A Simple Rebellion Page 9

He pointed to the second. “You, floor it straight

  ahead. Blow through the bushes, turn left on the road just beyond them, get as far as you can. Head north on the turnpike if you get that far. Same alibi once they have you.”

  Jeremy ran toward the second car. “If they catch us, I can stall them longer. And I’ll get media to follow us, giving you more time.”

  Bob, shocked, called after him. “Jeremy, they aren’t playing. Come with us.”

  “I have to do my job,” he said, diving into the second town car.

  Jackson started toward the first town car. “I’ll delay them in the first—”

  “No way.” Bob pulled Jackson toward the boring looking four-door. “Fastest car we have,” he said, throwing open the door and pushing Merle Jr. and Perri into the back.

  “My father,” Merle Jr. yelled.

  Perri picked up the worry in her brother’s tone. “Daddy!”

  Jackson tried to reassure her, “Baby, it’s going to be all right—”

  Bob cut his son off, addressing Merle, Jr., handing Steve to him. “Strap her in, and then Steve. Yourself, too.” He twisted the key in the ignition, the engine purred quiet power, and Bob floored it, plunging through the bushes before turning right.

  Gunfire sounded as they fled, but it didn’t follow them. The agents probably pursued the higher end town cars, assuming the kid took the hotrod, Bob thought, knowing he was rationalizing his ass off.

  The kids were losing it. Perri was hysterical, Merle Jr. not much better though he was trying to play it off. Worst sound Bob ever heard, after the rasping of Mary

  Angeline’s final hours. Nothing else to do but drive on through the baby’s tears, through Merle Junior’s sobs, through Steve’s uncertain moans, through the woods, to the back roads, out of town, across the next county, and onwards, for as long as proved possible.

  The kids cried through most of it, Perri eventually exhausting herself and falling asleep, but woke up crying two hours later.

  Bob had no idea where he was going but he was in an awful hurry to get there, to get anywhere, in a world that no longer made sense and hadn’t for a very long time….

  Chapter 39

  SPATHA STRODE DOWN THE street shouting orders at the approaching press. “Take cover! This is an active shooter situation! Murphy’s team has gone rogue!”

  The press hesitated until another volley of gunfire seemed to fly over their heads. Then they retreated. Spatha joined them at the bottom of the street.

  “TASE is working to take control of the situation,” he reported in a stern commanding voice. “Murphy and an untold number of assailants opened fire from inside the home, targeting local law enforcement first for reasons we have not ascertained at this time.”

  “But the sheriff is his neighbor….” a reporter challenged weakly.

  “At this time TASE is not fully aware of their personal history, so we do not know if there was existing animosity.”

  “But—” another reporter tried.

  Spatha cut him off. “The immediate concern is getting civilians to safety,” he insisted. “And while I am aware you all have admirable jobs to do, I am under presidential orders to protect you.”

  Another series of shots were fired. A National News van’s window smashed. The media cringed, throwing themselves to the ground.

  “Get into your vehicles and drive to safety. They

  have at least one long-range sniper, so go a minimum of five miles. Now!”

  With that he disappeared around a van, shouting orders. “Shut those shooters down! We have civilians on scene!”

  An adventurous cameraman caught footage of TASE rising to protect them, a wall of gunfire erupting from them, shattering windows, blowing apart Bob’s aging aluminum siding.

  From somewhere in the house, or so it seemed, bullets ripped the ground close to where reporters were standing.

  A reporter squealed, “The sniper!”

  The press leapt into vans, stomped gas pedals, and screeched out of the vicinity some already reporting tales of the brave TASE agents facing impossible odds from a celebrity gone mad.

  When the last of them was in the distance, Spatha put his left hand onto his tie and all firing ceased. He spoke into a secure communicator. “Have we recovered the vehicles?”

