an excerpt from
25 Perfect Days
by Mark Tullius
Five Minutes Alone
August 19, 2036
How much damage could Michael really do in five minutes? It’s not like he was launching a nuclear attack or sitting behind the wheel of a semi, plowing into pedestrians. He just had to stand in a room. An 8×10 concrete cell. It’d be over in a blink. Conference calls at his office allotted more time for being on hold. There was nothing to worry about. If this meant closure, it was worth every second. That’s all Sarah wanted, after all, for the twins, for the family. They needed to move on.
Sarah’s voice came barreling up the stairs saying breakfast was ready. Michael couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard that, couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t awakened to her staring at the wall, lying there until the day was nearly done.
Michael threw off the covers. He smelled bacon and coffee. Bypassing his work suits, Michael slipped on a pair of jeans and a Polo and headed downstairs.
Sarah was behind the stove in an apron, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. The way Michael remembered her. Looking like a mom.
“It smells great,” he said.
Sarah scooped sizzling strips onto a plate, blotted them with a paper towel to soak up the grease. “You talked to your boss, right?” Sarah set the plate onto the kitchen table.
“Yeah.”
“I just really don’t want anyone calling today.”
Michael took his seat and poured a glass of orange juice. “They won’t. And I talked to the boys’ principal too. It won’t even count as a sick day.”
“Good.” Sarah wiped her hands on her apron. “Boys! Come on, we’re going to be late!”
Like they were waiting outside the door, the fifteen-year-old twins walked in and took their places, Justin to his father’s left, Jeremy to the right. Black pants, black shirts, no words.
Michael started to think the family might not be ready for this, but as if she was reading his mind, Sarah pointed at his shirt. “You’re not really wearing that, are you?”
Michael realized he was the only one in white, not exactly an appropriate color for the occasion. “I’ll, uh, change after we eat.”
Sarah pulled off her apron, took a seat. She was wearing the black dress she wore for Jenny’s eighth grade graduation. The dress Michael teased her about because she was just like the other parents acting like it was some big deal. Sarah asked the boys if they liked their eggs. They gave little nods. Sarah didn’t respond, didn’t touch her food, she just sat there, staring at her empty juice glass. Michael told himself it’d get easier.
After breakfast, the two-hour ride to San Angeles was quiet. Only Sarah spoke, and only once. She said, “This is good, this is going to be good.”
When they got to New Parker Center, Michael kept the doors locked.
“There’s something I have to say.”
Sarah pulled on the handle. “We’ve already discussed this. Open it.”
“Yeah, Dad.” Jeremy sat up and glared in the rear view, his eyes the size of golf balls. “You promised.”
Michael didn’t know if that was true. He couldn’t remember promising, but he couldn’t remember not promising either. It had been like that lately, Michael’s recent memory had become a thick fog and as always, he was too exhausted to try to cut through it. Instead, he just wondered what kind of father would promise his children something like this and unlocked everyone’s door.
The cop at the desk signed them in, told them to be sure to keep track of the time. Five minutes each, not a second more.
Sarah grabbed the pen, signed her name. They had agreed she could go first. A uniformed officer led Sarah away.
The desk cop pointed Michael and the boys across the hall. “Someone will come for you.”
The waiting room was cold and small, the floor and walls a dull white. The boys were on the little couch. Jeremy sat with his fists pushed together, his steel-toe boot tap, tap, tapping. Michael wondered if Sarah had bought them just for today. Justin sat hunched over too, but different, like there should be a bucket between his feet.
Michael felt he should ask if they were okay, give the boys a chance to back out. But Sarah said they had the right. What if it’d been his sister? Michael didn’t have a sister, but he understood what she meant. This would give them a little control, help them move past this.
Michael locked eyes on the clock. Four minutes past nine.
A cop called Michael’s name from the doorway. He got up without saying a word to the boys. The elevator took him down to an unmarked floor and a long hallway, the fluorescent lights and ceramic tiles part of the original building.
They turned right at the next hallway. Sarah was down at the end. An officer led her by the elbow, her face speckled red, the same color dripping from her clenched fists. Sarah didn’t even glance at Michael as they passed, ragged breaths seeping through her plastered smile beneath a vacant gaze.
Michael’s officer nudged him toward the door. “Mr. Adams, you’ve been advised of your rights. Do you have any questions?”
He did have questions. What would he see on the other side? Did he really want to know what his wife was capable of? And what about the boys?
The officer unlocked the door. Red globs covered the floor, fragments of Sarah’s footprints. Michael started to ask if it could be cleaned then realized how ridiculous that would be.
“Mr. Adams, clock’s ticking.”
Michael stepped inside. The dimly lit room smelled of blood and sweat. That’s what he remembered about Jenny’s birth. The complications. All that blood.
It was three days before the doctor took Jenny out of the NICU bed and said they could hold her. Michael was scared because Jenny was so small, but once she was in his arms, he swore he’d never let go. He’d protect her from everything.
But Michael failed.
The monster who raped and murdered his baby girl sat naked, his hands cuffed to the top of the table. Sarah had kept her word, but just barely. Olsen’s eyes were swollen, but he could still open them.
For a second, Michael thought this was the wrong guy. Olsen looked nothing like the family man with five adoring kids. Each of them had written Michael and Sarah at least once a week begging them not to come today. They asked for mercy. They said none of this would bring Jenny back. Sarah burned every letter.
