Over the television, perpetually turned on, Harvey heard the doorbell.
"I think I heard the doorbell, " he told Irma, his wife. She nodded.
Sliding on his slippers and tightening his bathrobe, he opened the door. Nobody was there. He scanned left, right, then down. There, lying at his feet, was a small, thin package fancily wrapped in green foil with red ribbon. "Look, Irm, " he said. "Someone's given us a gift."
She looked back at him. "Nobody gives gifts these days," she said.
He shuffled back over to his easy chair, holding the gift delicately.
"Do you think I should open it now?"
"I don't know," Irma replied. "Is it even your gift? Is there a tag with it?"
He poked at the gift, and pulled aside a small yellowish card that read "HARVEY: REMEMBER."
"Yes," he said, "It's for me, looks like."
"Well, I guess whoever sent it wants you to open it."
He tugged at the ribbon holding the wrapping together, slightly at first, but then more firmly until it began to come undone. The wrapping appeared hastily put together, and he didn't have to tug much for it to drop to the ground and reveal its contents: a little black box with a single red button. On the button, two words: "PUSH ME."
He looked up at Irma. "It says, push me."
"What if it's a bomb?"
"Gee, Irm, I dunno. That wouldn't be much of a gift."
"It would be for whoever sent it... did you make enemies, Harvey?"
He made a quizzical face. "Um.. no. I always try to be nice to everyone."
“Aw, Harv… just give it over to me. I’ll throw it away.”
“B-but it’s my gift. It might be something else, you know.”
“How in God’s name would you be able to find that out? Just give it to me.”
His fingers clenched tighter around the strange box. “No, I think I’ll keep it.”
“You can’t be serious. It’s a black box with a red button. It might be a bomb. It might be completely useless. Either way, it’s garbage.” She arose from her recliner and approached Harvey with her hands out. “Just hand it over.”
“No.”
Harvey clutched the box and pressed it tightly against him, and Irma made her move. She grabbed whatever little of the box she could and tried to yank against his stubborn fingers. Her face turned red with agitation. “Let…. Go…..”
The commotion almost drowned out the steady stream of monotonous instructions coming from the television, with him holding the box tighter than ever, and her yanking with all of her might, and both gasping for breath and their last fiber of strength.
He wailed, “You… never…. Let me have…. Anything!” - - and with that, the box, finally torn from his hands, flew across the room and hit the far wall, precisely where they weren’t expecting the collision – right square on the button, pressing it. They both stared slack-jawed at the box on the floor, red button now flashing furiously.
“Oh my god. Harry, I tried to save you. Really, Harry, I tried to-“
“Save me from what?” he asked. But already, he knew. More precisely, he remembered. The circuit block in the brain, installed by the High Command should certain circumstances warrant, like this. The subtle hack, engineered by one of the few remaining in the Resistance. The trigger, in the form of the little black box with the red button.
It would only be a matter of time – the sirens, the door crashing down.
At least now, he was prepared.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
LIFE, LIBERTY, AND THE PURSUIT
APRIL 14, 2065
3:30 AM
The phone startled Lofton out of a restless sleep. He poked the speaker button.
“Lofton.”
“We’ve got a situation Delta at the compound, Rick…. It’s a runner. This is serious.”
“Do you have any idea where he’s headed?”
“We’re working on it.”
7:20 PM
It was a little over an hour to curtain rise. Offstage, the producer fidgeted nervously with a pencil. Suddenly, he caught a glimpse of a hunched figure in what appeared to be a nightshirt holding a dufflebag.
“Hey you…” he shouted to the tall, thin gentleman whose garments had obviously been underfitted. Then he noticed, gave a slight look of disappointment, and said, “Oh, you must be our Abe. It’s about time… most important day of our lifetime, and I thought our Abe Lincoln wasn’t going to show. Dressing room’s upstairs, but hurry.”
The pseudo-Abe gave a nod of his head and disappeared up the stairs. For a second, the producer looked somewhat out of sorts. Casting sure picked a good one, he thought. This actor was a dead ringer for Lincoln.
8:08 PM
Phone attached to his ear, Lofton was trying to make sense of it all with Desmond, the assistant director.
“So you’re saying it was Ronnie’s idea?”
“Swear to god, Rick. He confessed when we pressed him.”
“At least, it gives us a good idea where he’s headed,” Rick affirmed.
“Yeah I know…” Desmond paused briefly, contemplating. “Ironic, isn’t it?”
8:45 PM
The ceremony started on time. The spotlight turned from the flag processional onstage, upwards and to the right, to a gaudily-decorated balcony with burgundy seats. The partition wall was, as it last had been two centuries earlier, removed. Within the booth sat four distinguished guests in period garb, actors representing the four who occupied the same luxurious space that fateful spring night: Major Henry Rathbone, his fiancée Clara Harris, and the Lincolns, Abraham and Mary Lincoln. The narrative continued, scenes from An American Cousin interspersed. Lincoln’s double, indeed a stunning likeness of the former President, slid his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a white handkerchief.
