Liberation Rising

By Mark F Geatches

After the failed assassination attempt on President Joseph Stoner, the Liberation, a group of thousands determined to bring democracy back to America, is disbanded and in hiding. Instead of bringing freedom to the masses, the group of would-be liberators has brought about heightened tension, increased surveillance, and a brutal crackdown of the population of Philadelphia, as the President becomes more guarded and paranoid than ever.
When the oppression becomes too much to bear, the Liberation has no choice but to take action. Gone, however, is the naïve idea of conducting a near-bloodless coup. This time they decide on a more direct approach. All-out war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: World Castle Publishing, LLC
• Release date: May 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781955086158

Mark F Geatches

Mark began writing fiction in 2010. What began as an experiment quickly became a labor of love. Writing allows him an outlet for his unpredictable imagination, as well as an excuse to spend even more of his time listening to music. Mark finds music and writing the perfect mental connection; the nexus of focus and inspiration.For information about Marks published books and short stories, visit his website, markwritesfiction.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1—Room Service

The only light came from a small window in the door. It cast a dull, odd-shaped box on the floor that only wavered twice a day when the door silently crept open so a meal could be placed into my room. I had no idea why I was being treated so well. The food wasn’t just tolerable, it was delicious. The cell had no uncomfortable odors or humidity and was furnished with a comfortable bed. I even had my own toilet and a sink, complete with soap and a towel. If it wasn’t for the utter isolation, someone might have thought I was a guest.

But I wasn’t a guest. I was a prisoner, and the quarantine was beginning to get to me. The silence screamed at me if you know what I mean. It’s hard to describe unless you’ve lived through it. Not having anyone to talk to, not having anything to look at or do, and not having something to listen to made a guy want to shove his own head into a wall.

Now that I think about it, I guess none of that’s true except the head in the wall thing. I had myself to talk to, but all I did was blame myself. I had something to look at; the unrelenting image of my best friend’s execution. I had things to listen to; the cracking of his skull when the axe came down and the rumbling destruction of the nogo library that was the headquarters of the Liberation. So I guess I had plenty to keep me company after all.

I had something else too—the knowledge that my bloated ego caused the death of three wonderful people, two of which I wasn’t sure I could live without. Oh, and there was this—I had no idea what had become of my sweet sister, my beautiful wife, and my new best friend, Eddy. So I guess I was a downright busy guy.

In my weak moments, I would talk to the people I loved. You know, the people I killed. Straz was usually his happy self and didn’t seem to hold his death against me. Don’t worry, I knew better than to speak out loud. I was sure the stoners were watching and listening to everything I did and said, even while I slept.

One of the last imaginary conversations with Straz and the old man went like this.

Come on, Zam. Snap out of it. It ain’t your fault. Just do me one favor.

Yeah, what’s that?

Kill that sneaky bastard for me, will ya? Kill him good.

No, Straz, I can’t. It wasn’t Milo. You was right all along. Milo didn’t do it.

I ain’t talkin’ about Milo. I told ya Milo was all right. I mean Stoner. We were so close, and he ruined everything.

Okay, sure. Sure, I’ll kill him for ya, Straz.

Don’t do it, Zammi, the old man interjected. Let the Liberation fade from your memory like a bad dream. Be happy with Lissa and lead a normal life. Stoner is too powerful. We found that out the hard way.

Whatever, Gramps, Straz interrupted with a bitter tone. I want revenge, and listen, Zammi…. His voice softened. Take care of Syd for me too, will ya? God, I miss her.

That’s usually when I would snap out of it when one of us mentioned the living. I’d hurt so many people and not just the three I killed. Based on what that turncoat Harri told me, Syd was the only one that remained in danger, though. I prayed it was so and then felt a pang of guilt. I knew I couldn’t live if they tortured and killed my sister, but my wife had to survive. Eddy too. Didn’t they?

Every thought and illusion I had eventually boiled down to reality when the door slid open in the morning. That’s when I remembered everyone I loved was as good as dead already. Humiliated, dead, and buried, even if some of us didn’t know it yet. When my thoughts went dark like that, I would always remember my wish to be the next one captured. Remember that? I would spill the beans so no one else would have to endure torture. I came close a few times. I thought about pounding on the door until someone came and just screaming, It was me. I planned everything. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’ll tell you, the human mind is an irrational chunk of meat. Even when there’s no chance for hope, that bulbous piece of flesh makes you hold out for it like those fake rabbits circling just out of reach of all those stupid racing dogs who never realize they don’t have a chance in hell of catching up to it.

