Call of the Eagle: A New Crusade

By Dimitri Marconi

In the midst of the economic crisis caused by the implementation of the globalist agenda in his country, farmer Thomas Walsh tries to preserve his family's legacy while witnessing the moral collapse of a society with infinite rights, which sees patriots as dangerous as carbon dioxide, and guarantees life to the most vicious criminals while denying it to innocent babies, born or unborn.
When yet another innocent citizen is seized by the giant State, Tom embarks on a one-way journey in search of the Truth, along with an eccentric group of friends with forbidden views who, in fighting for the freedom of the whole society, put their own at risk.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Editora Autores do Brasil
• Release date: Sep 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9786580387212

Book preview

I

Abortion order. The boy was born without authorization. Farmer Thomas Walsh heard once more the cry of horror of little Jimmy, torn from his mother’s arms to enforce the law. He jumped out of his chair, sighing like a diver who, without equipment, reaches the surface after several minutes of ocean exploration. Everyone around him turned slightly to find out who dared to disturb the already traditional ritual of waiting at the Committee for Combating Climate Change, mandatory for a large part of the population—mortals.

Tom hadn’t been able to sleep that night, not because of his sofa, which was actually cozy, but from what he’d witnessed less than twenty-four hours before at the York’s farm. He was relieved to see that he had been the center of attention for just two seconds; everyone was already going back to their shiny bricks, adoration shared only by the large hanging screen four chairs in front of Tom, who held nothing in his hands except the form that he would present shortly. It was as if he were surrounded by indecisive sunflowers, each with its own little sun in its hands, not knowing whether to feed on it or on the much bigger one that everyone there shared.

The big sun was just a screen for Tom. On his left side, he saw that he still had to wait for about thirty people to be served; to the right, taking up most of the rectangle, a news channel broadcast was reporting that the hugely famous actress Angelina Black—who already had three children—was pregnant with twins, something Tom had already heard on his radio that morning. Then, with great enthusiasm, the reporter celebrated the installation of twenty new wind turbines in a distant city—with such triumphant smile he could have easily been covering the end of a war, with the total surrender of the enemy. Tom found it strange that his electricity bill was constantly increasing despite seeing plant openings like this frequently. With so many new power generation points, whether wind or solar, why was he paying twice as much today as the year before if he had been reducing electricity consumption?

He felt his stomach flip when he learned that a student had been accused of sexual abuse at Gore Lemon University, where his daughter Greta resided. The footage showed a scrawny white boy with black hair and no sign of the ability to grow a beard, being taken off campus by police—reports indicated that he had already been expelled from the institution. Despite being obviously tense at momentarily considering the possibility that his daughter had been abused—long seconds later, the real victim was shown—Tom was perhaps the only person who watched this without condemning the boy; not that he was a rape enthusiast, but he might as well be the only one who hadn’t yet brought the hammer down on him. The complaint had been filed a few hours before and regardless of which judge was assigned to the case, the final decision had already been made, perhaps even signed—the only thing missing was to set the date for the trial. Tom, however, was a bit suspicious of everything, even though his flame of doubt had been greatly weakened after the death of his wife, Julia. His questioning had turned to mere passive skepticism, a sign that perhaps the fire hadn’t just dwindled—maybe it had gone out altogether. That was the great fear of his friend Andrew Knight, Drew, one of the few people in town with glowing red eyes. He remembered his friend from years ago and wanted to bring him back; to that end, in homeopathic doses, he had been trying to expose Tom to the great truth.

He missed Greta terribly, with whom he hadn’t spoken in over eight months, when they spent Christmas in January together. He couldn’t wait to have her back, already with a degree in Enology and Viticulture—as usual, this shadow of the future made his chest fill with pride. He was eager to learn new techniques from her that he couldn’t even imagine! Without a doubt, this would increase the productivity of the farm—it would save his legacy! His treacherous line of reasoning then rescued all financial difficulties, and pride and hope gave way to anguish.

He got up to walk around the huge hall and shake his thoughts. His nearly six feet seemed taller due to his slimness, and the jeans and heavy boots didn’t hinder his elegance. A dozen sturdy marble pillars symmetrically distributed against the green carpet, which mimicked a low-cut lawn, populated the main hall of the Committee for Combating Climate Change. Next to each pillar was a large pot whose plants had the same shade of green as the floor. As he passed, he caressed the nearest plant, finding it to be as alive as the grass under his feet.

