Michael Bunker - WICK

Vladimir began speaking. Alyona translated into Clay’s ear as quickly as Vladimir spoke. She spoke English well, but not perfectly, and this accent for the first time gave Clay the impression of Vladimir’s, and even Mikail’s, Russian-ness , which was something they had lacked in his mind until now.

“As most of you know, or have heard, the town of Warwick is now in our hands. You may not believe it is so, but we are sorry for any trouble that this necessary action has caused you and your families. It was something that had to be done. Comrade Mikail Mikailivitch Brekhunov has assumed command of this town—if it may be called a town—and has graciously organized this meeting to inform you of the situation and the details of what must soon come to pass. I will endeavor to be brief.

“This place—which the Americans call Warwick—is not a ‘town’ at all, though you may think that it is because you have lived in it all of your lives. It is a prison, and a place of slavery, owned and operated by billionaire capitalists on American soil. It is the Dachau of the American Experience and when we write its history, as we shall, the thousands upon thousands of human deaths will be catalogued for the rest of the world to know. The people who live here did not choose to be born here, did not invite or approve of their own slavery, and have committed no crimes against either America or Russia.

“Most here may not even know that this town—this spy factory we ourselves call Novgorod—has not been a part of the federal government of the United States since 1992. To the contrary, after the so-called ‘collapse’ of the Soviet Union, the American government, ashamed of what it had done to thousands of free U.S. citizens born on its soil, desired to shut this place down and sweep their crimes under a rug. Those who lived here twenty years ago may remember that time. Even today we call it “the Great Confusion.” If the American government plan had been completed in 1992, most of you would have either been killed or deported to Russia, a foreign country to you, where you were not born. Those sent to Russia would have been given false passports and would have been expected to spy for the Americans in your new country. Most of you, though, would have met with some unfortunate accident, because it would not do to release you all into freedom in America, a place you do not know, cannot understand, a place where—by their accounting—you do not even exist.

“Every one of us, who is over the age of ten years old, knows what this place is because that is when they tell us. And we know, even if we do not admit it or consciously understand it, that we were born into slavery in a spy school, and that we have been incarcerated here against our will for all of our lives. Every one of us knows by heart the Declaration of Independence, and the Constitution of the United States, yet, for some reason, we do not acknowledge that our very existence here, and our continued enslavement here, is a patent violation of those rights supposedly guaranteed to all citizens of America.

“At ten years of age, we were tested by our captors, and those who tested the highest for intelligence and the necessary characteristics requisite for dishonesty and lying, were set aside for extensive training so that, eventually, we would be sent to Russia to live among the peaceful people there to be traitors to our own culture and identity.

“Over the last fifty years, thousands of our friends and neighbors have been shipped to Russia to live there as Russians and to spy for America, and that is the truth of this place. But we are not Americans! We are not citizens of the United States of America, for if we were citizens we would have the basic rights afforded to all American citizens. We have been born Russian, and our lives have been lived as Russians, despite whatever soil happens to have been under our feet for all of our lives. We are Russians!”

Both Vladimir and Alyona stopped speaking for a moment, as the crowd began to become very animated at this last point. Many of the older villagers began shaking their heads and booing and hissing, while some of the younger residents were nodding their heads and clapping. Vladimir seemed to want this reaction and he allowed the turmoil to continue until it rolled across the entire crowd of people assembled inside the gymnasium. It gave Clay a moment to catch his breath and wonder at what he’d just heard. He felt light-headed. Too much information… He didn’t understand any of it.

Vladimir raised his hand, and then raised his voice so he could continue.

“In 1992, this town and facility, slated to be closed by the American government, was purchased….” (murmurs and heated shouts from the crowd) “Yes…. It’s true! You were bought as chattel property by American capitalists! This town and facility was purchased by American billionaires and has since operated as a private security firm with special contracts with the American government to provide human agents, information, intelligence, and scientific research to the intelligence infrastructure of America! Comrades! You are property! You are cattle! You are owned by companies, and you belong to them!”

The crowd was now in turmoil and a general buzz began to grow into an angry din until Vladimir quieted them again with the raising of his hand.

“Comrade Mikail Mikailivitch is in the process of freeing you from your slaveholders, and that process may take some time. You have been used as weapons against the free and peaceful people of Russia who have done nothing to deserve your hatred or your enmity. Comrade Mikail has come to save us all, and to free us from the bondage under which we have lived our whole lives!” Again the crowd became very animated and loud, and Vladimir had to raise his voice even louder to quiet the crowd once again.

“I said I would be brief, and I will be brief. With us today, we have some prisoners who deserve your attention. On my right, you will see two men who are with us in chains. Some other guards and employees of Warwick, Incorporated were, unfortunately, killed during the liberation of this Dachau, this prison camp, this death camp of lies, or they would be here in chains before you as well. But these two men have been captured according to the revolutionary laws we have implemented in order to insure safety and peace while the next events unfold.”

Vladimir stopped. Clay noticed the theatrical quality of his pivot as he turned to regard the two men, and now the entire crowd did as well, and Clay found everyone in the gymnasium looking straight at him. He blushed, he did not know why, to be there under the gaze of the crowd. Vladimir walked over to Clay and, reaching down, pulled him to his feet.

“This man calls himself Clay, and he is one of two things, Comrades: He is either a spy employed by American intelligence to thwart our work toward your liberation and freedom… or, he is what he claims to be; an innocent wanderer, who, during the most sensitive part of our revolution, just happened into the Warwick Prison. He is one or the other, and to us it matters not. He is a prisoner all the same, and has violated our laws and thus is a criminal and a representative of arbitrary abuse and of the wickedness of the capitalist powers. He is held now so that we can ascertain whether he has any future value to the Revolution.”

Vladimir pushed Clay back down into his seat, and then tried, struggled, and eventually succeeded, to haul the injured and weak old man to his feet.

Clay’s face paled and his head seemed to drain of blood as he sat and watched Vladimir lift the old man, and as he did so Clay’s equilibrium failed a bit and he almost lost his balance, almost slid off his seat into the floor…