Angels Mark (The Serena Wilcox Mysteries Dystopian Thriller Trilogy) (4 page)

But when it came to honest conviction, Paul suspected that John might actually believe a little more of what he was saying, a little more. Williams was a dangerous hothead though, and Paul knew that he was better off working a different angle to get himself onto Capitol Hill, the new Capitol Hill. No matter, the doors were flung wide open for Paul, most unexpectedly. He had been waiting all his life for such an opportunity to come knocking, and here it was, an opportunity he created for himself.

From this moment on, the gap between himself and the heels of all the government insiders was shrinking. Paul, with his pretty-boy good looks, was an easy fit for the political scene. He was already well on his way to being an insider. All he needed was the right door to open, and he had found one. What he never expected was for his chosen doorkeeper to be tapped to be one of the first Presidents of the newly divided, formerly known as, United States of America.

4

President Ann Kinji tucked her smooth shiny locks behind her ears.
Her beautiful hair, cut in a bob, was the envy of middle class American women. Salons received many requests for what became known as “The Kinji”: a smart sleek bob, which often included coloring the hair to match Kinji’s onyx shade. The woman who was now an international icon was little-known prior to the Big War. It was crazy to go from obscurity to having a hair style named after her.

Beyond lack of celebrity status, Kinji’s work for the previous administration, the last administration of what was once The United States of America, had done little to prepare her. Of course, how could anyone prepare to be one of the first Presidents of the nation now referred to as “The States of America”?
Everything’s pretty much the same – just add a second president -- and life moves on. And if you believe that, I have some nuclear wasteland to sell you.

Kinji snapped herself out of her brooding and studied her desk. It was tidy, that was for sure. She had so many assistants fussing over it that there wasn’t a thing out of place. There were no personal items on it yet, not a single framed picture or even a coffee mug. Kinji couldn’t bring herself to move in. It didn’t feel real, and she wasn’t sure if she was living a dream or a nightmare. She was insane if she wanted this responsibility, this crushing burden of being a pioneer in a newly divided nation.
And the first female President besides?
And
Japanese? Well, the days ahead were going to be interesting.

“President Kinji?” Breyana Robertson, a strawberry blonde 20-something in a purple pants suit, rapped gently at her open door.

“Yes?” Kinji locked eyes with
Breyana. It was trademark Kinji: unflinching directness that intimidated most people, but Breyana was a confident young woman and returned Kinji’s gaze unwaveringly. Breyana had nothing but open admiration, respect, and hopeful aspiration to friendship.

“Paul Tracy is here to see you.”

“Oh yes, send him in, please.”

Paul waltzed into the room as if his steps had been choreographed, and as often as he’d played this moment in his head, they were. “President Kinji, you look so natural in this office, in front of that seal.”

The Democratic Union seal depicted an eagle with an olive branch in its beak. The eagle was tinted a pale blue. The Liberty Union seal, behind President John William’s desk, was identical in design, with the only difference being the color tint of the eagle, a reddish pink hue.

“Thank you, Paul. We’ve both put on a lot of mileage since the Warsaw days, good old Warren Academy. I hear you are going places yourself.”

“It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you. You’ve heard right: I’ve been hitting the pavement to get those bills signed. I’m proud to claim my contribution to the New Liberals.”

“Democratic Union.
Let’s drop the polarizing label.”

“Democratic Union, then.”

“Is there something you want, Paul? I am due for a press conference in five minutes.”

“I would like a position in your cabinet.”

Kinji laughed. “Finally, somebody around here who lays it on the table.”

“You know me, Ann.” Paul stared into her dark eyes, leaning forward with both of his palms on her desk.

“President Kinji. Sorry, Paul, I don’t do casual. No friends, no favors. If I consider this, it will be based on what you can do for my administration, period.”

Paul backed away, holding his hands up. “Fair enough, Madam President. I left a package with Miss Robertson that I think will interest you. When you see what I have to offer, I’m sure I’ll be hearing from you.”

