designed
the cover (
http://mattschmidtart.com/
).
My family, who encourage me in all my life's
various adventures, including this one.
My friends, Scott, the two Steves and the
"Merts" who make my life fun and exciting.
The Montgomery County Amputee Support Group,
the Amputee Coalition, and Trish for a first edit.
And last, but not least, my doggies, who love
unconditionally
Thanks to all!
Dawn of the Unthinkable
Copyright (c) by James Concannon 2016
All rights reserved
The needs of the many outweigh the needs of
the few or the one – Mr. Spock, Starship Enterprise
This is the story of
one of the greatest events in the history of mankind.
When an enlightened group of colonists
landed in what would become the United States of America, they
thought of a different type of government from what they had been
living under. They created a method that would guarantee “liberty,
justice, and the pursuit of happiness for all.” Over two hundred
years later, many had no liberty, justice depended on how much you
could afford to spend, and the pursuit of survival was all that
most people could manage. Forget happiness. So society limped
along, the rich got richer, the poor got poorer, and it did not
seem that anything would ever change.
Was there one way of doing things that could
not only meet the needs of those people, but also surpass them?
Amazingly enough, there was, and it started where it had started
before. In Philadelphia.
Spring 1976
Nicholas Ryan walked into the Wawa near his
house in Northeast Philadelphia for his morning Diet Dr. Pepper and
Philadelphia Inquirer. The ubiquitous gas-and-go convenience store
could usually get him in and out within a few minutes, and he liked
that it required minimal effort to get what he needed. Just grab
your stuff, hand over a card, and be on your way.
He did what he had done a million times
before but was surprised when the clerk said, “Uh, sorry sir, this
card has been declined. Do you have another, or cash?”
Ryan, who had been reading the headlines of
the paper while waiting for the transaction to complete, looked up.
“What?”
The clerk said, in a louder voice, “Your
card, it’s been declined. Do you have another form of money?”
The tone in the clerk’s voice and the people
shuffling impatiently in line behind him snapped him immediately to
attention. Not having enough money to pay for his transaction was
the ultimate humiliation! He only carried one credit card with him
and sometimes forgot to change his cash from one pants pocket to
another.
Please, don’t let it be one of those days
, he
thought. He dug around in his pockets and sure enough, he had
forgotten.
“Damn,” he said as a little sweat broke out
under his arms. He shook his head and said, “Nope, sorry, don’t
have it. I wonder why the card was declined. Did it say?”
The line behind him was starting to grow and
the clerk did not have time to get into Ryan’s credit history. He
said with his fingers tapping the counter, “No, man, it just won’t
take it. You want to go home and get some money or something?” He
was giving him an out to help him save face but obviously wanting
to move the line along.
Ryan grabbed his stuff to put it back.
“Yeah, I’ll do that. Sorry.”
The people in line cast their eyes downward
or to the side as he passed. They shied away as if he had brought
in one of those nasty modern infections like “homeless,” “broke,”
or “street person.” He didn’t look that way, but without money to
pay for a $1.99 purchase, what else were they to assume? He himself
had cast that look, but this was the first time he had felt the
sting of those degrading looks himself.
He put the paper and the soda back while
nodding at some of the people in the line as if to say, “Hey, I
actually have the money to pay for this. I’m not one of
them
….” But the people would not meet his gaze, looked
through him or away, not wanting to risk catching his disease.
He slunk out of the store, still ashamed.
What the fuck happened with the card
? he wondered, trying to
remember if he had paid the bill. He was usually pretty good about
that, but maybe he had missed a few months and they had shut it
down. That was hard to imagine; usually the credit card companies
started screeching in a loud voice if you were like a minute late
on a payment. “Money,” he said ruefully, shaking his head.
He got into his Hyundai
Elantra
for
the short drive to his house. He got home and ambled up the walkway
to his new-construction twin, a house he was extremely proud of. He
had lived in older houses most of his life and had put together all
the small pots of money he had in order to afford this home. It had
many airy windows and was a bright and cheery place on a cul-de-sac
street: the modern equivalent of an urban Valhalla. He opened the
door and heard a strange noise. Was that his
wife…
whimpering?
He walked a few steps into the kitchen and
saw a scene that almost made his sphincter open up.