The cell looked like the interrogation room from an old cop show. Three bare metal walls, a fourth with the one-way mirror Sarah said she’d be behind. The only light flickered from the 60-watt bulb hanging over the table, where the naked monster looked like something out of a horror movie. Olsen’s face oozed blood. His nose flattened and mushed to the left. The whites of his eyes were clouded red. His left ear hung on by a few ropes of skin.
Michael sat across from Olsen and stared at his hands. The top of the right one was a dark purple mass, the cuff smashed into the skin, looking like someone had slammed an anvil on it. Even if Olsen lived, it’d have to be amputated.
But Olsen wasn’t going to live. If he made it past today, they’d still fry him tomorrow. That’s what Michael kept telling himself.
An electric timer was mounted on the wall next to the mirror, thirty seconds already gone.
Olsen’s attack on Jenny lasted a minute and fifty-three seconds. Some coward on the third floor caught the whole thing on video.
Below the timer was an iron stand that held a sledgehammer, a fireplace poker, and an aluminum baseball bat, smudged red on the end.
Olsen made a noise. It came out all mumbled through his broken jaw. Two teeth poked through his bottom lip. He was trying to speak, but Michael had heard enough of this prick’s voice. During the trial, Olsen made a full confession and cried the entire time. He said Jenny had smiled at him. He said he couldn’t help himself. He was sick.
Olsen finally got out his words, clearer this time. “Finish it,” he said. “Please.”
Michael closed his eyes and took a deep breath, tried to remember the last time he’d held Jenny. She was only thirteen.
“Kill me,” Olsen begged.
Michael banged the table and drove it into Olsen’s chest, pinned him to the wall. Michael jumped to his feet. “You don’t get to decide.”
The timer said Michael had three minutes.
He walked over, told himself not to pick up the poker, but there he was, pulling it out of the stand, careful not to cut himself on the razor-sharp hook and pointed tip.
Olsen moaned and Michael watched the seconds tick away. If Michael hit him once, that would be it. There’d be no stopping.
At two-forty-two, Olsen said, “She cried for you.” Olsen cocked his head, raised the pitch in his voice, mimicking some ditzy teenage girl. “My daddy, my daddy…”
Michael spun around. Olsen leaned into it. But Michael let go of the handle and the poker flew past Olsen’s face, clanked off the wall.
The timer hit Jenny’s minute fifty-three. The head of the sledgehammer was as wide as Michael’s fist. One hit is all it would take. Finished. The boys wouldn’t have to step foot in this room, lower themselves to this piece of shit. They wouldn’t have to hear Olsen’s goddamn voice.
Michael reached out, picked up the sledgehammer and faced the mirror. The man staring back looked nothing like the man Michael had awakened as.
The mirror thumped. It thumped again, Sarah pounding it over and over until Michael let the sledgehammer fall to the ground.
The timer was down to one-fifteen, the moment Jenny had stopped fighting, and Olsen slammed her head into the concrete.
Each passing second was one less for Olsen, a little closer to the death he deserved.
Michael concentrated on the mirror. He saw the timer in the reflection. The buzzer rang. His boys would get their five minutes alone.
Fourteen Angry Marchers
October 11, 2037
Kenneth Murphy refused to fidget. He sat alone in the front pew, his sparkling white suit jacket too big, his fingers peeking out pale and stubby. The shoulder pads did little to add confidence, did nothing to stop him from picturing all the families at home watching and wondering how a scrawny, pimply-faced eighteen-year-old could take over for his glorious father, who was commanding the altar like God’s personal general. Sunlight poured through the stained glass windows and streamed over the Reverend’s crimson locks, creating a fiery halo worthy of the archangel Michael. All that was missing were wings and a sword.
It was often said when the Reverend spoke, the world stopped, and when the Reverend asked his flock to join him in prayer, Heaven rumbled from the thunderous sound.
Kenneth and his father were the only ones wearing white, the sacred color of the Chosen, but Kenneth just felt like a fraud. This was the day he was to take his first steps toward becoming the leader of the Church of the American Way, the largest ministry in the world. The Reverend had baptized the current president, countless senators, and two Supreme Court justices. Kenneth’s reign would forever reside in the shadow of his father.
The Reverend raised a golden book to the rafters. His amplified voice boomed, “The Only Way!” The congregation echoed his words, each member showing off his copy to the angels above.
“For too long we have allowed selfishness to poison this glorious land. But no longer will we turn our backs on our brothers and sisters. We will no longer stand by as this country falls into the hands of the few, while the rest suffocate in death.”
Kenneth joined in the applause. His father smiled for the cameras. “This book, inspired by the Almighty, shows us the Way, but a book cannot make our decisions. It is only a tool, a guide. It is up to each of us to accept our role, to take up the burdens of those in need, to elevate the least so we can all be given seats at the banquet of God. For how we treat the suffering souls of this earth defines our kingdom. And come election day we will usher in an era of prosperity for all, not just those willing to lie and cheat their way to the top, but for those courageous enough to play by the rules. For we are all in this together. One people. One Way!”
The crowd leapt to their feet, praising God and the Reverend, who made his way down to his flock.
“I look around this room and I still see the faces of fear. At least a hundred of you have over a million dollars in assets. Some of you even more. And you’ve worked hard for that money and you’re concerned. How can you trust it will protect the ones you love? How can you be sure it will care for those in need long after you pass on?”
