Land of the Free

(cartoon by Bill Bramhall)

The first shooting of the day took place at Enrichment Insurance at about 10 am, just an hour after Tim had sat down at his computer and started his daily tasks. He didn’t recognize the man who had burst through the door with an assault rifle, but it must have been someone with a grudge against the company. You had to expect this sort of thing in his line of work. Tim and most of his colleagues crawled through the maze of cubicles, just as they had done about three weeks earlier, and were able to get to the exit when the gunman had his back turned. 

Not long afterwards, the police had arrived and the shooter was dead along with three of Tim’s co-workers. He made his way to the employee parking lot alongside Chris, who sat in the cubicle next to his. 

“Pretty lucky this happened on a Friday, right? Now we get an early start to the weekend.”

“I guess,” Tim replied. “It’s kind of a mixed blessing, because now we’ll have to finish today’s work on Monday.”

“Not me,” Chris said with a smile. “I’m headed to Aruba this week.”

“Are you really? That’s great, man. I’m so jealous.”

“We’ve been looking forward to it so much,” he continued. “Sunshine, the beach, no work, no chores, no shootings. You can really relax in a place like that.”

“Have an extra pina colada for me,” Tim said as they went their separate ways. As he opened the door to his car, he let out a loud sneeze. The early spring allergies were in full force. Before leaving the parking lot, he called his wife Carol.

“Hey. I’m out early today because of the shooting.”

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Can you stop at the grocery store at some point today?”

“Yeah, that’s no problem,” Tim said. “I think I’m going to stop at the pharmacy too. My allergies are terrible.”

While browsing the aisles at the grocery store, his phone began to vibrate. It was Brent, a childhood friend who had recently moved out of state for a new job. They still kept in touch, being just old enough so that they actually spoke on the phone sometimes rather than exclusively texting. 

“How’s it going, dude?”

“Not bad,” Brent said. “I got out of work today because of a shooting so I’m just hanging around the house.”

“No kidding!” Tim said with a chuckle. “I did too!”

“Just one of those days, I guess. You playing any good games lately?”

“Not so much. The new Zelda comes out in a few weeks so that will be fun.”

“Hell yeah,” Brent agreed. “That game’s going to take over my life for a few months, I just know it.”

“Same here. I hope my kids will understand,” he said facetiously. “Well, I’m just getting to the checkout line so I’ll talk to you later.”

Just as he was pulling the credit card out of the machine that took the payment, gunfire rang out again. He and the cashier both ducked out of sight. 

“I don’t need a receipt,” Tim told her. With that, he awkwardly pushed the cart towards the exit doors while trying to stay out of view. It was a bit like a “duck walk.” Hopefully nobody was getting him on video. 

Once he was outside, he spotted a familiar face making his way towards the store. It was his neighbor Gary.

“Hey there, Tim.”

“How’s it going, Gary?”

“No complaints.” He peered in the windows and noticed the pandemonium. “Shooting, huh?”

“Yeah,” Tim grimaced. “Got out just in time.”

“I guess the groceries will have to wait,” Gary replied. “Did you guys ever figure out what was eating your vegetables?”

“I’m thinking it was a gopher,” Tim said. “I was out in the garden yesterday and I found a few little holes in the dirt. I’m not sure how you get rid of them, other than blowing the whole thing up like in Caddyshack.”

They both had a good laugh at that. “How about you, Gary? How’s your family?”

“A little rough, honestly. Will is really having a hard time with anxiety.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tim said. “Is he seeing a counselor?”

“We’ve tried,” Gary said with a sigh. “I can’t find any that are taking new patients.”

“That’s rough. Keep at it though, hopefully something will open up. I’m gonna stop at the liquor store quick before I go home. It’s been that kind of day.”

“I hear that,” Gary said. “I’ll see you around, Tim.”

Tim wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking for, just something to take the edge off. He didn’t drink often but it was sometimes a nice way to ring in the weekend. He picked out some Irish cream and was making his way over to the register when the nearby bottles suddenly exploded. The liquor splashed all over him as he threw himself to the ground while the familiar sound of assault rifle fire went off once again. 

A liquor store? This was a bit unusual. He heard the shooter and the older man at the cash register arguing and deduced that this was a recently fired employee. It sounded like the man was willing to pay the guy to stop shooting, so hopefully nobody would end up dead. He didn’t think he’d be able to get to the register anytime soon, but he really had a hankering for the Irish cream.

 

Briefly catching the eyes of the cashier, he gestured to the bottle in his hand and placed a $20 bill on a nearby shelf. The cashier nodded and Tim made his way to the door. The shooter noticed him but didn’t do anything. He didn’t seem interested in taking out any bystanders, thankfully. 

Back in his car once again, Tim noticed the strong smell of vodka coming from his shirt. He had really gotten covered when that bottle was hit. It the police happened to pull him over, he would be in big trouble. 

The last stop of the day was the pharmacy, but Tim noticed several police cars in front of the place. It was probably another shooting. For now, he hoped there was still some allergy medicine somewhere at home, at least enough to get him through the next day or two. 

Right as he got home and pulled into the driveway, his phone buzzed with a notification. There had been a shooting at the elementary school where his two children were. Thankfully, it was a short drive away. It was truly remarkable just how persistent these school shootings were. They had added rooftop snipers to the building after the last one and these gunmen were still finding a way in.

 

Allie and Justin were waiting outside when he pulled up. He hugged them both and the three of them quietly made their way back to the car. 

“Did you have a good day at school? I mean….aside from that.”

“It was fine,” Allie said. “Let’s just go home.”

Tim couldn’t blame them for being a little grouchy. At least they could spend the rest of the day at home playing, petting the dog, and just trying to relax. He was grateful for the chance to change his soiled shirt and recline in his favorite chair. Carol arrived home after a few hours.

“How was your day?” Tim asked. “Any shootings?”

“Just one,” she answered. “I was going to get coffee before work but I saw the cop cars and kept going. No big deal, I just had to use the Keurig cups at the office.”

“I had four. Well, five if you count the school.”

“Wow, that’s a lot.”

“Yeah,” Tim sighed. “But what can you do?”

