Blood

But she threw the tape recorder at him now, and it smashed into the wall beside his head.

"That's just typical," he sneered. "You can't even throw straight."

He raised the Kimber, took a step towards her while he sighted in on her face. "Any thing else you want to say to me before sleepy time?"

She was staring at the end of the barrel, her lips beginning to quiver... "Oh, no, Dickie. You ain't gonna do this? Say you ain't gonna do this to us?"

"To us? Look what you've done to us, you fuckin' cow? Why the fuck did I stay married to you?" he asked quietly. "Come on, bitch, TELL ME?!"

"I dunno, Dickie, I dunno, but I love you, really, I love...

He lowered the pistol, sighted in on her belly and pulled the trigger.

She saw the belching yellow flame erupt from the end of the barrel, felt searing, rippling pain under her left breast and screamed when she realized what'd just happened, and in her panic she bolted for the front door. She heard the next shot, and thought she felt the bullet pass right beside her left ear before she crashed into the door, knocking it off it's hinges as she tumbled off the porch and into the front yard.

He took closer aim this time, and squeezed the trigger carefully -- and watched the bullet slam into her ass as she tried to stand up -- and he thought this uproariously funny as she staggered to the ground and started laughing -- then he reached down and picked up his bourbon and Coke and took a long pull from the glass.

"Better finish this up before I disturb the neighbors too much," Krumnow said to no one in particular, then he bent and carefully put his drink down on the table -- and almost fell over in the process. He steadied himself, then snorted derisively at the incongruity of what he'd just said, then shook his head and sighed. He looked around the living room once again, then stumbled drunkenly after his wife -- as she ran screaming into the night. He walked out behind her and raised the Kimber, readying himself for the end of things.

+++++

Polk was cruising the neighborhoods now, deep in the middle class section of town, the part of town experiencing the worst decline, the most upheaval, listening to the oldies coming on the radio, singing along from time to time -- communication breakdown, it's always the same, having a nervous breakdown, drive me insane --when he heard the sharp pop-pop of gunfire.

"134, we have reports of gunfire, and a woman screaming, in the vicinity of Eighth and Filmore," Mathias Polk heard on the radio -- but his window was down and he was trying to figure out where the shots had come from.

"134, show me in the area, and I'm hearing gunfire, too," he replied.

"110, show me en route, notify CID and the WC."

"134 Code 5 at 2040 hours. 10/4, 110."

+++++

They were headed up Lamar, Mindy behind the wheel of his Silverado, just leaving the Medical Office Building and he could see the traffic signal at University was flashing red again.

"Why don't you turn here -- on Fillmore -- we can cut over to Eighth and miss all this mess."

She put on her signal and moved to the left lane, and after waiting for a couple of cars made the left. I was dark out now, and Fillmore had kind of a 'trick-or-treat' feel going in the evening -- within it's bare trees and shadowy streetlights --

Pop-pop -- pop...

"What the fuck was that?"

POP -- then screams...

...as the windshield in front of Mindy's face exploded in a hail of glass fragments...

+++++

Polk saw the man chasing the woman, the 45 in his hand, then as he exited his patrol car he felt something slam into his shoulder.

"134, Signal 33, shots fired...I'm hit, repeat, I'm hit...!"

+++++

Dalton's Chevy rolled off the road at twenty miles an hour and slammed into a tree; the airbags detonated -- filling the cabin with dense, white smoke -- and Dalton pushed his door open and jumped out into pools of quaking blackness, and he found himself adrift in someone's front yard. He saw people in the house looking at him, the man inside indicating danger, pointing down the street...

Dalton turned, saw a man with a 45 shooting at a woman running in the front yard of the house next door, and then he watched as the man turned and began walking towards a police officer. The officer was crawling towards his patrol car, and it was obvious the man with the 45 was going to come up from behind and shoot the officer in the back...

Dalton was maybe twenty yards away when instinct kicked in, when he began his sprint towards the man with the 45.

And he watched as the man stopped and fired once at the officer, then the man with the 45 must've heard him running -- because he turned in his direction.

All John Dalton saw now was the 45 in the man's hand. Raising, coming up. Coming up -- to -- shoot -- him.

