Phil Williams - 2050 - Psycho Island

He sidled up to her and looked out over the ocean. “Beautiful.”

“It is.”

“Storm’s coming. You can feel it in the air. Might be a hurricane.”

Summer’s heart rate increased. “Will we be safe here?”

“Probably the safest place on the island.”

Summer nodded.

“I need to talk to you about something.”

Summer turned from the sunset to Roger.

“I knew your father, Patrick.”

Summer knitted her brows.

Roger continued. “You told me your last name when we first met, but I didn’t put two and two together until I spoke with Javier today. He told me where you were from, and it hit me like a bolt of lightning.”

“How did you know him?”

“You could say we worked together. While I was in congress, I started 1776. Very few knew about my involvement with the organization. I met Patrick through a mutual friend. He was running a vlog called The Underground. It was a secretive show that he broadcasted from different locations using VPNs. I had top secret information that I thought the public should know. He was the voice I couldn’t be.”

“ Braveheart ,” Summer said, her eyes unblinking.

“That’s right. Did you know about it?”

“No. He never told me.”

“I’m sure he wanted to protect you.”

Summer pursed her lips, absorbing the revelation. “Does Javier know?”

“You’re the only person I’ve ever told. Given the circumstances, I think your dad would want you to know.”

Summer shook her head, tears threatening. “I don’t even know where he is. He left last December. Didn’t even say goodbye.”

“I know where he is.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Most of us in 1776 had exit plans if and when arrests were planned. Unfortunately, my arrest came as a surprise. Prior to my arrest, I negotiated with the Panamanian government to buy twenty thousand acres of jungle in the Darién Province. It was a pretty penny for sure. Fifty thousand Fed Coins an acre for raw land. Truman Bradshaw, the CEO of Thorium Unlimited, invested in the project. The catch was that the Panamanian government would leave us alone. No police. No taxes. Nothing.”

“Silver City?”

Roger nodded.

“My friend Mark talked about going there before he was arrested.” Summer blew out a heavy breath. “He was on the same ship as me. The Aryans took him, but I don’t know what happened to him.”

“I’m sorry, Summer.”

She nodded and said, “You think my father might be in Silver City?”

“That’s where I would go if I were him, and I know he’s aware of the place.”

A scream came from behind them. Then shouts. Summer and Roger turned from the ocean and rushed toward the commotion. They looked down from the forty-foot wall, now facing the center courtyard. A handful of people gathered around a lifeless, contorted body. Blood spilled from her cracked head. Summer was frozen, her mouth an O , and her eyes wide open. She must’ve jumped.

Eliza .

“We’re up three points in the latest poll,” Katherine said. “We’ve overtaken Randal Montgomery, but we’re still eleven points behind Corrinne.”

They were in the sitting area of Naomi’s congressional office. Katherine and Vernon sat on the couch. Naomi sat in a chair opposite, jet-lagged from the six-hour flight back from Oregon last night.

“Do you think the story hurt us?” Naomi sipped her coffee.

Last night, the same day she made her speech at the University of Oregon on gun control, the mainstream media did a story on Naomi’s extreme ideology. The story questioned her views on nationalization, gun control, social welfare programs, and the closure of the popular island prison system.

“We need mainstream democrats to win the nomination, but, if we want their support, we can’t be so extreme,” Katherine said.

“I don’t think we’ll win by playing the middle,” Naomi said. “I can’t be a better version of Corrinne Powers. The support for socialism is rising and has been for fifty years.”

Vernon stroked his manicured beard. “The question is whether or not there’s enough support now to elect a socialist president.”

“There is. We just need the young people to vote. I don’t think we should sugarcoat our platform. I’m rising in the polls because I’m an unapologetic socialist. People are tired of the status quo. They’re ready for the extreme.”

Katherine pursed her lips.

Naomi’s desktop phone chimed. “I think we’re done here.” She stood, stepped to her desk, and tapped the phone’s OLED screen. “Yes, Nina.”

Katherine left Naomi’s office, but Vernon followed Naomi to her desk.

Nina said, “Eric Roth is on the phone for you. Line two. Voice only.”

“Thank you.” Naomi looked at Vernon. “It’s Eric Roth.”

“Now I know we’re making progress,” Vernon said.

Naomi tapped line two. Eric had elected not to transmit his likeness through the OLED screen. “This is Naomi Sutton.”

“Mrs. Sutton, this is Eric Roth. I believe you know my brother Jacob.”

“Yes.”

“I wanted to call and congratulate you on your recent success in the latest polls. My family is very impressed.”

Naomi rolled her eyes to Vernon. “Thank you, Mr. Roth.”

“Please, call me Eric.”

Naomi didn’t respond.

Eric continued, “I also wanted to make it clear that my family would like to support your candidacy for President of the United States.”

“I made myself clear to Jacob. You and your family are welcome to donate to my campaign, but I don’t give special favors to donors.”

“That’s a pity. I think you would’ve been a great president.”

Derek lay on his bed of straw, thinking about Eliza’s suicide the evening before. Derek knew why she did it. I didn’t save her from the Aryans. I let them brutalize her. I brought back a corpse. A heavy rain fell outside. The drops hitting the stone produced a loud whoosh , like a waterfall. Rain blew in from the open gun ports, but Derek’s bed was far enough away to stay dry.

Multiple gunshots cut through the rain, causing Derek to sit up and look toward the open doorway of the room. It wasn’t uncommon to hear gunshots in San Juan, but these sounded close. A few minutes later, a commotion came from the common area. Someone screamed. Others shouted. Derek stood and ran toward the commotion, his knees barking in pain.

The common area was mayhem. Some of the men ran toward the front entrance, carrying rifles. A trail of blood came from the front, leading to two tables. Two men were on the tables, bleeding, Summer looking after one, the other laying limp. The guards hovered over a prone man, just inside the fort. Derek jogged toward the front entrance and the guards.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” one of the guards asked his victim.

The Aryan on the ground was bleeding from gunshot wounds to his stomach and chest. He had a bushy beard and a shaved head. A swastika was tattooed on his forehead like Charles Manson.

The Aryan wheezed and smiled, his mouth red with blood. “You’re all gonna die.”

One of the guards punched him in the face.

The Aryan smiled again, this time without his two front teeth.

“Why are you here?” the guard repeated.

The Aryan coughed, spitting up blood.

The guard shook the Aryan, but he was now unresponsive.

“What happened?” Derek asked.

“Three Aryans tried to sneak into the fort,” another guard said. “We can’t see shit in this weather. They stabbed Luther and Ollie.”