The sun went down and it was time to get the kids ready for bed. Hopefully the coming weekend would calm everyone’s nerves a bit. 

“Have a good night’s sleep,” he told them. “Tomorrow’s another big day.”

Don't Drink the Water

(Part II of a fanfiction/political commentary project)

This was not how John Quail expected to end his workday. He was sitting in a fairly small plane on the way to Palm Beach, where the President of the United States and his staff had asked for a meeting. It had started three days earlier, when Quail and some of his fellow agents prepared a report on the Reaper to the White House. Everything they suspected about the killer, including his use of the Death Note, was in the report...except for one omission. Quail decided to leave out the fact that the cause of death was up to the writer, with the default outcome being a heart attack. Instead, he wrote that a heart attack was the only one the Death Note could kill someone. Those who remembered his recent briefing about the Reaper might contradict the report, but this particular presidential administration didn't seem to be interested in any sort of research.

Nobody yet knew that Quail himself was the Reaper, except for his wife Jennifer, who shared his conviction that the Death Note needed to be used to ensure the safety and future of their daughter as well as the rest of America's most vulnerable citizens. Leaving the full capacity of the notebook out of the report gave him an option of going after a target without the death being seen as an act of the Reaper. After what the media was calling the "Health Care Massacre," (which struck him as a decent name for the legislation itself), any heart attack suffered by a prominent figure would likely be attributed to the Reaper. That could yet be useful, but he was also exploring the possibility of trying to influence public policy without having to call upon his murderous alter ego.

Several hours before the had boarded the plane, he was informed by his superior that the President's staff had reviewed the report and asked for a meeting with the Bureau's foremost authority on the Reaper. When Quail volunteered to take a walk over to the White House, he was told he was actually supposed to meet the President at Mar-a-Lago, his estate and private club in Florida. The timing was interesting as the White House had been swarmed with scandal during the past few days, even by the standards of the current administration. The sudden firing of Bureau Director James Comey had made the atmosphere at work even more chaotic, quickly taking the public's attention away from the Reaper, who had yet to strike following the deaths in Congress. The media had lost some interest as well, other than the occasional speculative report on who might be the next to die. Quail hadn't decided yet, but took the coverage under advisement.

In the initial hysteria following the Health Care Massacre, one constant point of discussion was whether Trump would be the next victim. Quail wasn't as sold on the idea as many of the more outspoken liberal commentators. He found the man's public persona as off-putting as anyone else, but the question of succession was an issue. The loss of the President would promote the Vice-President, then the Speaker of the House, then the President of the Senate, followed by the various cabinet officials. None of these people struck him as ideal occupants of the Oval Office and he would probably have to wipe out about two dozen people before he got an acceptable outcome. Such a thing was possible, but Quail was growing less enthusiastic about using the Death Note's power.

He remained haunted by the night Dominic had showed up at his condo, having figured out the truth simply from the drawing he left at the bottom of his letter to the New York Times. Quail cursed himself for his foolishness. How could he have forgotten that he used to decorate his notes with that same insignia during training? He had sent Dominic to his death and hadn't slept well since. A decent man like his fellow agent was not the kind of target he had imagined when he decided to take the Death Note out of that drawer. It was easy to rationalize the decision as necessary for the greater good, but that did little to soothe his guilt. Not helping matters was the notepad found in Dominic's car by the police, on which he had drawn the insignia himself. When news of the suicide broke, several of his agents had asked Quail if he believed Dominic himself was the Reaper and had killed himself out of guilt. Despite how easy it would have been to pin the blame for the murders on a dead man, he declined to do so, instead speculating (correctly) that he had gotten too close to the truth and had been removed before he had a chance to share whatever he had learned about the case.

When the plane landed in Palm Beach, Quail found a group of men in suits waiting for him inside the airport. Most appeared to be Secret Service agents, but he recognized one as Trump's son-in-law.

"Nice to meet you, Agent Quail. I'm Jared."

The group made their way to a limousine and arrived at the property after a brief drive. Quail had never seen anything so opulent in his life, the massive estate was all marble, stone and gold trim and looked especially beautiful now that the sun had begun to set.

"First time seeing it, huh?"

Quail nodded and his host continued. "Most of the senior staff is here. Everyone was very interested to hear what you had to say. We'll be meeting in the main dining hall."

The dining hall was surrounded by gold pillars as chandeliers glimmered overhead. Quail had been to the White House before but it looked quaint compared to this. Was he on his way to meet a President or an Emperor? Finally he was led to a table full of people he had seen on the news countless times. President Donald Trump, Vice-President Mike Pence, the president's daughter Ivanka, and the White House adviser Reince Priebus.

"What do you think of Mar-a-Lago?" Trump asked as Quail and Jared took their seats. "Isn't it the most beautiful place you've ever seen? Everyone's saying it's terrific."

"It's overwhelming, sir."

"I guess it would be if I were in your shoes. I'm used to it by now, I'm very rich. Anyway, we read your report on the Reaper. Very fascinating stuff. Very fascinating. Do you know where I could get one of these death notebooks? Could I get one? Seems like a useful thing for a President to have, don't you think? Some people in the media would suddenly be off the air. I'm just kidding, of course. But maybe I'm not."

Quail was momentarily disoriented by the flurry of disjointed words he had just heard. He felt someone's hand gently resting on his arm.

"Agent Quail, do you believe we are in danger?" Ivanka asked.

"Well, I need to be honest with you, Mrs. Trump."

"Ivanka, please."

"Anyone in the public eye is potentially in danger. If our theory is accurate, all the Reaper needs is a name. He's been quiet since the Health Care Massacre but the description of his motives he gave in the letter to the Times suggests that he may act again at some point."

"If his goal was to kill our health care bill, it worked." Priebus said. "The Senate is terrified of this guy. They won't even discuss the issue in public, let alone vote on the bill. I guess we're stuck with Obamacare for a while. My question, do you have any leads on who it is?"

"I bet it's Obama," Trump interrupted. "It makes sense. Everyone's saying that. He spies on me, you know. He watches me through the microwave. He thinks I don't know he's doing it, but I do."

