by
Travis King
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
This story was first published in the 2007 edition of the literary journal Waves. It is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License.
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Jonathan Braithwaite sat upon his sofa, fidgeting as he waited for a package to arrive in the mail. The immense plasma television that hung on the wall was switched on, but the program it displayed had become little more than background sound some time ago. Jonathan could focus on nothing save his expected package. Anxiously, he glanced at the digital readout in the top right corner of the television: 09:56. The mail truck would come soon; it always showed up around ten o’clock.
No longer able to contain his nerves, Jonathan sprang to his feet and strode to the living room window. He spoke into the Omnifactor bracelet on his wrist, and the blinds rose in a fluid motion. Outside, the sun was bright, and a steady breeze blew, causing the flags that flew from each of the suburban neighborhood’s homes to billow in stately majesty, proudly showing off their thirteen stripes and fifty-four stars. Beneath the flags, in driveways, gardens, and yards, some of the people of the neighborhood went about their weekend work, pulling weeds, washing cars, taking out trash. Children played with basketballs, jump ropes, and hoverboards. A couple lawns were being trimmed by automowers. Down the street, an unfamiliar sedan sat parked by the curb outside the Learys’ house. Reason told him that it most likely belonged to a guest, but the DHS public service announcements never appealed to reason, and they taught that anomalies such as these were suspicious, and suspicious occurrences were to be reported. Sometimes, DHS personnel even simulated such suspicious occurrences as tests of the citizenry: those who did not report them were presumed disloyal unless and until they were cleared by Government interviewers.
Jonathan’s heart raced. He had no love for the Government’s fear tactics, but at this time in his life, he did not need unwarranted attention, so he called up the audiophone screen on his television and placed a toll-free call to the DHS Citizens’ Intelligence Center, concisely describing the nature of the situation. The operator recorded his statement and then thanked him curtly for his patriotism and concern for his fellow Americans. He closed the connection and went back to the window.
There he saw the mail truck idling just behind the unfamiliar sedan as its driver placed a few envelopes into the Learys’ mailbox. Jonathan’s heart sped up, and he felt dizzy with anticipation. Only a few more minutes, he thought. Only a few more minutes until his own mail arrived. The minutes threatened to become an eternity, and Jonathan suddenly found himself peripatetic, treading back and forth over the same patch of living room carpet. Soon, he thought; soon. Soon he would have everything he needed to exact his revenge.
Jonathan noticed that he was sweating profusely, especially from his palms. It was to be expected, he knew; he wasn’t a criminal—he wasn’t even as extreme in his thoughts and views as his wife was known to be—so he would normally never consider the drastic actions he would soon undertake, but the old axiom about desperate times still held true. He forced a series of deep breaths, wiped his hands on his khaki trousers, and was standing at the door when the mailman rang the bell. Jonathan waited a few seconds before he opened it, not wanting to draw suspicion to himself by seeming too hasty.
“Mr. Braithwaite,” the mailman greeted him as the door swung open.
“Good morning, Tom,” Jonathan replied, barely suppressing his nervous jitters as he glanced at the box the mailman carried in his hand.
“I’ve got a package for you here.” He presented Jonathan an electronic clipboard and stylus.
“Just sign here, please.” Jonathan took the stylus and scribbled his signature, then returned the items. With an expression of gratitude, the mailman handed the box over to Jonathan, said his goodbyes, and headed back to his truck.
Jonathan closed the door and carried the package over to the sofa. As soon as the mail truck was gone, Jonathan closed the blinds and stared at the box. He still couldn’t believe it was actually here, couldn’t believe that its contents had been missed by the electronic sorters and random security checks at the various post offices through which it had passed. He let out a combination sigh and giggle as he moved to open it.
* * *
“He’s opening the package now,” reported Special Agent Wright from the passenger seat of the sedan outside the Learys’ house. His words were directed at his partner, Special Agent Patterson, who sat next to him in the driver’s seat. The special-issue spectral analysis glasses Wright wore were tuned to an extra-high frequency, giving him a view through Jonathan Braithwaite’s walls, and it was what he saw happening that he reported to Patterson. “He’s picking up the merchandise, laying it out, looking at it. He’s pushing the box away. Looks like he knows what he’s got, and he’s gonna keep it.”
