The sad truth of human history was that democracies did not end in an instant, as is always the case with any brave endeavor they die a thousand deaths before the final fall. Like beaches it erodes until there is nothing left. Yet until the day people discover themselves standing upon a rocky shore they will tell you it has only narrowed with the tide. That the death of our own republic would have been any different was a wonderfully naive delusion Michael Collins told himself from inside the transport van.
There was a dull contemptable ache in his back from where the shackles had him doubled over so that his head hung between his knees and his shoulders folded in towards his chest to keep him in check.
“Stopping in.” Crackled Carl’s radio. Michael, or Mike to his friends, raised an eyebrow at the man who had condemned him to this fate.
With a sigh Carl cocked his head down at Mike. “Look everyone gets a twenty-minute layover at the Old Post Office.”
“Well that’s nice.” Mike spat through gritted teeth.
“Well technically this is a postal truck, not like anyone is particularly thrilled about the idea of subversives being drive through the heart of DC.” Carl slammed a fist into the side of the metal truck to make his point.
“You act like it’s a fucking prison.”
Carl chuckled, “Kid it’s a prison to those confined there and those passing through, to everyone else it’s just another place.”
Mike looked away as much as his bound form was able. One of the ugly secrets of any regime is what happens to those that aren’t bustled to prisons or fled into exile. The Old Post Office served the same purpose that fine hotels or apartment’s had served in Stalin’s Russia. Considered at one time to be one of the nicest hotel’s in the city, it was now one of the nicest prisons in the world. Its guests, no longer able to check out were kept under permanent stay but executive mandate. Inside they were afforded all the luxury the hotel had to offer, one step beyond the old bronze frame doors though was a death sentence. The guards who patrolled the perimeter would have carried out the execution without a moment’s hesitation.
The truck lurched to a halt. “Sorry kid it’s the end of the road. You don’t get a cushy exile apartment.” Carl pulled a pistol from its holster inside his jacket.
“Sort of figured that was the case but you know the most annoying part about this?”
“What’s that?” Carl asked.
“That of all the interviews I did, of all the intelligence my friends gathered, of all the people we turned…this was still the best fucking way in here.” Mike said then braced himself against the frame of the truck.
“What?” Carl said in the half breath it took for the truck to shake violently throwing him from his seat into the foot well.
Mike launched from the hard metal chair, his shackles falling to the floor with an electric click. He threw himself into Carl, his knee compressing his chest against the floor. His hand already fixed around his throat. “See here was the thing, we could do whatever we wanted, we just couldn’t get into the regimes sick little bastille. “Then we realized, all we needed was for one of you idiots to give us the code. See Mr. Pearse and Mr. Plunkett…you know them right? They had the brilliant idea to just get one of you idiots to use your geotag to open the gates for us.”
“Traitor.” Carl growled. He kicked hard then yelped as Mike’s knee dug further into his back.
“No, I am not a traitor. See I’m not the one who started ripping people from their homes or deporting people that didn’t believe what I believed or being so damn scared of everything that I couldn’t help but be a pathetic vengeful prick.”
“You aren’t a real America! You’re a damn progressive extremist.” Carl bucked again.
“Nah I am just a guy who actually has the courage of his convictions.” Mike slid Carl’s knife slowly under its owner’s rib cage till he felt the top pierce the heart. He watches his executioner’s eyes go wide, the color fading from his face.
There was a double knock at the back door and without removing the blade Mike stomped his foot twice. The door was thrown open to reveal a group of men dressed in suits with a varied assortment of weapons. Far from an army they stood at barely over two dozen bodies.
“Okay Mike, time to get to work. We’ve got 6 hours till Europe is awake and another 5 till the East Coast pipes up. So let’s go.”
“We can count on the news cycle to cover it but we need to hit the social media and blog networks to actually make this matter.” Mike said dropping from the truck.
“Holding it from Sunday to Sunday will be next too impossible.”
“We’ll hold it. That’s the thing about fundamentalists and their Holy Days, no matter what they say they always have a hangover.” Michael said leading the narrow group into the buildings loading dock.
Hoick: to move or pull abruptly, yank
Author’s Note: Day 17 of 365. This gritty potential future was one I wanted to look into a little more after my initial post HERE. This story has the goal of asking us to determine where our allegiances lie, in our nation or in the ideals our nation represents. Something particularly poignant with the authoritarian notes seen during this election. While I have been enjoying looking at this from Michael Collin’s point of view, I think I may pull back to examine it from other perspectives if I do another story in this universe. Feedback and comments are always welcome.
The Flask/Pen 