"Well, I don't personally believe it's a politician," Quail replied. "I suspect it's an ordinary citizen who is fed up."

An unfamiliar voice rang out. "Some globalist Jew cuck, I bet." Quail turned to see a pale, disheveled man at the next table, slumped forward and holding an open bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand.

"Don't mind him," Jared said.

"So all we know about this person is that they are a Democrat?" Pence asked.

"I'm not quite ready to make assumptions about party registration," Quail answered. "It could be a Democrat, or it could just be someone concerned about the survival of those who are vulnerable."

Pence arched his eyebrow and clearly did not miss the jab embedded in that comment. It seemed to go right over Trump's head as he spoke again. "Why would someone like that go after the Health Care bill? It's a great plan. It covers everyone. Everyone says it's terrific."

Trump noticed the awkward silence at the table. "It does cover everyone, doesn't it?"

"Everyone who needs to be covered is covered, sir," Pence said, as if he were talking to a toddler.

"So is this how we're going to run the country now?" Priebus asked. "Our whole legislative process at the mercy of some serial killer with a magic notebook? It's ridiculous. There's got to be something we can do."

"I do have a suggestion," Quail said. This was the key moment he had been waiting for. "It might help to start something new, something that would help people. People who aren't rich, I mean. Something that the Reaper would be hesitant to disrupt by killing anyone else.'

"Any ideas?" Jared asked.

"There are a few ways you could go with this, but my first thought was the contaminated water in Flint."

"Flint?" Trump asked. "That's in Michigan, right? People love me there. Nobody thought I could win Michigan. I'm the first Republican to win there in 400 years. Hey, do you want an Election Night map? I carry them around all the time. Here, have one."

"I've...um, seen the map, Mr. President."

"Okay," Trump said. "Just let me know if you want one."

Pence spoke up again. "There is work going on to fix the issues in Flint, Agent Quail. Congress allocated some resources to the issue shortly before the massacre."

"The people there have still been without drinkable water for three years now," Quail said. "Anyway, it's just my idea. You all will decide, of course."

"Hey, do you want to be FBI Director?" Trump suddenly asked. "We need a new FBI Director. You seem pretty smart and you haven't said anything about Russia."

"That's nice of you to offer, sir, but I would...uh, prefer to focus on this investigation. That might be hard with so much extra responsibility."

The waiter came to take everyone's order and Quail learned it was Seafood Night at the club. After being assured by the President multiple times that it was the best seafood in the world, he ordered a lobster which couldn't meet such high expectations. It wasn't bad, but he had been to Maine and there was no comparison. He didn't dare say so, but then again he wouldn't have been able to get a word in either way. Trump dominated the conversation with recaps of his Election Night victory as the others at the table showed remarkable patience. After the meal, Quail bid farewell to the group and was led to the suite where he would be spending the night.

If he lingered a little longer, he might have noticed Pence leaning over towards Priebus and commenting, "That man knows more about this than he's letting on."

****

One week later, Quail gently lowered himself into his bed back at the condo. The baby was finally asleep and it wouldn't take much for him to pass out, but first he wanted to check a few news websites on his phone. Jennifer was next to him reading a paperback with a couple embracing on the cover.

"Any luck?" she asked without looking over.

"No," Quail said. "I guess my suggestion about Flint went in one ear and out the other."

"Should we break out the Death Note? You could write another letter demanding that they do something or else the whole administration dies."

"That's risky," he replied. "If the Reaper started pushing for cleaning up Flint so soon after I suggested it at Mar-a-Lago, they might put two and two together. Well, not Trump but one of the others. Still, there might be another way."

"What's the plan?" she said with a wicked grin. She had a special hatred for Trump and the rest of the Republicans and was clearly enjoying this whole thing much more than her husband.

"Well, the public believes that the Reaper can only kill by inducing heart attack. That gives me some control over the narrative."

He reached over to his nightstand and grabbed the Death Note. As Jennifer leaned over to see, he wrote the name of Michigan's governor, Rick Snyder, who had been remarkably callous about the whole incident. For the cause of death, Quail wrote "contaminated tap water."

"There's some poetic justice," Jennifer said.

Quail nodded. "Not only that, doing it this way means the story isn't about the Reaper. It keeps the focus where it belongs...on the water."

Jennifer was the first to wake up the next day as the baby began crying out for milk. He woke up shortly after and reached for the remote control. The morning news programs did not disappoint. The crawling text at the bottom of the screen read "Breaking News: Governor Rick Snyder dies from poisoned water."

"If you're just joining us, Governor Rick Snyder of Michigan was found dead late last night. Early coroner's reports identify highly contaminated tap water as the cause of death. This issue was previously thought to be confined only to the city of Flint but is now apparently affecting Lansing as well. Moments ago, President Donald Trump announced that his administration would immediately begin working with Michigan officials to contain the contamination before it spreads farther."

"Now that's more like it," Quail said quietly. All it had taken was the death of a rich white guy to get things moving.

He would keep that in mind.

I'm No Different

In all of his years working at the Bureau, Dominic had never seen anything like it. Less than 24 hours after the United States Congress narrowly passed the American Health Care Act, all 217 Republican legislators in favor of the bill were found dead. After the initial chaos had subsided, doctors on the scene determined the cause of death to be a heart attack...for every last one of them. It might not have been a huge surprise for some of the older members given the stress involved before the vote, but there were plenty of younger men (and a smattering of women) who were in otherwise perfect health and seemingly in no danger of cardiac arrest. It defied explanation but there was more to come.

A few hours after the news broke out, one of his fellow agents had reminded everyone of a letter forwarded to them by The New York Times. It had been sent via the postal service a few days earlier by someone who had declared his(or her) intention to kill anyone who voted for the AHCA. Nobody thought much of it at first - these sort of rants were common, especially in these acrimonious times, and this one seemed too outlandish to be a credible threat. The Times had printed it two days after the mass heart attacks and started another round of hysteria. It was now clear to the public that this was done on purpose, somehow. The mainstream news outlets condemned the act and were at a complete loss to explain how it happened. Internet commentators were less careful and openly rejoiced at the death of over 200 politicians who had just voted to strip thousands, if not millions of people of their health coverage. Impromptu block parties had broken out all over the country to celebrate, a strange moment in the history of representative democracy. Each state had its own procedures for replacing a Congressperson who died in office and a flurry of special elections and appointments were causing their own sort of chaos.

