Уильям Дитц - Into the Guns

The man might have said more… But a dozen men armed with baseball bats chased the onlookers away. They lined up along both sides of the truck and began to rock it back and forth. Sloan took a look around. Where were the police? Deliberately missing in action. The beleaguered speaker had little choice but to jump off the back of the vehicle and run. Two thugs gave chase, caught up with the man, and hauled him around a corner.

Sloan pushed his way through the crowd. There was a construction site to his left, and he paused long enough to grab a four-foot length of two-by-two from a pile of scrap, before continuing on. The Glock was at the small of his back, but Sloan wasn’t planning to use it unless forced to do so.

When Sloan rounded the corner, he saw that the thugs had the man down, and were kicking him. Their backs were turned, and that was fine with Sloan, who came up behind them. After planting his feet, he took a swing. He felt the impact of the blow as the stick hit the man’s head. The thug fell as if poleaxed and lay motionless on the ground.

As the second attacker turned, the two-by-two was falling again. Sloan missed the thug’s head and struck his shoulder. The man uttered a scream as the force of the blow broke his left clavicle. He stumbled away, fell, and lay moaning on the ground.

The patriot was back on his feet by then, dusting his suit off. The kick was an afterthought. “Asshole.”

“Come on,” Sloan said. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Recommendation accepted,” the other man said. “‘The better part of valor is discretion.’ Henry IV, Part 1, act 5, scene 4. Reginald P. Allston at your service.”

“You’re an actor?” Sloan inquired, as they hurried away.

“An amateur,” Allston replied. “I make my living as an attorney.”

“I liked your speech,” Sloan told him. “That took balls.”

“Thanks. And you are?”

“Samuel Sloan.”

Allston frowned. “The name sounds familiar.”

“I was the Secretary of Energy until recently,” Sloan replied.

“If you say so,” Allston replied.

“No, really, I was.”

“Was?”

“Well, according to what I’ve been told, the president, which is to say Marilyn Wainwright, had a heart attack and died. And, since all of the officials who outranked me were killed, I’m the president.”

Allston laughed. “That’s absurd. You’re delusional.”

Sloan stopped, causing Allston to do likewise. He wanted the attorney to take him seriously. But how ? Then he saw the building on the opposite side of the street and realized that the solution was waiting inside. “Can I call you Reggie?”

“Everyone does.”

“Good. Follow me, Reggie… I’m the President of the United States, and I can prove it.”

The sign on the front of the building read, CARNEGIE MEMORIAL LIBRARY. Once inside, Sloan led Allston to the information desk, where a young woman with purple hair looked up at him. “How can I help you?”

“Where are the periodicals located?”

“Prior to the meteor strikes, most people went online to access periodicals,” the woman said, as if explaining the concept to a child.

“But you have copies stored here, right?”

“In some cases, yes.”

“How about the New York Times ?”

“We have copies predating the meteor strikes if that’s what you mean… But the Times has been added to the proscribed list, so if the paper still exists, we won’t be able to obtain new copies.”

“ Proscribed list?” Allston demanded. “What’s that?”

“It’s a list of publications that the state legislature considers to be counterproductive,” the librarian replied expressionlessly. Did she approve or disapprove? Sloan would have been willing to put money on the second possibility.

“That’s censorship,” Allston said. “And it’s a violation of the First Amendment to the United States Constitution.”

“You aren’t in the United States,” the woman countered. “You’re in the state of Louisiana.”

Sloan was afraid that Allston was about to deliver another speech and hurried to cut him off. “Thanks for your help. Where can we access the periodicals that you still have?”

The librarian pointed, and Sloan escorted Allston back through the stacks to a corner of the library. A sign said PERIODICALS, and four terminals were located immediately below it. “I appreciate what you did for me,” Allston said. “But I don’t have time for this.”

“Five minutes,” Sloan said. “That’s all I need.”

“Okay,” Allston said reluctantly. “Five minutes. Then I’m out of here.”

Sloan sat down, worked his way through a menu, and selected “ New York Times .” Then he entered a date. The article he wanted was on page one above the fold. “There,” Sloan said, as he stood. “Take a look.”

Allston sat down. And there, right in front of him, was a photo of Sloan standing next to the President of the United States. The headline read: “New Secretary of Energy Sworn In.”

Allston looked at Sloan and back to the screen. “Holy shit… It’s you !”

“Yes, it is,” Sloan agreed. “And, assuming that all of the people who outranked me were killed, then I’m the president.”

“Hell yes, you are,” Allston said enthusiastically, and hit PRINT. A printer began to whir, and Allston was there to receive five copies of the article as they slid into the tray. “Do you realize what this means?” he demanded. “We can prove who you are! And we can pull the country back together. That’s what you want, right?”

“That’s what I want,” Sloan assured him. “I want to restore the government.”

“Then I’m with you,” Allston assured him. “Come on… Let’s see what those bastards did to my uncle’s truck.”

Sloan followed Allston past the reception desk and outside. Sirens could be heard, and greasy black smoke was spiraling up into the sky. And when the men rounded a corner, they could see that the pickup was on fire. The police were nowhere to be seen, but an aid unit was pulling away, and firemen were working to extinguish the flames. “Uh-oh,” Allston said, “Uncle Leo’s gonna be pissed. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“Where are we headed?” Sloan inquired, as they hurried away.

“We’re going to rent a car,” Allston answered. “And drive it to Shreveport.”

Sloan knew that Shreveport was to the north, so there was no reason to object. It took the better part of an hour to find a rental agency and complete the necessary paperwork, all the while wondering if someone would recognize Allston and refuse to serve him. No one did. The attorney had to pay half the fee in advance and used silver coins to do so. Sloan made a note to learn more about them later. As soon as they were in the car, Allston made his way onto Highway 171 and drove north. “We’re going to meet with some friends of mine,” Allston said. “They saw this day coming—and are ready to fight.”

“Sounds good,” Sloan said. “Where are they?”

“They’re going to meet at a location in the Ouachita National Forest,” Allston replied. “And I was planning to join them there. So,” he continued, “how did you wind up in Lake Charles?”

Sloan told him about Mexico, about paddling north, and being held prisoner. And when it came to the meeting in Houston, Allston was incredulous. “So they knew who you were? Damn, that’s amazing. So what happened?”

Allston listened intently as Sloan told him about jumping out of the Huey, stealing the boat, and making his way up the Intracoastal. Allston shook his head in amazement. “You are one persistent son of a bitch, Mr. President, and that’s a good thing.”