  He listened as he walked toward Murphy’s house. “Just the driver? Disappointing. How was the chase footage? Good. Make a show of him resisting arrest, and then get him inside our mobile unit. Dose him full of stimulants so he’s twitchy and aggressive, and then film the interrogation: three-camera coverage, entirely by the book. We can pad a whole hour with it if POTUS requires multiple episodes.”

  Spatha listened, nodding, then spoke. “Roger that. Location of the other vehicle? Five minutes out? Fire up all cameras and then chase that dog down. Remember, POTUS wants suspects for the show. No fatalities.”

  Cutting the communication, he turned to the agents before him. “Alert me immediately if any of our chief suspects are found inside. POTUS wants Murphy and his crew alive for the ratings. Chest cameras back on in three, two, one, go.”

  The agents moved in. Spatha surveyed the area. There was one private security person trying to stand up. A quick shot and the entire field of engagement was clear. They owned the narrative. Murphy was now a mass-murdering American Terrorist. No one would call out sick from work for this monster. National crisis resolved.

  The town car chases would make killer ratings on heavily advertised episodes of Patriotism Live. They, of course, would lead to the Murphy episode, which would nab POTUS an Emmy as executive producer and get one for Spatha as director. He would then humbly accept the Medal of Honor from Statler, thanking God, the president, America, his parents, and his loving wife and kids for being his inspiration. Sign the book deal shortly thereafter. Insist on casting approval for the actor to play him in the movie version of his glorious life.

  “Damn, it’s a good day,” he murmured, entering Murphy’s home.

  Chapter 40

  NATIONAL NEWS’ TOP-RATED All-American News With Bling Holsten was on, the stunning blonde flipping her hair meaningfully as she launched into her “special report” even though every station legal and illegal was covering the same story.

  “Tonight the nation is asking itself how their beloved comedic master of mayhem and merriment could morph into a mass murderer. In search of answers, let’s look at what we do know.”

  A series of images played over her shoulder, snapshots of Bob’s life, from baby pictures to career and personal highlights.

  “Bob Murphy was a comedy superstar, and had been for over 40 years. From his improv days, first as a member of Second City in Chicago and then through his breakout years on SNL, followed by hit movies including Monster Cops, Princes, Jail Broken, and Our Only Boat, he went from America’s Friendly Neighbor to America’s Comedy God to America’s Cherished Comedy Icon. And now he has betrayed all of us and revealed himself to be a cop-killing clown prince of crime.

  “Where did that come from? He had worn his success with grace and ease for years.

  “Or so it seemed.”

  The images shifted to a series of romantic pictures of Bob and Mary Angeline.

  “He lived in a large but unassuming house, patronized town stores, went to his grandkids’ plays and pageants, supported his town’s Little League. His contributions financed half the expenses of that league, and purchased the lighting system — all of it now forever tainted.

  “He is a widower who never got involved with another woman after Mary Angeline Murphy nee Calcitrano died, and his devotion to her only endeared him even more to his fans.

  “He still wears his wedding ring.

  “And this Great American Love Story may be where it all went wrong.”

  The images stopped on a picture of Mary Angeline on a stretcher, a haggard Bob running beside her.

  “There are some reports that Murphy blamed government policy for his wife’s death. Perhaps that e
rroneous rationalization offers some insight into where this comic’s life turned tragic.”

  “In truth, the signs were there long before this week. Since his wife died, Murphy did several odd things that if reviewed from our current perspective, seem to paint an entirely different picture of the Bob Murphy we thought we knew.

  “After his wife defied presidential order and flew into an area infested with a highly contagious disease, contracting that fatal illness, Murphy became erratic.

  “Rather than drive his numerous cars, he rode an oddly redesigned bicycle, becoming a traffic hazard for town folk.”

  Paparazzi photos appeared over Bling’s shoulder

  showing Bob riding his bike, cooking at a grill, and sitting at the counter in Pop’s.