The Reverend leaned against the second pew, just a simple man of the people. “I’m afraid I cannot take away those fears. But I know someone who might…” He looked to the rafters. “I suppose you might call it faith.”
The plump woman in a floral dress sitting three feet from the Reverend, held her heart with both hands, had the biggest smile. The Reverend smiled back at her then continued.
“When November 3rd comes around and you step inside that ballot booth, I want you to see beyond Proposition 867. I want you to see the faces of the children you’ll feed. I want you to see the roofs over families’ heads. See the shoes, the highways, the dignity and self-respect each of us deserves.” He turned his back to the crowd, returned to the altar. “Vote no and your family keeps ninety percent of your money when you die.” He spun back. “Sounds like a great deal, right?”
A few couldn’t help but nod.
“Sure. Who cares if children starve? Who cares if the whole country burns?”
No one moved.
“How much is enough?! Tell me!” He took out a handkerchief, dabbed his brow. “Proposition 867 isn’t about taking everything, and don’t let anyone tell you different. If you’re making more than a million, it’s half, not a penny more. And if you’re making over a million and you cannot get by on half, then you need an accountant.”
A sliver of laughter sliced through the tension.
Wayne, the lead usher and bodyguard, stood watch at the side door, his long hair slicked back in a ponytail. Kenneth could tell there was something going on outside. Shadowy figures seemed to be gathering on the other side of the stained glass.
The Reverend continued. “Think of the changes we can bring. The good we can accomplish if we’ll simply join together. Heaven on earth, where everyone gets a seat at the table.”
The applause came crashing and everyone was stomping and hollering hallelujah. Everyone except Wayne and a few other bodyguards.
The Reverend said, “Difficult decisions are part of life, but they will always be rewarded when the correct path is chosen. And today, God has blessed us with a special choice of his own. Before us is a young man who has been called to serve the Lord and His people.”
Kenneth’s cheeks grew warm. He needed to calm down. Having to approach the altar with his white suit and red hair was bad enough. He didn’t need a red face to match.
The Reverend began listing Kenneth’s accomplishments, but he was soon drowned out by the violent shouts outside the doors.
Most of the congregation swiveled their heads toward the back of the church. The Reverend spoke louder.
“As the Church of the American Way’s first youth minister, this wholesome young man will guide us through the Word and the Way…”
The voices outside grew louder and echoed through the building. Their angry message was clear: the Reverend was leading his flock toward damnation.
But the Reverend would not be interrupted in his own house. “It is with great pride that I call forth my son, Kenneth Murphy the Second!”
Nervously, Kenneth rose. He was greeted with a smattering of applause inside the church and angry chanting outside. He stepped toward his father, but not too quickly. He’d learned his slick white shoes turned the carpet into an ice-skating rink. Slowly, he knelt before the altar.
The Reverend placed his hands on Kenneth’s head and told the congregation to help usher this child into the light of the one, true Way.
Kenneth slid his thumb over his heart, stood, and took his place at the right hand of his father. He tried to look confident and strong, like his father wanted, but he couldn’t help but notice the congregation glancing everywhere but at him. No one admired his fine suit. No one noticed his hair parted to the right just like the Reverend’s. No one cared a single bit. They were focused on the rising chants from outside the doors.
Wayne and the other bodyguards shifted positions in the perimeter aisles, looked to the Reverend for the command to take action. The Reverend shook his head and said, “There is only one Way to salvation. The people outside are confused and bitter. They deserve our pity, not our condemnation.”
Kenneth had never seen his father show such restraint, but he knew it had to do with the cameras. The world was watching, and the Church of the American Way had developed a reputation for harsh retribution.
The Reverend reclaimed his flock by returning their focus to the special occasion at hand. Then from outside, a man shouted, “No! Don’t!”
The crash made Kenneth jump back, but he was still showered with pieces of stained glass. A tiny shard sliced across his right cheek, but the rest bounced off his sparkling white suit and the ridiculous shoulder pads.
Kenneth opened his eyes as the last bits of glass floated to the sanctuary floor. He faced the crowd, hands covering their mouths. He tried to stay calm, certain they could hear his ragged breathing. The Reverend brushed off his son’s suit, took out his handkerchief and wiped the blood from Kenneth’s cheek.
Through clenched teeth, the Reverend said, “Stop shaking. There is no fear in this house.”
The Reverend turned to the congregation. “Everyone, please take your seats.” He picked up the dirt-encrusted brick, grabbed Kenneth’s arm and dragged him down the aisle.
As they approached the giant oak doors, the Reverend motioned for the bodyguards to take position.
Kenneth said, “We should call the State. Let them handle it.”
The Reverend spun, pulled Kenneth close, their noses almost touching. “There is only one authority on this earth. Ours.” He pointed at Roger, a tall man with thick glasses. “Stay with the money.”
Roger slipped behind the counter piled high with signed copies of The Only Way as the Reverend threw open the double doors and burst out into the mid-morning sunshine, brick in hand.
The ushers surrounded Kenneth and his father as they headed for the protestors, only fourteen of them, not a real threat. Most of the protestors wore bandannas over their mouths or full-on masks. There were even a few rubber ones of the Reverend. They held picket signs: The Wrong Way. Five Minutes Too Long. The Fourth Has Been Forgotten. One Way to Hell.
Two men in skeleton masks stood by the broken window.
The camera crew followed, and the Reverend slowed down to make sure they didn’t miss this. An usher snapped out his baton, but the Reverend shook his head. They filed in behind the Reverend as he held up the brick.
