When it came down to the wire—We the people stood ready.
- JACKSON VIOLET
DEATH’S NULLIFICATION
“Amelia, didn’t I tell you not to play with your food?” Jackson Violet scolded his younger sister.
The 6-year-old blonde looked up at him with apathetic eyes. She silently returned to the dish in front of her; carrots and mushrooms remained. Adjusting her grip, she stabbed her fork into a carrot and shoved it in her mouth, eating it without hesitation.
Within the Violet residence just outside of Suffern New York, the day was surprisingly busy in the family’s villa. An event hosted by their parents and other family members had kicked off in a nearby vacation home, and now strangers, investors, and familiar faces strolled around the house with exception of the second floor, where they currently were.
They both just wanted a quiet lunch.
“Jackson! Lia!” A deep voice echoed through the villa. Their father had called for them.
So much for lunch.
Alongside technical officers from the United States Navy, and other investors, Amelia watched as her father adjusted the sweater he wore. Slowly every day, silver strands crept and overtook his shinning golden hair. He held a modest, kind look, but one that wasn’t marred with years of experience from being an infantry officer in the Marine Corps and his career building the Violet Conglomerate.
“Amelia, it’s good to see you again,” To the call of a familiar voice, the young girl faced a young teenager amongst the group.
“Evan,” She tilted her head into the sunlight. It was her childhood crush.
The young man provided a small smile. She understood that he only saw her as a little sister.
Amelia looked away from Evan. With a bright smile, one unusual to her face, she strutted past him humming a familiar jingle heard on T.V.
Jackson felt his eye twitch at Evan.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You too,” Evan rolled his eyes to the slightly younger man, just by a year. “What is with your family. All the ‘being annoyed’ and all.”
“You got something to say, pal?” the dirty blonde boy asked.
“No. Besides the point, how are things going? With the family.” Evan asked, choosing to avoid the confrontation.
“The same,” Jackson sighed. “School has been keeping me busy, I’m thinking of going to a service academy, but I’d honestly rather enlist.”
“Really? You’re only 14. Go a while before you should do anything.” Evan said with a shrug, “Take your time.”
The older Violet’s development as a young man was unexpected by the family, and wider world in general. Though the name Violet was heavily scrutinized and was constantly under a microscope, Jackson had taken an interest in those of his generation. Back then he was a prize, something that his parents could proudly show the world. And now, here he stood not only being relatable to those his own age, playing games and watching anime. He attributed his own success to what he was able to accomplish on his own.
Unfortunately to many, his interest in physical activities and soon following goal for military service was something that brought him scorn. This choice to go beyond himself, beyond the scope of what the world had built for him, was not appreciated in the slightest. It would bring him great trouble no matter where he went.
Perhaps that’s why he did it.
“Jackie!”
“Amy,” the young man smiled at the nicknames he and his sister shared. He knelt to her height and patted her on the head. She had managed to get her hands on a small bowl of candy, something that was usually placed beyond their reach.
“C’mon, kiddo, you really did this…,” Jackson said amused, and guilty.
“No food shall go to waste!” She wore a wavering smile. Amelia was guilty.
Letting out a fit of laughter, Jackson rubbed her head harder making her flinch. “Alright—alright, good job! Just let me do the heavy work needed.”
"Okay…"
Jackson did indeed do the heavy lifting.
In the formation they stacked themselves alongside the warehouse’s entrance, his Marines. His “Breacher” steadied himself, aiming a shotgun awaiting the go ahead from Captain Violet. “Rifles 1, 2, and 3” were behind their captain itching for the moment.
In standard fashion within their unit, Jackson firmly patted the Marine’s helmet. In one motion they all strutted ahead in a coordinated breach, weapons raised. 1 And 2 cleared the nearest corners of the room. Jackson, Breacher, and 3 pushed hard, sweeping across the empty interior.
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How many times had they’ve practiced, trained, executed… This was their nature, and the mother of all life gave them this once more…
“What is this?” Breacher clicked his tongue. “There’s nothing here!”
“Nothing above—Airborne is up there,” Rifle 1 said. “Look down maybe?”
“Fucking Pakistan.” Rifle 2 groaned, kicking the dirty floor beneath his boots. He wandered around in a short circle before, almost on command, kicked a covered wooden panel. “Here,” He pointed out, turning on his rifle mounted light.
Corralling around the small hatch, the men slowly removed the wood panel revealing nothing more than a rusted ladder descending shortly into an illuminated room.
“Never open your mouth again, sergeant,” Rifle 3 groaned.
Clockwork. Down they went.
A meter down the first barrel was raised. Yet again the Marines fell behind in the technological race amongst branches. As the Army fielded squadron drones, the Navy automated systems, and the Air Forces predator munitions, the Corps still did things by the old book. Upon all men reaching the bottom, they continued with their hands and legs.
Jackson narrowed his eyes. Bingo.
Though his company was assigned with locking down the city of Peshawar, his platoon had a secondary objective of garnering evidence against the rising resistance against the Pakistani government. They found themselves in a scientific lab, one unknown to its origin. Large tanks, scattered pipettes, stethoscopes, needles; this place was all geared to either medical advancement or human alteration.
At least that’s what the dried blood—that which had no smell—provided.
“Someone’s taking notes, I’m back in chemistry.” Rifle 1 said with shock.
