Nation Divided Read online

  NATION DIVIDED

  DREW AVERA

  DREW AVERA

  All rights reserved by Drew Avera 2017

  www.drewavera.com

  Created with Vellum

  CONTENTS

  Part I

  1. Chaplain Harris

  2. James Kyle

  3. President Fulton

  4. Chaplain Harris

  5. James Kyle

  6. Stephen O’Neil

  7. Travis Williams

  8. Peter Drake

  9. Chaplain Harris

  10. Peter Drake

  11. Stephen O’Neil

  12. Sydney Tyler

  13. Henry Burke

  14. Peter Drake

  15. Stephen O’Neil

  16. President Fulton

  17. Sydney Tyler

  18. Peter Drake

  19. Stephen O’Neil

  20. Peter Drake

  21. President Fulton

  22. Sydney Tyler

  23. Travis Williams

  24. Henry Burke

  25. President Fulton

  26. Sydney Tyler

  27. Peter Drake

  28. Sydney Tyler

  29. Sydney Tyler

  30. Stephen O’Neil

  31. Prime Minister Leonard

  32. Prime Minister Leonard

  Part II

  33. Caleb Fulton

  34. Peter Drake

  35. Henry Burke

  36. President Harrison

  37. General Lettum

  38. General Lettum

  39. Sydney Tyler

  40. Peter Drake

  41. Stephen O’Neil

  42. Caleb Fulton

  43. Sydney Tyler

  44. Peter Drake

  45. Clive Williams

  46. Peter Drake

  47. Henry Burke

  48. Peter Drake

  49. Caleb Fulton

  50. Peter Drake

  51. President Harrison

  52. Sydney Tyler

  53. Clive Williams

  Part III

  54. Bradley Wilcox

  55. General Lettum

  56. Sydney Tyler

  57. Peter Drake

  58. Caleb Fulton

  59. Prime Minister Leonard

  60. David Calloway

  61. General Lettum

  62. Sydney Tyler

  63. Peter Drake

  64. David Calloway

  65. Caleb Fulton

  66. President Harrison

  67. Peter Drake

  68. General Lettum

  69. Sydney Tyler

  70. General Lettum

  71. President Harrison

  72. Peter Drake

  73. Sydney Tyler

  74. Caleb Fulton

  About the Author

  PART I

  1

  CHAPLAIN HARRIS

  The view from the heavens must have been a sight to behold. Tiny, microbiological organisms, every, last one of them destined for death and to be picked apart piece by piece. A soul could take solace in the fact that the end of one life feeds another, the savory taste of relinquished existence feasted upon by another.

  The city below would never sleep again. The machinations of its soulless existence were decaying, every bit of it, yet it reveled in its loss. "These were the pains of triumph," they would say if the streets paved in blood could speak. Chicago had always borne its scars visibly, and tonight would be no different; perhaps that was the saddest truth of the evening.

  If you listened intently enough, you could hear them whispering softly, the wind beating the breath from the city's collective lungs. Where is God in loss? Where is the devil too? As a stranger amid the wretched despair of mankind, I could find neither at the moment. The chilling thought of loneliness was not welcomed in my mind, nor would it ever be. I gripped the crucifix that dangled from my neck and felt the warmth of the metal where it had rested against my skin before. A small amount of condensation was present from the profuse humidity of this dark summer night.

  "Another massacre, another dollar," the woman beside me said as I tried to withstand the stench of rot already forming on the crowd of the dead. Her blond hair hung loosely around her face, and her makeup was worn almost completely from her face. Rings of sweat extended from her neck and collected in the cloth of her t-shirt as the dim streetlights brought my attention to her. She was a cold woman, but weren't we all now?

  "Could you perhaps be a bit more respectful to the dead?" I asked.

  If looks could kill, I would be one of the many who lay fallen here this evening.

  The woman moved about the street, stepping over limbs and pools of blood as the shadows swallowed her form into its dark recesses. Before long, she was out of sight and I was left once again in quiet solitude.

  I looked up to black canvas above us, the all-seeing mirror of war and peace. What marvels must it have witnessed in history, before the fall of civilization, before the loss of faith? I could not fathom a world without a God, but I could not fathom a God who stood idle as creation plummeted deeper into discord. The balance of power was in favor of the indignant now. Society wallowed in its serenely vile swamp.

  Where has our hope run to? If not outside of us, then should it not be within? Alas, inside was an even darker form of discontent.

  I finally took a step forward, cross in hand and my heart attempting to leap from my chest. I wished that I had the strength to pray over the dead, but I barely had the strength inside me to stand. This was our lot in life now, to be raptured of life and tossed aside like animals?

  A spotlight hovered over me, driven by an aerial vehicle designed by a military disconnected from the people it was supposed to serve. The brightness was blinding like the sun, but it created little comfort. Darkness ruled the night regardless of what illumination we might provide for ourselves.

