Authors: Chris Papst
*
“My fellow countrymen,” began the prime minister as he addressed the nation. He sat tall at his desk with the nation’s flag draped on the wall behind him. His office and appearance had been as carefully prepared as his speech. “We find ourselves in unprecedented times.”
While the prime minister spoke, the printing presses spun tirelessly, producing copies of John Nolan’s
Constitutional Correctness
. The books barely had time to cool before they were boxed and shipped.
“Our country is being torn apart by forces of change. I fear these forces will transform us into something we no longer recognize. This system that has provided us and our ancestors with the greatest and most consistent quality of life in the world is now in jeopardy.”
The streets of London were mostly empty, except for the litter that piled up as social services faded. A few children with less protective parents played and laughed without a care. They all huddled around the few remaining street lights that still shined. Understanding the uncertainty that had gripped the Kingdom, most Brits held their children as they listened to their leader.
“It is the highest priority of this government to resolve this situation soon. If all sides can come to an agreement, if we can come together, we can begin the work to fix this great nation. But we will certainly fail under the current divided state of our union.”
Somewhere within the city limits of London, the man who not long ago preached from a podium and proclaimed the beginning of the revolution, watched the prime minister deliver his speech. He stood with one foot on a crate, leaning forward with his elbows resting on a raised knee. Behind him, his loyal legion of revolutionaries feverishly worked on banners, posters, and newsletters in an effort to gain converts. Some people mass-produced basic handwritten signs, while others utilized computers to draft more professional documents. As the Prime Minister spoke, an insidious smile grew on this man’s face. He knew he was winning.
“Tonight, as we begin the long road to recovery, I ask for your patriotism. But before you can commit, first ask yourself if your kids are safe in school. Is your job secure? If you have lost your job, ask yourself what the chances are of getting another, soon—one with a living wage. Are you optimistic that your electricity will be there in the middle of the night when you need it? If you get sick, will your doctor be there to give you medication? Will that medication be available? When will your trash be picked up? Will the grocery store be stocked? And if it is, will it be too expensive to afford?”
Chris Nash sat at his computer in a dark, lonely room, listening only to the audio of the prime minister’s speech. He, like every other media boss, did not get a pre-speech copy of the address and listened for a theme that would serve as a headline. With each sentence, Nash would amend his work, typing a few words then deleting them. The headline which would eventually lead all the outlets of his media empire was simple, yet powerful. It was sure to make people stop and think. And most importantly, watch or buy. His seven words would resonate throughout the land:
“Prime Minister Uses Fear to Quell Fear”
“We are a country centered in unity, a country that has survived the darkest days this world has seen. That unity has been at the core of our greatness. We can’t give that up. Our choices in the following days, weeks, and months will determine the Great Britain we will become. The Great Britain our children will inherit.”
Somewhere within the city limits of London, another secret factory making revolution paraphernalia was seconds away from an unwanted surprise. In mass movements, government officials scrambled to surround the building. One by one they swiftly exited armored, unmarked military trucks in night camouflage, complete with assault rifles and body armor. Using only basic sign language, they positioned themselves at doors, windows, and any escape route. The commander peered at his watch with his back pressed against a brick wall. The second-hand approached the twelve. The night was dark, chilled, and calm.
“What path will we follow? Will we choose the Great Britain our ancestors chose, the Great Britain they fought and died for? One of laws; one of civility; one of peace? Or will we choose the chance of an uncertain future, one that lacks peace of mind, and where great doubt exists?”
“NOW!” screamed the commander. At once, all the doors surrounding the compound were kicked in. The government soldiers swarmed the building, weapons raised.
“GET DOWN!”
The screams of the workers could be heard blocks away. The swift, carefully planned attack allowed no time for their horrified targets to react. Most didn’t even try to resist. A few attempted to run, only to find every exit sealed. The tireless copying and printing machines were shut down at the behest of assault rifles. The workers were led out of the hot, brightly lit room and placed in dark passenger vans, their destination unknown.
“I assure you. Your government, my administration, has not given up. And we will continue to fight for the people of this nation. Right now about 25 percent of you are out of work. The government has less tax revenue with which to help. Many of you are running out of money. If we don’t act now to save ourselves, people will go hungry. More will lose their houses. Winter is coming.”
That night, John and April watched the prime minister’s address from the relative safety of her dimly lit apartment. The air smelled of hours-old macaroni, the remnants of which were strewn around the kitchen. They sat on the couch, her legs draped over his, arms interlocked. A light blanket kept them shielded from the chilly breeze that wisped in through a cracked window. April positioned herself on her side to tightly hold John.
With her head pressed firmly against his chest she whispered, “I’m scared.”
John looked down at her, smiled, and kissed the top of her head without a word. She didn’t need to know he was scared as well.
“In order for us to unite, we must first address some misinformation circulating in our homes, on the street, and on the internet. And let me be clear, that information is untrue. Members of a small, extreme Islamic militant group known as the Loyalist Ali Front or the LAF printed those lies and spread it during this time of economic uncertainty to cause further harm to our country. Their goal is to disrupt our quality of life. Sadly, it has worked.”
Tony and Emma Manning watched the address as they ate dinner. Tony’s eyes never broke from the television as he stabbed raviolis with his fork. Emma was more focused on not only feeding herself, but also their baby boy, who sat between them. Tony’s blood burned as he watched the leader of the country blatantly lie to the people. For him, reconciliation was not an option. He vowed revenge.
“Your government, my administration, has not and would not jeopardize your trust or violate the sacred bond we share. I speak of a bond that only a democratic people and their democratically elected officials can possess. We are an accountable government. Accountable to you.”
