Electronic Gags (12 page)

He
opened a bottle of brandy and took a sip. He used to be a moderate drinker but
since Michael’s imprisonment, he increasingly took to the bottle. In the past, Freddie
rarely drank spirits but now he welcomed anything that contained alcohol. He
drank to forget but it didn’t help. The more he drank, the more he thought
about Michael. The only positive thing he got from alcohol was that it helped
him sleep.

As
the brandy got into his veins, Freddie felt that his world had come to an end,
that he had nothing to live for. Suddenly, he began to weep.

“Why
is this happening to me?” he asked. “Why is this happening to my country? Brandon
Ward, you bloodthirsty dictator, why are you doing this to us?” He sobbed. “Why
don’t you just kill us all and have the country to yourself?” He knew he was
treading dangerous ground but he was too drunk and too emotional to care.
“Policemen, soldiers, CIB agents, why do you kill your own brothers and
sisters? Why do you kill innocent people in the name of Brandon Ward?” For more
than ten minutes, Freddie let out his feelings between sips of brandy.

He
took one last sip from the bottle and put it on the floor. After a look at his
watch, he threw himself on the bed and waited for the CIB to arrest him. He
took another look at his watch. Nine minutes had passed and there was no sign
of the CIB. Fourteen minutes later, he took another look at his watch and fell
asleep.

He
woke up just after six, surprised to be alive and free. Although he didn’t
remember exactly what he had said last night, he knew he had said something
dangerous. Maybe he had escaped detection. He sighed with relief.

“In
the name of President Brandon Ward, I order you to come out with your hands on
the back of your head,” a voice said over a loudspeaker. “Freddie Young, we
know you are in there.”

Like
a sheep to the slaughter, he opened the door and went out. Nine CIB agents
pointed their guns at him. Six of the agents had assault rifles. CIB agents
normally worked in pairs when they went about arresting people. Freddie’s bold
challenge to the Ward regime had made them cautious. They decided not to come
at night, fearing an ambush.

“I
was wondering when you would come,” Freddie said, suddenly more angry than
afraid. “You have come to kill me to please Brandon Ward.”

“Shut
up and move forward!” the agent in charge shouted.

“When
will the bloodbath end?” Freddie asked. “Aren’t you tired of killing unarmed
civilians?”

The
agents looked at each other, unsure what to do. This was their first time to
face such open defiance from a civilian.

“How
many people did you kill since you joined the CIB? How many will you kill? You
are all―”

“Shut
up or―”

“Or
what? Or you will kill me? I am already dead. You killed me the day you took my
friend. We are all dead.”

“Shut
your beak!”

“Do
you think you are alive? You are just Brandon Ward’s zombies. You died the day
you joined the CIB.”

“In
the name of―”

“In
the name of who? Brandon Ward?”

One
of the agents punched Freddie, breaking his nose. “If you say one more word, I
swear I will kill you,” the agent shouted, pointing his rifle at Freddie’s
head.

“Come
on shoot me,” Freddie taunted. “When you go home go and tell your wife and
children that…” He broke off in mid sentence when the agent kicked him. “…today
daddy shot an unarmed man in the name of Patriot Brandon Ward?” Freddie
finished his sentence, wincing with pain.

The
agent was about to shoot Freddie when his superior stopped him. “Don’t kill
him,” he ordered. “I want to kill him too but the supreme leader said he has a
special elimination plan in store for all rebels.

*
* * * *

Although
Christopher Ward owned six houses and a ranch, he spent most of his time at the
First Building. Christopher Ward was one of the few people Brandon Ward truly
loved. There was nothing the president would not do for his brother. Christopher
was the only person Brandon allowed to criticize him. The supreme leader
enjoyed his brother’s company so much that he had given him a whole wing of the
First Building with five floors. Brandon enjoyed chatting with Christopher in
private. Although he enjoyed the titles that came with his position as the President
of the Ten Districts of America, Brandon Ward sometimes missed being called by
his first name. Apart from his wife Cassandra, Christopher was the only person
on first name basis with the supreme leader. In fact, Christopher was the only
one who called him Brandon. His wife called him darling Brandon, dear Brandon
or sweet Brandon but never a simple Brandon.