Speaking of that annoying piece of sausage, my head was wrapped tightly all the way around, and I could feel a neat line of vertical staples reaching up to the crown. There were twenty-three of them. The good news was that the wrapping was dry, and I had no pain at all. I didn’t know what Stoner was trying to prove, but he was treating me better than I would have ever expected.

In case you’re wondering, I’d been awake for five days. I bet you thought it was longer. Believe me, five days in the dark with no stimuli (how’s that for a word?) is long enough. But I had no idea how long I had been unconscious before that. I remembered getting the butt end of a cutter rifle to the back of my head by my good friend Harri, but what I didn’t know was whether I took a charged bullet as well. If I did, I was one lucky bastard. I thanked God just in case it was His doing. Me being alive, I mean.

~*~

Things changed on the sixth day. Two stoners came into my cell and placed a dark hood over my head. They were real bruisers—Straz would have been impressed. The way they manhandled me reminded me of the way I was held up by the arms so Harri could take his verbal and brutal physical shots at me. I wondered what was happening with him. He probably already got that promotion he was hoping for. Anyways, I was briskly led through a series of hallways. Still, there was no sound except from me grunting, my two guards’ footsteps, and the chain dancing on the ground between my feet; no one spoke a word.

So after a year or two, I heard a door open, and the reverberating sound told me we had entered a stairwell. Three floors below, we entered what I assumed was my interrogation chamber. It was huge. I didn’t count my steps, but there must have been thirty of them before they made me stand still. I felt sick and began to sweat all over my body. The thought that I was actually at the University Capital Complex, Stoner’s home, flashed into my mind.

A familiar voice said, I trust you’ve been well treated?

Stoner! The man that turned me and Syd into grownups. The horrific riot scene played itself out in my mind. My eight-year-old self was digging out from underneath my parent’s corpses when I vaguely heard that voice again from the future.

Are you with me, Mr. Grainger?

I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t paralyzed with fear and about to wiz myself. I had never even heard the hint of a rumor that Stoner interrogated prisoners himself. Yet here I was, at The Arch, charting new territory for a crime that never happened and never would. For the first time since my imprisonment, I was sure I was gonna die.

Yes, I began, but my voice wouldn’t cooperate after going so long without use. I cleared my throat and tried again. Yes, sir. I’ve been very well treated. Thank you. I didn’t quite sound like my old self, but he got the massage.

Excellent. Now, Mr. Grainger, I’d like to ask you some questions regarding the unfortunate events at the Grand Sabbath ceremony six days ago.

Six days. That meant I was only unconscious for one day. I stood there terrified, and my senses seemed heightened. I noticed something weird about Stoner’s voice.

Are you sure you’re up to it? he asked kindly.

Not his voice. That was normal. It was the intake of air before he spoke.

I can do it now, I said, and my voice shook like the rest of my body. I wondered when the conversation would end, and the pain would begin.

Very good. Very good. What was your relationship to James Strazmond?

The word was felt like a punch in the gut. I couldn’t believe I would never hear his crazy twists on old sayings or feel the bullseye on my arm get pounded again. I couldn’t believe he would never be there to protect me again and that I would never see my best friend again.

He was my best friend and brother-in-law, I stammered.

And you’re aware of what took place at the Grand Sabbath?

There was something about that wheezing voice.

Of course.

How long had the two of you been planning to assassinate me?

What? No. I didn’t know nothin’ about it.

Please don’t insult me, Mr. Grainger. How long?

Never. I had no idea what he was plannin’.

You just told me he was your best friend. I’m sure you were aware of your best friend’s nefarious intentions.

It came to me then. I knew where I’d heard that kind of unique breathing. It was the old man! Stoner had a wheeze when he breathed in, just like the old man’s. It was all I could do to conceal my excitement at the staggering revelation. Stoner was old! Was it really possible?

