Revolution (6 page)

    In this area, people tried to stay behind locked doors as much as possible. Usually, the area residents only ventured outside to walk, or if they were lucky, drive their ground car to or from work. No one owned air-cars in this area. Shopping was often done in Central City during the journey home from work in order to cut down on the amount of time spent traveling the streets.

    Peter remembered when there were stores in Inner City. There were no stores now. They ceased to be profitable as their security costs escalated year after year. Most Inner City shoppers sprung for an anti-grav cab, which would take them from the front door of a grocery store in Central City to the door of their apartment building in Inner City. People were often willing to pay fifty dollars for a cab ride to ensure they didn’t lose a hundred dollars worth of groceries.

    “Hey, do you guys hear something?” Billy asked, as they walked through a quiet neighborhood where the only other pedestrians were small groups walking home from work.

    “I hear people walking around and talking,” Peter replied, glancing around at the pedestrians walking a safe distance from each other as they headed home.

    “No, not around here. In the distance. Listen,” Billy said, stopping in his tracks and cocking his ear like a hunting dog on the trail of a fox. “You hear it?”

    “Actually, I do. It’s coming from the next neighborhood. It sounds like a mob moving down the street toward us,” Peter said, stopping beside Billy on the sidewalk.

    “What would the gangs be doing on a main road like this?” Henry asked, standing beside them and moving his right hand closer to his shoulder-holster. “There’s always the risk of running into a police patrol.”

    “Look up ahead,” Billy said, gesturing to a row of faint glowing orange lights hovering on the distant street horizon like a swarm of fireflies.

     “I don’t like the look of this at all,” Henry said.     

    He checked to make sure his automatic pistol was tucked firmly into the shoulder-holster beneath his jacket. Peter clutched the handle of the old thirty-eight pistol hidden in his right pants pocket. The other people walking the street also stopped when they saw the flickering orange lights on the street horizon moving toward them. The murmuring of a distant crowd of voices could be heard growing steadily louder.

    “Should we turn back?” Billy asked, pulling out a cigarette and lighting up.

    “It’s definitely a mob of people. Carrying torches,” Henry observed. “You guys didn’t offend anyone in the neighborhood who would carry a grudge this far, did you? That’s a pretty big lynch mob.

    “No, look, they’re carrying something beside the torches. They look like signs or something,” Peter said, straining his eyes.

    “You’ve got to be kidding me. A demonstration? Here in the slums? What good is that going to do?” Henry asked when he realized they were a large crowd of demonstrators advancing toward them in the street carrying torches and placards.

    “I haven’t seen anything like this in years,” Peter said. “What do they hope to accomplish?”

    Some of the signs became visible in the distance.
Bring Back the Constitution
and
Democracy,
Not Plutocracy
were inscribed on some of them. Peter saw a large sign, which read
Impeach President Frump
on it. The sign also contained a picture of the current U.S. president, Ronald E. Frump, with a red mark slashed across his face.

    “I don’t believe it. It’s an actual protest demonstration. Here in Inner City,” Henry said with awe in his voice.

    Peter glanced around and saw the other people on the sidewalks waiting for the crowd of marchers like rows of spectators waiting for a parade. A nearby group even broke the general rule of non-interaction and shouted over to him.

    “Hey, do you know what’s going on?”

    Peter shook his head while Henry answered, “I have no idea, pal. I just hope they’re peaceful.”

    As the crowd of protesters continued to advance, more details became evident. Peter could now read the smaller signs the protesters were carrying as well as the large ones. Peter saw the phrase
Families Need a Living Wage
on one and
All Children Need
an Education
on another.

    “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many people on the street at once,” Billy said, sucking nervously on a cigarette while gawking at the advancing mob. “At least not since the Riots of ’52 and I only saw those on TV.”

    “I have to agree with you, Billy. It’s very unusual,” Henry said as the vanguard of the protesters approached their position.

    The protesters walked side-by-side, taking up three-and-a-half lanes of the four-lane street. Peter could clearly hear their shouts above the murmuring of the spectators on the sidewalks.

    “Join us! Help us to fight for freedom!” a voice shouted from the crowd.

    “I’m surprised this ain’t on the news,” Billy commented as the protesters began walking past them in the street shouting slogans.

    “Come with us, brothers! Unite for a common goal!” one of the demonstrators yelled as she walked by.

    “These people are crazy,” Henry said, rolling his eyes.

    “You got that right, Henry,” Billy agreed, shaking his head. “Why aren’t they all home watch’n TV like they’re supposed to be.”

    “Hey, guys, look who’s leading the parade!” Henry shouted, pointing to a tall black man in his early thirties striding confidently at the center of the front line of protesters.

    “No way!” Billy said, as he spotted the tall, well-dressed figure at the front of the group. “It’s that famous civil rights activist from TV! What’s his name again? Oh yeah, Martin Prince.”

    “Martin Prince is leading the protesters!” Henry exclaimed. “Can you believe that, Peter? Someone famous is leading this motley group!”

    “Yeah, it’s unbelievable,” Peter replied, distractedly.

    He became silent as the demonstrators continued to march by. Peter had not seen anything like this since he was a teenager watching the History Channel on TV. He remembered watching similar protests where people marched against war and discrimination in the last century. He wasn’t sure, but he guessed it was some time during the 1950’s when the demonstrations occurred. Anyway, computers were his specialty, not history.

    Peter was a highly paid computer programmer before the Depression of 2049 hit. Back then, he had a life. He had a top-of-the-line ground vehicle, a nice apartment in Central City, a beautiful fiancée. Now, they were all gone. The wages he earned as a forklift operator barely allowed him to pay the rent in a dilapidated tenement apartment in Inner City. During his first week in his new apartment, his car had been stolen. He tried to file a police report, but the cops said it wasn’t worth their time to investigate it. It didn’t take long for his fiancée to leave him after that.