Head down now, and shoulders square, he executed a near textbook full body tackle, driving his right shoulder into the man's sternum. He heard bones in the man's chest giving way, felt the bones in his own shoulder coming apart as he drove the man's body into the back of the patrol car. He was aware of a fearsome, heavy blow just then, and the sound of another gunshot, this time very close, and he felt himself sliding to the ground...and the last thing he remembered thinking was that the man smelled of bourbon and Coke...and Hoppe's No 9 gun solvent...which he found oddly comforting.

+++++

The lights were down when he walked out onto the hastily erected stage, and he looked up as the last few moments of his latest video played out on the Jumbotron above the audience. The production values were first-rate, the points made direct and to the point. No one looked away as he walked out on stage -- they never did.

Starting with a Norman Rockwell view of the past, the video outlined what had gone wrong with America. Multiculturalism. Political Correctness. Too generous social safety nets, radical Islamist terror out of control. Jobs shipped overseas, no good jobs left for hard working Americans. Fear, decay, self-loathing...leading to more and more decadence, more and more decay, sex on the internet, drugs in public schools, the biggest growth industry in the country -- tattoo parlours...

Then the images turned to African-Americans rioting in cities all across the country, tearing down their own neighborhoods, setting police cars on fire, rampaging through the night until no one felt safe out on the streets anymore, these final scenes playing out to a discordant, bleak rendering of 'America, The Beautiful' in the background, as images shifted to Africans in their villages tearing their own homelands apart. Warlords, beheadings -- the message was clear. Let the Africans hordes loose in this country and this is what awaits you...

And then spotlights focused on the stage, on him, the President of the United States standing behind the presidential lectern, and a vast chant arose: "America -- love it or leave it!"

"We had a beautiful country, once upon a time," he began as the frenzy faded, and speaking in warm, certain tones, even more images of America from the 1950s rolled across the screens overhead, and he watched as the people's eyes went from him to the screens and back to him again.

The imagery blended seamlessly into the 60s, rioters in Berkeley and Philadelphia figured prominently, while African-American radicals, often Muslim, danced in the streets as they looted buildings to Jimi Hendrix's Purple Haze...and excuse me while I kiss the sky seemed to float through the air, holding time in abeyance a little longer.

And the last 60 years played out on the screen as one immense, prolonged -- and decidedly logical progression, from one scene of liberal policy generated mayhem to the next, while at key points the images paused and he laid some "straight talk" on the audience -- and they roared their endless approval...

"America -- love it or leave it!"

The images, indeed, the entire progression of imagery was derived from Strauss & Howe's generational theory, and as the presentation ended the entire audience sat in silent, tear-swept silence -- looking up at Carpenter with rapt adoration in their eyes. The Gray Champion, Carpenter was now their one and only Hope. Only He Could Save Them. Only His Vision Was Pure Enough to Restore America.

Carol Templeton watched from the side of the stage, as completely mesmerized as anyone else out there in the Pavilion. She'd never seen anything like this audience's reaction, not ever. He was a master manipulator, she saw, like he knew every effect his words were going to have before he said them, and he twisted the audience's emotions around in the air like a sorcerer might an apprentice's brooms.

Yet she knew this man's predecessors, knew they were good men, knew this man was mischaracterizing their work, twisting meaning and intent, manipulating emotions around a false narrative, and she looked at the back of the man's head, recognized him for what he was.

He was evil. A monster.

His was a monstrous evil, the twisted realities he presented were as shadows of pure deceit on a cave wall, yet the measure of his power could readily be seen in this audience's rapt adoration. They had eaten up his lies as if taken in by The Rapture, and she felt a profound sense of anomie settle over her as she watched the crowd stand for one sustained ovation after another...and she remembered scenes like this from a History class...

And then she thought she heard the word "Go!" come from a small radio's speaker...

+++++

Agent Denny Eliot saw someone pushing through the crowd for the stage, then the small pistol in a black woman's hand --

"Gun!" he shouted, and he turned for President Carpenter...

+++++

On hearing the "Go!" order, Cleetus Owen and his six man team had surrounded the stage from the rear, and he watched now as Carpenter's detail moved to cut the president off from the assumed threat -- from the wrong direction -- and he looked at his men one last time.

And when he heard the first gunshot from within the dismayed crowd he shouldered his M4 and flipped off the safety.