“Biology, med-science, not chemistry, dumbass.” Breacher commented.
“Shut.” Jackson coughed. “Just look at this shit, I can’t even get an idea of what they were doing down here. Best I can guess is that those vials over there were being pumped into people, that or harvested.” His eyes darted to the boot that was below his boots. “I don’t know anything, but it could explain they tenacity of these fuckers in the city. Might be better than when the Taliban was hyped up on drugs back in the day.”
“Awesome, hippies,” Breacher chuckled with a falling expression. “Makes sense why we went through some shit trying to get here.”
“That means we found a production site,” Rifle 3 continued. “Recommendation: Captain, we’ve got enough C-4 to blow this place. We can bury it and buy enough time for our guys on the rim, give the bad guys something to be distracted about.”
As silence drew across them, Jackson remained in thought. Rifle 3 wasn’t wrong…
His mind flickered to his sister.
Amelia had been exposed to unknown compounds before.
###
Alex White sat at a large sports bar and restaurant just at the brim of the near non-existent ton of Cascade, Idaho. Its population was only noted at 1,301 within the last yearly census. To the locals this place was a favorite, and with his leave, he found himself coming back to this place often even if it meant driving hours through the lonely state. Food, drinks, music. It had everything to forget life.
His mouth held onto the aftertaste of Hillrock Solera Whiskey. Amelia’s ‘death’ was greatly exaggerated and was imprinted in his mind. Thus, he had temporarily turned to the bottle. Two weeks had passed since he lived the moment; holding her dying body in both of his arms after killing the suspect with his bare hands. Alex wondered what drive him to that level of insanity.
As much as he enjoyed his quiet vacation in the town of Cascade—being drawn in by the silence and distance—this wasn’t a place for him to stay. Even if he could dream of living here, he needed to eventually get back to the job and be cleared for duty by a medical representative. After all, civil unrest from the uptick in crime spurred by the federal government was getting to him.
Once more the same old song and dance of the people versus the cartels raised. However, though drugs, murder, and prostitution were the major factors of the unrest and now movement against all forces, it wasn’t the only reason that the citizens were resisting, bound by their love for freedom. Either way he could understand that everything was going to come to a head. Modern politics was shaping the environment, and soon enough he would be caught in the crosshairs.
Sitting up straight and stretching his back, Alex’s terrorizing back and height at 6’0 put him in the spotlight amongst even the broad sitting and enormous farmers that could easily pick him up with no contest. For a Sunday night, the restaurant was full. Football blared over the country music in the background.
Somewhere within the building a blonde woman made a pass at him. He wasn’t blind like other men. She was clearly checking him out. And like other men, he did nothing. Even though the woman was here alone, was clearly his type, and showed great interest in him, he had little want to engage in that. She shared too similar of a resemblance to Amelia.
This wasn’t a place for him. Go lucky girl… There was no reason to pursue anything. Especially not when considering that he was going to get busy even if he was put on restricted duty for what happened earlier in the month. Besides, he liked Amelia better: no short-shorts, and brash attitude. The business type scratched his brain, gave him something to actually like.
For a short time, he was looking at an opportunity to get into the Marshall Special Operations Group. The best damned specialized law enforcement entity the United States had to offer. He had heard about them upon entry into the organization, and it had been a burning goal to get to a place to join. Though the latest incidents would set him back, potentially permanently, he already had experienced what the “black operations” of the SOG was like. Once upon a time he was a communications liaison. Radiomen were valued no matter the unit. And he was damned good at making the calls when needed.
Maybe, there was a small chance.
Either way he sat silently at the bar. Glancing down to his electronic watch, he noticed it was past twenty-one hundred.
A silver phone slipped into his right hand. A stray thumb moved over scattered icons.
“Alex! I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. I saw what happened a couple weeks ago, and that you had been placed on leave. How are you holding up?”
“I’m calling in relation to the incident, Malone.”
“Oh.”
“We know that she got shot and died.”
“Whatever it is you need—We’re here.”
“Thank you. Mind if I ask a favor?”
“Name it.”
“A corpse just doesn’t up and disappear from a hospital. Especially not from the ICU. A bullet went through her brain Malone, Amelia Violet is dead. She had something, either physically as an item or within her body. Someone wanted it—now they have it. We need to figure out where her body went. Records, phone recordings, ONSIT, HUMMIT, something we can track.”
“Do you want me to start looking into the doctors and nurses? What about the primary surgeon that was to operate on her?”
“No—track the janitors and supply clerks. They’re the ones that probably had contact with the method of transportation.”
“Alex, you’ve done this before?”
“First time,” Alex honestly said.
“I see,” Malone raised an eyebrow before releasing a sigh. “I’ll get in contact with a few people, might even pull some CTs from the Navy if I can swing it.”
“I appreciate it, Malone.”
“Just get back home safe, bye now.”
“Ciao.”
Eyeing the glass of whiskey from the corner of his eye, Alex chose not to touch it as he raised a single hand towards the bar tender. Whipping out his debit card and a twenty-dollar bill, he paid the electronic pad in front of him along with a decent cash tip.
Rising from his seat, he scanned the crowd once more. His eyes eventually settled on the blonde woman he had spotted earlier. She looked at him with her leering eye. And followed by a wink, she motioned for him to come over.
He had other plans. Both of his hands sat comfortably in his pant pockets.
Ciao…