Clyde was rugged without the handsome: oily reddish-grey hair that was sparse on top of his head, but long and stringy everywhere else; eyes set too far apart, giving him a wall-eyed look; a pitted face with a nose that snorted a long draw of mucus every few minutes.

“Morning!” he bellowed, in a deep voice that begged to be cleared of phlegm.

The sanctuary returned the greeting with a deadpan chant-like chorus of “Morning.”

“You don’t get Internet, and you get limited TV – just what the old rabbit ears pick up. You rely on us to keep you informed. That’s why it’s so important that all of you be here. Now I’ll turn it over to Paul Tracy.”

Paul was a man of frat-boy good looks. He was tall and lean, with thick wavy brown hair and perfect teeth – a refreshing contrast from Clyde. People were always surprised when they learned that the two men were brothers.

“Thank you for your faithfulness, and a warm welcome to the newcomers. Consider this your welcome wagon. You got your packet, and should have your new names.” Paul paused while the tell-tale rustle of papers indicated that people were opening their envelopes to look.

Serena turned to Tom, “Only our last names, right? We figured that we would have to. We don’t have to change our first names too, do we?”

Tom opened the packet. “They strongly suggested we change our names completely, but agreed to let us do only our last names.”

“Good! What is our new last name?

“Meadows.”

“Meadows?”

“You like it?”

“I guess so. Did you pick it, or did he?”

“He had a list. I thought it was the best one.”

“Okay, I don’t care. We’ll get used to it.”

“Right, that’s what I thought.”

“What else did he say?”

“We can’t communicate with people who knew us when we were the Bridge family. I said okay, but I know we’re not going to let our family and friends think we’re dead forever.”

“What does it matter, now that Mom is gone?”

Tom looked at her with his most sincere expression of sympathy and squeezed her hand. “She’s not the only person who cared about you.”

Serena didn’t answer. The grief was only six months old. She was still struggling to hold herself together. Being her mother’s caretaker had given her too many intimate moments with her. It would take time to heal, which was what she told herself whenever she felt like the rain would fall forever.

“As soon as things happen, we’ll contact everybody, but in the meantime, I think we should do whatever the off-grid people want us to do.”

“Exactly, I agree. What if we did all this and there was no reason to do it, and we’re stuck in hiding because we burnt down our own house? How many laws have we broken now? I feel like such a criminal.”

“I don’t think anything else was illegal, just the arson.”

Tom and Serena stared at each other and laughed at the absurdity, and the shock from a word like “arson” being owned by either of them.

“You should be used to it. You had to have straddled some legal lines when I met you,” said Tom.

“Serena Wilcox, private detective? It’s been so long since I’ve been that person. I’m Serena Bridges now. No, I take that back. Serena Meadows.” Serena looked like she had tasted something sour.

“Maybe it’s time you found her again.”

“My ‘mom’ and ‘wife’ self doesn’t measure up?”

“I just mean we could use a detective. We didn’t learn much about this Paul guy, except that he’s operating out of Minneapolis.” He studied his wife’s face and added, “Getting your old spunk back wouldn’t hurt.”

The crowd settled down and they directed their eyes obediently toward the pulpit, where Paul was gearing up for a sermon. His voice was smooth and steady, hypnotic in delivery. His eyes locked personally into each and every pair of eyes staring back at him. His audience was as captive as a warren of rabbits listening to a coyote sounding off in the distance.

They say we need the Identity Chip. What is this chip but a high-tech horror? It was the first thing I thought of when there was talk about inserting tracking chips under babies’ skin so that we can solve our missing children problems. Everyone would be assigned a unique computer code – a number. You get it on the forehead or the hand. It assigns you a number, a number! Doesn’t that sound familiar? Isn’t that just like the Bible foretold would happen? Is this not the number of The Beast?