“Who dares to throw stones at a house of God?”
A man in black, one of the few without a mask, whispered to a stockier, bearded man with clenched fists. The man in black turned to the Reverend and said, “We apologize for our actions. The window will be replaced.”
“The cost is not the concern. The glass cut my son.”
“Who gives a shit?” the bearded man said.
The man in black pulled back his friend. “I’ll pay for it myself, if I have to. It should not have happened.”
“Do you have any idea how much time and effort went into that creation?”
A voice from somewhere in the group called out, “Like you don’t have the money!”
Another voice said, “Yeah, you probably get that from one appearance.”
The Reverend inhaled through his nose and flashed that famous smile. “I do not deny my successes, and what I have made has been returned tenfold to those across this great land. But who among you can offer more than derision and scorn?”
The man in black unzipped his windbreaker, his white collar now visible to all. “I believe I can answer that challenge. I am Father Potter of St. Luke’s Church, and I am here as a voice of gentle opposition to this abomination.”
The Reverend held the brick to the cameraman. “If this is what they consider gentle opposition, I’d hate to see them angry.”
“I don’t condone what happened. I tried to stop it. But by His good name, this is no house of God. This is nothing but business, a shelter of greed.”
“Greed?” The Reverend laughed. “Our money flows through the people of this country, not through your golden palaces in Rome.”
Potter’s face flushed red. Kenneth saw his father was staying true to their concept of never defend, always attack.
Potter said, “The money you donate to the government comes back to you multiplied by a number far greater than ten. You know it, even if your blind flock does not.” The Reverend started to speak, but Potter raised his hand to silence him. “I’ve seen the provisions of this tax bill you’re pushing. Your church is the only one to receive anything from the collected funds.”
“Because unlike you, we guarantee it will be spent on the people.”
A frail woman stepped forward, her grip tight on a picket sign. “You just want to take everything. So you can control our country.”
“And what exactly is under control now? The traffic? The pollution? Corruption? Scandal? The education of our young?”
“My brother’s dead because of the laws you support,” a voice shouted.
“And my father,” another announced.
Kenneth stared at the shell of a woman, a blond, thirty-something clutching an upside down picket sign to balance her withered leg. Her sunken eyes were dull gray like she’d been slowly poisoned. The sign read, “The Fourth Forgotten” in blood-red letters.
Potter put his arm around her and said, “Her husband was murdered in one of your raids for supposedly not turning in a registered gun. A gun they never found.”
The protestors grumbled in anger, booed the Reverend, called him a charlatan.
“And what exactly would you call this so-called ‘priest?’”
The bearded man lunged forward, his stick drawn. “Murderer!”
Potter and a young man, with a blue bandanna covering half his face, grabbed his arm, urged him not make matters worse for himself, for all of them.
“But worse is exactly what will happen,” the Reverend said. “As long as the needs of the few outweigh those of the many, then suffering is all that awaits.”
The protester, dropped his picket sign, took off his bandanna and stepped toward the Reverend. “And what would you know about suffering?”
For the first time, the Reverend stepped back. The protester was just a teenager, but his eyes looked like they’d seen years of death. It took a few seconds, but Kenneth recognized the kid. Justin Adams, the brother of that girl who had been raped and murdered. Justin’s face had been splashed on every news station. That vacant stare, his chin dripping with blood after his five minutes.
Wayne stepped in, put his hand on Justin’s chest, but Justin just kept walking. The crowd closed in. The ushers formed a line.
Wayne said to Justin, “You want to get sprayed?”
The protesters stopped. The blue dye took over a week to wash off and it was reason for any citizen to be picked up for questioning.
Kenneth said, “Do it!”
One of the protestors in the Reverend mask started for Kenneth, who nearly tripped as he backed up. The protester said, “Look at me, I’m Chosen, I’m Chosen.”
Another one danced back and forth. “Me, too. Me, too.”
Kenneth felt his cheeks flush. He wanted to shout, to tell these nothings they didn’t deserve to live in this country, but he felt the stutter, the affliction he’d worked so hard to overcome, swirling around his mouth.
Several of the protestors shoved their camera phones in his face. One of them said, “Save us, Chosen One.” They all started laughing.
The Reverend grabbed Wayne’s hand, lowered it from Justin’s chest. “No one will be sprayed.” He leaned into Justin’s ear, but spoke loud enough for the cameras. “I feel your anguish. But you don’t have to carry this alone. We are here for you, son.”
Kenneth watched Justin’s eyes. The anger was starting to dissipate, but then Justin’s hands drove into the Reverend’s gut. The bodyguards snapped out their batons. The protesters drove them back.
Wayne pulled out a canister, shook it, pressed the button. A blast of blue sprayed Justin’s eyes. Screams and the burning mist filled the air. Potter grabbed Justin and pulled him back, emptied a water bottle over the kid’s face. Kenneth barely saw the woman pulling something from her purse, but he heard the shot. Saw the flash. The exploding hole. The blood sprayed across his face and dripped down his cheek. The Reverend collapsed, his head smacking concrete.
An usher pulled out his gun, returned fire, the woman a marionette dancing in the wind. Potter crawled toward her while the rest of the protestors ran, spread out like fireworks.
Kenneth fell to his knees, cradled his father’s head. Their brand new suits covered in red. The hole gushed the contents of his father’s heart.
The Reverend’s mouth moved, but there wasn’t a sound.
