Revolt: the book

Alex Davis got into his 2008 red Cadillac and started across town to the radio station. The Cadillac was one of the few perks left from the “old days” when GM was a sponsor of his show. The “former GM”, he reminded himself. Things had certainly changed. The station was located up in the mountains several miles outside town. He cruised along in the late night at his usual breakneck speed; the Cadillac still rode like a dream, not like the forced to be built eco-friendly cars now being produced. Carbon footprint my ass! Davis stroked the leather seats. We are Americans. We deserve to live like this.

There was very little traffic in town this late at night. Davis never paid attention to the single set of car lights following him at a discreet distance. His thoughts were on what he was going to say tonight. He glanced down at the folder next to him. He had studied the documents all day. Davis took a deep breath. Years ago, when he had a huge national radio program, he did his level best to warn America of exactly what was happening now. Admittedly some of it may have been hype. But now for the first time, he was afraid. He always figured this march towards socialism Fontaine was on would be turned back by men and women with a sense of what this country really stood for. Now he wasn’t so sure. The way things were, America may never be turned around.

As his car rounded a curve and started down a long decline between two ridges he noticed the car behind him closing the distance between them. That’s strange, Davis thought. He sped up a little and saw the other car was keeping pace about fifty yards behind him. The Cadillac’s smooth ride disguised its speed. Davis looked down at the speedometer and saw he was going almost seventy. He realized he better slow down before the next turn and began to apply the brakes. Davis glanced up to see the car behind him accelerate towards him. What in the hell is that guy’s problem? Davis thought to himself. The car rammed the back of Davis’s Cadillac causing the tires to lose traction for a second. Davis fought to keep the car on the road. The other car hit him again as Davis’s car approached the sharp turn. Davis knew the road. It was cut into the side of the mountain. There was a sharp slope on the left side, and a sheer drop on the other. Davis gripped the wheel harder as he tried to apply the brakes again. The other car hit him hard in the rear bumper then jerked sideways forcing the rear tires on Davis’s Cadillac to break their grip. It was a perfectly executed “pit maneuver.” Davis realized too late he was out of control. The Cadillac began to spin sideways and hit the guard rail with a terrific impact. The car flipped up on its side and seemed to hang in the air for a split second before tumbling over the edge and down the steep slope. Pieces flew off the Cadillac as it plummeted down the rocky embankment with increasing velocity. Davis wasn’t wearing his seatbelt, another bad habit he never broke. On the eighth violent revolution, Davis’s unconscious form was ejected from the car and into its downward path. Davis hit the ground with enough speed to split his head open on the rocks. As if an unseen jester wanted to add a macabre punch line, the car then smashed into his lifeless body crushing it into mass of amputated limbs and strewn intestines.

The old dark Ford sedan pulled up where Davis’s car left the road. Two large African American men in black clothing got out and looked over the edge of the void. They were part of Fontaine’s “National Civil Defense Force”, a civilian Para-military organization, initially organized in the third year of Fontaine’s administration. Fontaine sold the force as a way to have enhanced neighborhood security. Some described the force as the Guardian Angels on steroids. At first the crime rate did substantially drop in the neighborhoods where the NCDF operated. But the reason for the decline was that a substantial number of the recruits came from the same criminal ranks Fontaine was supposedly targeting. Through multi-million dollar grants, Fontaine was able to empower members of gangs, the new Black Panthers, and other like organizations in order to gain control of the inner cities. Over time two elements emerged from the NCDF. One was the street level group that watched over the neighborhoods. It encouraged the almost mandatory adherence to Fontaine’s “new way of doing things” he advocated in his campaign. The NCDF used community pressure to make citizens follow the rules of behavior. Anyone out of line, from a crack dealer to a business owner could be paid a late night visit from a couple of metal bar wielding attitude adjusters. The second part of the NCDF was a more professional unit executed special operations for Fontaine. These members were selected from the more committed recruits and professional criminals. Fontaine made sure members from the special units were positioned throughout the country. They were in effect a quick reaction force. Just hours earlier, the two men standing on the edge of the road had received a call from Zabgrid. He had been right; there wasn’t much time to be fancy.

The larger of the two men smiled in the dark. “I told you it would work.”

The second man nodded in somewhat disbelief. “So you did. I must remember to make sure you don’t get pissed at me.”

The first man laughed and slapped his friend on the back. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Goldstein would have cursed himself for being so stupid if he could have mustered enough breath to do so. Tennis a couple of times a week simply didn’t keep him in shape enough to handle the steep trails, especially at this altitude. His breath was ragged and he felt like his lungs had caught fire. To make it worse, the trail he chose did not take him far enough around the roadblock as he hoped. He was trying to be as quiet as possible. But the suitcases he was carrying kept hanging up on the low branches in the forest. He stopped long enough to look down the ridge. Fear gripped him when he spotted at least four shadows making their way up the side of the mountain. He could see them in the beams of their small flashlights. Damn it! What was he going to do? Give up, or take off running? Running was out of the question; Goldstein was already just about done in. He could see the rifles the men carried were now un-slung. He knew he was in trouble. Goldstein redoubled his effort and started scrambling up the trail as quickly as he could. But it was futile; the soldiers were gaining on him. He could hear them shouting to each other as they maneuvered to cut him off. The beams from the flashlights began to play over the limbs of the trees he was fighting through. They were about thirty yards behind him when the first burst of automatic fire ripped through the trees next to his head. He flung himself to the ground and covered up. Holy shit, they were firing at him for no reason. They were going to kill him right there.