No. Well, yes, he was my best friend, but things changed a while back. I still loved him like a brother, but we didn’t hang out like we used to. I thought it was cuz he married my kid sister, but I guess there was more to it. Say, can ya take off this hood? It’s making the back of my head hurt.

I had to get a look at him.

I heard someone walking toward me, and then there was a blinding light. It took me forever to get used to it. When I could finally see, I made an embarrassing high-pitched gasping noise. What I saw was a scene right out of a fairy tale, complete with a king sitting on his throne. What an ego this guy had. The hall was opulent, with balconies on three sides. The two monster crystal chandeliers could light a travelling circus tent, and the inlayed wood flooring shone like ice. The walls were made from green and white marble, and eight black marble columns held up a ceiling painted like the sky. Where was Sampson when you needed him? The scene reminded me of Tosca, that video of Puccini’s opera the old man played for us about two hundred years ago. I wondered if Straz saw this room before they—well, you know.

Stoner was sitting about twenty feet away from me, and his throne raised him at least five feet above the floor. There were seven armed stoners on each side of him. I gotta tell you if the idea was to intimidate, it worked. We were separated by a sheet of some sheer dark material that stretched from one end of the room to the other. It was clearly Stoner, but I couldn’t make out much detail.

Are you quite comfortable now?

Yes. Thank you.

What was his angle? I half expected him to offer me a banquet and my choice of women if you know what I mean.

I see you approve of the design of the chamber.

I thought about lying, but I said, Yeah. It’s amazin’. And it was.

So, Mr. Grainger, please explain how it is that your best friend didn’t confide in you. You mentioned there was more to it.

Yeah, Straz met this stoner—uh, no offense—this FPF agent named Wilson—actually, he was one of Lissa’s body guards—and that’s when he—Straz, I mean—became more of a stranger than a friend.

Weren’t you friends with Wilson as well?

Yeah, but not like that. I just wanted to include him socially a little bit since Lissa thought he was lonely. Then he met Straz, and we hardly ever talked after that. It was weird.

I saw Stoner look to his left. There was a doorway in that direction, but I couldn’t see who or if anyone was there.

So am I to believe that you had no knowledge of the plot or of the meeting place where the plans were deliberated?

More wheezing. If Stoner was old, it could change everything.

I didn’t know nothin’ Straz was doin’, and I never knew nothin’ about the library until it went boom. That was awesome, by the way.

I have to say, I impressed myself with my quick comebacks. I guess that cutter didn’t do any real damage to my grey matter.

All right, Mr. Grainger. That’s all the questions I have for you at the present time.

That’s it? Can I go home now? Is my sister okay?

As I was singing out those last desperate questions, a stoner replaced my hood and two ticks later, I was gliding through the halls trying to digest the Munificent Stoner being old. My first thought was, why didn’t we think of this before? What were the chances that a pimply-faced twenty-year-old was gonna take over the mighty United State of America? He would have stood as much chance of success as the Liberation’s failed attempt being led by a guy whose voice still cracked. No. Stoner wasn’t no twenty-year-old boy when he took over, and that was no fifty-year-old man sitting on that throne.

Then I thought of that Grand Sabbath two years earlier when I noticed that the cameras never got close and personal with Stoner’s face. I was on to him way back then. Why didn’t I insist on looking into it? Maybe everything would have been different if we would have known the truth.

Yeah, and maybe Stoner never would have come to power if Iran and Russia had never sent the Wave. Knowing Stoner was old at this point was as helpful as snow in August. Straz would have said, No use cryin’ over shit you spil’t, but I gotta tell you, I felt like crying.

~*~

The rest of the day was just like the last five had been, dark and lonely. That all changed when the door slid open the following morning. Instead of receiving breakfast, my head was immediately covered, and I was put in shackles, then led out of my cell. I could tell it wasn’t gonna be a repeat of yesterday’s performance by the way the stoners taunted me.

Does Stoner want to see me again? I asked like the chicken shit I was, between their powerful arms, insults, and laughing.

They didn’t respond other than to make fun of me.

What’s goin’ on, guys? More questions or what?

This time we didn’t go down any stairs, and I wasn’t taken before a king. They threw me into a small cement room and strapped me into a hard wooden chair. Then they treated me like the conspirator I was. The first punch was completely unexpected and just about broke my jaw. So much for being well treated. It was followed by a blow to my abdomen. They must have used a tool of some kind, maybe the butt end of a sledge hammer. I lost my breath and couldn’t feel the next several punches. I knew then why they hadn’t fed me that morning. It wouldn’t have been pretty.