Congress would eventually be full again, but the FBI was no closer to figuring out just what the hell had happened in the first place. Agents had combed the Capitol building from top to bottom and come back with nothing. A few reports of suspicious characters, but they turned out to be just eccentric protesters who were as bewildered as everyone else. What had they expected to find in the first place? How could anyone trigger 217 spontaneous heart attacks? Most agents he spoke to suspected poison, but nothing yet corroborated that theory. At the moment, Dominic was on his way to a briefing room to hear from John Quail, one of the Bureau's best criminal profilers. If anyone could figure out a method to this madness, it was him. He and Quail had attended training programs together and Dominic recalled glancing over several times to see him doodling wacky symbols and stick figures in his notepad. He was one of those people who had just been born brilliant while guys like Dominic worked their asses off to get ahead. Quail didn't have a shred of arrogance, however, and the two of them always got along well. He had been absent from the office for months following the birth of his first child. A daughter, Dominic remembered. This was quite a case to come across his desk just as he was getting back into the swing of things.

Everyone found their seats while Quail got his laptop computer set up for a power point presentation. As he checked the connections, the chatter in the room subsided.

"Thanks for coming, everyone."

"Tell us you've got something, Quail," a voice said from the back. "We look like a bunch of Dipsy Doodles right now."

Quail smiled awkwardly. "Well, I might. I've been going over this letter non-stop and I do have a theory that would explain a lot. Still, you're going to have a hard time believing it. Let's start by reading over what was sent to the Times."

Dear Editor,

I will get right to the point. If the American Health Care Act passes Congress, I will kill everyone who votes for it.

I understand you may want to report this threat to the authorities. Do whatever you feel is ethical. It won't help.

I can kill anyone without leaving my home. I've known of this ability for some time now. I've never really wanted to use it, but the continuing violence enacted by this government against its own people has gone too far. I hope the deaths of these representatives will be enough to get them to change course. If not, more will die. As many as necessary until our leaders stop behaving like sociopaths.

After the moment comes, you may get many letters claiming responsibility. None of them will be from me. I will not use email or social media. You will know a letter is from me when it has this insignia drawn at the bottom. I hope the bill is defeated and you are able to discard this letter. But I fear the worst. Perhaps I will contact you again.

-The Reaper

The newspaper had obviously declined to show the actual insignia, since its entire purpose was to separate the true killer from imitators. This was Dominic's first time seeing it. There was something familiar about it. He almost raised his hand, but couldn't piece together where he might have seen that shape before. Quail noticed him briefly and continued on.

"I believe that this 'Reaper' has the Death Note."

There was silence for a few moments. Finally someone said, "What in the hell is the Death Note?"

He was ready for this and advanced the slide show. What looked like a DVD cover was now on the screen.

"Death Note is a popular Japanese cartoon about an enchanted notebook that will kill anyone whose name is written inside it. There's actually an American movie coming out later this year based on it."

Several people in the room burst out laughing.

"Listen to more about how it works before you laugh," Quail continued. "The writer can specify the cause of death but if they do not, the default cause is a heart attack. Just like the letter says, all someone has to do is enter a full name in the book while imagining the person they intend to kill. It can be done from their home and is untraceable."

That got everyone quiet.

"The show is not especially political. The main character, a guy named Light Yagami, mostly targets petty criminals. There are lots of twists and turns and eventually, Light's hubris gets the better of him and he goes down. But this guy, this Reaper, is different. Light wanted people to worship him as some kind of god and dared anyone to try and unmask him. The Reaper is cautious and has a distinct political agenda. You could almost say he's learning from Light's mistakes."

"What is this, Quail?" an older agent asked. "You're trying to tell us that this cartoon is nonfiction? What's next? Is the Reaper going to turn out to be Mickey Mouse?"

"I'm far from the first to speculate about this," he continued. "Not long after the public learned of the deaths, even before the Reaper's letter became public, there were already dozens of memes going around about Light Yagami and the Death Note. I contacted someone at Netflix who told me there had been massive recent interest in the show...as well as a 1970s grindhouse movie called I Spit On Your Grave, but that's neither here nor there."

"That's certainly an...interesting theory," someone else said. "But we need suspects. Do we have any suspects?"

Quail sighed. "That's where it gets really hard. If I'm right, whoever did this doesn't have to be anywhere near Washington, DC. This bill pissed off a lot of people, particularly the threat to people with pre-existing medical conditions. At this point, it may be easier to round up people who don't have a motive."

****

The moon and stars were on full display by the time Dominic finally got to his car that night. Everyone at the Bureau had been extremely busy since this whole thing started, but today was even harder. He had a terrible time focusing on his work after the briefing. All he could think about was that drawing on the New York Times letter. He started the car but hesitated to put it in drive. Instead, he grabbed his notebook and furiously drew the symbol with a black pen sitting in the cup holder. In this rushed form, it looked even more familiar. Suddenly, everything fit together. He started the car and headed for the Potomac.

He would have to drive across the river to find what he was looking for, a condo complex in Arlington that he had only been to once before for an engagement party. Despite the late hour, the demonstrators were still in full swing, with most appearing to be in favor of the mass deaths in Congress. There were a few signs reflecting the other point of view, including one blaming the billionaire George Soros for the whole incident, but most of them had slogans like "Thank God for the Reaper" and "Karma's A Bitch."

As the crow flies, it wasn't a particularly long trip to the condos, but the traffic made for almost a half-hour drive. Finally, Dominic reached the address he had searched for within his archived emails, the invitation to that party that he had received years ago. Hopefully the couple still lived here. As he approached Unit 45, he questioned what exactly he was looking for. It wasn't the time to report any of his suspicions, there wasn't any way to substantiate this hunch. Looking through a window, Dominic saw that all the lights were off except for one lamp. Hopefully the baby was asleep.

To his surprise, the door was slightly open. Something was wrong. He turned around to head back to his car and then he heard it.