Five corridors unfolded in front of the chairs, each with several booths on either side. That property—just one of the many committee headquarters—received hundreds of people every day seeking authorization for activities that, some years before, were carried out automatically, without forms or stamps. On the opposite side of the cabins, behind the legion of chairs, there were four luxurious elevators that when opened, thanks to the glass lining, it was possible to see the square outside. Watching those bureaucrats come and go, as well as all the excessive chandeliers and countless computers, Tom tried to imagine how much the committee paid the electricity company each month. Can a child, who scoops up water from one corner of the pool with a cup and immediately pours it into another corner, notice any difference in the water level? Can he notice any difference if he uses a bucket? Unfortunately for Tom, he didn’t swim in that pool, and he was one of those condemned to fill it from the outside.

He kept walking nonchalantly to kill some time. In the background, he looked again at the little machine from which he had taken his number two hours earlier, right next to the metal detector and the two armed security guards who supervised the entrance to the sumptuous building. While private security guards proliferated, protecting the few who could pay, police officers were a dying breed. To the left, he could see the few steps that led to the Diversity Square, the largest in the city. He thought about going out for a few minutes while waiting for his number to be called, an option chosen by many, since there were considerably fewer seats available than people in the line—he himself had done so several times. At other times, Tom had already waited in the square, on a chair, leaning against a pillar, against another pillar, and even sitting in a corner of the hall. Perhaps he had exhausted all possible approaches to that tedious visit, since he was obliged to appear before the committee at least twice a year, either to request his annual fuel and red meat quotas or, as was the case that day, to renew the license to use his winery machines.

He decided to stay inside this time—they should call him soon, he thought. To the right of the security guards, he saw two large doors he hadn’t noticed before under a long sign that reminded him of a stained glass window in his church. He squinted in order to inspect the image, which consisted of a man in his sixties—white skin and hair, a deep, almost angelic gaze—holding an animal in his arms. Given its appearance, the sign might have been camouflaged for days amidst the engravings Tom used to see in his church if it weren’t for what was written at the bottom: How to prepare for a planet ten degrees warmer? Lecture by Albert Grimm, chair of the Committee for Combating Climate Change. December 24, 4 pm at the Thunberg Auditorium. The lecture would mark the opening of yet another edition of the annual congress organized by the committee, which was always scheduled—not by chance—for December 24 and 25. It was not enough to take children away from families at this time; an important part of the State planning involved promoting competition with traditional dates like this one.

Tom knew the man. He appeared sporadically on some television shows. However, Tom preferred to get the news through the radio, where he had already heard him on multiple occasions. Whenever he heard Grimm’s words, he would get worried about the future; he couldn’t help it, though his usual distrust dampened some of the terror. However, at that moment his attention was directed to the animal that Al Grimm was holding—he didn’t know if it was a lamb or a calf.

He turned his gaze to the square through the narrow gap between one of the security guards and the metal detector. In the background, he could see the base of what had once been a statue, but now was just a solitary block of stone with graffiti that he couldn’t read at that distance. His vision was often interrupted by the hundreds of people walking with their heads down, each looking at a thin brick in their hands—the objects gleamed but looked like handcuffs. Only one out of every fifty people who passed in front of Tom’s eyes didn’t drag that heavy iron ball; at that moment, he was possibly the only one in the building not carrying that burden. He had the joy of being able to walk with his head held high, truly experiencing the places he passed by, and not mesmerized by the artificial glow of his shackles.

Three hundred thirteen! Three hundred thirteen!—a woman with giant hips crawled across the carpet calling for Tom’s number. Here!—he waved the paper, apologizing to the grumpy lady and escorting her to her window. As she squeezed her way back into the booth, Tom slipped the form through the gap between the glass and the counter. For a few minutes, as she entered the data from the form he’d submitted into the system, he saw her punishing the keys as if they had done something wrong to her. He thought that the number of genders seemed to have increased even more in relation to recent forms, but he was already adept at filling them out, which on other occasions had taken him a lot of time: in the race and gender fields, it was enough to choose the only options that were written in lowercase letters only.