My hood came off from a particularly vicious slap to the back of my head that made me see white demons. When my vision cleared, I saw what I was up against. There were four of them—no, two of them. Why did they have to look the part? They each wore black rubber surgical gowns with matching rubber hats that had clear visors that covered their entire faces. I guess they were expecting things to get messy. Great. To make matters worse, they were working in front of a table full of weapons and medical implements.

After the preliminaries were over and I could barely sit up, one of them walked toward me with a thin wooden tool that looked like a huge, flat spoon. He used it to smack my bare chest. It was the worst pain of my life until the guy continued smacking me all over my body. I know I was screaming, but I couldn’t hear a thing. I know my eyes were wide open, but my vision became one endless stream of light flashes, static, and chaotic Picassian images.

~*~

The distinctive clink of my cell door closing woke me up. A breakfast tray sat steaming on the floor. My body and mind were numb. I was too afraid to move, but it didn’t take long for the enticing fragrance of bacon, eggs, hash browns, and pancakes to make me question that weakness. My mouth swam with hungry anticipation. I tried to roll off the bed but was met with paralyzing pain. My vision tunneled, and I reached to feel the back of my head. It wasn’t all neat and dry like before. I slowly looked where my head had rested and almost fainted. There was barely enough light to see, but when I saw what my pain left behind, I wished there was no light at all. My pillow was covered with dried black and red sticky blood that had soaked all the way through to the mattress. I gently laid the side of my head back on the pillow and cried.

Then I prayed, Please God, don’t let Syd go through this.

My cell door opened. It was my two torturers.

Let’s go, Zammi, one of them said softly.

Not again, I croaked.

I groaned when they propped me up in bed. Once again, they chained my arms and legs together and covered my head. As soon as my feet touched the floor, a new pain made me forget the pounding of my skull.

Shit, God! I screamed. I can’t do this. What’d ya do to my feet? I didn’t remember them touching or punishing them during the torture session.

No response.

They heard me, though, cuz they lifted me high off the bed and dragged me through the halls. I became hopeful when we entered the stairwell. Maybe I was gonna see Stoner again. Who would have thought I’d be happy to see the mass butcher and the murderer of my parents, President Stoner?

We entered the, I guess you’d call it a throne chamber, and before anyone spoke, I was placed on the same chair as before. Relief!

They took off my hood, and Stoner started right in. Good morning, Mr. Grainger. You’re looking well this morning.

Cold bastard.

He repeated, Good morning, Mr. Grainger, his voice immediately more menacing.

Not very patient.

I mumbled, Good morning.

That’s more like it. He took a sip of an orange colored drink from a large ornate glass and said, How was your day yesterday?

Best in a while, thanks.

Wonderful. Just wonderful. I have a few questions for you, Mr. Grainger. Is now a good time?

Actually, no. I missed breakfast on account of not being able to move my body.

I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe another time then.

Stoner barely moved his right hand, and just like that, the interview was over, and I was being carried back to my cell. Only that’s not where we went. I moaned when we entered the torture chamber.

No more, I whined over and over as they strapped me into the chair.

Once again, my captors remained silent as they beat me to a pulp with various implements designed by some psychopathic freak, probably Stoner himself. The last one they used was a harmless sponge. One of them took his time putting on a special looking, one-piece suit, then carefully dipped the sponge into a pail. He lightly rubbed it over my exposed skin, which was basically my whole body cuz all I wore was shorts. At first, it was cold and actually tickled. For a minute, I thought the guys were showing me some unsanctioned compassion, but then the searing pain made me want to kill them and die right along with them. It was like getting stung by a million wasps all at once. Or maybe it was like actually dying. I’m not really sure.

They had to shake me awake the next morning. Thank God for unconsciousness. I caught a glimpse of my face and upper body in the mirror as they carried me out of my cell. It was definitely not the old me looking back. It reminded me of how I looked the day after my graduation sabbath. This was a similar look, but there was no comparison as far as the way I felt. What I was experiencing at Hotel Stoner was a once in a lifetime type of agony. At least I hoped it was.