"Come on in, Dom. I've been expecting you."

Dominic considered running away, but if everything he had heard today was true, that wouldn't do him a bit of good. He tentatively pushed the door open. John Quail was sitting at a desk in front of a laptop with his back to the door. Upon hearing the door open, he swiveled his chair around to face his guest. A small bassinet was situated next to the desk.

"It was the insignia, wasn't it?" Quail asked. "I hadn't even considered that someone might remember seeing it in my notebook all those years ago...until I saw your face during the briefing. Why didn't you ever tell me you had such a good memory, Dom?"

"So you have this...notebook of death or whatever it is?"

"Death Note," he corrected with a smile. "Would you like to see it?"

As Quail's hand reached for a drawer, Dominic swiftly pulled his gun from his holster and trained it on his colleague. "You keep your hands right where they are! I'll check it out myself later."

"Whatever you say," Quail said with a shrug. "Just try to keep it down, okay? I sent Jennifer to bed cause she was just so tired and I finally got Daisy to go to sleep. I suspect that you have questions."

He hesitated, but curiosity quickly got the better of him. "Where did that thing come from?"

"I just found it in the parking lot one day," Quail answered. "This was the end of April in 2011. I had already seen the show, so I figured it was just some merchandise. You know, like something you might get at Hot Topic. But I took it inside and decided to write down the name of Jen's boss just for fun. He was one of those old bastards who misses the days when you could hit on your employees and nobody would complain. She went to human resources but they didn't do shit. Finally, we put a stop to it when I told him where I worked and threatened to sic the Bureau on him. But the point is I thought I was just messing around. Imagine my shock when she called to tell me the guy had just dropped dead of a heart attack."

"That's six years ago," Dominic said. "What have you been doing with it all this time?"

"Well, being the patriotic civil servant that I am, I decided to use it on Public Enemy Number One."

He was almost speechless. "Osama Bin Laden?"

"Yep," Quail continued, with a slight chuckle. "What I didn't know was that the Navy Seals were just about to raid his compound. They must have stormed in there the next day and been pretty surprised to find him already dead. So of course the story we got was something a little more dramatic. I must have been the only one laughing in the theater during Zero Dark Thirty, looking like a goddamn lunatic."

The baby started to whine softly. "Can I pick her up?" he asked.

Dominic nodded and Quail gently picked up the infant. He rocked her gently back and forth and kept talking. "After that, I decided to rewatch Death Note. It freaked me out to see how corrupted Light Yagami became by the end of the series. I started to think it wasn't right to have this kind of power, so I put it away and didn't touch it for five years, although I came real close to using it on George Zimmerman."

"And then what?" Dominic asked. "The health care thing happened and you couldn't hold back anymore?"

"Almost," Quail said. "Actually, I used it once last year. When I found out Jen was pregnant, a bunch of my friends took me out for drinks. I didn't pay for a single drink that night and I lost count of how many I threw back. We got into talking politics and how the Supreme Court had been screwing us over. I made a joke that someone should take one of the conservative ones out while Obama was still President and then I realized I actually could do it. So I went home, still piss drunk, and wrote Scalia's name in the book cause he seemed like the biggest asshole of the bunch. Holy shit, did that backfire. I didn't think the friggin' Republicans would just leave the seat empty for a whole year."

Dominic felt exasperated. "This is ridiculous. You're like a...murdering Forrest Gump, just accidentally changing the course of history? I suppose you took out Fred Phelps, too?"

He shook his head. "No, after Scalia I took another break. I realized I only had so much control over the consequences of this. I agonized over whether or not to take out Trump, but I kept getting worried that it would throw the election to the Republicans. I never thought that idiot would actually win. I mean for God's sake, he's out there talking about molesting women. That would have destroyed anyone else. The thing is, I still want to believe in America. I keep hoping that our society is strong enough to deal with times like the ones we're living in. But now I realize that even if that's true, it may not be worth the lives that my inaction could cost."

Quail laid the baby back down into the bassinet. "Daisy's nice and healthy, but she might not always be that way. If she ever gets sick, our insurance will probably cover it. But if it's a pre-existing condition and that law passes, who knows? I get paid pretty well at the Bureau and I'm still not sure we'd have enough money if something come up and she wasn't covered. You see where I'm going with this? It's not just the health care either, it's all the guns out there, it's the climate change stuff, it's people getting paid almost nothing, it's drinking water getting poisoned, it's all the police violence. All these problems the government just keeps making worse regardless of who dies. They keep throwing people out to dry like this and pretty soon nobody will need the Death Note to cause death and destruction. In the long run, it's better to try and change things now."

Dominic was done. "Thanks for the story, but now you're coming with me. Get up and head towards the car." Once Quail was inside, he would handcuff him to the steering wheel and go back for the Death Note. He couldn't imagine what the others at the Bureau would think of all this. How would they test the notebook's authenticity without using it?

He meant to keep the gun pointed at Quail, but something was off. His hands fell to his sides although he maintained his hold on the pistol. He couldn't move them again. He opened his mouth to speak to no avail.

"Ah, it must be working," Quail said. "You see, what I didn't mention in the briefing is that you can specify not just the cause of death, but also the time. I wrote your name down as soon as your car pulled in but I wanted to give us some time to talk."

Dominic felt his body turning around and slowly heading towards the door. He strained as hard as he could to fight the impulses, but all it did was slow his movements down.

"You're suddenly having an uncontrollable urge to drive to a secluded area and put a bullet in your mouth. It's supposedly an immediate death with no pain. I'm sorry about this, Dom. You're a good guy and a good agent. But I can't afford to be exposed now. It's a critical time."

Despite using all of his willpower, Dominic was now back outside and still marching stiffly towards the car. Quail followed him.

"You know, any other animal on Earth would kill to protect its young. We may have an advanced society, but we're still animals. I'm no different."

The following morning, police investigating a suspicious vehicle found the corpse of an FBI agent inside. The cause of death was a self-inflicted gunshot wound. On the passenger seat rested a notebook with a scribbled symbol. Maybe one of his colleagues at the FBI would know what it was.