    During his first year as a forklift operator, his parents became sick. They were also laid off during the same Depression that claimed his job. They had no health insurance, so they couldn’t afford to go to a doctor or hospital. Peter lived on the streets for several weeks and gave most of his paycheck to his parents to pay for their myriad doctor’s visits and expensive medication. It still wasn’t enough to cover all their medical expenses. They couldn’t afford the best treatment, so they didn’t make it.

    Peter had been devastated. He went into a deep depression and even thought about suicide. That’s when he met Henry and Billy at work. They were the ones who showed him that life was still worth living despite losing everything. If he had never met them, he didn’t know what would have happened to him.   

Chapter 6

Suicide Strike

It was no problem getting through the capitol city’s outer defenses for a well-known Senator from New York. The guards simply recognized her at all the checkpoints and let her and her bodyguard through. When computer fingerprint analysis was also needed, the pseudo-Senator’s surgically altered prints did the job just as well as the real thing. After making it safely through a gauntlet of security checkpoints at the harbor docks, Cassandra Watson and her bodyguard passed through a tunnel under the massive steel wall surrounding the city. They exited the underground corridor to a parking lot where a black stretch limousine hovered by the street waiting for them.

    It was almost 5 o’clock in the evening when the anti-grav limousine dropped off Watson and Fahey at one of the most expensive hotels on the island. The rebel operatives were not hungry because they had already eaten an exquisite meal aboard the captured yacht. However, to keep up appearances, they visited the hotel’s sumptuous five-star restaurant and ordered light meals. They picked at their food and pretended to enjoy it for about twenty minutes before deciding to abandon the façade.

    Cassandra and Nick checked into separate suites and spent the early evening trying to relax in their luxurious accommodations. They didn’t make contact due to their knowledge of hidden video surveillance cameras placed in every building in the capitol city. The rumor was there was a security surveillance room for every ordinary room on the island. Senators and bodyguards didn’t fraternize, so they didn’t want to do anything that would draw attention. Watson spent an hour trying to relax in her luxury suite’s Jacuzzi, while Fahey spent his free time in his room doing stretching exercises, sit-ups, and push-ups.

    An anti-grav limousine picked up the Senator and her bodyguard at 7 PM for the Senator’s 7:30 meeting with the President’s Chief of Staff at the White House. The limo arrived at the White House at 7:10 PM. A ring of security guards wearing body armor surrounded Watson and Fahey, like a pack of wolves, as they stepped out of the passenger compartment.

    “Good evening, Senator,” a middle aged guard said, cheerfully, as he helped her out of the compartment.

    The guards escorted them through a gate with a small guardhouse on either side of it manned by security personnel with machine guns. They walked down a long, narrow path, which traveled along the edge of the White House lawn, until they reached a side entrance. The guards stood outside in the cold night air while the Senator and her bodyguard entered a spacious lobby decorated with antique furnishings.

    Watson took in the sight of ornate gold chandeliers suspended from the ceiling as they walked toward a desk at the far side of the lobby. It was like a reception desk found at any expensive hotel. They were not surprised to find a pair of suited guards sitting there to greet them as they approached.

    “Hello, Senator Keating. The Chief of Staff is ready to see you in his office,” one of the guards said as he pressed a switch on his security console and a large metal door next to the desk swung open.

    “I’m sorry, sir, but you’ll have to wait in the lobby until she returns,” the other guard said as he stood from his cushioned seat and pointed to the Senator’s bodyguard.
“
You’re welcome to wait over there until she returns,” he added, pointing to a row of comfortable-looking antique couches lined up along the wall.

   
“Sure, I know the drill,” Fahey said, smiling and taking a seat on one of the couches.

    The first guard scrutinized the Senator’s face and checked it against a picture of her on his computer screen as she walked toward the doorway. Cassandra passed through a metal detector and entered a long corridor with faded Civil War paintings depicting graphic scenes of battle on the walls. A video surveillance camera tracked her movement. As she walked, she glanced at the paintings of blue and gray uniformed men firing ancient rifles and cannons at each other.

    Watson reached an intersection with another wider corridor and took a right toward the Chief of Staff’s office. She knew that her every movement was being monitored by guards in hidden security rooms. This realization did not help her to relax as she approached the office. The door was open and she found the Chief of Staff sitting at his desk.

    “Good afternoon, Senator. I trust you’ve had a pleasant stay in the capitol so far?” the short, gray-haired, middle-aged man asked as he stood and walked toward her with an outstretched hand.

    The pseudo-Senator shut the door tactfully and walked toward the Chief of Staff. She smiled, shook his hand, and sat down in an antique chair on the side of the desk closest to the door. The Chief of Staff returned to his black-leather, high-backed office chair on the other side of the desk. He folded his hands on the desk and smiled at Cassandra.

    “So what can I do for you today, Senator?”

    “Oh, just the usual,” Cassandra replied, smiling, as she reached into her black leather purse.

    Her hand came out of the purse holding a black plastic rectangle, which resembled one of the old electric stun guns of the late twentieth century. Cassandra pressed a switch on the side of the device and fired a plastic needle into the man’s neck before his face could register surprise. The Chief of Staff grasped at the five-inch dart penetrating his throat. He tried to use his hands to block a miniature geyser of blood spurting from his neck. Blood oozed through his fingers like red syrup as he tried to speak and all that came out was a sickening gurgle. A blood pool formed on the edge of the desk and dripped over the side like a spilled glass of wine.