  "Citizens of the American Union, all civilians are required to return home. Mandatory curfews are in place for both your protection and ours. Failure to comply will result in a military tribunal; conviction will result in death. Executive Order four-six-nine declares this area to be under martial law. The military will now serve as a law enforcement entity. Failure to comply will be a declaration of war." The craft above played the recorded message over loudspeakers as a few unsuspecting people jumped, startled by the aggressive message and scattered like roaches, scampering about their own pathetic existences and leaving me to toil in my own. I envied them in a way. A man of my position was not without scars.

  Another step over a large pool of blood brought me to the first child. Innocence was sacrificed for politics and it caused deep-seated rage to fill me once again. I thought I would be able to separate emotion from my work by now, but even five years in, this job had done little to tame my anger. I swallowed hard as I knelt to close the eyelids of the child as it stared lifelessly at me. They say the eyes are windows to the soul, I wondered if that was how the soul escaped its vessel.

  More boots on the ground flooded the street as soldiers prepared the bodies for transport while I moved about silently. The uniforms worn by the men and women of the military were dark and menacing. I imagined they struck fear in the hearts of the enemies, but never would I have thought that they would stand against their own country. Everyone was now an enemy, I supposed.

  Each heel that struck the ground near me sounded hollow, the thud of a condemning march. I tried to avoid eye contact with any of them. My job was not to judge, and the agreement was that if I did not interfere, I would not be executed. Despite my best intentions, I could not shake the feeling that I was just as monstrous as the government responsible for this deed. I lived merely because I was silent, and I was paid to remain that way. What did that make me? I had no idea, and I d
readed my own reckoning.

  I stood in the middle of murder alley as the body bags were stacked into heaping mountains of decaying flesh. If not for the lack of hydration, I might have cried. Instead, I swallowed back the lump in my throat as I rubbed my thumb against the crucifix. The feeling of condensation had grown more apparent, so I looked down at it and realized my thumb was bleeding. I had nervously toyed with the cross until I rubbed the skin raw. Still I did not stop. There was a small comfort in touching the only tangible reflection of my faith.

  Once the bodies were cleared, the streets were washed clean. The humidity escalated quickly and I soon felt weary from my work of overseeing the cleanup effort. I raised my radio to my lips and spoke. "Chaplain Harris to dispatch. The mission is complete. I'm requesting personnel pickup at this time."

  "Roger that, Chaps. An escort is on the way." The dispatcher's words meant little in the way of safety. I knew I had a target on my back. I was expendable. I was an unnecessary evil in this organization.

  "Copy that." I said and turned off the radio to wait.

  2

  JAMES KYLE

  "...Are preposterous, as are the schemes of my advisories. They want you to think that I am a villain, but I am not some cruel king lording my power over all of you. These riots have escalated the violence of our major cities, and it is with a great deal of regret that I have given an executive order to disparage those who seek to harm our great union. That is all."

  I watched in disbelief as the President of the American Union placed the lives of thousands of men and women into Death's hands without remorse. His words may have seemed solemn, but the tone in his voice was anything but. There was a pride about the man. It rubbed me raw in more ways than one.

  "Is there anything else I can get for you, Sweetheart?" the waitress asked as I cradled the porcelain cup of coffee that was about twelve degrees too cold in my hands. She was attractive only in the way that being younger than an old hag allowed her to be, but there was at least some warmth to her smile. I could tell that it hid something, though, besides a few missing teeth.

  "Could I get a refill?" I asked, setting the cup back on the table. The contents looked like diluted mud and she turned her nose up at it.

  "I'll get you a fresh cup, alright?" she asked with a wink. I was thinking that she thought there was more to this back and forth conversation than I was intending. Perhaps being polite to another human being was too rare of a trait these days.

  "That'll be great," I said, not returning the flirtatious wink.

  She moved away unhurt as I looked back at the scrolling news report on the television. The screen was pixelated and the reception was shitty, but it got the job done. The waitress dropped off a fresh cup and quickly moved to the next customer to get his order. Her silence pleased me; I wasn't much for conversation and the recent reports were drawing my stomach into knots.

  I had to be careful with my opinions these days. It used to not be that way, but things change. I struggled to block my resentment from my mind and focus on downing another cup of coffee before heading back to work. Law enforcement wasn't what it used to be, though. The military handled most of the cases; the police were more like secretaries. We handled the paperwork and other activities outside of the military realm. Thanks to the curfew, most people were in their homes by now; the rest had licenses to be out this late. Present company included.

  I downed the last few sips and threw a ten-dollar bill on the counter to pay for it, as well as a fair tip. Everyone was suffering hard times economically, but at least I had a steady income. I was single and lived within my means. I was an anomaly in that way.

  "Thank you, James!" the waitress called after me as I removed my hat from the hook on the wall. I lifted a hand to wave goodbye and stepped outside. July was hot, even without the sun being out. I could already feel the beads of sweat forming on my back as I walked towards the precinct. I lived only three blocks away from work, in an apartment across the street from the diner I was leaving. My entire world was limited to these three blocks. I once dreamed of traveling the world, but clearly those dreams died with the United States.