Today
the two brothers smoked cigars as they played cards.

“Let’s
discuss the logistics of the tournament to eliminate the rebels in our
prisons,” Brandon said.

“Tournament,”
Christopher laughed. “What an interesting choice of words. Yes, let’s discuss
the tournament. I think we must release two pairs of prisoners at a time. We
give the prisoners a two-hour head start before we set the police after them
with orders to kill. If my prisoners last longer than yours, I win the game and
vice versa.”

“Every
game needs rules, Christopher,” the supreme leader said.

“That’s
when you come in, Brandon. You are better than anyone else when it comes to
making rules.”

“Rule
number one… stay alive,” Ward said. “Rule number two… the cops we set after the
prisoners cannot call for reinforcements.”

“Are
we going to allow the fugitives to kill cops?”

“Yes,”
said Brandon Ward. “The fugitives will be fighting for their lives. If the cops
are foolish enough to be killed by unarmed fugitives wearing trackers let them
get killed.”

“How
shall we select the players?” Christopher Ward asked.

“Prisoners
have prison numbers, don’t they? We put the prison numbers in a hat and you
pick your pair and I pick mine. We have more than fifty rebels and that means
at least twelve games for us.”

“That
will be plenty of betting,” Christopher said. “Get ready for some walloping,
big brother.”

“I’m
going to put an end to your winning streak, Christopher. You will see.”

“Time
will tell,” Christopher said cockily. “But I have a feeling that the tournament
will make me rich.”

“Just
because you won two consecutive football bets on Cassandra’s birthday you now
think you are invincible.”

*
* * * *

The
prisoners in cell 13 held their breaths when a guard unlocked the door and
shoved in a protesting Freddie.

“You
killed my friends you sons of bitches!” Freddie shouted. “You and your
president are just a gang of murderers.”

At
first, Michael was happy to see Freddie. His friend hadn’t betrayed him! The
joy vanished when he realized that Freddie had joined him on death row. Michael’s
hut sank when he saw that Freddie’s nose was caked with blood.

“Why
don’t you just kill the whole country, you cannibals?” Freddie shouted again.

If
the other prisoners had airtime, they would have told Freddie to shut up. He
was endangering them by insulting the Ward regime.

“You
kill people at the whims of the madman you call your supreme leader!” Freddie
yelled. “Your mothers must be ashamed of you. Brandon Ward is a―”

When
he couldn’t take it anymore, Michael put a finger on Freddie’s lips.

“What?”
Freddie protested. “Let me speak to these murderers.” He leaned forward, his
eyes adjusting to the darkness.  “Michael! Is that really you?” Freddie happily
hugged his friend. “Is everyone else alive?”

Michael
nodded.

“Can’t
you speak?”

Michael
pointed at his electronic gag.

“Oh
God! You have no airtime.”

Freddie
shook hands with everyone in the cell. “I was drunk last night and started
insulting the supreme leader for killing you. I thought you were all dead. The
CIB came for me in the morning. Michael, your mother accused me of―” an
electric shock wrapped Freddie’s neck, making him tremble. “What?” The shock
returned. “But I have airtime,” he protested, giving himself the longest
electric shock of his life.

Unknown
to Freddie, one of the guards had gone to the prison warden to complain about Freddie’s
behavior.

“He
has airtime on his NAST,” the warden said. “Leave him to me.”

The
warden promptly phoned the CIB and asked them to slash Freddie’s NASP credit to
zero.