The Beginning

The World Outside

Every time I saw the Provazik Enterprises building from the outside, I was glad I only worked part-time. I would walk out to my car, turn around and become dismayed that I worked in that rusty abomination that was constantly pumping black smoke into the air. That parking lot wouldn't win any beauty contests either; there were no yellow lines to differentiate the spaces and large patches of grass had made their way through much of the cracked pavement.

On this particular day, I cast my usual rueful look at the Provazik building and saw something altogether different. Huge buildings began to rise out of the ground, as if the Earth was giving birth to them. These huge structures were coming up on all sides of the parking lot and after squinting, you could see the metal frames that were pushing each out from the underground. These new buildings were sleek and modern looking, unlike the eyesore where I had just spent several hours. I was still standing next to my car, but now the road had been completely cut off by these newborn buildings. The small crowd of us in the parking lot wandered towards the new entrance to see what was going on.

I was taken aback by the new entry hall. It was a wide circle with a huge bay window directly across from the doorway where I stood. All around, there were escalators, elevators and even a monorail to get people to the different buildings in the complex. It was fascinating to see, but at the moment I still wanted to get home. I wandered for a while and eventually found myself in a dimly lit, claustrophobic room where rows of people were scrunched over in front of computers hard at work. This looked more like the old Provazik building and was now a stark contrast to the breathtaking room I had just left.

A robot that couldn't have been more than four feet tall was supervising the activity. He made his way over to me and spoke in a deep, digital voice that sent chills down my spine.

"You are not working."

"I'm done working for today," I said back. "I'm just wondering how to get home now that these buildings have blocked the road."

"There is no world outside Provazik," the robot said immediately.

I needed a few moments to comprehend what the creature had just said. "What?"

"There is no world outside Provazik," the robot repeated, sounding even harsher.

I didn't feel like arguing. It was just too strange. Instead, I backed slowly out the small room and back into the entry hall. Wandering around the circle, I eventually found a map of the property, updated to include the phalanx of new buildings that had appeared only a few minutes earlier. While it did not support the robot's bizarre claim that there was no world outside the area, it did confirm that there was no exit. I grabbed my cellphone, thinking I could call my family and have them get the police to do something about this.

After a few rings, I heard a message that the number I was trying to reach had been disconnected. That was impossible, I thought. I called that number multiple times each day and now all of a sudden it doesn't work? It began to sink in that I might really be trapped here. Panic spread through me and I rushed back towards the parking lot. At least there I was outdoors. Surely there had to be some alleyway, some fence to climb, some way to get out of Provazik.

Instead, when I rushed through the door, I was someplace completely different. Behind me, the complex was gone. I was surrounded by grass up to my waist. The buildings here were crumbling and deserted. It looked as if humanity had been gone for centuries and the Earth was beginning to take back the land. I found myself drawn towards a large concrete staircase that ascended a green hill. Another person followed closely behind, no doubt someone else trying to get away from Provazik.

About halfway up the large white staircase, I turned around and was treated to a lovely view. Green hills and forest opened up before me. For the first time since those buildings rose out of the ground, I felt myself relax a little.

"Well, I don't know where exactly we are," I said out loud, "but at least we're out of there."

My companion said nothing and smiled at me. It wasn't a friendly smile, but a malicious grin that made me uneasy once again. Too late, I realized what would happen. The beautiful green panorama melted away as if it had turned to water and I was back in that dark room with the little robot standing in front of me.

"There is no world outside Provazik," it said once again. "Not anymore."

I rushed out of the room and back into that entrance hallway. I no longer found it enchanting, especially with the increased amount of people wandering the circle. I searched frantically for an exit until my phone vibrated. I yanked it out of my pocket, desperately hoping that it was someone I knew. It was the robot.

"Why do you not cooperate?" it asked me.

"I don't want to stay here," I replied. "I want to do other things besides work. I want to see the world, I want to travel."

"You can earn travel," the robot said.

"What does that mean?"

"You work hard enough and you can earn travel. You will be accompanied by agents to the place you want to visit. After you see the sights, you will return."

Something wasn't right about this and I knew what it was.

"You just said there was no world outside Provazik," I said, with a faint sense of joy that I had outwitted the robot. "Now I can travel? You're a lying sack of shit! You're a fuckin' liar!"

That was only the beginning of the torrent of obscenity I sent through the phone to that little creature. Employees, if they could still even be called that, wandered past and gave me strange looks. Finally, I hung up the phone and resumed my futile search for an exit.

After what felt like an eternity of searching, I saw a woman who I recognized. I believed she was a co-worker, but my memories had been growing cloudier the longer I remained in Provazik. She and a small group of friends were ducking through a small exit against one of the walls. I rushed over and caught a glimpse of a beautiful stream just outside the door. A guard yanked my arm and I found myself unable to move. However, the woman heard the commotion and recognized me. She indicated to her friends that she would only be a moment.

"You have to reject all the choices," she said. "They're going to make you offers, make you think you have a choice. But they're all the same. You have to reject all the choices!"

With that, she and the others went out the door and down a small ramp. The door shut and then faded, as if it had never been there at all. The guard dragged me into another room. It was like a classroom, but with desks that looked comically large since they were intended for adults. At least this one had decent lighting. There was a massive TV-screen in front of the desks, presumably to deliver some kind of education. I didn't want to sit at any of the desks; I was afraid they would never let me stand up again. Another robot ambled around the room and handed me a pamphlet.

I opened it up and saw a list of options. These were the choices she had warned me about. They sounded great on paper and the charming illustrations didn't hurt, but upon close analysis it was clear that none of them would get me out of Provazik.

But if you reject all the choices, what was left to do? The answer suddenly came to me. I picked up a chair.

"You're going to have to kill me!" I shouted to the robots. "You'll have to kill me or I'll destroy this place!"

For some reason, I decided to sing Iron Maiden's "The Trooper" aloud...perhaps to become even more disruptive.

"You take my life, but I'll take yours too!" The chair hit the huge television with a glass crunch.

"You fire your musket, but I'll run you through!" The cracks widened after another hit.

And so it went, until the television was barely recognizable. The room around me seemed to blur and moments later, I woke up in bed. This wasn't another trick; I recognized my bedroom. For a moment, I was still convinced the experience had been real.