  I walked the empty streets until I got to work. The lobby was active with several military folks coming and going. They had free reign over our precinct and just about anything else that they wanted to commandeer. I moved passed the lobby and into the cubicle area where my monitoring station was set up. My job was to monitor movement of a handful of "Outliers". That was what we called those who did not exactly break the law but were vocal about their feelings in regards to the President. I thought it was bullshit, but if I said it, then it could be me on these computer screens.

  I shuffled between screenshots and verified each person's location in my logbook. It was a tedious job, and over time it also became mind-numbing.

  "Hey, James, how's it going?" Peter asked as he poked his head up over the divider between our cubicles.

  "I'm fine, Peter. How are you?" I asked in return, just to be courteous. Peter was the nosy guy that was voted "most likely to betray his friends" by those of us in our organization. I'm sure he had no idea that we felt that way.

  "Did you see President Fulton on the news?"

  "Yeah, I did. What did you think about it?"

  He looked at me with a sneer, "Brilliant! The man is a marvel!" Peter said with as much enthusiasm as any human being could muster in this day and age. It was sickening.

  I continued to face the computer monitors, hoping to avoid Peter's gaze. His intentions were unclear and for all I knew he was fishing for some off-color comment about the President in order to advance his career. The executive orders issued were used to promote the stature of the President and to encourage people to support his endeavors by rewarding them for turning over any suspected "Outliers" they may encounter. Leading with fear was a policy fully adopted by the current administration, but it was nothing different from the last hundred years. Still, it continually grew worse.

  Peter finally got a clue and sank back into his little cubby-hole leaving me in peace. I looked at my watch and saw that I had five hours left of my shift, which was nights, which meant I would be watching these screens depicting people sleeping in their beds until my shift was over. What a joy that would be, I thought to myself as I reclined back in my seat and rubbed my eyes. The room was cool and quiet, a man's worst nightmare in terms of staying awake on duty. That's what the coffee was for.

  I leaned forward and rested my chin in my left hand as I clicked through the different screenshots. Each image was similar. Each click was monotonous. I didn't even feel my heavy eyelids close.

  3

  PRESIDENT FULTON

  "Mr. President?" the man that the American citizens had just seen on national television entered the room with a nervous knock. I turned in my electric wheelchair and faced the younger man. He was already pale for a white man, but his face looked ghostly from where I sat, shrouded in the dim lighting of my office.

  "Please come in, Stephen, and have a seat."

  I watched as he labored towards the plush couch a few feet away from me. I moved the joystick on the right side of my wheelchair so I could be within reach of him once he was seated. "How are your wife and children?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

  "They are fine, sir. Thank you for your kind concern," he replied as he pulled at knot of his tie to loosen it a bit.

  I placed my hand on his knee and patted it lightly, trying to relieve some of the tension in the room. My dark skin was spotted with light marks from vitiligo, a condition which caused the loss of pigmentation in my skin when I was a child. Stephen looked at me and smiled, but "the truth is always in the eyes, not the lips," my Mother used to say.

  "I would like to discuss the press conference you just attended, if you don't mind." I watched him clear his throat and nod. "It seems that the script prepared for you did little to boost my ratings, but I'm not in this position to earn high ratings. I am president to rule over a class of
people who cannot rule themselves. I am here to preserve a way of life for those who have earned it. Do you understand?"

  "Of course, President Fulton, you are doing an excellent job." His eyes lowered as he spoke. "I am doing my best to convey your will to the people. I never deviate from the script, sir." Stephen had been a method actor when my people had discovered him. I knew people would never vote for a crippled, marred, black man. The people wanted strength, vitality, someone who looked the part. I knew that a white man would be less vilified than a black man; it was almost humorous how people held onto hate. It was a strong sentiment, one which I used to put myself to the top for a landslide victory. They just never knew they had voted in a man behind the curtain, a man hidden by a veil of inferiority. But I was the man pulling the strings nonetheless.

  "Listen, I don't need you to sell me to the people. I need you to sell my policies to the ones allowed to vote. If these "Outliers" end up wiping themselves out of existence, then I am perfectly alright with that. I say we wipe them out sooner rather than later. With that said, I felt your hesitation when you were in front of the camera condemning them for bringing their deaths upon themselves. If I could see you hesitate then what do you think the voters saw"

  Whatever flush had remained in his cheeks was gone now. His eyes welled with tears as I confronted him for his lapse. "I was nervous, sir. And I was trying to show a small amount of compassion for the loss of life. I didn't want you to come across as a monster."

  "I don't need your protection."

  "I didn't mean that, Mr. President." His jaw was slack and I could practically hear his heart racing from three feet away.

  I leveled my gaze at him and measured my tone. "You do not take liberties with my demeanor again. Do you understand me?" I asked, curbing my anger and directing my words straight into the man's heart. "Or else the next time we speak you will be attending a funeral for one of your children."

  A tear fell from his reddened eyes. "Yes, sir," he said, forcing the words out through the lump that must have been growing in his throat.