  “In lieu of the American Dream of fortune and fame, Bob Murphy worked the grill at Little League Opening Days, babysat his grandchildren, patronized small stores in town instead of the nationally accepted mail order houses, and would often show up unannounced at local fundraisers and events. No one protested because he was Bob Murphy, but perhaps that is where we all failed him.

  “As a hero-loving culture, we indulged his increasingly bizarre behavior as endearing rather than clear signs of pain.

  “And now innocent lives have paid the price while Bob Murphy remains at large, somehow eluding capture.

  “And we are all partly to blame for loving him so unconditionally.”

  A final studio headshot of Bob faded, a waving American flag replacing him.

  “But this is an opportunity for the nation to collectively redeem itself. We all know what he looks like, we all can recognize him easily, and so your National News calls for all True Americans to be on the lookout for this fallen icon. Let us help him and secure our own safety by reporting all legitimate Bob Murphy sightings to the number shown below so we can all assist in his immediate capture. Help us get our one- time favorite funny man the help he needs.

  “Don’t forget to record what you see so we can feature your dedication to our country on Patriotism Live.

  “We’ll be right back after these messages.”

  In the back seat, beside a sleeping dog and innocent

  little girl, Merle Jr. lowered his phone and stared back at the two stunned adults.

  The silence lingered even as Jackson started the car, pulled back on the highway and drove further into the black night.

  Chapter 41

  LIONEL JACKSON WAS NOT accepting of his new reality. The Hattiesburg Freedom Processing Center was populated by displaced Hattiesburg residents and armed “processing coaches” who did very little coaching and a whole lot of intimidating.

  Lionel Jackson did not intimidate.

  He took a punch well and his return right cross was still surprisingly quick and powerful for an aging actor. Two broken jaws forced the coaches to “advise” Lionel with baseball bats and tasers so they could keep more distance.

  Slowed him down a bit. Didn’t break him.

  Twenty years of Taekwondo had developed in him powerful defense from both the hand and the foot, resulting in more injured coaches.

  As a result, Lionel was thrown into a “meditation encouragement zone” meaning he was caged 24/7 in the camp’s yard, exposed to the elements and bathed by high-power hose in front of all the other “applicants.”

  Still, Lionel kept up a steady stream of taunts and challenges to his captors.

  “What am I being charged with, Spineless?” “C’mon, one of you monkey asses need to charge

  me with something so I can call a lawyer and sue you

  homeless!”

  Unfortunately, the coaches seemed thrilled to be insulted by a comedy legend. Only one answered back, after Lionel called him Regurgitated Penguin Puss. That star-struck guy insisted Lionel “was not being charged with a crime but merely being processed to make sure you are, in fact, a True American.”

  “True American this right here, you Nazi wannabe! I was born in Hattiesburg! I’m the truest American you’ve ever seen, you just don’t know what one looks like!”

  “They look like us,” another said. “Now why don’t you just calm down—”

  “Charge me or free me, you racist coward! You cannot hold me!”

  “You are not being held against your will,” another coach said. “You are merely being given time to calm yourself so processing can begin.”

  “Lipstick on a pig may make it prettier than your Mom, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna date it,” Lionel shouted.

  One coach walked up close to Lionel’s cage, held up an iPad.

  Lionel started in immediately. “I don’t need you to show me your sister’s homemade….”

  The scene before Lionel’s eyes made his voice trail off. The iPad showed armed, uniformed men storming Bob Murphy’s house. The front yard was littered with bleeding bodies.

  Lionel slammed himself against his cage, his arm shooting through the bars, trying to grab the tablet.

  The startled coach hopped back. Once he recovered, the taunting began. “Your friend is dead. So is your

  godson. And you were in here where you couldn’t help them. What kind of friend and godfather does that make you?”

  “Give it here!”

  The coach walked away without another word.

  Lionel slammed his fists against the bars. “Let me see!”

  He slid down, sat in the dirt, hung his head against his knees. Remained in that position until shadows blocked the hot sun roasting his neck. Lionel snorted a deep lungful of air and leapt up, ready to confront the terrorist who had come back to taunt him further.