“Time to move in,” said Patterson. “SOP?”
Wright tuned his dark glasses to the visual spectrum and nodded. “You take the front, I’ll get the back. We’ll call for backup if we need it.”
“I doubt we will,” said Patterson. “Now, let’s get the bastard before he can do any damage.” He started the car and drove it slowly down the street.
* * *
The knock at the door interrupted Jonathan’s examination of his recently delivered goods. He stood straight and still, unsure what to do. Another knock came, followed by a voice.
“Jonathan Braithwaite, this is the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We are aware of the materials in your possession and your plans for their use. You are ordered to open the door and willingly enter into our custody, or you will be charged with resisting arrest.”
“Shit,” Jonathan swore under his breath. They hadn’t overlooked the package, merely lulled him into a false sense of security before their strike. Well, he wasn’t going to give himself up—that was for sure. He didn’t care what the G-man said; resisting arrest was nothing compared to the other charges they could pin on him.
He quickly gathered up everything he had purchased, dumped it haphazardly into the box, and picked it up. He headed through the kitchen toward the back door. Just as he reached it, he heard the front door slam open. It was followed by the back, and he was face to face with one of the Feds and a drawn taser pistol.
“Put the package down,” said the FBI agent, in a calm but firm voice.
“No,” Jonathan asserted.
“Cocky son of a bitch, aren’t you, Mr. Braithwaite?” said a voice from behind him, just before a sharp blow to the side of his knee caused him to collapse and drop the box.
Helpless, with a weapon aimed right at him, Jonathan didn’t bother to struggle as the man who had kicked him now restrained him with motion-controlled electroshock cuffs.
“Jonathan Braithwaite,” said Agent Patterson as he slapped the cuffs on Jonathan’s wrists, “you are under arrest for violation of the Patriot Act and Amendments, as well as other sections of the United States Code, including, but not limited to, six counts of possession of illicit materials, willful purchase of same illicit materials, seditious intent, intent to carry out acts of terrorism, as well as treason against the Government of the United States—and resisting arrest.”
Patterson stopped, and Wright picked up the speech. “You have the duty to confess your crimes; choosing to remain silent indicates something to hide, implicating you as a criminal in a court of law.”
Jonathan remained silent, and he was hauled to his feet. Escorted by the two agents, he walked through the house, to the front door, and, in full view of the small crowd that had gathered across the street, to the sedan that was parked outside. There, he was shoved into the back seat. He slouched and looked around the car for a way to escape. There was none; the doors could only be opened from the outside, and an impenetrable screen separated the front seats from the back.
This is it, then, he thought. Justice goes unserved. Maybe I’ll at least get to see Alyssa. He snorted at his own ridiculous thought; it was more likely that he’d be thrown in solitary, pending a trial that would never come, and die there, an accused criminal, failed husband, and neighborhood spectacle. He closed his eyes, lay down on the seat, and tried to console himself with the fact that he had at least made the attempt to show the mightiest Government in the world that he was a force to be reckoned with, that he could match their might himself—or could have, at least, had he been able to place his ill-gotten merchandise in the midst of the public. He tried to convince himself that he should be proud he had gotten as far as he had, and then he dwelled for a moment upon the events that had led him to this point.
It had all begun a year and a half ago, when his wife, Alyssa, was arrested. She had been released from her position as a teacher at a local middle school after presenting to her eighth-grade class the minority view that the nation’s foreign policy of pre-emptive strikes, enforced democracy, and military-industrial-corporate occupation created an atmosphere of distrust and hatred around the world; of course, this conflicted with the approved curriculum, which explained that foreigners were inherently violent and envious of the United States’ free and democratic society, and so Alyssa had to be dismissed from her post.