Good morning, Mr. Grainger.

Sick bastard.

Good morning, Mr. President, flew from my lips before I knew I was gonna respond.

You’re looking well this morning. May I ask you a few questions?

Yes! I yelled.

Fine. That’s fine. Let’s talk about your best friend James Strazmond again, shall we?

I nodded.

Fine. Where did he plan my assassination?

By now, my voice was almost as low as the old man’s. I’m not sure, but since ya blew it up, I’d say the library.

Clever boy. And what was your role in the plot?

This time I listened to him wheeze for about two hours before they brought me back to my cell.

Please, God, take care of Syd.

Chapter 2—The Dream

Yo, Zammi, wake up, man.

I opened one eye and groaned. Sleep was my only respite from the pain. I mumbled, Hey, Straz. They’re poundin’ me pretty good, ain’t they? barely able to open my mouth.

Listen carefully. They’re about to let you go.

Really? I said, straining to see his face in the dark.

Yeah. You passed the last interrogation with flying colors. And not breaking after that last beating you took pretty much makes you above suspicion.

I don’t remember all that. Did I lose another day?

I guess you did. You were in there with Stoner for almost nine hours before they pounded you again. But you stuck to your story, and you’re golden, man. Now listen, even so, they’re going to be watching you for a long while. You need to lay low until I tell you it’s safe. Got it?

Yeah, I got it. But how do ya know all this stuff, Straz? Ain’t you still dead?

I just know, okay. Now don’t forget what I told you. Don’t do anything that has to do with the Liberation until you hear from me.

No way, Straz. I’m done. The Liberation died with you and the old man. I don’t have it in me to go on. How’s Sis? Did they do this to her too? I said, pointing to my body.

Your sister’s okay, man. She’s already at home with Lissa. I made them go easy on her. She’s fine.

Thank God for you, Straz. I can’t tell ya what a comfort that is. I love you, ya know. I wish more than anythin’ ya wasn’t dead.

Okay, now go back to sleep and act shocked as shit when they let you go tomorrow.

~*~

I was crying when I woke up, and it wasn’t from the pain; it was from my dream. Even dead, Straz was watching out for me. I can’t really describe how much guilt I felt at losing him and the old man. It’s the type of guilt that makes nothing seem important anymore. Not even living.

When I tried to sit up in bed, my grief was swallowed by the anguish of a body inflamed by agony. I was covered with bruises and festering sores that included cuts, holes, ripped and torn flesh, not to mention burns and rashes. It must have taken me ten years to sit up straight. It took another ten to crawl to my breakfast tray, but when I did, I devoured the delicious grub in two ticks.

For a while, I just sat there on the floor. My body slowly filled with energy and my mind with hope. The human body is an amazing thing that way. My dream came back to me in detail then. Straz talked a little strange, but wouldn’t it be something if his message was true? What a miracle it would be to be reunited with Lissa and Syd. What a miracle to have survived Stoner’s torture chamber. What a miracle to actually have been visited by my best friend.

As soon as I placed the tray back on the floor, I heard the lock of my cell door clank and the room was flooded with light. I convulsed backward and held my hands up defensively. A hood flashed down, covering my head. I screamed. Then the chains were fastened around my wrists and ankles, causing obligatory pain. A tick later, I was being dragged down the hall.

No, please. Not again. I can’t take no more. Nooooo.

No response.

I knew by the path we took that I was about to have another round with Stoner. At least it wasn’t the torture chamber; not yet anyways. Only we didn’t go before Stoner. We descended another floor, and before we left the stairwell, they removed my hood. We came out into a long hallway. My eyes bulged, and I gasped. I must have been dreaming again because at the end of that hall was a set of double doors, the windows of which let in light. The kind of light that only the sun can make.

Please don’t mess with me, I whispered.

No response.

What’s happenin’? Where are we goin’? I asked a little louder.

No response.

Could Straz have been right? Could he have really visited me last night?

Am I goin’ home?

No response.

The stoners each pushed one door open with one of their hands while dragging me outside with the other. The sunlight was painful and joyous at the same time. I squinted through the warm light. There was a troop carrier about ten feet away. I reached out for it and fell to the ground. I began to crawl to sweet salvation,