Kenneth took his father’s hand. “Don’t talk. It’s going to be all right.” Kenneth screamed for someone to help. He stroked his father’s fiery hair and felt something gripping his jacket. His father’s hand.
“You must lead them,” the Reverend gasped. “Through everything.”
“Dad…”
“It’s all yours now.”
Kenneth watched the brick fall from his father’s hand and gave a small, silent prayer. He sensed the cameras zooming in, the world watching, waiting to see what he’d do next. Kenneth simply drew a deep breath and looked around at the scene. He saw the woman flat on the ground, her chest still rising and falling. He crawled over and bowed his head in prayer. He kissed her forehead to tell everyone watching she was forgiven. Then he leaned into her ear and whispered so only she could hear. “I doubt five minutes will be enough.”
Thirteenth on the List
September 11, 2041
The sun inched over the mountain, and light slid across the massive facility nestled at the bottom of the valley. Forty yards up, Jeremy Adams lay motionless, blending in between two boulders, his tan cloak perfect camouflage against the desert rock. He counted sixteen men down below in beige fatigues, but Jeremy didn’t have anything against them. He placed his eye to the Bushmaster’s scope and panned to the heavily secured front gate, the one area not protected with electrified razor-wire fence. Six guards with light machine guns. Two more in the security booth. Another eight were spread across the grounds, moving along the perimeter and watching over the massive white silos Jeremy had been instructed to avoid.
There was no way of knowing exactly how many men were inside the massive storage area built into the mountain and the blue building in the corner, which served as the Bradfords’ living quarters.
Jeremy zoomed in on the tallest guard at the front gate. For private security, the man was well-equipped. His precise gait and perfect posture meant ex-military. Jeremy tracked one guard after another. Most of them were in their thirties or forties. Their experience didn’t worry him. Jeremy was only twenty, but in the three years he’d been in the field, he’d probably killed more men and women than these guards combined.
He took his first life at fifteen, and recruiters immediately recognized his determination and complete lack of emotion. While his brother and former classmates had fucked off in high school, Jeremy’s handlers trained him in the art of death. Killing became his business and these days business was booming.
Jeremy adjusted his position against the rock and ran the numbers in his head. He earned one hundredth of one percent off each hit, but the combined net worth of the first twelve people on his list totaled fifty-three billion. The Bradfords added an additional eighteen, meaning Jeremy would clear over seven million, tax-free. Maybe if his family heard that they wouldn’t be so quick to judge.
He needed to focus. The string of recent deaths had put the wealthy on alert. Some went about their lives hoping it was just a coincidence. Others hid. Most, though, hired security details like this one. But Jeremy knew that it was all false hope, no one was ever truly safe.
He checked his watch. If intel could be trusted, Jeremy only had to wait another five minutes. Every Saturday at that time, Kyle Bradford opened the living quarter’s door, walked his wife down the short-walled path, kissed her goodbye, and watched her drive off to pick up their son. When Deborah crossed the front gate, Kyle would head into the mountain and begin work. Only today would be different. There would be no goodbye kiss.
Deborah’s silver Hummer and Kyle’s black Jeep were parked a dozen yards from the building’s door, a mere seventy-three yards from Jeremy’s position, no wind to deter his shot. He’d take out Deborah and then Kyle before she hit the ground.
Jeremy pulled his eye away from the scope and stared at the picture of his sister taped to the stock. Photos were forbidden on missions, but Jenny went with him everywhere. She started him down this path and it was to her he repented before every hit.
After a few silent words, Jeremy set his sights on the blue building. He ran the plan in his head. Two rapid shots, possibly three, empty the ten-round magazine on the closest guards, then retreat up the mountain. He’d be back at his car within five minutes, gone in fifteen.
Movement at the gate. A flashing red light at the top of the booth. A car approached on the lone road that sliced through the desert. A black bottom, red top town car, silver-tinted windows. Official car of the Church of the American Way.
Jeremy threw protocol out the window and clicked on his earpiece. He should’ve been alerted.
The car stopped at the gate and a guard approached the window.
In the quietest whisper Jeremy said, “We got company.”
“It’s just support.” Captain Hayden sounded pissed. “Now get off the channel.”
Jeremy didn’t typically work with others, especially the Way. “Negative. Shake them.”
“Do as you’re told,” Hayden said.
The earpiece went silent and the front gate rolled to the left. The town car drove around the blue building. It parked. Jeremy could only see one side. The passenger door opened and a young man in a silver suit stepped out. He combed his slick black hair, looked right at Jeremy’s location and gave a little nod.
Jeremy ignored the goose bumps and the little voice telling him to fall back to the car and never look back. He told himself that having some help only increased his odds.
Silver suit stayed where he was. He spoke with the driver. A few seconds later, the building’s front door opened. Jeremy laid his finger against the trigger guard and steadied his breath. With a twist of the scope, Kyle Bradford’s profile filled the sight, the crosshairs rising and falling from the top of his thick eyebrow to the bottom of his ear. Jeremy zoomed out and watched as Deborah met the morning, the sun blasting off her long blond hair.
The Bradfords headed down the walkway. Jeremy hoped they’d say goodbye in front of their vehicles. Otherwise he’d have to deal with the waist-high wall. If he missed, the target could drop and hide.
The Bradfords continued down the path. Jeremy zoomed in on Deborah and relaxed his breathing even more. He cut the target area to the quarter-sized spot around her temple.
