Angels Mark (The Serena Wilcox Dystopian Trilogy Book 1)

Angels Mark Chapter 19

19

Paul obediently followed the agents out of the house in Minnetonka. He struggled through that first hour in a daze, not knowing how to formulate a single thought. How could he exist without Clyde? He stumbled down the sidewalk and allowed himself to be tucked into a government vehicle.

As he sank into the leather seat his heart welled up with fury and grief. The longer he sat, the more his grief was channeled into fury. President John Williams, and the previous President, pre-Big War, pre-apocalypse, had killed his brother. Paul was no sociopath, but Clyde had killed for him, and had ultimately died for him. It was the least Paul could do to avenge his brother’s death.

He knew that John would be taken care of; he’d be tried as a traitor, a terrorist. The divided nation would turn on him and curse him to the end of his days. But the former Prez? What of him? Had Kinji even put two and two together yet? Paul wasn’t so sure. And how deep was the cover-up? Would John take the Prez’s involvement with him to his grave?

The thought of him getting away with it, with Clyde’s blood on his hands, made Paul’s blood boil. The only thing on his mind was finding the former president of what was once the United States of America.

The agents dropped him off at home. They informed him that he would be contacted shortly, to be interviewed for a criminal investigation into President John Williams’ conduct before and after the Big War. Then they left him alone, re-assigned elsewhere. Apparently no one considered broken down wanna-be Paul to be a threat.

Paul locked the door and latched the dead-bolt. He went into the laundry room and took off his blood-drenched clothes. He hesitated, not knowing what to do. He had never done a load of laundry in his life. Where did the detergent go? Did he put it in now or after the clothes were in? Should he even bother – would the blood stains come out? He lifted the lid of the washer and, much to his surprise, saw directions for how to use the machines right there on the lid. He followed the instructions on the chart and started the washer.

Then he shuffled his way to the bathroom to take a shower. He did a double-take at his reflection in the mirror: was that Clyde’s face staring back at him? He closed his eyes; then opened them again. No, he saw his own face. He couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed. He would never see his brother’s face again: he didn’t have a single picture of Clyde, unless he counted the ones his mother had insisted their father put on the kitchen wall. He and Clyde had taken them down shortly after their parents died, but when they saw permanent silhouettes from years of nicotine stains coating the walls around the frames, they put the pictures right back up and left them there.

There were two photos on the wall: the first was from when there were three brothers, and the other was when it was down to just him and Clyde, like it remained until now. But Clyde’s death didn’t feel anything like it did when Bradley died, he told himself. Bradley had drowned, and was only a little boy, a baby really. Paul tried to recall his last memory of Bradley. Could he recall the day he died?

He remembered playing in the kiddie pool. They had toys in there, pool toys. Bradley toddled inside the house to get more toys. Paul could see it now as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. Bradley had Paul’s new electronic car he got for his birthday. It had been expensive, the best present Paul had ever gotten. Bradley was about to throw it into the pool. No! Paul grabbed the car and tried to wrestle it out of Bradley’s tight grip. Bradley clung on, working himself up into a powerful tantrum.

“Help, Clyde!” Paul yelled.

Clyde reached over the knee-high inflatable pool wall and pushed Bradley’s head under the water. He held him down until he released his grip on the car. Paul took the car, got out of the pool, and went inside to put the car on a higher shelf in his bedroom. On his way back outside, he got distracted by cartoons on TV and sat down to watch. A while later he heard their mother screaming like there was no end to the sound her lungs could make. She screamed over and over and over. Little Bradley was dead.

Paul shivered. It was the first time he fully remembered that day. Always before, he could recall that he was playing in the pool, went to watch cartoons, and then their mother was screaming because Bradley had drowned. He had completely blocked out the part about the toy car, and Clyde holding Bradley’s head under the water.

Maybe that was what had turned Clyde into a killer? Surely he hadn’t intended to drown their little brother; he was only trying to help Paul get his car back. Poor dear baby Bradley, poor big brother Clyde. It was down to Paul now to do right by both brothers’ memories.

After he showered and put on clean clothes Paul went directly to the computer lab. He recalled Clyde saying that the kids spent a lot of time in the lab. He hoped one of them was in there now. Sure enough, he saw the top of a boy’s head behind the rows of computer monitors.

Newbie child genius Nicholas was hard at work on a private project, oblivious to Paul’s appearance until Paul said something. “Nicholas, can you find somebody for me?”

“Sure, who do you want me to find?” Nicholas pushed away from the computer station he was working on and fired up a new station.

“The President of the old United States,” said Paul.

“What? Seriously?” Nicholas evaluated Paul, but Paul always seemed a little daft to him, how was this any different?

“Yes. Can you do it?”

“Can Linux outperform Windows?”

Paul stared blankly. “Just tell me if you can do it.”

“Yes! I can do it.”

“I’ll pay you,” said Paul. Then he remembered what Clyde said. “And order a pizza.”

Nicholas’ face lit up at the mention of food. “Veggie? Extra toppings?”

What kind of kid was this? Veggie. What ever happened to pepperoni and sausage? “Whatever you want. You phone it in, here’s some cash. Keep the change.” He threw a substantial wad of bills, mostly hundreds, on the table in front of him.

“Hey, Paul, that’s a lot of money. You don’t have to do that.” Nicholas studied his face. “Are you okay?”

“My brother died,” he said simply. He sat heavily into a computer chair on wheels, causing it to roll backwards. He didn’t seem to notice.

“Clyde? No! I liked that old guy,” said Nicholas. “What happened to him, heart attack?”

“He wasn’t old. He had lots of years left,” mourned Paul.

“What happened to him then?”

“He got shot while saving my life.”

“Whoa! He’s a good big brother,” said Nicholas. “You should be proud.”

“I am proud. Find the president.”

Nicholas clacked at the keyboard for several minutes and then said, “I shouldn’t take your money for this.”

“Take it. I want you to find him, no matter how long it takes.”

“Done.”

“You found him already?”

“Yes, that’s why I said I shouldn’t take your money. It was too easy.”

“How did you do it?”

“I didn’t have to do anything; someone is blogging about the pre-Big-War days. She posted all of the former president’s addresses. This one says ‘until present’, so if she’s correct, he’s still there.”

“Keep the money. Buy yourself that pizza.”

“What are you going to do? You going to go see him?”

“Yes.”

“You think he’ll let you in? He won’t call the police?”

“He won’t be calling the police.” On that note, Paul left the lab, leaving young Nicholas to wonder if he should call the police.