The chip is like a bar code. Everyone’s ID will be on it, including bank routing info. No more credit cards, cash, etc. All is instant transfer. Everything digital, no need for hardcopy IDs, no more checkbooks or credit cards – just scan the forehead or back of hand. They are already doing it. Remember that story about the rich people who were too lazy to bother getting out a credit card at their favorite club, so they got a chip in their hand that the bartender scans while they sit there enjoying their drinks? Buying and selling will be through this number. Anyone read the book of Revelations? It’s all right there. This is prophesy, people!

Hard to believe anyone would get the number? Think that even people who aren’t religious would be a little spooked by this? Well it’s also hard to believe that the government would be focusing on this chip when we’ve just been bombed by nuclear warheads! No one’s going to want to have a tracking device inside them, but they’ll do it. People will rush to do anything if they think they’ll be safe. And people believe in their government.

These are like pet locator chips, but for people, so the government can track us like animals. Or, as they put it, anyone on the terrorist watch list. And missing people or criminals. They give it a good sell. How to identify bodies and missing persons is always one of the first things a government does when there is a disaster. Think of earthquakes. Special interest groups who want that chip bill passed can slide it under the radar during this emergency.

Think it sounds far-fetched? Think that the President wouldn’t be getting some obscure bill passed after we just go bombed? Think again. It’s happening people. You know it is. And that’s why you’re all here.

Senator Birmingham has urged the President to immediately sign the Identity Chip bill as an emergency measure to handle the overwhelming task of identifying missing persons. Says our senator, “While the measure will not aid in the recovery efforts now underway, the measure could benefit any future national crises.”

Think, people. The ‘Beast’ from the Bible is a computer, not a person. The chip, the number, will soon be the only way to pay for things, and it tracks every purchase you make. That’s how they can keep track of people buying things that are a red flag for terrorism and other criminal intentions, and it’s how they can track you! Us!

Economists say there will be no more problems with insufficient funds – important when the economy falls out. It all sounds logical, logical enough that a lot of people will line up voluntarily to get the chip. I am thinking that after today, it will be like the McCarthy era, and everyone will be paranoid about who everyone is. Our citizenship and other basic info, arrest record, anything, can be added to that chip. People will want this. They will think that they are protecting themselves.

And I mention ‘the President’ so casually. We are under the regime of not one, but two presidents, who want this chip. If you disagree with President John Williams and hope to jump a couple states over to the West to live under President Kinji, whatever farce her liberal administration is, well, you’ve got a rude awakening. They both want the chip. In fact, she wants it more than Williams does. This chip is the beginning of communism.

The weight of hearing Paul’s right-winged speech of paranoid delusion was starting to press down upon them and both were suddenly very tired, so very tired. What was the most fatiguing of all was the fact that Tom and Serena shared this man’s delusion. For it was the fear of getting this Identity Chip, this fear most of all of allowing such a chip to be inserted into their precious children, was the catalyst for their fiery exodus from life as normal upstanding citizens and into this land of crazy people. But these were crazy times.

During the next break between speeches, Serena said to Tom, “Five years since the bombings. And it’s been two since the restructuring. I still can’t get used to Chicago being the nation’s capital. And with Minneapolis the new ‘wall street’, it’s like the whole country has moved over to the left.”

“The left?”

“To the left of the map, like if you were looking at it.”

“You mean ‘West’?”

“Okay, then, West.”

“And East – we are moved in on both sides.”

“With California gone, we have Denver as the ‘new Hollywood’. It’s hard to believe all of this has happened. Just a few years ago, life was normal, despite recessionary times.”

“It’s surprising so few actors died. Not too many were in California when they got hit.”

“Makes you wonder if the rich and famous got a heads-up that the rest of the population didn’t.”

“It’s possible.”

“Our government knew. Politicians were out of D.C. and government buildings and military installations were evacuated.”

“Nothing’s been proven about that,” Tom cautioned. He feared that they were becoming as crazy as the off-grid people.

“No, but it’s not like we can’t figure it out. How else did so many people get out in time? We didn’t lose any senators, and no Generals.”