The Purge

Another entry in the Short Story SmackDown.

When Harold woke that morning, the sun was shining cheerfully through the window of his second story apartment. The air felt crisp and clean. It was going to be a beautiful day.

When Harold's phone started vibrating epileptically while Harold was in the bathroom shaving, he didn't notice. Harold's phone was still buzzing itself to pieces in a desperate bid to catch his attention as he was making himself a cup of tea. While Harold read through the newspaper in the living room, he was blissfully unaware of the storm of messages that were bombarding his phone as it rattled helplessly on the nightstand by his bed.

It wasn't until a quarter to eight when Harold finally made his way back into his room. He found his phone on the floor near his bed. It had vibrated itself right off the nightstand. Harold ran his thumb over the cracked screen, sighing. This new Foxxcon model was supposed to be all but indestructible. "Made in America," he mumbled sarcastically.

Harold pressed his thumb against the biometric reader embedded in the screen and the phone chirped to life. At least it still worked. He held the phone at arm's length and it scanned his face and retina. After a moment, Harold spoke a gibberish passphrase, completing the multi-factor biometric authentication protocol and the phone quickly decrypted itself.

Some of Harold's colleagues had razzed him about his adoption of the MFBAP, but Harold swore by it. "Come on," one of Harold's closest friends Gary had chided him, "the world has changed so much. They've been opening up for years. We have the rule of law, now."

But Harold wasn't so sure. Granted, the Great Purge had happened years before he had been born. But Harold had grown up with stories from his Grandma and his parents, telling him about what it had been like when the President had suspended the judiciary and executed thousands of lawyers. Even though Harold had come of age in a time of increased liberalism and legality, he couldn't help but feel a little paranoid, especially as a human rights lawyer.

Once Harold's phone had decrypted, a flood of messages filled the screen. Harold's stomach sank as he read through the chaos. Gary, his security-skeptic friend had been arrested. Government agents had raided his apartment just that morning, plucking him from his bed and dragging him from the building naked except for a black bag over his head. Harold shook his head in disbelief. Gary was one of the best human rights lawyers Harold knew. He was one of Harold's closest friends. They had worked on dozens of cases together over the years.

As Harold worked to wrap his brain around what had just happened, his phone started to go crazy in his hand, nearly shaking itself from his grip. The messages were coming frantically, from nearly all of the other human rights lawyers that Harold knew and worked with, from all across the Bay Area. Government agents were storming homes and offices, bagging lawyers, and dragging them away. Harold felt a wave of nausea wash over him. The stories he had heard during his childhood were suddenly becoming real-life nightmares. The government was purging the judiciary.

Just then, the door to Harold's apartment exploded inward. Agents in tactical gear burst into his apartment. He barely had time to issue the encryption command to his phone before he was tackled and his world went black.

***

Harold squinted his eyes against the blinding lights shining into his face. He had no idea where he was. After they had bagged him and dragged him from his apartment, someone had knocked him unconscious. When he woke, he was strapped into a cold metal chair, his head restrained, with bright white lights glaring straight into his eyes. Harold's mind raced as he recalled the stories he had grown up with. "Don't fight," his Grandma had told him. "That's how they get you. Let yourself flow like a river. When they took your Pop-pop, he was like water. It took them days of round the clock torture to break him. He died with dignity."

"Harold Cunningham," a nasal voice squealed through the blinding light. "Let's get to the point. You can make this easy, or you can make this difficult. Your colleagues - your lawyer friends - have all confessed already. All we ask is that you confess, too. I have a document listing your crimes. Confess and it will end before it begins." The voice thrust a sheet of paper in front of Harold's face. It listed a litany of false accusations. "Confess," the voice said.

"I'd love to confess," Harold said, "but I just don't remember committing these crimes. No, I happen to be one of those people whose memory shuts down under pressure."

Harold's vision exploded into a constellation of stars as something hot and heavy smashed into his face. "Have it your way, Mr. Cunningham," the voice said. "The drink," the voice called out.

Harold squinted hard, looking past the lights to see a shadow mixing liquids together. As it added the last liquid, the solution turned opaque. Harold had heard about "the drink" from his clients but had always assumed it was hyperbole on their part. He swallowed hard.

"Do you know what this is?" the voice asked Harold

"I have no idea," Harold said as bravely as he could. "But by mother told me to never trust any complicated cocktail that remains perfectly clear until the last ingredient goes in, and then immediately clouds."

"You're trying to be a hero," the voice laughed. Invisible hands grabbed at Harold's face, prying open his mouth. "You think you can attack the government with law? You're attacking soldiers with words? You don't understand, Mr. Cunningham. What your soldier wants -- really, really wants -- is no-one shooting back at him. You're shooting blanks. We use bullets." The voice giggled as it tipped the drink into Harold's mouth.