Anthony DeCosmo - Empire

“What is it you propose?”

“Well, Angela, those decisions are not up to me. That’s the point. I believe we need to build democracy again. History has shown that functioning democracies have always waged just wars better than have dictatorships. I believe a representative government could better handle our domestic issues and would lead to victories in the war that would be lasting. I cannot say the same about what is happening now. I am very concerned for the future.”

Angela pointed out, “You’re a part of that governing council. Doesn’t that make you part of the problem?”

“I would gladly trade my position on the council for free elections. No one person should be above the will of the people. That’s why I publish The New American Press. It is a means of covering all of the topics from all angles. We certainly give Trevor Stone his due for everything he has accomplished. We just hope to encourage him to return to the tradition of freedom we once held so dear.”

Another summer day turned into a summer night.

Evan Godfrey drove his armor-plated Mercedes-Benz sedan along empty boulevards until reaching Kidder Street, once a thriving thoroughfare on the north end of town but badly mauled during the Battle for Wilkes-Barre and then again during the Battle of Five Armies, as evidenced by the rubble of the Wyoming Valley Mall. Four years ago, Jon Brewer detonated that shopping center to destroy an army of insane robots.

He passed a handful of trading posts where torches and portable lights illuminated merchants ready to barter the fruits of scavenger hunts for ration cards, ammunition, or any number of personal services. He saw a couple of horseback riders and several bicycles, but only one other car; gasoline was a luxury.

Those horses and bicycles would soon disappear, as would the merchants. As day turned to night, the threat of nocturnal predators threatened, no matter how thorough the efforts of their K9 guardians.

He arrived at “Tortelli’s Restaurant and Bar,” built from what had once been a Red Lobster.

Instead of seafood, the new establishment specialized in the same thing every local restaurant specialized in: beef dishes, chicken dishes, soup, and the occasional salad when enough greens came in from the farms.

The Tortelli family ran the business. Dad cooked, mom hosted and served, the kids cleaned tables, and the oldest stood behind the bar serving home brewed beers.

Tortelli’s Restaurant and Bar earned official recognition from the council, meaning they redeemed food rations there and they received supplies from government stockpiles.

Evan, who had given his contingent of human bodyguards this night off (and he refused any K9 protection), entered the front door where a chalkboard greeted him. Messages for customers read, “We don’t need any more pots, pans or silverware, thank you,” and “Looking for size 11 sneakers or work boots…also need children’s clothing.”

Shoes-particularly children’s shoes and heavy boots-were some of the most coveted items in the new world. Most people walked around in badly torn, stained, and poor-fitting sneakers or loafers. Even most soldiers made due with casual footwear as opposed to boots.

Evan walked through the candle-lit restaurant to the bar area. The air carried a combination of scents including something burning and something rotting.

He nodded to the bartender who mixed his usual drink. While gin held its constitution over the years, the lack of fizzle in the glass suggested flat tonic water.

Instead of asking for payment, the bartender scribbled a mark in a ledger next to Evan Godfrey’s name. Most customers would pay-through barter-for their drink before the first sip. A precious few earned credit from larger trades, such as a gallon of gasoline, a roll of old-world toilet paper, or services along the lines of landscaping or equipment repair.

Writing Evan’s name was merely a formality. After all, Evan served on the council, the same council that designated Tortelli’s a ration redemption point, which ensured a high level of traffic. Evan’s tab was covered.

He found a quiet booth in the corner and waited several minutes until his appointment arrived: a white man just about six feet tall with thin brown hair, a lanky body, and small, sharp brown eyes. He wore a sport jacket that covered a shoulder holster where a 357 Magnum hung.

“Hello Ray, what took you so long?”

The waitress-Mrs. Tortelli-knew to get the newcomer a glass of homemade beer. Like Evan, the tab made no difference because it paid to have friends in Internal Security.

“Don’t you just get to the point? Yes you do. But you are going to love why I’m late.”

Evan sipped his drink then placed it on a coaster atop the wooden table.

“Now you just have to tell me.”

“I will, I will. But what have you got for me?”

Evan told him, “I’ve got you an appointment with Dr. Davis. Just like I promised.”

“Yeah? Everything?”

“Novocain. Nurses. Everything. They’ll have that tooth taken care of in no time.”

Ray raised a hand to his cheek and said, “Good thing, too. This was starting to drive me nuts. How long is the wait?”

“For most people, about three months and they don’t get Novocain. For my friend? Well, let’s just say the name ‘Ray Roos’ is at the top of their list. Go in whenever you want. Go tomorrow, if you like. You’ll probably be out of there in two hours or less.”

“Isn’t that fantastic? Yes it is,” Ray thanked Evan.

“Now, what have you got for me?”

“I got a shitload for you. Most of it is no problem because it’s general knowledge in I.S. But today’s stuff, well, find a creative way to bring it up because it can be traced back to people like me. You know, officers.”

“C’mon now,” Evan pushed. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

“Okay,” Roos leaned forward. “First off, ammo is way low in just about every field office north of Maryland. A couple of H-K handlers refused to go out with the K9s because they didn’t have high-caliber rounds for their big guns. So the friggin’ dogs were doing the sweeps on their own. Now what if they ran into a Hostile One-Fifty Seven or a Goat-Walker? They couldn’t handle those. For Christ’s sake, military units can’t handle those things most of the time.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Evan waved his hand impatiently. “I got the gist of that from the council meeting. Jones won’t discuss half of it when I’m around. Still, you can do better than ‘we’re low on ammo’.”

Roos grinned mischievously.

“Howabout this, then? Howabout K9s ripping each other apart.”

“What did you say?”

“The past few days security at the estate has found five different K9s that seemed to have turned on each other. Ripped each other apart. They found a sixth dog that killed its buddy but it was whacko. They say Trevor couldn’t even get through to it. They had to put it down.”

Evan felt goose bumps bubble along his arms. He could only imagine the nightmare that would ensue if Trevor’s dogs went berserk.

“Well, what? A disease? Rabies?”

“No one is sure, but it’s scaring the I.S. guys around the mansion. It’s like something got into the dogs’ heads or something. No one has actually witnessed it, either, just finding bodies. Really creepy shit.”

“Yeah, really creepy. I’ll see what I can find out. What else you got?”

Roos smiled as if anticipating the joy this news would bring the councilman.

“I got Dubois, Pennsylvania. Maybe seventy miles northeast of Pittsburgh. Small place, sort of a hub for some farms. No electricity, well-water, real stone-age living. Point is, about one-hundred people were there and they just got slaughtered by Red Hands. That’s right, Red Hands. Wanna know the kicker? The follow up teams got a bloody nose and had to call in regular military units to handle it, to handle Red Hands! Those idiots use spears and arrows for Christ’s sake.”