by J. Frederick
2: Swift
Action
Chaos ensued when the woman on the
transcontinental line from Chicago to Denver began screaming. The
bullet train was near its destination in Denver, and Gavin was ripped
from his trance-like boredom as the well dressed, though haggard
looking woman leaped up and began howling hysterically. She was
middle aged, with stringy and unkempt black hair. Harsh lines cut
through her forehead and jutted from the corners of her mouth and
eyes like thorns on a rosebush. Dark bags hung under her wild eyes
and she looked like she hadn't slept in over a week. Tension
vibrated throughout her entire body like ripples in a pool of water
whose calm had been broken by the drop of a pebble. Presently, she
was shouting a barely coherent diatribe, and making all of her
co-passengers varying degrees of uncomfortable, annoyed, and
terrified.
“Don't make me disappear!” she
cried in the shrill voice of the insane. “You can't take away my
existence! I won't do it! No more! NOOOOOOO!!!!!”
What followed was truly shocking and
the woman's behavior paled in comparison. “Ms. Wheeler, please
return to your seat and stop disrupting this passenger transport.
You have 5 seconds to comply,” boomed an authoritative sounding
synthesized male voice over the train's loudspeakers. She screamed
in frustration at the warning, began to dart her wild green eyes
about randomly, and twisted her torso, desperately looking for path
of escape.
The response that followed was swift,
brutal, and took place only three seconds after the audible warning.
A door at the rear of the passenger cabin burst open, and into the
aisle sprinted about a dozen police in full riot gear, carrying fully
automatic machine guns and a wide array of “less than lethal”
weapons. The officer at the head of the squad pointed what looked
like a child's toy ray gun at Ms. Wheeler, and Gavin recognized the
device as a stun gun. The news networks often showed footage of
police using these devices on criminals, and they were incredibly
effective. In fact, Gavin remembered seeing a documentary where one
of these stun guns stopped a charging bull in its tracks, but the
beast awoke unharmed moments later. Gavin was about to learn that
the so-called documentary he had watched was less than accurate.
“Lay face down on the ground! NOW!”
shouted the officer at the head of the strike squad, his voice
muffled by his gas mask. The woman was given maybe two seconds to
comply, and the officer fired his stun gun. A bright blue arc of
electricity arced from the tip of his stun gun and struck Ms. Wheeler
directly in the center of her chest. The arc of electricity crackled
like a bolt of lightning, and the woman violently arched her back and
flailed her arms about wildly. She then hit the floor, convulsing.
Her wild eyes rolled back into her head, and foam began to seep out
of the corner of her mouth. The stench of ozone, burnt fabric, and
charred flesh filled the passenger cabin. The women and children on
the train broke into a cacophony of screaming, whimpering, and
sobbing. Most men stayed silent, except for a few patriotic
individuals who cheered on the police squad. “Let her have it!”
one man grunted, displaying his machismo.
An officer in a chrome silver helmet
emblazoned with the black and gold emblem of the T.A.F. stepped
forward. Though he was clad in carbon fiber body armor, black and
gray combat fatigues, and an insect-like gas mask (with bulbous
portholes for the eyes and a pair of air filters by the mouth which
resembled a menacing pair of mandibles) like all the other officers,
his helmet insignia and the word “COMMANDER” embroidered on his
flak jacket signified that he was the squad leader. “Medic!” he
ordered. “Check this suspect's vitals.”
Another officer rushed forward, clad
in identical body armor, fatigues, and gas mask, except his entire
garb was colored a sterile, blinding shade of white. The ancient
Hippocratic symbol of the intertwined snakes was prominently
displayed on his flak jacket, along with the word “MEDIC”, as if
to beat the obvious into one's memory. He quickly holstered his
firearm, and drew out a device which resembled a 20th
century era cattle prod, with a large LED display screen. He jabbed
the probe into the woman's neck. “She has a pulse... barely. No
brain activity is registering, sir.” reported the medic.
“Euthanize her,” ordered the
commander, in an oddly matter-of-fact tone. Three more officers
stepped forward, two of them wrapping a translucent plastic cowl
around the woman's head. The third extracted a sleeve from the hood,
and rolled it over his gun barrel like a sheath. There was a “PINK!”
sound from the silenced weapon, like that of a hail stone hitting a
tin roof, and a burst of blood covered the inside of the bag, faintly
visible through the semi-clear plastic. Through the hood it looked a
sickly grayish-red, like the color of faded paint on a park bench.