9:00 PM
Amid a thundering ovation, the president stood, still clutching his handkerchief in his left hand while he waved with his right. But as the applause died down, he didn’t sit. Rather, he slowly unwrapped the silk cloth and pulled from it an antique Derringer, glaring at the Presidential box, where President Clarke could only watch in stunned amazement, raising the gun from his side and pointing it at the Commander-in-chief.
In an instant, there was a loud crack. It was not the pseudo-Lincoln, whose limp body tumbled from the balcony to the orchestra below, following the dropped Derringer replica that Lincoln had stolen from the bound and gagged actor in the alley. The well-positioned rifle of Rick Lofton from a balcony above and across acquired its mark.
10:15 PM
Minutes after clearing the crowd, Lofton stood outside Ford’s Theatre with a cigarette, watching the emergency personnel filter in and out like ants. Desmond approached him from behind.
“Is everything secure?” asked Desmond.
“Perfectly. Our men will divert the ambulance and recover the body.”
Lofton took a long, deep puff. “How’s the replacement coming?”
“Unfortunately, we’re running a little low on DNA… and the President will have to wait a few more years for a new advisor.”
“And Reagan?”
“He’s a little too wily for his own good, so he’ll be terminated, replaced, and isolated... Imagine that... John Wilkes Booth, Clarke’s distant relative.”
“Yeah. Guess vengeance is genetic.”
He stomped out his cigarette and walked back inside.
3:30 AM
The phone startled Lofton out of a restless sleep. He poked the speaker button.
“Lofton.”
“We’ve got a situation Delta at the compound, Rick…. It’s a runner. This is serious.”
“Do you have any idea where he’s headed?”
“We’re working on it.”
7:20 PM
It was a little over an hour to curtain rise. Offstage, the producer fidgeted nervously with a pencil. Suddenly, he caught a glimpse of a hunched figure in what appeared to be a nightshirt holding a dufflebag.
“Hey you…” he shouted to the tall, thin gentleman whose garments had obviously been underfitted. Then he noticed, gave a slight look of disappointment, and said, “Oh, you must be our Abe. It’s about time… most important day of our lifetime, and I thought our Abe Lincoln wasn’t going to show. Dressing room’s upstairs, but hurry.”
The pseudo-Abe gave a nod of his head and disappeared up the stairs. For a second, the producer looked somewhat out of sorts. Casting sure picked a good one, he thought. This actor was a dead ringer for Lincoln.
8:08 PM
Phone attached to his ear, Lofton was trying to make sense of it all with Desmond, the assistant director.
“So you’re saying it was Ronnie’s idea?”
“Swear to god, Rick. He confessed when we pressed him.”
“At least, it gives us a good idea where he’s headed,” Rick affirmed.
“Yeah I know…” Desmond paused briefly, contemplating. “Ironic, isn’t it?”
8:45 PM
The ceremony started on time. The spotlight turned from the flag processional onstage, upwards and to the right, to a gaudily-decorated balcony with burgundy seats. The partition wall was, as it last had been two centuries earlier, removed. Within the booth sat four distinguished guests in period garb, actors representing the four who occupied the same luxurious space that fateful spring night: Major Henry Rathbone, his fiancée Clara Harris, and the Lincolns, Abraham and Mary Lincoln. The narrative continued, scenes from An American Cousin interspersed. Lincoln’s double, indeed a stunning likeness of the former President, slid his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a white handkerchief.
9:00 PM
Amid a thundering ovation, the president stood, still clutching his handkerchief in his left hand while he waved with his right. But as the applause died down, he didn’t sit. Rather, he slowly unwrapped the silk cloth and pulled from it an antique Derringer, glaring at the Presidential box, where President Clarke could only watch in stunned amazement, raising the gun from his side and pointing it at the Commander-in-chief.
In an instant, there was a loud crack. It was not the pseudo-Lincoln, whose limp body tumbled from the balcony to the orchestra below, following the dropped Derringer replica that Lincoln had stolen from the bound and gagged actor in the alley. The well-positioned rifle of Rick Lofton from a balcony above and across acquired its mark.
10:15 PM
Minutes after clearing the crowd, Lofton stood outside Ford’s Theatre with a cigarette, watching the emergency personnel filter in and out like ants. Desmond approached him from behind.
“Is everything secure?” asked Desmond.
“Perfectly. Our men will divert the ambulance and recover the body.”
Lofton took a long, deep puff. “How’s the replacement coming?”
“Unfortunately, we’re running a little low on DNA… and the President will have to wait a few more years for a new advisor.”
“And Reagan?”
“He’s a little too wily for his own good, so he’ll be terminated, replaced, and isolated... Imagine that... John Wilkes Booth, Clarke’s distant relative.”
“Yeah. Guess vengeance is genetic.”
He stomped out his cigarette and walked back inside.
Friday, August 29, 2008
MUSTANG JOE
My name’s Joe, and I’m the last holdout in the War against Carbon. I didn’t expect to get so much recognition for my ‘accomplishments’, living in such a remote area, but go figure…
I peer intently through my yellowed curtains. The posse is already halfway up the hill, their progress most certainly slowed by their pathetically incapable hydrogen-electric hybrid vehicles’ inability to scale the steep grade. The sirens are just a low drone, rising slowly in volume. I’ve got plenty of time.
