The Third Revolution Ch. 03

Jason awoke with a blast of icy water to his face. He attempted to stand, but an impact to the back of his knees forced him back to the cement floor. His temples throbbed, and his vision was blurred. Gradually, the figures in the room came into focus.

Looming before him stood a large uniformed officer of the State. He wore the same closely-cropped haircut as the rest of the police force, and there was a scar on his face that extended from the bottom of his left eye, down the length of his cheek, nearly reaching the corner of his mouth. The identification tag on his uniform read: "CHEKA."

Writhing in pain on the floor, Jason realized he was completely naked. The floor was damp and cold, and the room was dimly-lit and reeked of urine and feces. In addition to Officer Cheka, two other uniformed policemen flanked either side, brandishing long clubs with electric currents rippling through the ends.

"Wakey, wakey," Cheka said in a deep and gravelly voice that echoed off the concrete walls of the room. He slapped both sides of Jason's face repeatedly until his hands raised in defense.

"Look at me," Cheka ordered. Jason's eyes swirled as he tried to focus on the officer's rough exterior. Cheka held up an image on his device, depicting what appeared to be a screen capture from a security camera. "You know this citizen?" he asked.

Jason struggled to focus on the image. Gradually, it came into focus. He recognized her immediately.

"Elena," he croaked.

"Is that what she's calling herself now?" Cheka retorted. "How do you know her?"

"I...don't, really. I only met her once."

"Bullshit," Cheka said.

"I'm telling the truth!" Jason shouted. In an instant, a bolt of electricity seized every muscle in his body. He writhed in silent agony. When the pain subsided, he struggled to catch his breath.

"I'll ask one more time," Cheka said in a calm and sinister tone.

"I met her once, at an arcade," Jason groaned. "We talked for only a brief moment. I didn't see her again until tonight."

"What did you talk about?" Cheka growled.

"She...she told me a story about trees."

Cheka exchanged glances with the other officers, and then broke into raucous laughter. Jason slumped to the floor, and was jolted once more with an electric prod applied to the center of his spine.

"It looks like you need to spend some quality time alone with your thoughts. Maybe I'll ask the same question again in a few days. Or maybe I'll just let you rot in there. It depends what kind of mood I'm in."

With that, the two officers on either side grabbed him by the arms and dragged him into an adjoining cell. They tossed him inside like a rag doll and slammed the metal door. Jason sprawled onto the floor and lost consciousness once again.

When he awoke, it took him a moment to realize where he was. The floor was cold, causing him to shiver uncontrollably. Jason crawled around in the darkness, searching for a sheet or pillow or anything to warm him. He found nothing but a hole in the floor. The nauseating odor emanating from that hole indicated why it was there.

He huddled into a corner of the room, bringing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around himself in an attempt to quell the shaking. He heard the sound of screaming in the distance. It grew louder, and then a light flickered on the other side of the room. He ran to the light, and peered through the horizontal slats in the small window of the metal door.

From his left, he saw Officer Cheka enter the room. He reflexively hid from sight until he passed. Two more officers entered the room, dragging a naked young man by the arms. Jason could see the look of terror in the man's eyes as they led him to the adjoining room. It seemed as though an hour passed, which was filled with sounds of that young man's horrific screams, the crackle of electric prods, and the steady pounding of clubs on flesh. Jason stuck his fingers in his ears and hummed to drown out the sounds, but it was of no use. The young man's haunting eyes were burned into his memory.

Days passed. Jason counted each day by the number of times his morning health drink would appear from the small opening at the bottom of his door. He would receive a health drink each morning, a cup of water twice a day, and a small bowl of gruel at night. By his count, it had been eight days since he had last seen the outside of his cell.

He had expected Cheka to interrogate him on a regular basis, just as he witnessed the officers interrogating and torturing the young man in the adjoining cell each night. Yet, for reasons unknown, no one had spoken a word to him. He simply sat in the corner of his cell, or paced the floor, for hours upon hours, day after day.

He had become used to the cold floor, and the shivering had mercifully subsided. He exercised as often as he could, both to raise his body temperature and out of sheer boredom. He found himself rehearsing the mental exercises that had become part of his daily routine. He attempted to communicate with the young man in the next cell several times, to no avail.

By the eighteenth day, Jason began to feel as though he were losing his sanity. He had conversations with himself throughout the day, and experienced hallucinations of people and places from his past. He began to resent Elena for bringing this fate upon him. Why did she need to speak with him again? Why would she risk his safety in such a careless way? What could possibly be so important?

The small opening at the bottom of the door flashed open, and his morning drink was pushed into the cell. Jason snatched it away and took a sip. Although it was still bitter, he now looked forward to that bitterness. It was practically the highlight of his day.

He savored each sip until his cup was empty. He ran his finger along the sides of the cup to capture as much of it as he could, and then placed the empty cup along the wall, adding it to a growing collection. Eventually, he decided, he would toss the entire collection down the hole in the floor, as they were merely taking up valuable space and limiting his walking area.

He heard footsteps in the hallway outside, and the light flickered once more, allowing him to see the inside of his cell. The collection of cups and bowls was indeed growing out of control. The door to his cell was pulled open, and Jason leapt backward toward the opposite wall and tried to make himself invisible.