"Okay, let's roll!" he whispered through grimaced teeth, then he turned and ran for the stage, his finger holding the trigger down as he pushed through falling bodies, running towards the president.

+++++

Templeton saw the men behind the stage, heard their weapons discharge, became all charged instinct as she ran out to protect her president...

+++++

Eliot saw the charge from the rear of the stage and turned his detail to face the real threat. The entire stage area, packed with local dignitaries, was awash in suddenly erupting, isolated firefights, and women began screaming as they were hit and fell to the floor.

His first back-up team of 40 agents was just seconds from arriving, so he concentrated on picking-off attackers trying to push through to the podium.

+++++

Carpenter felt something bite into his shin and reflexively bent down just as his closest assailant let loose a barrage from an M4. He felt his shoulder absorb at least one round and groaned, then fell to the floor -- curling up protectively in a fetal ball. He felt a body fall and cover his own, and looked up in time to see the light flicker and leave Carol Templeton's eyes.

+++++

Owen saw at least 80 agents converging on the stage and slipped off through the shadows, pulling two of his men with him, and they made their way through the mayhem to the pre-established escape route and were outside within seconds, lost in the running-always running swarm, walking slowly through the parking lot to their van. Minutes later they were northbound on Highway 7, heading for their safe-house east of Abbeville when two helicopters appeared overhead.

He didn't see the missiles slam into their van, but he looked up and smiled before the flames consumed him. Owen looked up at moonlit clouds, hoping to fly away now, and he smiled.

+++++

Carpenter felt men carrying him, then recognized the bright lights and swarming paramedics of an ambulance. A siren piercing the night, men struggling with their footing, a sharp pain in his arm -- then flooding warmth. Movement, sharp and jarring, as his gurney was pulled from the box. A glimpse of moonlight and clouds, hissing doors and strobing lights as he was pushed past the ER straight to an operating room. Frantic orders shouted, then he felt something snaking down his throat and all was dark.

+++++

The world waited in hushed silence -- even as the true contours of this attempt were quickly brought to light. Members of the military, both retired and active duty, had taken part in a multi-pronged assault against the civilian government. A coup d'tat, and the Vice President was dead, so too the Speaker of the House. Attempts had been made on other members of the presidential succession, and at least two arch conservative Supreme Courts justices lay in the morgue at Walter Reed Army Hospital. There were reports of open warfare on the streets of Washington D.C., and heavy rioting was reported in Newark, Boston, Los Angeles and Houston. Rail terminals disappeared in a series of violent explosions, vital interstate highway bridges went next, and so food and energy distribution systems around the country began grinding to a halt.

People stayed up through the night waiting for word of Carpenter's condition -- but there was scant news now, only a growing body count amidst a subtly stoked hysteria gripping the land.

By dawn's early light it was apparent the military had gained control of the reigns of government, yet a vast backlash against the coup was already underway -- when word filtered out that Russia had moved against NATO forces in Europe, and that China was moving ground forces into South Korea and Taiwan. Hong Kong was overrun, and Chinese forces were reported moving into Vietnam and Thailand When word came that North Korea had launched missiles at Japan and Guam, people began looking slowly at one another, wondering just what had happened to their little world.

+++++

It's quiet here.

Too quiet.

And why is it so dark?

I'm sure my eyes are open, so why can't I see anything?

+++++

Tanks and mobile rocket launchers scream towards the Baltic; Riga and Tallinn fall first, Warsaw by that evening. Western leaders, used to bluffing their way out of military encounters with Russia, try to bluff again. The maneuver doesn't work this time.

+++++

"His pupils are equal and reactive this morning, and even his EEG seems improved..."

"But still no signs of consciousness?"

"No, no signs of improvement, none at all. It's like he's frozen in time."

"Why are there still military personnel stationed in the corridor?"

"I don't know. Maybe there are still people out there, you know, trying to get him."

"Better him than me."

"Yes, everyone seems so paranoid, yet no one seems to have any idea what's going on?"

+++++

I'm singin' in the rain

Just singin' in the rain

What a glorious feelin'

I'm happy again...

+++++

The main thrust of the Russian attack rolls straight for Berlin, secondary strikes for Hamburg and Köln, then word is received in western capitals that Russian aircraft had been observed throughout the Persian Gulf. Reports of paratroopers in Bagdad and Riyadh follow within the hour. Iranian troops move south and west, for the Saudi oilfields.

