William Weber - Patriots

John couldn’t agree more. He’d had an idea before on the roof after rescuing Diane and it had to do with the speaker system the Chairman had trucked in to help subdue the population. What if they could use his own propaganda machine against him, the way he’d used their staunch defense of American values against them?

“What are you thinking, John?” Diane asked.

John turned to Rodriguez who looked deathly pale.

“The speaker system,” he asked the radio operator. “How do I turn it on?”

Rodriguez peered up at him through the slit of his right eye. “See that mic in the corner?”

John looked over. On the far right of the control panel was a mic surrounded by a series of flashing lights.

“They must have recorded a message,” Rodriguez whispered. “And been playing it back in a loop. If you press the lever right below the mic, it should give you a live feed.”

John followed his instructions. For a minute he eyed the button, his finger hovering over it.

“What are you gonna tell them?” Brandon asked him.

“The truth.”

John pushed and held the speak button. “This is John Mack from Knoxville, Tennessee. Like many of you in Oneida, I’m an American citizen, a father and a patriot.”

Moss opened the back hatch and listened as John’s voice echoed over the speaker system.

“Crank it,” Moss said, jerking his thumb into the air. “Let’s really wake this town out of its sleep.”

John turned the dial up to max.

“I’m here to let you know that each and every one of you has been the victim of a terrible lie. The United States is currently at war with Russia, China and North Korea. As we speak their armies are amassing along the banks of the Mississippi. This is a battle none of us can afford to lose. The man you know as the Chairman isn’t a special envoy assigned by the president, he’s a Russian agent sent here to enslave you and make you fight against your own people.”

Moss was looking through the binoculars, jumping up and down. “I see people standing around listening, John, whatever you’re doing, don’t stop now.”

“And his real name isn’t Charles Augustus Morgan,” John went on. “His real name is Jacob Golosenko and he’s a former KGB goon. If you still value freedom, the Constitution and everything else that made us great, then I appeal to each and every member of the militia in Oneida. Lay down your arms and help us expel the true enemy in our midst.”

John was about to continue the message again when the walkie in his back pouch crackled to life.

“Mole One, this is Eagle Eye, over.”

John put the walkie to his lips. “Go ahead, Eagle Eye.”

“Be advised, you have a large group of armed tangos heading your way. ETA fifteen seconds, maybe less.”

“Close that hatch,” John yelled. “What about Marshall’s tactical withdrawal?”

“Negative. The Patriots weren’t withdrawing. They were routed. I’m sorry, Mole One. You’re on your own.”

The connection with Eagle Eye went dead at about the same time the first shots rang out. With no gun ports to shoot back from and no way to move to the driver’s area up front, their options were indeed limited. Added to that, opening the hatch to shoot back was an equally bad idea since it provided the enemy with a single target against which they could concentrate their fire.

John got on the walkie again. “Eagle Eye, this is Mole One, do you copy?”

There was no response.

“Eagle Eye, do you copy?”

“Forget him, John,” Moss roared. “He’s long gone, man, along with the rest of our men. You heard him. We’re on our own.”

Rounds pierced the truck’s relatively thin armor and slammed into the radio equipment, blasting a spray of sparks and shattered components. John pushed Diane and Brandon to the floor.

Soon they were all hunkered down as the enemy outside continued to shoot the truck up. The thin armor might help ward off pistol rounds, but the AKs’ large 7.62 rounds were cutting through these walls like a dagger through papier-mâché.

“What do you say, John?” Moss asked.

The semi-crazed look in the Patriot’s eyes told John he wanted to go out in a blaze of glory. A romantic thought perhaps, but an incredibly selfish one that would accomplish little apart from getting them all killed.

“I have a plan,” John said, calculating the odds of success in his head. They were slim. Maybe too slim, but anything was better than being drilled full of holes in the belly of this tin can. John pulled off his right boot followed by his sock.

“What are you doing?” Diane asked. Clearly she was sure he’d lost his mind.

He waved the grimy sock in the air. “We’re about to surrender.”

A few minutes later, their weapons confiscated by the men outside and their hands bound with zip ties, John and the others were led out from the clump of trees and into the street where a crowd had begun to gather. Many of them wore black and in some cases dark blue cargo pants. Their faces were bloody, some with bandages wrapped around fresh wounds. Most looked weary and shellshocked. This was how the few surviving residents of Willow Creek had appeared after fending off Cain’s attack. John was sure they felt as if they’d thwarted a similar invasion by marauders. That was what made this situation so tragic and frustrating.

Diane, Brandon and Moss stood huddled together in a growing sea of hostile faces. The occasional slap or strike from the mob was met with raucous cheers.

John recalled his speech to Brandon, about how life was comprised of a tightrope walk between two equally painful choices. This was certainly one of those moments.

It wasn’t long before the crowd parted and the Chairman appeared before them. He and John stood less than a foot apart. A snub-nosed .38 was in the Chairman’s hand, the same kind of pistol from that image of an execution following the Tet Offensive during the Vietnam War. John imagined it would be put to much the same use.

The mob grew quiet as the Chairman leaned forward. “Why am I not surprised to see you mixed up in all this, Diane?” He turned to John with an almost pained expression. “The crowd wants nothing more than to tear you all limb from limb. After your heinous attack on our peaceful town I have half a mind to let them. Killing our citizens, hijacking our emergency broadcast to spread your lies.”

“The lies are your own,” John replied. “You were sent here as a Russian spy and I can prove it.”

“I have a special mandate from the president,” the Chairman shouted, waving the gun around.

“Yeah, we’ve seen your so-called presidential commission and it’s so riddled with errors I’m shocked anyone believed it. In fact, I think the only one who questioned it was the mayor and look what happened to him.”

“By the unilateral power invested in me,” the Chairman said, ignoring John’s accusations, “I hereby find each of you guilty of murder and sentence you to death.”

The crowd didn’t move, not right away.

John was gambling that many of the residents had heard his plea over the loudspeakers. Some would have dismissed it outright, but the goal had largely been to plant a seed of doubt in their minds. Facing the truth that you had been played for a fool and manipulated by the enemy was a hard pill to swallow. John needed to be the glass of warm water that would help wash the medicine down.

“You came from Washington,” John said. “That’s your story, right?”

The Chairman didn’t answer. He was looking about him, sizing up the mob, wondering perhaps why they were so eager to hear what John had to say.

“And I can only assume you know about the Constitution. The Sixth Amendment. Are you familiar with that one?”