"Prisoner Adams, come with me," an unfamiliar officer said, holding the door open.

Jason hesitated, and stepped slowly toward the officer, bracing himself for a jolt of electric current or a blow to the back of the knees. Neither came as he stepped out of the cell for the first time in nearly three weeks.

The officer's expression gave no hint as to his intentions. He motioned for Jason to walk down the hallway. He then directed Jason into a small room with drains on the floor. Jason stood in the corner of the room, and was pummeled with soapy water from every direction. This was followed by a deluge of cold water, and then a blast of hot air.

The officer motioned for Jason to follow him once more. When they reached the next room, the officer handed him a pile of folded laundry, which he recognized as the standard-issue clothing of every citizen. He obediently began dressing.

"What—" he began to ask.

"Quiet, prisoner," the officer interrupted. "Just do as you're told."

Jason complied, and finished dressing, cinching the built-in belt to a much lower setting than usual. He raised his hand to his face and stroked his fingers through his beard.

"You can shave when you return to your living quarters," the officer informed him.

"L—living quarters?"

"You're being released, prisoner."

***

Jason stumbled through the door, weak and hungry. Cori greeted him with a warm embrace and helped him to the chair at the table, where his dinner was set, hot and more delicious than he ever remembered. He didn't care to talk about what had happened, and she didn't press him for information. He was simply happy to be home.

Life returned to normal over the next several days. Jason resumed his new job assignment with the Department of Communications, and learned that Marshall's retirement had been extended until his return. Senator Hobbes continued to display curious contempt for him at each and every morning meeting, and seemed to treat him with greater belligerence in the wake of his arrest.

He steered clear of the arcade, and stayed within his designated travel zone at all times, doing everything the State expected of him. The work that he performed with his new assignment earned praise from everyone except the senator.

"Your writing is far too rational for the common citizen to relate to it," Hobbes once told him. "The way to connect with people is to appeal to their emotions. Facts and reason matter nothing to those people. All they care about is whether or not something makes them feel good. The intentions of our policies matter far more to them than the results."

Jason worked many long nights writing speeches and scripts on behalf of Senator Hobbes. Not a public word was uttered by the senator that wasn't written by Jason. Both the questions and answers at his staged press conferences, his appearances on entertainment shows, and even his live public appearances, where actors portrayed the audience and peppered the senator with "tough questions", were all scripted to the letter. Jason's rough scripts were reviewed by a panel of advisors, who would almost always send their revisions back to him. The revised copy would undergo a second scrubbing before the final copy landed on Senator Hobbes' desk.

The days blended together as time passed. At night, Jason would often lay awake, reflecting upon his time in prison, and the events that led to that traumatic time. He could not understand why the State was so interested in Elena, or why they suddenly released him. The arresting officer had called her a "terrorist." Was she one of the people responsible for the murders of those children at his old academy, and all the other horrific attacks that have taken place throughout the city in recent years?

He liked to believe that he understood the nature of people better than most. It was one of the qualities that he felt made him a good writer. He was able to connect with people in a way that was unique and special. Elena did not seem like the type of person capable of committing such atrocities.

He returned again and again to her story about the trees. What was the point of that story? And what was so important that she risked her life to meet with him again, knowing the State had discovered her whereabouts?

After more than a week of restless sleep, he decided to visit the arcade once more. It was a great risk, and it took a great deal of convincing for Cori to allow him to go, but he had to know the truth. If Elena were still alive, and not imprisoned, the arcade seemed to be the most likely place to find her.

When he walked through the door of the bar in the basement of the arcade, Arlo embraced him across the bar like a long-lost friend.

"I thought you were dead!" he exclaimed.

"Not yet," Jason responded. "But I'm getting closer."

"What can I get you?" Arlo asked. Jason reached into his jacket. "No, no," Arlo interrupted. "This one's on the house."

Jason smiled. "Got any more soda?"

"Sorry, my friend."

"Then I'll take the strongest drink you've got back there."

As Arlo poured something from a large glass jar, Jason scanned the bar. A handful of people chatted across their tables or drank alone while watching the displays on their table tops. He made eye contact with a woman who had short, black hair and deep blue eyes. She quickly looked away. Something about her seemed familiar.

"Here you go," Arlo said with a smile. "I made it myself."

Jason took a small sip. It felt as though he were drinking liquid fire. He quickly choked it down and loudly coughed while his face turned red. "What did you make it with?" he croaked. "Gasoline?"

He remained at the bar for as long as he could. He returned again and again over the next several days, but found no sign of Elena. He could only surmise that she had been captured by the State. It would explain why they let him go. There was simply no reason to hold him any longer.

During a typical workday, he strode into the locker room of his building's fitness center after his daily workout. When he opened his locker, a note fell to the floor. He whipped his head around, looking for anyone who may have been watching. Surreptitiously, he crouched down and picked it up.

The note simply listed a time and place. He wondered if perhaps this was a trap. It would not have contradicted the senator's character to send someone to plant that note in an effort to get Jason thrown in jail permanently. With his heart racing, he tried to appear casual as he dressed. He took another look at the note, and spotted something else beneath the text, but it was too small to read.

He gave a furtive glance in all directions and placed his device around his ear. Tapping the side of the device, he zoomed in on the area below the text. It read: "Are you a maple or an oak?"