Ms. Wheeler fell limp, and was, if nothing else put out of the misery
of her madness. Two more officers stepped forward with a gurney and,
with the help of the previous pair of police who had cowled the
woman's head, lifted her body upon it. The legs were extended and
the squad exited quickly and quietly through the door at the front of
the passenger car. Almost simultaneously, six more people swiftly
entered the cabin, two of them in police uniforms, complete with
peaked caps, black slacks, shirts, and ties. Their chests were
adorned with medals, badges, and patches. The other four were
various professional looking people, one gaunt middle-aged bald man
with horn-rimmed eye glasses, a lab coat, and doctor's scrubs; a
woman in her late twenties or early thirties with a bun in her hair,
a charcoal-colored pencil dress, and a stern look; another older
gentleman in a three piece suit with gray hair and a beard, who
eerily resembled Sigmund Freud; and a non-threatening looking young
woman, with wiry curls, a rounded face, and a form fitting yet
conservative floral printed dress. A gentle smile crossed her lips,
and her eyes looked moist with sympathy.
Immediately the team began to go to
work. The pair of the police officers stepped to the front of the
train car, and the taller and more muscular looking one announced:
“Please, everyone remain calm. The situation is under control.
Officer Steinberg and I will be taking statements from all of you,
and we can assure your safety thanks to the Peace Keeping Unit. We
will not be releasing any information to you at this point, or
answering any of your questions until the investigation is complete.
My name is Sergeant Colby, at your service.”
“We have a team of health
professionals here to assist you, thanks in advance to all of you for
your cooperation,” added Officer Steinberg.
The train rolled to a halt at the
Denver station, and a pleasant sounding female voice informed the
passengers that they had arrived at their destination, and instructed
them to remove their safety belts. “At this point,” explained
Sgt. Colby, “I will ask each of you who do not require medical
and/or psychological aide to please line up single file in front of
us so that we may record your statements. I apologize for any
inconvenience.”
“Great,” Gavin thought to himself,
“I'm never getting off this train.”
Gavin looked around the train car, and
saw the young woman with curly hair embracing and cooing a young girl
no older than eight, whose body heaved with great sobs. She freed
one of her hands and gently stroked the cheek of the girl's mother,
reassuring her. The mother grasped a baby in her arms, who oblivious
to the weight of the situation, stared blankly about the passenger
cabin. The man who was a dead ringer for Freud crouched down next to
a frail elderly gentleman, his wrinkled face wracked with confusion.
The two of them conversed in muted tones. The man in medical garb
used a stethoscope and examined a distraught old woman, her fat face
flushed red, and her massive bosom heaving as she hyperventilated
from terror. He told her to calm herself, in a tone of mock
sympathy. The other young woman with the bun in her hair was closely
observing everyone in the train car marking notes on her tablet
computer.
Obediently, most of the other
passengers began to line up in front of Sgt. Coby and Officer
Steinberg. Both of the policemen had hand held computers like the
young lady with the bun in her hair, and began interviewing the
passengers one by one, taking notes as they asked questions. Gavin
stood in the middle of the line, crossing his arms across his thin
torso. Gavin was 35 years old, and blended well into a crowd. He
was a pretty typical American1,
about six feet tall, with pale skin, short brown hair, and blue eyes.
He was clad in the casual fashion of the day, a pair of slim fitting
khaki pants and a crew necked t-shirt made out of synthetic material
that changed color from a deep navy blue to a sea foam green,
depending on the lighting. The train car was brightly lit, so his
shirt had changed to a muted tone of forest green. Gavin's only real
distinguishing physical feature was that he had unusually large feet
and hands for his height. He was slightly ashamed of this, and
received merciless ridicule because of it from elementary school all
the way to university. He had roomed with a basketball player at the
University of Pittsburgh, where he had received his bachelor's in
informational architecture, who towered over him and most other
students at six feet ten inches, and wore a size 15 shoe. Gavin's
old roommate, teasing him about the size of his feet, challenged him
to try on his shoes, which nearly fit him. The ribbing that ensued
was almost intolerable, but at least Gavin could look back now and
laugh about it.