A few months later, she was pacing the sidewalk outside the very school from which she had been fired, waving a sign that bemoaned her unfair treatment and passing out pamphlets explaining her point of view. For this, she was arrested on charges of unlawful demonstration, slander against the Government of the United States, sedition, and disruption of commerce at an educational institution—this last of which was tantamount to terrorism itself. She was promptly incarcerated, and her trial was still pending. She had not yet been allowed to see a lawyer—not that any lawyer would want to talk to her; only the public defender could touch such a case without also being branded a traitor. So, if all went according to the Government’s plan, Alyssa would stay in prison, probably for the rest of her life, as an example to others who might consider similar activities. Jonathan felt it was his task to see that true justice was served.
It had taken months of searching and asking around in the right places, but finally he had found what he needed to do the job—rare items that were difficult to come by these days without special Governmental dispensation. He had discovered everything he had needed at an underground site on the Internet, and he had promptly placed his order. From there, the tools for serving up justice, the tools that would strike a blow against the Government and its oppressive authority, had been placed in his hands—only to be taken away before he had the chance to do a damn thing.
* * *
“What about the evidence?” asked Agent Wright.
Patterson glanced into the car. The prisoner seemed fairly calm, resigned to his fate. “Go ahead and collect it. I’ll watch him.”
Wright nodded and walked back into the house and to the back door, where the package had fallen. He took a piece of paper from the breast pocket of his jacket and unfolded it. Matching the checklist on the paper to the items in the box, he made sure everything was there and still sealed tight, then took the box to the car and placed it in the trunk. Then, along with his partner, he seated himself in the car. As it started up, he turned to his prisoner, who was still lying on the back seat, and addressed him through the security screen.
“You’re in serious trouble, Mr. Braithwaite.”
“Yeah,” Jonathan replied wearily, “so is this country.”
“According to you and a handful of other traitorous pigs. Just what did you think you were going to accomplish, anyway?”
Jonathan harrumphed. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Oh, I think I do know, Mr. Braithwaite. You fancy yourself a revolutionary, a savior of mankind. Do you know how many content, peaceful, innocent lives you could have destroyed if you had been able to carry out your plan and spread that shit into the population? Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
Jonathan didn’t answer.
“Close the door, Wright,” said Patterson. “Let’s get going.”
“Just a second,” said Wright. He took off the spectral analysis glasses and put them in his pocket, exchanging them for the more stylish pair of regular sunglasses he kept there. Unaware that the post office’s checklist had come out of his pocket as he made the exchange, Wright closed the door, and the car left the neighborhood.
Across the street, the neighbors talked for a moment, and then disbanded as the talk died down and the wind picked up.
All along the street, the flags attached to the houses fluttered proudly as the wind blew past them, carrying with it, printed on United States Postal Service stationery, a typewritten note that read:
The following items were found in the package addressed to Mr. Jonathan Braithwaite on 07 May 2036, as discussed this morning by telephone: SEVEN (7) PROHIBITED BOUND DOCUMENTS, published by the Government-designated terrorist organization known as SUB ROSA PUBLICATIONS, authors, titles, and dates of publication as follows–
- Preston, Anna — The Real Terrorists: How America and Its Allies Manipulate the World through Violence and Intimidation (2036)
- Preston, Anna — Fearmongers: Scare Tactics and the American Government (2034)
- Jankowski, Lester, ed. — New Perspectives: Views of America from Around the World (2034)
- Peterson, Henry, ed. — Important Documents in American History, Annotated and Explained (2028)
- Peterson, Henry, ed. — Collected Quotes of the American Founders, Annotated and Explained (2029)
- Jankowski, Lester, ed. — Aftermath: Essays from the Post-9/11 World, on the Twentieth Anniversary of the Tragic Event (2021)
- Westworth, Jessica and Stewart, ed. — Reclaiming America Through Peaceful Means: A Guide to Nonviolent Revolution, Including a 175th-Anniversary Re-Issue of Henry David Thoreau’s Banned Classic, “Civil Disobedience” (2024)
THE END