He saw his wife, Donna, first. Her normally
pretty hair was mussed, and she had blood leaking from a cut over
her eye. His jaw slacked open as he took in the rest of the
damage—scrapes on her face, bruises on her arms, her chest heaving
up and down in controlled terror. His gaze shifted quickly from her
back to the other occupants of the tiny kitchen. If he was scared
before, he quickly joined her in her horror as he saw what she had
been looking at.
Standing by the kitchen counter was a large
Hispanic male who was bald with a goatee. He had many homemade tats
up and down his arms, chest, and neck. He smelled of weed and
alcohol, but he was beyond that. His eyes were glazed and full of
rage and hatred. He was dressed in biker’s colors and would have
been frightening even if you had met him in church. But in this
context, having apparently beaten his wife, it was practically
beyond comprehension. The worst thing,
the absolute worst
thing
, was he had their baby, William, in his arms. And he had
William’s arm pushed down in the blender that was full of some goop
Donna was probably making for him. William was screaming and
squirming, knowing that this man was not his people, was scaring
him, and had hurt his mom. And the man’s finger was poised over the
“Frappe” button, ready to turn his son’s arm to paste.
“Wait! What do you want?” Ryan yelled at the
man, simultaneously holding Donna back, as she lunged at him,
trying to reclaim her baby,
her life,
from the horrific
man.
The sound of Ryan’s voice made the man
pause, and he seemed to search his cooked brain for an answer. This
gave Ryan a second to grab the coffee pot unnoticed behind him. He
would have just one shot. But he would need a distraction.
“The money! Gimme all your goddamned money!”
the crook screamed, apparently remembering what he had come
for.
Ryan thought quickly. “Do you mean the money
in the living room or upstairs?” he asked, pointing to the left
while tightening his grip on the pot handle.
The man’s bloodshot eyes instinctively
followed the pointing finger. He looked eagerly, as if expecting to
see piles of cash that he had missed before.
Ryan was already starting his swing as he
released Donna and took a step toward the man. He was aiming for
the top of the man’s head, but in his adrenalized state, he forgot
to figure in his own height. As he came from behind his back
swinging straight overhand, the pot hit the ceiling and shattered
into a million Pyrex pieces. They were all showered in jagged
glass.
This brought the Horror Man back to
attention and with Donna lunging at him, he hit the blender button.
The machine lurched instantly to life with a full load of baby arm
and creamed bananas and strawberries and started spewing pink slop
over the top. Donna, fearing the mess was William’s arm, jumped
across the room, and grabbed the only William-skin close to her,
his other arm. She jerked it with all her might, fearing that she
would tear it off, but surprisingly, the man was letting go.
Ryan was regaining his composure after
missing his chance to hit the guy with the pot. He still had the
pot handle in his hand, and it had two screws sticking out where it
had attached to the glass. He had never stabbed anyone with a pot
handle, had never actually stabbed anyone at all, but this was not
an ordinary day. He jabbed his hand straight out and drove the
screws straight into the man’s eyes, fitting perfectly around his
nose. This caused him to release the baby to Donna’s grasp and fall
screaming to the floor. Ryan kicked him a few times for good
measure, but the guy was out of commission. He was in severe pain.
Ryan grabbed Donna, who was trying to comfort the still-howling
baby, and held her tightly.
Neither of them noticed the Horror Man
move.
The intruder moaned and Ryan whipped his
gaze away from his wife and son. One of the man’s hands went to his
face, grasping at the handle still lodged in his eyes. The other
hand held a silver semi-automatic handgun, and it was aimed roughly
in the direction of the little family.
He couldn’t see, but he could pull a
trigger. His first shot went wide and shattered the china dish that
was a wedding gift from Ryan’s grandmother. The next four went into
the walls leaving holes and little puffs of sheetrock dust. The
sound was deafening in the small kitchen, and the acrid smell of
gunpowder filled Ryan’s nose. Fear almost paralyzed him, but he
realized he had to do something now or this monster was going to
kill them all.
He pushed Donna, who was crushing Billy to
her chest, toward the door. He shoved her so hard she lost her
balance and almost fell, but she got her feet moving toward the
safety of outside. Nick dove on top of the Horror Man, reaching for
the gun, trying to get it away from him.