+++++

"He was tapping his toes again."

"Oh? When?"

"About an hour ago."

"I read one of the nurses last night heard him signing? Singing? Can you believe that?"

"Yeah. I heard it was one of those old musical numbers. Gene Kelly, something like that."

"Don't that beat all? Well, just goes to show, you never can tell."

+++++

Chinese forces take the Philippines the next day, Vietnam a half day later. Japan looked to take a little longer, but North Korean missiles took out Hiroshima and Nagasaki, again, only this time there looked to be no honorable surrender.

+++++

In a gadda da vida, honey

"What's with his EEG?"

Don't you know that I'm lovin' you

"Beats me? Maybe he's having a seizure?"

In a gadda da vida, baby

"Uh-oh. Sounds like he's playing Iron Butterfly again."

"Better call neurology -- STAT!"

Don't you know that I'll always be true --

+++++

Oh -- no! What happens when I get to the DRUM SOLO?

"Wasn't there a long drum solo in one of their songs?"

FUCK

+++++

"Is it just me, or is he beginning to sound a little like Marvin Gaye?"

I used to go out to parties

"One of the nurses last night said he was dancing. In the bed, right there, dancing!"

And stand around

"That ain't right."

'Cause I was too nervous

"You know, he does kinda sound like Marvin..."

To really get down

"I know, and I think his skin's getting darker, too..."

And my body yearned to be free

December

"It's sure good to see you up and around, Mr President."

"Thanks, Denny. Good to be seen," Carpenter said as he turned to his Chief of Staff. "Oscar, what's my day look like?"

"Looks like you've got a fairly busy day on the books," Wilde said, "at least 'til noon, sir; and don't forget, you'll be lighting the White House Christmas Tree tonight at seven."

"Can I do that? From this wheelchair?"

"Yessir. Internal polling shows a considerable uptick on the sympathy scale when they see you in that chair."

"Fine, fine. Think you could have someone rustle up some pulled-pork sammies for lunch, and maybe some of those fried pork rinds that came in yesterday?"

"I'll see to it, Mr President."

"And root beer. Lots of root beer."

"Yes, Mr President."

"So, who we got up first this morning?"

"The President of Mexico, Mr President."

"That fucking loser again! What's he want now?"

"To renegotiate interest payments on The Wall, Mr President."

"Fuck him. If he has any further questions, have him to look it up in the dictionary."

"Sir?"

"Yeah. The word Sympathy; tell the prick it's in the dictionary -- right there between Shit and Syphilis."

"Yessir."

"Who's next?"

"The Chancellor of Germany, Mr President. She wanted to ask..."

"That I use more butt lube on her this time? Don't matter none; told her I was gonna fuck her up the ass big time if she came back with all those Russia problems. Guess the bitch wants what I got, huh, Oscar?"

"Yes -- Mr President."

And with his morning appointments now so swiftly dispatched, Carpenter asked if little Elizabeth Templeton could join him for lunch in the West Wing, and he waited for her until she came before starting-in on his pork rinds and sweet pickle relish dip.

"Good morning...Dad...?" the little girl said.

"Look, Lizzie, I know your momma wanted you to call me that, but listen, sweetheart, I get it. You call me what you want, okay?"

"Does Asshole apply?"

He looked up and coughed, then laughed. "You bet your sweet little ass it does, darlin'. Asshole it is, because that's just what I am."

She looked at him like he was out of his mind -- which of course he was -- then she smiled. "Yeah, you know what? I think I'll try that for a while."

"Whatever floats your boat, sweetmeat, but Frito-Lay flew up these pork rinds yesterday, special for you. Better dig in while they're fresh."

"Pork rinds?"

"Oh yeah. Bush 41 loved 'em; the bastard got me hooked on 'em, too. Worse than potato chips...'betcha can't eat just one!'"

They sat in silence for a while, and the little girl seemed to grow pensive, almost sad as she watched him shovel the food down. "I miss my mom," she said at last, looking at the untouched food on her plate.

Carpenter stopped eating and looked up, right into her eyes. "There's not a day goes by I don't miss your momma. Not a minute, really, but I can't imagine how awful this must be for you."