In front of Gavin was a young woman –
a girl, really – who was at most 20 years old. Like most young
people in his day's society, she was clad in the attire of one of
many outrageous fashion trends. She was wearing a pair of thigh high
vinyl high-heeled boots, colored an obnoxious shade of neon green. A
pair of matching briefs covered her pelvis, and a comically small
lavender jacket covered in long spikes of rubber barely covered the
top of her torso. Her hair was teased high in the air, bleached
white with random rainbow hued streaks. Her makeup made her look
like a week-old corpse, and she was oblivious to the world around
her, enraptured by her network connected sunglasses. From behind the
lenses, one could see her empty eyes darting about, watching videos,
looking at images. She murmured into the microphone on her earpiece
as she chatted online with people she considered friends, though she
had never met them in person.
“Unbelievable!” groaned the man
behind Gavin. He did his best to ignore him, but the man needed to
vent upon someone, and unfortunately for Gavin, the man decided it
would be him. “I'm supposed to be at a meeting a Lincoln Park in
an hour and now I'll never make it. Can you believe that lady!”
Gavin turned slightly to acknowledge the man, who was a stout man
about the same age as him. He was dressed in a cheap business suit
and his auburn hair was encrusted with an excessive amount of styling
gel. A pencil thin mustache and a pair of rimless eyeglasses
completed his repugnant appearance. The line moved forward ever so
slightly and Gavin felt relief as he looked forward and saw only the
girl in front of him and a dark skinned man in a dashiki ahead of the
girl as his only obstacles between him and getting off this horrible
train.
The dark skinned man spoke politely to
the police men, who nodded as they took his statement, jotting notes
down on their tablet computers with a metal stylus. The officers
nodded towards the exit, satisfied with the man's account, and
motioned for the girl to move forward. Wrapped up in her online
world, she did not initially respond. Sergeant Colby ordered her to
step forward once again in an exasperated tone. “Ma'am, I'll need
you to remove your netglasses and come give us a statement – now.”
Ever vigilant, Officer Steinberg hovered his hand over his side arm.
“Oh em gee!” she sighed.
“Kay, sup?” Gavin wanted to cringe at her spurious slang. The
woman shuffled toward the officers, acting as a child might when
forced to go to bed. She removed her “netglasses” and as her
black painted lips pouted, she placed her hands on her hips.
Officer Steinberg began asking her a
battery of questions. He began: “Where was your point of origin?”
The girl responded, “Minneapolis.”
“This train only travels from
Chicago to Denver.”
“I mean I took the Minneapolis to
Miami train and transferred onto this one in Chicago.”
“OK, please keep your answers simple
from now on”, ordered Steinberg, who looked momentarily at his
tablet computer, “Miss Tsoukolis”. There was no longer any need
to check identification in this day in age, with RF chip implants,
retinal scanners everywhere, and facial recognition cameras
prevalent. Steinberg continued: “Are you currently menstruating?”
She looked slightly uncomfortable.
Everyone knew the probing nature of these police interrogations, but
no one got completely used to the highly personal nature of the
questions. “No.” she answered.
“Have you eaten any shellfish in the
past 24 hours?”
“Um, yes. I had shrimp for din-”
Steinberg cut her off. “Simple
answers please!” he quipped.
The girl looked at the floor,
remorseful. “Sorry.”
“That's fine. Let's continue. How
many sexual partners do you currently have?”
She gulped. “Three.”
“What are their genders?”
“Two males, one female.”
“Have you taken any recreational
drugs in the past 36 hours?”
“MDMA.”
“How long ago?”
“Um... about 18 hours ago, I guess?”
“Well, was it 18 hours ago or not?”
“I'm pretty sure...”
“Good enough. What were the names
of Chancellor Golan's parents?”
“Ari and Sara.”
“What is today's date?”
“May 17th.”
“Did you notice anything unusual
boarding the train?”
“Um... no.”
“And during the ride?”
“Well, no, nothing. Not until that
woman…“
“I'm getting to that. Did you speak
to the woman at all during your ride?”
“No.”
“Did you notice any odd behavior
from her before security entered the passenger cabin?”
“Well, when she started to scream, I
did.”
Officer Steinberg tapped the screen of
his tablet a few times, looked up at the girl, and said “You're
free to go Miss Tsoukolis.” A noticeable look of relief passed her
face, and she quickly strode out the door onto the platform.
Steinberg then looked at Gavin and said, “You're next Mr. Huntsman.
Please step forward.”
Gavin could not help but feel a twinge
of fear crawl up his spine. It was very normal to fear police in the
T.A.F. for one slip of the tongue could make things turn ugly very
quickly. Gavin took a deep breath and stepped forward for his
interrogation.
1All
citizens of the Trans-Atlantic Federation continue to identify
themselves by their “nation” of origin, although the T.A.F. is
ruled by one central government.
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