“AHHH!” April screamed, covering her head as the door to her apartment burst open. Armed men dressed in dull black flooded the room in much the same fashion as the men who had raided the factory earlier that night. John and April jumped up from the couch, turning to face the door in horror.
“Hands up, now!” a man yelled. Facing a half-dozen rifles, they complied. April cracked under the intensity. “Come with us,” the man said, grabbing John’s arm and dragging him through the door. April was not far behind.
“My fellow citizens, we currently stand on the precipice of history. What we do here will be judged for generations to come.”
While John and April were being shoved into the back of a car, similarly-dressed men ransacked the Nolans’ house. His parents and sisters were forced out. When the marauders reached John’s bedroom, they began seizing its contents. His room would soon be just bare walls and vacant drawers.
“Our system of governance allows us to achieve our fullest potential. And that will continue if we allow it.”
The vehicles that contained the Nolans sped away as quickly as they arrived. The thundering sound of engines tearing down the road faded, returning the dark streets to the peaceful night.
“My fellow countrymen, we are simply borrowing this land and passing through its legacy. It is not our duty to change its foundations and remake it in our own image; but to preserve it for the next generation so they can inherit the blessings it contains. I greatly fear what will happen if we choose another path. Good night. And God save the Queen.”
*
John sat alone in the corner of the cell, ignoring the two aluminum chairs centered along the minimal expanse of the room. Off-white laminate floors and beige walls spawned a musty atmosphere. The overhead lighting cast dark shadows under his bloodshot eyes. With bent legs and elbows perched upon his knees, John’s fear slowly subsided. The longer he waited, the more annoyed he became.
Before long, he heard the door unlock and pivot inward.
“John Nolan?” The short, leather-faced man marched into the room as if this meeting had been mutually arranged. “My name is Major General Bernard Harris.”
John was not impressed. “Where is April?”
“She’s fine.” Harris admired the young man’s moxie, however specious. “She is waiting in another room, as is the rest of your family.”
“You took my family!?”
“We had no choice.”
His frigid and enigmatic temperament wore at John’s frustrations. “We could not chance someone calling authorities,” Major General Harris continued in a monotone. He sat down in the chair closest to the door and gestured for John to join him. His flawless posture and pressed suit was beyond peculiar.
John rose from the floor, cautiously made his way towards the chair, and sat. “Why am I here?”
“Great Britain requests your services.” At John’s confused expression, Harris explained, “You are an emerging figure in this nation’s struggle.” He removed a black folder from the brown leather briefcase that lay upon his lap and pulled back the top fold, revealing a series of pictures.
“This is Warren Wickham.” He presented the photo to John. Wickham appeared to be mid-30s with brown hair and hazel eyes. With his soft jawline, he more resembled an office worker than the leader of a burgeoning revolution.
“You may not recognize him. He grew a long beard to conceal his identity. However, we hear he has now shaved. He is the person who dragged you into this mess.”
After the initial shock subsided, John grew less irritated and more ambivalent. The uncertainty that lay ahead was indeed disconcerting. But in it, he saw opportunity.
“This is a bad guy.” Harris gestured towards the picture that still held John’s attention. “There has never been a riot, protest, or any type of civil unrest he didn’t like. Unfortunately, he seems to have found a message that has stuck.”
Harris selected the next photo. Unlike the first one, this image instantly caught John’s eye. The man had a darker complexion than Wickham. Darker hair, darker skin, and demented green eyes that John had never forgot since he first saw them last spring while waiting in line to vote.
“I’ve seen this guy,” John admitted. He explained to the major general how he had watched this man try to stir up votes for the Centre Party.
“He has been around for years desperately trying to find a way to matter,” the major general replied. “These guys are smart and very devoted. They could actually help this country if they weren’t always trying to subvert it. His name is Paul Harris. We think he’s the brains, but he’s too radical to be the front man.”
John looked up from under his brow.
Paul Harris?
Major General Bernard Harris?
“No relation,” the major general snapped, looking mildly disgusted at John’s insinuation. “His nickname is Paulie.”
Harris’ focus abruptly dropped to the folder on his lap. “These guys aren’t quite as high profile as the first two. The one on the right is Colin Tudor and the other is Clive Rodriguez.”
John did not recognize either.
“As I said, all these guys want is to
matter
.” Harris sealed his briefcase. “They have been involved in these types of dealings for a long time. For some reason, it makes them feel worthy; gives their lives meaning. They have no regard for consequences.”
“If these guys are bad, how do they get a following?” John’s asked.
“It’s not about who they are. It’s about timing.”
The one thing I can’t control.
“They finally got lucky.”
Those words and their significance bounced around in John’s head. “What do you need from me?” He was now more intrigued than anything. A new feeling also began to creep into his being, one that greatly bolstered his confidence and his sense of worth.
“Your service to your country,” Harris spoke simply. “These guys will come after you, try to recruit you. Your book is their Bible. They need you. John Nolan will be a household name in Great Britain. Whether that name is synonymous with patriotism or traitor is up to you.” John wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Keep us informed. They will contact you, maybe they already have. We need information. This movement must be defeated, Mr. Nolan. If we fail, so will the country.”
John nodded. He had always considered himself a patriot.
*
After John’s meeting, he reunited with April and his family. The urgency of the situation had been explained to them, along with the Crown’s expectations concerning their loyalty. The same jet black cars that abruptly swept them away earlier that night calmly returned them to their once-quiet suburban lives. The confounded family exchanged few words as they wandered up the winding path that partitioned the browning grass of the front yard. Before reaching the door step, Theodore pulled a bronze key from his pants pocket, unlocked the door, and they filed into the brick and stone Cape Cod.