Deborah stopped and hugged Kyle. Jeremy’s finger inched off the trigger guard and slipped inside it. The groove of his knuckle settled against the metal. As he was about to take the shot, Deborah bent down like she dropped something, ruined Jeremy’s sight picture.
When she stood, the back of Deborah’s head filled the sight. Jeremy held his breath and applied more pressure on the trigger. Deborah turned slightly, holding their two-year-old son in her arms. Jeremy jerked the rifle to the right just as the shot fired.
The boom echoed through the mountains and the bullet punctured the side of the Hummer. Kyle grabbed hold of Deborah and rushed her and the child toward his Jeep as the facility’s alarm blared.
Kyle threw open the Jeep’s front door and Jeremy squeezed off another round. The bullet struck Kyle in his side and knocked him to the ground. Kyle got to his knees and waved Deborah away. She disappeared behind the wall with the boy.
Jeremy waited to finish Kyle. He hoped the man’s suffering would draw out his wife. Kyle started to pull himself into the vehicle, which forced Jeremy to take the shot. The fifty-caliber round splattered Kyle’s head against the inside of the door.
Bullets peppered the mountainside as the guards blindly fired in Jeremy’s general direction. He had to kill both Kyle and Deborah for the mission to succeed, but she was behind cover and if he took another shot, the guards would pinpoint his location. Some of the bullets had already come close.
The guards stationed around the silos were closing the distance. So were the ones walking the perimeter. The ones at the gate kept their posts, guns aimed at the mountainside. The tall guy loaded a rocket launcher.
Jeremy couldn’t rely on the Way to finish the job and it was too late to retreat. He had one option and it wasn’t good.
His first shot split the brow of the guard with the rocket launcher. His second knocked down the one running for the fallen weapon. The third and fourth shots stopped two guards rushing toward the base of the mountain. The fifth missed the guy firing from the side of the living quarters, and Jeremy fell behind the rock as the gunfire found him. Dirt and chips of rocks filled the air. There were at least ten guards left, no sign of the Way, and a loaded rocket launcher. Time to move.
Jeremy freed a smoke grenade and rolled it down the hill. The heavy white clouds rose and Jeremy flipped down the face shield of the helmet hidden under his cloak as he ripped Jenny’s picture from the rifle. He leapt to his feet and took off running.
A round hit Jeremy’s chest, bounced off his body armor and staggered him. Before the smoke cleared, Jeremy pulled the M-14 slung across his back and dropped down behind a cluster of rocks fifteen yards from his original spot. They’d know he was in the vicinity.
The smoke was gone. The shooting stopped. Looking through a crack between two boulders, Jeremy could see Deborah crouched behind the wall, her blue shirt barely visible. There were two guards kneeling beside her with their guns aimed at the last place Jeremy had been. Another guard was positioned by the Hummer waving her toward him.
Jeremy eased the barrel of the M-14 into the crack and tracked the guard who had retrieved the rocket launcher. Killing Deborah was a top priority. Living to see payment, even higher.
The man fidgeted with the weapon, couldn’t quite balance it on his shoulder. Jeremy’s round punched through his forehead, dropping him and the launcher onto the ground.
All guns turned toward Jeremy’s location and opened fire. He got off two more lethal shots before pulling back. Jeremy blocked out the deafening roar of guns and the piercing alarm and visualized where each of the remaining guards were positioned. The biggest threats were the ones at the fence line near the rocket launcher and the three by Deborah.
Jeremy took a grenade from beneath his cloak and pulled the pin. He couldn’t throw it anywhere near the child and there was no way he could reach the fence line, so he lobbed it at the corner of the living quarters.
The grenade bounced to a stop by the feet of the firing guard, gave the guy just enough time to stare down before it exploded, shredding his body and blowing a hole through the wall.
Jeremy scrambled to the left, jumped over rocks, his feet sliding on the slippery terrain as bullets whizzed around him. A rocket slammed into the boulder he’d been behind and blasted him off his feet.
Jeremy flew through the air, his right cheek smashing into a rock, shattering with a loud crunch. If he stayed still, he’d be dead. He hugged his weapon to his chest and threw himself on his side, rolling down the mountain, his armor only providing minimal protection against the jagged rocks.
He tumbled down the last twenty yards, braced himself for the impact, and barely felt the sharp sting of a bullet rip through his calf. Several other bullets bounced off his armor as he banged down the hillside. His left forearm snapped when he slammed into the ground.
Staying down meant death. Jeremy got to his feet and brought up the M-14 one-handed, his aim unsteady. He pivoted toward the walkway and saw Deborah behind the wheel of her vehicle. Three guards surrounded her, fired at Jeremy and yelled at her to drive.
Headshot, headshot, short blast to one guy’s chest. All three dead just as Jeremy got floored by a blow that felt like a baseball bat.
He rolled onto his back and looked toward the mountain. The massive foot-thick gate was stuck halfway open. A guard racked another slug into his twelve-gauge. Jeremy took aim, put the guard down then turned toward the squeal of tires.
Rubber spun on the warm concrete. The Hummer’s rear snaked back and forth. Jeremy hobbled toward the jeep and stepped over Kyle as the Way car screeched around the corner. The silver suit on foot high-tailed it toward the silos with his pistol dangling at his side.
The keys waited in the ignition. Jeremy started the bullet-riddled jeep and floored the gas as the Way car flew past the Hummer and disappeared into the mountain.