"I did it," I said quietly. "I'm out."

I went back to sleep and dreamed of other things.

The World Beyond

I'm not very comfortable with self-promotion. Most of the world is just fine and dandy with it, but I always feel like it's opening me up to some sort of trouble. However, when I spend a year on a book and another six months converting it to an E-reader format, the ideal outcome is that people read it.

First, some links. The paperback version can be found here. The newly-completed Kindle version can be found here.

During an interview for a local newspaper (which may also wind up here if there's any interest), I was asked "So why should people read The World Beyond?" I don't do so well with that question. My gut response is "Well, you don't have to if you don't want." That's not going to sell that many books, is it? But I can't help it, I'm not going to just sit here and be like "Read it cause I am brilliant, wa ha ha." If I were to offer up one of those crappy "X meets Y" marketing calculations, I suppose I could say it's The Truman Show meets All The President's Men. If you are interested in dystopian stories, journalism, issues of corporate power, epistolary storytelling and ample sarcasm, I think you might find it enjoyable.

I'm not going to rehash the entire storyline here, though I will reproduce the plot summary from the back of the book:

In the year 2044, nearly all news and entertainment is "under the umbrella" of the huge conglomerate World Media. A highly anticipated new reality show introduces three contestants who grew up in the same small town and tosses them into a huge virtual landscape. As the world reacts to this revolutionary show, Claire Lin does not believe her daughter signed on willingly. She teams up with Drew Stephenson, an embittered print journalist whose vanishing profession gives him nothing to lose. Together, they will slowly uncover the sinister truth behind "The World Beyond."

Some of the concepts in the book have been percolating in my head for a long time. The idea of people who are unwittingly starring in a reality show has been in my brain since I first became familiar with the genre around the turn of the century. Youngins might compare that element to The Hunger Games (though the stakes aren't quite as high) but my inspirations were older films like Series 7 or the aforementioned Truman Show. For a while, I wasn't sure what format to pursue. Should it be a game, like Master of the Wind? It would have been a game with an awful lot of non-playable content. Should it be a screenplay? Maybe, but then I basically have to depend on other people for it to be seen by the public. In the end, a simple book seemed like the most logical choice.

The journalism side of it is a more recent addition. I won't sugarcoat things - this job can be very disillusioning. You often hear that you have a great responsibility to the public who reads your work, but you wouldn't know it by how the industry treats you. You get paid like crap, the benefits are middling at best, and your readers typically ignore you unless you make an error. The ever-shrinking amount of media companies is also cause for great concern...perhaps "World Media" sounds fantastical at first glance, but in the time I wrote this book, two high-profile media consolidations occurred. First Comcast merged with NBC. I recall reading numerous blogs on The Huffington Post that were immensely critical of this merger and of media consolidation in general. Later that same week, AOL bought The Huffington Post. For some reason, media consolidation stopped being popular as a blogging topic on the site. It doesn't strike me as far-fetched that one day in the future, tiny local newspaper reporters like Drew Stephenson might be the only people who can investigate the potential crimes of a media congolmerate without having to worry about a conflict of interest.

Most of the famous dystopian stories deal with the idea of the government having too much power, and history has shown time and again that is indeed something to worry about. However, these days I worry more about the inverse - government having no power. I worry about corporations becoming so deregulated that they essentially exist outside the law. Does that sound ridiculous? I hope so, but if you don't think that's the endgame goal of companies like Goldman Sachs, Bank of America or Comcast, I have a bridge to sell you in Solest.

If that makes the book sound like a bleak and cynical experience, I should note that I also tried to treat all of this with a hint of black comedy. I tend to deal with upsetting elements of life by making sarcastic comments at their expense and some of that sensibility has found its way into the text. I attempted to tell parts of the story though various "documents" - Facebook conversations, message boards, interview transcripts, etc. These sections were extremely fun to write and it was great fun to try and imitate the overall tenor of the internet. It's probably still not harsh enough - I opted not to include any racial/homophobic slurs which cost those sections a bit of authenticity - but for anyone who knows me well, there is probably at least one in-joke in there for you.

So after writing the book and revising it extensively for another few months, it was time to see if I could bring it over to Kindle and other e-readers. How hard could it have been? Really damn hard, as it turned out. What a steep learning curve. I spent another six months nearly banging my head against the wall wondering why the page breaks weren't working, why certain paragraphs weren't indenting properly, and various other shenanigans. I suspect that if I do this again, it will go smoother, but it was way more of an undertaking than I expected. I hope it will be worth the effort - books seem to be going through something very similar to what the music industry experienced ten years ago.

The whole industry is changing. This also means that self-publishing has become a more viable option. I've heard enough horror stories about publishing companies (and I have one of my own, thanks to my ill-fated attempt at a nonfiction book a few years back) that I knew this would be the path I took. I'll have to overcome the stigma of self-published novels being poorly-spelled piles of incoherence, but that also gives a potential advantage of being a pleasant surprise. If anyone reads this and decides to check out the book afterwards, I hope that's what it is for you as well.

Out For A Week

There were two messages on the machine. His wife set down her bags and hit the flashing red button. The first was from his boss, asking why he hadn’t come to work. She shrugged. He must have gotten stuck in traffic that morning. The second message unnerved her. The boss again, sounding increasingly flustered.

His car was in the driveway, so she walked upstairs looking for him. She called his name, but there was no answer. She walked into their room and there he was. She was annoyed now. How could he not have heard her coming up the stairs and calling for him? Why wouldn’t he wake up? She told him she was tired of whatever game he was playing.

She heard something vibrate. It was his cell phone, trying to notify him that he had a voicemail. She didn’t know his password, but she looked at the call log. Sure enough, it was his office. She asked him what he was trying to pull. No response. She slapped his face gently, and then harder as she got more annoyed. She tickled his underarms. This always worked. No response.

Now she was growing frightened. She ran into the bathroom and filled a glass with water. There was no reaction when she threw it on his face. Her heart was pounding now, and she held back panicked sobs. She grabbed his cell phone off the floor.