  It wasn’t a coach.

  Instead, four other prisoners stood before him. Huge. Dark. Built like an NFL defensive line, back when there was an NFL (it withered with the debrowning of America, as did most sports, tech advancements, architectural designs, medical breakthroughs, and so much more). All four were calm. Irritably calm.

  “As-salāmu ‘alaykum,” they said softly.

  Lionel wasn’t prepared for courtesy. “You need to take that show down the road.”

  The largest one, easily six-six and built like Atlas, spoke. “Relax, my brother.”

  “I’m not your brother!”

  The next biggest was just six-four; he nodded toward the coaches. “You damn sure ain’t their brother.”

  Lionel looked at the armed white guys and then back to the four mountains before him. After a beat he smirked, voice laced with his signature sarcasm. “Okay, You got me there, brother.”

  They nodded at him on the other side of the bars, but said nothing. So damn calm.

  “Look, I’m busy in here. What do you want from me? I forgot my checkbook in my other cage.”

  “We want nothing from you. Actually, we have something for you.”

  “Unless it is a set of keys to this place what could you have that would make any kind of difference?”

  Another of the four said, “Real news, not the lies they feed you.”

  The first one leaned close to Lionel’s cage. “Your friend and godson are not dead, my brother.”

  Lionel blinked. “What?”

  The second added quietly, “These racists are trying to break your spirit. We heard the actual report. Bob and Jackson Murphy escaped with two unidentified youths—”

  Lionel brightened. “The neighbor kids. Gotta be.” “Perhaps. In any event, they are gone. The geniuses

  in charge gave chase to not one but two decoy cars.” “Good,” Lionel said, and then suspicion returned.

  “Why you telling me this?”

  “We would like you to keep up your strength and your faith.”

  “As much as I appreciate the update, don’t take me for a potential member of The Nation, brothers. Me and religion parted ways long ago.”

  “Underestimating us is the domain of our jailers, brother,” the first said. “Islam is our religion, but not the only training we have received.”

  “Now you got me interested
,” Lionel said. “What’s your training?”

  Now the third leaned in close. “Semper Fi.” “Alright, I can work with that.”

  The first nodded. “Good, because we need you if our

  plan is to succeed.”

  Lionel grinned. “Preach, my brother.”

  Chapter 42

  BO HAD PACED SINCE dawn, sneaking a peek at Amy Brooks’ report, snapping it off with a curse, stomping around his quarters, clicking the TV back on, hearing more news about Bob Murphy escaping TASE, pounding the off button again with his thumb, wandering back past his favorite weapon, knowing he shouldn’t, fighting his impulse to lash out.

  Finally, the leader of the free world couldn’t take it anymore. He snatched his presidential phone off the presidential couch, opened the presidential app, and began typing:

  @RealPresidentStatler: Why does filthy rich Murphy even care? He’s not a True American. #Don’tBeFooled

  Immediately, the responses began:

  Responding to @RealPresidentStatler:

  @TrueAmericanSam: Elitist, murdering Murphy was never funny. #NotFooled

  @RisingAgain #MurderingMurphy is responsible for every police death on his property. #NotFooled

  @IndieThinker Murphy murdered

  no one. Can you say the same, @ RealPresidentStatler? #NotFooledByYou

  @TrueAmericanSam to@ IndieThinker you should die, terrorist!

  #Don’tBeFooled

  @RisingAgain to @IndieThinker, maybe you need to be reviewed at a Freedom Processing Center.

  @IndieThinker to @TrueAmericanSam,

  @RisingAgain Statler fools making empty threats. You are both cowards with Twitter muscles. Pathetic.

  @ShadowGovernment: Statler rules!

  @Get’emAllOut: The choice between Statler and Murphy is clear; I’ll take a leader over a clown any day.

  @IndieThinker to @Get’emAllOut Glad you chose Murphy, too.