The Hummer sped by the silver suit. The guy never even raised his gun. Instead, he faced Jeremy’s jeep and aimed.
Jeremy flicked on his earpiece. “Support hostile. Repeat, support is hostile.”
Jeremy swerved. A bullet smashed through the windshield, knocking out his rearview.
A thunderous explosion ripped through the day. The jeep shook as a blast of heat shot out from the mountain. The man in the silver suit kept his feet and tossed something small beside the silos. He smiled big. No fear of death, only expectation in his eyes.
Jeremy spun the wheel, but it was too late. Everything was red, the air an oven of fire. All four wheels were off the ground and Jeremy’s world went black as he flew end over end.
The pain was so intense he had to be alive. Jeremy slid the vial from his collar, injected it into the unroasted side of his neck. The effect was immediate, although temporary.
Jeremy cracked the helmet free from his skull. He felt for the earpiece and instead found a lump for an ear. His right eye was stuck shut, but his left eye could open.
A fiery inferno rushed from the mouth of the mountain and merged with the silos. It seemed to Jeremy like a tongue lashing back and forth, its brilliant blue tip scorching the sky black with dark smoke.
Jeremy pushed onto his side and found himself on the concrete facing the gate. The jeep was a burning wreck, a permanent part of the guard house. Everyone was dead or gone. Except Deborah. Instead of racing off to Indian Springs or Las Vegas, she sat in her idling Hummer down the road. Then it moved, creeping toward him.
Jeremy took a grenade and held it close to his chest. The Bradfords had been smart enough to will all their fortune to a charity if something happened to their son. If Jeremy blew up both Deborah and Cody, the US government got nothing. If he could somehow get her by herself, his employers would get fifty percent instead of only ten once the new tax law took effect.
The Hummer continued to inch forward. Jeremy set the grenade by his side and reached for the forty-five in his waistband. His fingers wrapped around the handle when Deborah stopped fifteen yards away. The driver’s door opened, and Jeremy slipped the gun from its holster and held his breath. He hoped he looked as dead as he felt.
Deborah stepped out of the Hummer. The opened door blocked most of her body. Her blood-speckled face peered through the window. No longer confident of his aim, Jeremy hoped she’d come a little closer.
She stayed there for several seconds then ducked into the idling vehicle. Was she going to run him over? That’s what Jeremy would have done. A moment later, she came back out holding something in her hands. Even through one narrowed eye, Jeremy could see it wasn’t a gun.
A flash blinded him. He raised the forty-five and fired one, two, three times, but she dove into the Hummer. Jeremy continued to fire as the SUV flew in reverse.
Jeremy got to his feet and limped out the front gate. He stopped where Deborah had been only a moment before. A small puddle of blood pooled on the concrete. With any luck he had hit something vital and she’d bleed out before she made it to town.
Either way, Jeremy was screwed. The Way had let Deborah escape and tried to kill him. He’d been set up and cut off. He should have known better than to trust the Controllers.
It wouldn’t be long before jet fighters out of Nellis Air Force base responded to the explosions. The charred vehicles inside the facility were no longer an option, so Jeremy headed for the top of the mountain to retrieve the rental car with the documents tying this to the Muslims. Only Jeremy wouldn’t be driving to the pickup location as originally planned.
He was on his own.
Nine Months Later
December 18, 2042
Maria Salazar’s six hours were up and, although it would do little to ease her suffering, she wanted her Motrin. Last night, just before the midnight cutoff, she’d delivered naturally, refusing the epidural and narcotic offers she couldn’t afford.
Ignoring the burning from her sutured tear, Maria steadied her cot and rolled onto her side, facing the doorway and the other women filling the small room. Just past the narrow aisle lay a gray-haired woman, her face wrinkled, her breasts sagging onto her cot. Next to the old woman was a young girl who was probably not yet in junior high. At first glance, Maria thought the girl was the granddaughter but they looked nothing alike. The girl’s belly was still swollen, and the hospital would never allow a cot to go unused, even for a moment. The last two women were both turned toward the doorway, waiting for miraculous news to arrive or simply unwilling to face the rest of the room.
Maria wondered if any of the other women had planned to become pregnant. Maybe they’d been waiting because they couldn’t afford a child. Maybe they hadn’t been sure they wanted to bring a child into this world. Had any of them seen their baby before the nurses whisked them off to the nursery? Or been told what sex their child was, if it was healthy, if it was even still alive? She wanted to ask them how they were dealing with all of this, if they felt hollow, like someone had stolen part of their soul. Maria didn’t need to say a word. The tears and muffled sobs said it all.
If she and Enrique hadn’t been so careful, they could’ve been pregnant years before. There was no denying it would’ve been difficult to provide for a child on their measly salaries, but it would’ve been better in so many ways. For one, she would’ve been by herself in this room, not having to smell the soiled sheets, unchanged dressings, and sour stench of fear. She would’ve bonded with her baby after the delivery. She would’ve arranged a payment plan with the hospital. They would’ve made it work and there wouldn’t have been a question of whether she would ever see her only child.
But they had waited and now here they were, 2042, the year of the baby. The year that man’s foolishness had finally caught up with him. The year every woman with a uterus became fertile with one act of terrorism, the explosion in the desert changing everything.
Maria’s gaze traveled from the door to the clock and back to the door. It was almost twelve-thirty. The nurse was running late.
A few minutes crawled by before a shadow crossed the doorway. It was Enrique. Black circles of sweat surrounded both armpits of his grease-stained jumpsuit.