After coming home from work, he reclined on the couch and grabbed a newspaper. There was an article about the city’s budget for the coming fiscal year. City officials had proposed an increase in funding for their community services department. The director of that department had spoken at a recent public hearing, excited that the additional money would pay for more food baskets and help needy residents deal with painful fuel costs.

There was another quote. An angry man claimed to be speaking for all of the city’s taxpayers. He asked how the city could be so irresponsible. Putting down the newspaper, he let out a heavy sigh. The reporter had tried to present a balanced view of the issue, but he had a sinking feeling.

He walked to his computer in the other room, jostling the mouse to turn off the screen saver. He pulled up the city’s website. Official Minutes. Click. Sure enough, there had been a whole stampede of angry speakers blasting the increase in funding. Pleas for altruism were drowned out by a parade of indignant city residents worried about their own individual tax bill.

His parents had joined his wife in the hospital. His brother was expected soon. The doctors were mystified. They said they had never seen anything like this. For days, they performed dozens of tests. Had he hit his head? Any injury severe enough to put someone in a coma would certainly stand out, but there was nothing. Every test came back negative. He was in remarkably good health. If only he were awake to enjoy it.

After three days of anxiety, his brother lost his temper. He grabbed a paper clip, bent it and stabbed his brother in the arm. Blood dripped down from the small hole left behind, but he didn’t react. His parents pulled his brother away. His wife fell to her knees. She didn’t understand why this had happened, or why it had to happen. He had made so much progress, gotten past so many obstacles. What cruel cosmic joke had been played on her husband?

Having exhausted all options, the doctors sheepishly asked the family to take him back home. There were a lot of patients with more familiar ailments who needed treatment. His parents protested, but were unable to make a real case for keeping him in the hospital. One doctor tried to console them, said they could check in with him regularly, assured them they would continue to look over the test results.

It was the weekend. He was not an early riser like his wife. When he finally lurched out of bed, she had been up for hours organizing various piles of clutter. She didn’t know the meaning of the word “relax.” He fired up the computer, and began his usual round of news websites. Here was a shocking item. Someone had unearthed records which revealed that several high-ranking government officials had signed off on torturing prisoners of war.

This was huge, he thought. He grabbed the remote and turned on the television, hoping to find out more. The first news channel he came across had nothing. A prominent politician had been seen in public without an American flag pin, and talking heads were reacting with outrage that he found rather disproportionate.

Maybe he would have better luck with another channel. Now a young television actress crashed her car into a fire hydrant. There were two correspondents on the scene. He squinted and watched the crawl of information at the bottom of the screen. No mention of the torture, but an Oscar-winning actor was apparently a “prankster” on the set of his last film.

He turned off the television and tossed the remote to the other end of the bed. After a few moments, he cursed and brought his fist down onto the mattress. His wife turned and asked what the problem was. He felt too frustrated to even speak, preferring to simply shake his head.

Friends and family were now a frequent sight at his home. The atmosphere was like that of a funeral, but all of the guests were careful not to let his wife hear that particular observation. Old friends who had not seen each other for years came together and discussed their astonishment at the circumstances which had brought them there.

The initial shock of his predicament had faded, and the guests now sought to lighten the mood by pointing out small details on their sleeping friend. An old college roommate noted that he seemed to have a lot more gray hairs these days. His wife was now reluctant to even set foot in the bedroom, and threw herself into making sure the guests were well-fed. His dog patiently waited beside the bed, leaving his post only to eat and go outside for brief periods of time.

At one point, his sister-in-law had to rush into the bedroom to gather her children, who were walking all over him and enjoying not getting scolded like they might with someone who was awake. His wife had to leave the house. She stood outside in the driveway, fighting back the tears again. She had cried so much in the last week. She wondered how one person even had so many tears. What would she do if he never woke up?

No. That was impossible. Even if he didn’t wake up, it was only a matter of time before some other cause of death claimed him. He had not eaten in six days, surely that would catch up to him. This realization made her feel worse. Were these the two possible ways her marriage would end? Death or eternal sleep?

As the family gathered for Easter Sunday, he walked around the suburban neighborhood where he grew up. He recalled a farm within walking distance from his home. The fields there seemed to stretch on forever. He remembered running wildly through them as a child, and occasionally hiding from the farmer when he spotted a tractor on the horizon.

As he grew older, he had begun to appreciate the place for more than just its recreational possibilities. It was beautiful. He thought of it as his own little slice of Europe, right on his street.

But now it was different. There were deep scars in its surface, treaded tracks carved deep into the landscape which once seemed impossibly flat. His father had quietly walked up behind him, and broke the news that the land was being developed into several retail stores. He clenched his teeth together, fighting an urge to cry that was so fierce it surprised him.

Most of the guests had left for the evening. His wife, exhausted, slumped onto the couch and fell asleep within minutes. One friend remained, and walked into the bedroom. This friend had known him perhaps the longest, and remembered the days when it seemed uncertain whether he would even make it through school.

He grabbed a chair and set it beside the bed. He paused for a few moments, and finally spoke.

“I don’t know how you’ve done this, but you’ve got to stop. People here need you.”

It was near the end of a long day. He called his wife to inform her he would be late for dinner. She seemed mildly irritated, but after a ten-hour day, he didn’t find anything about it mild. Little pet peeves became insurmountable odds. He lashed out at her, criticizing her for things that didn’t even bother him on a good day.

When he got home, she was standing alone on the porch. He couldn’t bear to make eye contact at first. She said nothing, and instead held out her arms. He was a child again, reduced to tears by a world that seemed constantly cruel and unforgiving. He wondered what was wrong with him. Everyone else seemed to know how to deal with it. Everyone but him. Except now it was different. He wasn’t alone.

It was hard to believe how often he forgot that.

The next morning, he woke up and began his usual routine. He fired up the computer, but decided to look someplace different today. He found a video of a dog growling at its own leg. Laughter rang through the house. His wife ran in, and cried for what seemed like hours. His growling stomach brought the emotion of the moment to a halt. She said he must be hungry. He nodded.

He was quiet during breakfast, but content. His wife sat across from him. The dog stared at him, hoping for scraps.

For now, this was all he needed.