Devolution (32 page)

He jumped to the floor and sprinted to the archway that would lead him to Matthew Parker Street. “Make Bolivia proud!”

When Hadduk charged out of the room, his guards began to unload their weapons en masse at the government commando’s full-fledged assault. The dark windows of the Weston served to hide the mercenaries’ positions, and there was no way to enter the building from below.

With few available openings, the stubborn glass of the Weston limited the number of mercenaries who could stop the advance. Hadduk and his men were forced to charge into the street and face their enemy.

Through the transmitter he shared with Hadduk, Wickham, Manning and Nolan listened to the roar of the captain’s loyal devotees before it went dead.

Wickham’s exhausted voice bled with guilt. “This was not supposed to happen.” He shook his head in disgrace. “They turned this into some vendetta.”

John’s eyes asked what his mental will could not.

“When we colonized South America, our government bribed the local militias,” Wickham explained. “We needed peace for our economic interests to grow. Many Bolivians settled here thinking they’d get government work. When it didn’t happen, they turned on the Crown. I didn’t think they’d do this.”

John’s disappointment in the man he once respected was only trumped by the result of his actions.

*

On the opposite side of the city, April Lynn lay motionless and unresponsive in her hospital bed. The faint sound of distant gunshots barely broke the silence between her heartbeats. The halls of the hospital were empty and quiet, the balloons in her room were deflating and listing, and cards were spread out proudly over every flat surface. Yet none of her supporters were around to witness her greatest achievement in weeks, the twitching of an eyelid.

*

“Here is your briefing, sir.” The somber young woman handed the prime minister the chronology of the day’s events.

He reluctantly reached out to accept the documents. “That will be all, Kelly.”

“Yes, sir.”

After she left the room, the prime minister placed the briefing right-side-up on his desk and allowed himself a second to mentally prepare. He sat alone. The room was dark with the window shades pulled low, sheltering him from the chaos that had engulfed the city. A single lamp on the corner of the desk provided all the light he desired. Much like the hospital bed where April lay, the faint sound of gunshots barely succeeded in breaking the silence.

The prime minister opened the report, grimacing as he studied the information. He placed his elbows on the desk and dropped his head into his hands.

“What have I done?”

*

Major General Bernard Harris’ reaction was not so passive.

“What is this!?” he yelled, throwing the report onto his desk. His officers had yet to find comfort in his newfound emotion. “Who authorized these soldiers to the city!?” he demanded. “We believe the prime minister, sir.”

Harris’ eyes bulged and he slammed his fists upon the desk, sending items scattering to the floor.

With his heart pounding and breath pumping, the major general approached a large window that overlooked the city. From his position, the upper floors of the Weston were in sight. It appeared peaceful, the black glass and silver lining basking in the midday sun. Much like the hospital bed where April lay and the office where the prime minister sulked, the gunshots were faint and far away.

“This ends, now.” Harris’ arms were taut behind his back; his chin held high. “Get me the prime minister.”

*

While the view from the major general’s office appeared innocuous, Chris Nash’s perspective was anything but. With the situation rapidly deteriorating, he refused to put one of his reporters at risk, so he went himself. Whether out of guilt or principle, he remained as far from the scene as possible, while still in sight. He stood still; expressionless. One hand hung by his side holding a pen, the other a tablet. Neither were being used. The concussion of the gunfire thumped in his chest and his struggled to separate the shots. Meanwhile, his stomach churned over his involvement. And above all, his mind battled to separate his devotion of country from that to his profession.

*

Such a mental struggle was lost on Warren Wickham, Tony Manning, and John Nolan. They continued to watch in horror. The mounting dead lay in darkening red pools. Dozens of bodies were now strewn across Matthew Parker Street, and more fell by the minute.

The FreeGB members that sat behind them managed to hold themselves together. However, as light began to fade, so did everyone’s resolve.

Though many of the other sanctuaries were able to evacuate the city, this building was too close to the Weston. The piercing shriek of stray bullets served as a frequent reminder to stay put. Yet in-between the gunfire, little was said. Most knew what was happening.

”It’s begun,” averred Tony Manning as the sun set over the city and the last trace of natural light dissolved to black.

Confused, John turn to his uncle, then to Wickham. Neither responded. Both men had succumbed to the realization of what they had done. Until now, neither was willing to recognize that civilization, no matter how strong, is fragile. During its endless formative stages, various factions will spar to protect their own interests, secure their own legacies, and preserve their own images over the nation’s future. Few consider the consequences. Yet, they all face the uncertainty of who history will praise or blame for the result.

EPILOGUE

January 1:

I’m writing you from a parking garage off Queen Anne’s Street. I have been stuck here for hours. It’s now one in the morning. It’s been two weeks now since your accident, and a lot has changed.

I joined the movement. Yesterday morning we launched a campaign to help rebuild Great Britain. We started with London. By midday, a gunfight broke out between a group we hired to protect us (The Civilian Army Defense Corps) and government soldiers. Many others arrived with their own guns to fight either for or against the government. There’s no telling how many people are already dead. Hundreds, maybe. And the fighting is getting worse as the night goes on. Our original goal was simply to win the next election. I fear that may have changed. I’m supposed to go back to the classroom in two weeks. Tonight may have changed that, too. Tonight may have changed a lot.

I am fairly safe in a garage with a bunch of FreeGB members. Many are calling tonight the start of a Civil War. No one is arguing.

My guess is the nation will split in two. It’s been shaping up this way for the past year or so. They want to keep the current government, and we want something better. We can do better. We have to do better. I believe history is on our side. But the human condition might not be.

Our leader is a man named Warren Wickham. I thought we were lucky to have him. He’s been a strong leader, but tonight really affected him. I hear the government is in worse shape. I hope it keeps up. It just further proves why our vision is the right one.

Mom and Dad are doing well. Of course, they support my decision to join FreeGB. They didn’t join at first, but now they have. So have my sisters. There’s a spot for you, if you would like it. Eventually the entire nation will pick a side.

I met a very interesting man, Bryan Butler. He was an elected representative in America before its collapse. I would love for you to meet him. He is a wealth of knowledge.

Book sales have remained strong. As long as care is available, you will always have the best.

I have been thinking a lot about my book and what our nation is going through. I remember Old Sores telling us in class that every civilization will wax and wane, and there can never be a lasting civilization any more than there can be a lasting spring or lasting happiness. He said it’s in the nature of man that all he constructs will collapse. I don’t want to believe that. I want to believe enough of us are good. In my heart, I truly believe the Constitution I wrote can work—if it’s only given a chance.

I thought we did everything right. Now we’re on the verge of having nothing. How cruel. How terrible. How predictable.

We were so arrogant to think this time the result would be different. How arrogant to think it wouldn’t happen to us. How arrogant to think we could do it better.

It’s hard for me to admit this, April, but I am scared, especially since you’re in that hospital bed and I can’t do anything about it. It tears me up inside.

The power on my phone is getting low. I should go. But as I sit here, I realize how truly important you are to me. I love you, and I can’t wait to tell you for the first time.

- John Nolan

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chris Papst is a multiple Emmy-award winning investigative reporter and author of the Amazon #1 Best Seller,
Capital Murder
.