Enrique treaded quietly across the room with his eyes on his boots. Maria could tell he’d been crying. Enrique never cried.
“Oh my God.” Maria clutched the gown to her chest. “What is it? Enrique, what is it?”
Enrique motioned for Maria to calm down as he knelt at the foot of her cot and stroked her calf.
Maria didn’t care if she upset the other women. Something was wrong. Not lowering her voice, she said, “Tell me. Tell me what’s wrong. Is it dead?”
After shushing her, Enrique cleared his throat. “Everything’s fine,” he said, an obvious lie. “I just stopped by the nursery.”
“The baby’s okay?” Without giving him time to answer, she asked, “What is it? Is it a girl?”
“Maybe it’s best not to know. That’s why they didn’t tell us.”
Maria grabbed him. “Tell me.”
“It’ll make things harder.”
“Damn it, Enrique, don’t talk like that. I’m taking my baby home. Now tell me what we had!”
“It was a girl.”
Maria’s heart melted. She’d known it was going to be a girl all along. “Vanessa.”
Enrique nodded then glanced at the clock.
“You’re not going to leave already?”
“What do you want me to do? It takes me ten minutes on the bike and if I’m late again, I’ll be fired.”
“We only have until midnight.” Maria struggled to remain calm. “How are we going to come up with the money?”
Enrique shook his head. “We can’t. There’s no way.”
“We have to.”
“It’s too much. Where can we get the money? We’re still three thousand short.”
“What about your boss? Can’t he give you an advance?”
“I already asked him, and even if he did, how would we ever make ends meet after?”
“I’ll keep driving,” Maria said.
“We already said this was your last year.”
“We need the money.”
“I’ll work doubles,” Enrique promised.
“On your salary you’d have to work four shifts a day.” Maria hadn’t meant it to sound mean. “There are three of us now.”
Enrique started to speak, hesitated, then said, “Maybe it’s better if it’s just you and me. Better for her and us.”
If he’d been closer, Maria would’ve slapped him. “Don’t ever say that.”
He stroked her leg a little harder. “You know I don’t want that. I want a child more than anything.” He fought back tears. “What can we do? Even if we could get the money, what kind of life could we give her?”
“A good one. We’d love her more than anyone else ever could.”
“All the love in the world won’t give her shelter if we can’t pay our rent. It won’t feed her if we can’t buy food. If we let the Church adopt her, she’d have a chance at a better life.”
Maria glanced a few cots away at a woman in fetal position, heaving, her face a frozen shriek.
“We are not giving up our daughter. And especially not to that cult.”
“The Way isn’t a cult. They’re helping the government make the world a better place.”
“You believe everything you see on TV?”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore.” Enrique held his head in his hand. “I don’t know what to think.”
“I’ll die before I let them take our little girl.”
“Calm down, Maria. You’re still emotional because your hormones are messed up from having a baby.”
“A baby I’ve never seen! A baby I carried for nearly nine months!”
“I’m sorry. I know how you feel.”
“You can never know how I feel.”
Enrique let go of her calf and stood. “Then where does that leave us?”
“What about the Family Support Specialists?”
“They’re nothing more than well-dressed loan sharks. Thirty percent interest with an extra ten percent fee tacked on. How could we ever pay that? You know what they’ll do if we don’t?”
“We’ll find a way.”
“I don’t even know if they’d approve us.”
“We have to try.”
Enrique looked at the clock. “Fine. I’ll go after work.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t get your hopes too high, Maria” He headed for the door. “It may not happen.”
After Enrique left, the old lady turned to Maria, her stale breath blowing into Maria’s face, making her nauseous. “Is this your first?”
Maria nodded and pushed herself into a sitting position. Carefully, she swung her legs off the cot and onto the cold floor. She pulled the slushy ice pack from her underwear and set it on her sheet, gingerly got to her feet and hobbled over to the wheelchair in the corner. She needed the Motrin, but wasn’t about to wait in this depressing room for it.
Maria eased into the wheelchair and rolled out of the room. Both sides of the hallway were lined with expectant mothers lying on cots. As she wheeled down the corridor, several of the women asked her questions. Maria pretended not to hear and headed for the lobby.
Vanessa’s delivery was a few minutes before midnight, and Maria was one of the last natural birth mothers. All of the unfortunate women on either side of the hall would be having c-sections, the government’s answer to the overwhelming surplus of pregnant mothers. Some of them might not even mind, but a c-section had been out of the question for Maria. Not only was it more expensive, it would’ve taken her longer to recover an
![Brightside by [Tullius, Mark]](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/41-p84rGPZL._SY346_.jpg)
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I'm a father and a husband, a brother and a son. I'm an Ivy League grad who worked in a warehouse, an MMA fighter with too many defeats. I'm the bouncer and bodyguard, the drunk guy in the fight. The jailer and the jailed, the guilty and innocent.
I'm a writer shaped by influences, too many to count. I grew up on King and Koontz while force-fed the Bible. I narrate Dr. Seuss and Disney nearly every night. Like you, I've seen things I wished I hadn't, heard some truths I won't forget.
Writing is my heavy bag, the sparring partner that doesn't punch back. It's where I shed my armor and cast off the blindfold, take a look at myself and the world around me. The writing takes me wherever it wants. Dark alley or dinner table, classroom or morgue. I go along for the ride and try to capture the moment, show life like it is and let you be the judge.