*
* * * *

Chief
Inspector Victor Coleman was a happy man. As he smoked a cigarette in his
office, he counted his blessings. When he was growing up in District Eight’s
rural Subdistrict Three, he never thought that one day his life would be so
good. Victor never knew his father and his mother was a drug addict who
couldn’t think beyond her next narcotic shot. When Victor Coleman finished high
school, he joined the police because he couldn’t afford to go to college.

And
now, seventeen years later, he was a chief inspector. He owned a big house in District
One’s posh Subdistrict Two, his two sons went to Brandon Ward High School, one
of the best schools in the Ten Districts, and he didn’t wear an electronic gag
like his subordinates. Yes, Coleman’s life was good. He had no worries. He was
a loyal policeman and no one could harm him and his family. The Ten Districts
protected all its loyal officers.

The
phone rang and he languidly picked it. “Chief Inspector Coleman, Subdistrict
Two Central Police Station,” he said with authority.

“Coleman,
this is Commissioner Hunt. I want you in my office at eleven.”

“Yes
sir,” the chief inspector said anxiously. “I will be there sir,” he added, but
the commissioner had hung up.

What
does the commissioner want?
This was the first time the commissioner
had summoned him to his office. Coleman only saw the commissioner at police
seminars and state ceremonies and had never exchanged word with him.
What
does he want?
Coleman asked himself again. The commissioner rarely dealt
directly with such low-ranking officers as chief inspectors. This could mean
only two things. Promotion or demotion. As far as he knew, he had done nothing
to deserve punishment but one couldn’t be sure in the Ten Districts of America.

Chief
Inspector Coleman looked at his watch. Fourteen minutes past nine. Although he
had plenty of time to drive to the Ten Districts Police Headquarters, a
thirty-minute drive away, the chief inspector decided to go now. He couldn’t
risk arriving late for his meeting with the commissioner.

He
got into his car and finished his cigarette before he started the engine.
Traffic was light after the rush hours of early morning. He arrived at the
police headquarters at 9:53, parked his car in the staff parking area and
nervously chain-smoked, trying to answer the vexing question. Why did the
commissioner want to see him?

At
10:45 he got out of his car and entered the reception.

“What
can I do for you sir,” said one of the five constables manning the receptionist
desk.

“I
have an appointment with the commissioner.”

“Go
to the first floor, suit number one, sir.”

Coleman
took an elevator to the first floor, his heartbeat rising as he rose towards
the commissioner’s office.

“Can
I help you, sir?” the commissioner’s secretary asked.

“I
have an appointment with the commissioner,” he said, admiring her looks, telling
himself that if he had such a beautiful secretary he would have plenty of uses
for her.

She
looked at her notebook. “Are you Chief Inspector Coleman?”

“Yes.”

“Go
and sit there in the waiting room, sir.”

Coleman
calmed down when he saw his colleague, Chief Inspector Martinez, in the waiting
room. Martinez worked two subdistricts away from Coleman’s subdistrict.

“Martinez,
I take it you also have an appointment with the commissioner.”

“Yes,”
Martinez said, relieved to see someone of his own rank.

At
exactly eleven, the secretary ushered them into the commissioner’s office. They
hesitantly entered, saluted the commissioner and stood at attention.

“Sit
down,” the commissioner said.

“Thank
you, sir.”

“The
supreme leader wants our cops to carry out some drills. There are fifty-two
prisoners on death row and the supreme leader shall order the release of at
least four prisoners every week.” The commissioner sighed. He thought that this
whole drill was silly but he couldn’t question the supreme leader’s orders. “He
will release the first four prisoners on Wednesday. We will give the prisoners
a head start of two hours before we set policemen after them with orders to
kill. Each one of you will select a squad of fifteen cops from your subdistricts.”
He pointed at Coleman. “Your cops will chase two of the fugitives.” He pointed
at Martinez. “And your cops will chase the other pair. The cops will monitor
the location of the fugitives using NASP. This is a drill and the cops you
choose won’t have any help from other police units or other security agencies.
A reporter and videographer will accompany each squad during the chase. Any
questions?”