Grabbing my trusty (and outlawed) 12-gauge and my dufflebag, I bolt out the door toward the garage. The side door makes a hearty creaking sound as I open it and enter, flipping on the light. (Fluorescent? Not a chance. It’s all out rebellion)
There she is, gleaming bright blue in the pale yellow incandescence, beckoning to me. She’s a1967 Mustang two door fastback, 390 cubic-inch, 315 horsepower V-8 engine. Not a speck of rust or grime on her, maintained every single day with reverent attention, she’s about to show her stuff.
In the far corner sits a large red plastic canister full of the last remaining reserve of gasoline I have. I’d been saving for this very day. I pop open the gas cap on the rear and begin to feed my pride and joy. I give her every last drop, and replace the cap.
I grab the ring of keys from a small hook on the wall, open the door, and jump inside. I put the key in the ignition and slowly turn it. My dream girl purrs to life, a deep, throaty, familiar rumble. I close my eyes and wait for the right moment.
Sirens, approaching. Barely discernible whirs and murmurs of engines with none of the husky goodness of my sweet lady, gradually rising in volume. They’re coming around the final bend of my drive, the last leg approaching my homestead. A few more seconds….
Now.
I jam my foot on the gas pedal, and she springs to life, hurtling forward through the deliberately weakened wood panels of the shed door, splintering them into flying shards, rocketing over the slight incline I had built and going airborne for several moments. I look down at the feeble hydrogen-powered cruisers and wave. She kisses the ground with a loud thud, kicking up dust. I reach with my left hand for the shotgun at my side, maneuvering my Mustang into a controlled skid, wheeling counterclockwise so that I’m facing the handful of cruisers in front of my house.
I lift the shotgun and fire a decisive round. I’d been planning this for some time now, and I had been hoping it was as satisfying as I had imagined.
It certainly is; thank you, hydrogen. The hit cruiser goes up “WHOOMP” and the others follow, like dominoes.
I jam it to the floor. Squealing almost with joy, she races me down the hill, leaving behind chaos and destruction and my former home.
I peer down at the map sticking out of my dufflebag. I’m not sure where I’m headed next, but I’m hopeful there are other holdouts like me, those who cling to the good old days where there were no threats, no regrets, and most of all no worries. Looking at the gas gauge, I figure I’ve got two days, maybe three. But I know my sweet lovely Lady will take me wherever I need to go.
She’s the one thing I have left.
I peer intently through my yellowed curtains. The posse is already halfway up the hill, their progress most certainly slowed by their pathetically incapable hydrogen-electric hybrid vehicles’ inability to scale the steep grade. The sirens are just a low drone, rising slowly in volume. I’ve got plenty of time.
Grabbing my trusty (and outlawed) 12-gauge and my dufflebag, I bolt out the door toward the garage. The side door makes a hearty creaking sound as I open it and enter, flipping on the light. (Fluorescent? Not a chance. It’s all out rebellion)
There she is, gleaming bright blue in the pale yellow incandescence, beckoning to me. She’s a1967 Mustang two door fastback, 390 cubic-inch, 315 horsepower V-8 engine. Not a speck of rust or grime on her, maintained every single day with reverent attention, she’s about to show her stuff.
In the far corner sits a large red plastic canister full of the last remaining reserve of gasoline I have. I’d been saving for this very day. I pop open the gas cap on the rear and begin to feed my pride and joy. I give her every last drop, and replace the cap.
I grab the ring of keys from a small hook on the wall, open the door, and jump inside. I put the key in the ignition and slowly turn it. My dream girl purrs to life, a deep, throaty, familiar rumble. I close my eyes and wait for the right moment.
Sirens, approaching. Barely discernible whirs and murmurs of engines with none of the husky goodness of my sweet lady, gradually rising in volume. They’re coming around the final bend of my drive, the last leg approaching my homestead. A few more seconds….
Now.
I jam my foot on the gas pedal, and she springs to life, hurtling forward through the deliberately weakened wood panels of the shed door, splintering them into flying shards, rocketing over the slight incline I had built and going airborne for several moments. I look down at the feeble hydrogen-powered cruisers and wave. She kisses the ground with a loud thud, kicking up dust. I reach with my left hand for the shotgun at my side, maneuvering my Mustang into a controlled skid, wheeling counterclockwise so that I’m facing the handful of cruisers in front of my house.
I lift the shotgun and fire a decisive round. I’d been planning this for some time now, and I had been hoping it was as satisfying as I had imagined.
It certainly is; thank you, hydrogen. The hit cruiser goes up “WHOOMP” and the others follow, like dominoes.
I jam it to the floor. Squealing almost with joy, she races me down the hill, leaving behind chaos and destruction and my former home.
I peer down at the map sticking out of my dufflebag. I’m not sure where I’m headed next, but I’m hopeful there are other holdouts like me, those who cling to the good old days where there were no threats, no regrets, and most of all no worries. Looking at the gas gauge, I figure I’ve got two days, maybe three. But I know my sweet lovely Lady will take me wherever I need to go.
She’s the one thing I have left.
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