April 15, 2054 18:46 (GMT‑5)
Arlington National Cemetery
That night, Julia Hunt ordered sushi in her apartment and watched coverage of Slake's botched press conference on the living room couch. Days later, Mr. Slake's panicked answers to questions about Mr. Castro's death continued to be broadcast and appeared even more damning on the news.
Mr. Hunt picked up the salmon sashimi with two chopsticks as he read the next story, Chiron. Castro's autopsy leaked, confirming fraud and White House lies. She dropped her fish into her lap.
News exploded that an autopsy was pending. On every channel, prime-time anchors flashed printed copies of the report to the camera. They include a section describing the dimensions of a marble-sized mass of cells that had mysteriously lodged in Castro's aorta, as well as an excerpt from the autopsy itself that led the attending physician to conclude that “this cannot be the same heart.” I read the whole thing out loud.
Within an hour, Truthers flooded the streets of cities across the country. While Hunt was scrolling through channels, reporters at Lafayette Park were interviewing a growing number of protesters. It was a man in a wheelchair she met on the subway. She thought about him often. Now she knows his identity: former gunnery sergeant Joseph William Sherman III.Beneath his name on the screen were these words: truther volunteer organizer. She typed his name into a search engine and learned that he lost a leg in the Spratly Islands and that his wife and three daughters, who lived at nearby Camp Pendleton, were killed in a Chinese nuclear attack on San Diego. I learned. In Sherman's voice, Hunt flaunted constitutional norms by clinging to power as he sought a fourth term while his successor, Smith, withheld an autopsy and remained transparent about his predecessor's death. I heard how deeply angry he was with the president, who once again flaunted his norms by refusing to do so. .
“Point your camera here,” Sherman said, thumbing toward the missing leg. “I sacrificed these things for my country and you’re going to lie to me… are you going to lie to everyone?” we” He gestured broadly to the group of Truthers around him, the veterans at its core, all dressed in old military uniforms adorned with medals hanging from their breast pockets. Ta. “It is a lie to say that Smith is the legitimate president when he was clearly involved in the murder of Castro. Is this what America has become? A power-drunk dreamer led by a dictator president. As long as you give power to the few, you lie to the many.'' Sherman held the camera's focus with his relentless blue eyes.
His tone was so determined that the correspondent felt obliged to answer him. “I don’t understand,” she said in a soft voice.
“Of course not.” Sherman leans into the camera. “President Smith, you are illegal,” he began. Everyday Americans, we patriots who seek the truth about your crimes and the excesses of the Dreamers, will know that we will not be led by a thief or someone who stole the presidency. We have served our country and we will continue to serve our country. And don't even think about putting your predecessor in Arlington's hallowed space. ” Sherman turned his body around with his back to the camera and drove away.
The news cut to a commercial.
Julia Hunt rested her head on the arm of the sofa, her eyes glued to the screen. Weeks of fatigue gripped her. While waiting for the program to return, she fell into a black wasteland sleep. Deep in this sleep, early in the morning, she began to see her dreams. In her dream, she is asleep in her childhood bedroom and before dawn a noise, something hitting the floor, wakes her up. Her environment is familiar: the adobe ranch house in New Mexico where Sarah Hunt raised her. Putting on her nightgown, she carefully closed the door and stepped into the dark hallway. At its far end, a single band of light leaks from the base of another door. She starts walking down the hallway. The tiles are cold under her bare feet. As she approaches, she hears what sounds like a struggle.