Finally, he heard the printer spit out its decision, promptly delivered by the fat woman, who wore an air of satisfaction. DENIED—that was the verdict of the wise system. Scanning the paper from top to bottom, Tom twisted his jaw covered by a thick beard, as gray as his short hair, which pointed upwards. How so, ma’am? he asked calmly, with some skepticism. Denied means that it wasn’t granted, she replied in a condescending tone. No, that I know. And so? He tried to keep calm. And so you won’t be able to use those two machines, sir—she could barely hide her petty glee. But I bought them just three years ago! They are still in excellent shape! he argued, while looking for more facts that could have been ignored by mistake, despite the perfection of the system. Only two months had passed since he had paid the last installment of the loan taken to buy those machines; therefore, it was surely a misunderstanding. Sir, it’s not me who decides. According to the system, you have already reached the carbon quota available to your group, and your company’s aggregate carbon footprint no longer supports this renewal. There’s nothing I can do. Excuse me. She savored each word and dropped like a guillotine the small shutter that each booth had behind the glass. Tom remembered exactly the day he had learned what that word meant—group.

The incredulous Thomas Walsh expected very little from the government, but he had still been caught off guard. He didn’t understand how the two tanks where the wine was fermented could pollute the environment so much that they had to be shut down; and even if they did, both had been manufactured a few years ago, so would just continuing to use them really be so harmful to nature? He wanted to ask the lady these questions, but preferred to try to swallow his defeat when he saw that one of the security guards was already approaching.

He left the building still looking at the paper and, instead of turning left, where he would find his old pick-up truck—an elegant 1984 Ford F150—he continued straight with head down, until he stumbled on the step that delimited the imposing base of the statue that was no longer there. He remembered the time when monuments across the country were removed for sanitary reasons. Apparently, they were disseminating agents of the viruses of racism and hate; he had never imagined that so many important figures in the country’s history were racists and fascists. When he finally raised his eyes from the paper to the base, he could read the graffiti on it and, judging by those words, he thought that maybe the scientists weren’t so wrong; there really was a lot of hate there. He thought that perhaps they should have removed the bases of the statues too, to ensure that such a virus was eradicated.

His eyes had already been freed from the verdict nailed to the paper, but his mind was still a prisoner, so he put off returning to the car, as a walk should help him sort his thoughts. He walked to the avenue adjacent to the square and turned left, trying to process past, present, and future. However, a few steps later and still without conclusions, his body stopped, although it seemed that his brain had not given him that order. Looking around, he recognized a red door. It was O’Briain’s, the bar of old Aengus Ó Briain, a family friend whom Tom’s grandfather had met fighting in the war of wars. In addition to the wooden door, the façade of the bar featured greasy glass, with the bar’s name drawn in green along with a three-leaf clover. The same design could be seen on an overhead sign, which Gus hadn’t lit in a while. Electricity was already too expensive without that extra cost. The bar still being open was, in itself, a victory for old Aengus.

Tom used to go to the bar with some regularity, but all those who used to hang out with him were now only kept in his heart. As a child, he would go with his father and his grandfather, which made some customers raise eyebrows at him. If his mere presence disturbed them, what would they do if they knew that Tom, with his parents’ consent, was already tasting the family wines? O’Briain’s was the scene of many memories, which made him cut it out of his life after the loss of Julia. They used to go to the bar together especially during football season, not because of him, who barely understood the rules, but for her, who loved this violent sport—the strongest link she had with her deceased father. The scars from the loss of his ancestors would never go away, but they were already part of his skin. Julia’s death, however, had driven a dagger too deep into his chest, and that cut was still bleeding.

Looking into the dark interior of the bar, he recalled the countless times in the last few months that his friend Drew had invited him into conversations they were having. They were supposedly dense and certainly antithetical to the current government, whose headquarters were unknown to Tom, but which he believed to be located across the ocean. Maybe it was time to get together with friends again and try to understand what they have been talking about so much. He looked back at the paper, thinking once again that something must be wrong. He turned, walking back the two blocks until he saw the large committee building, which had a navy blue façade. The doors were still open; maybe if he insisted they might notice some flaw in the assessment carried out minutes before… He took a few more steps towards the blue building, but his stomach churned. The building was a magnet that no longer attracted him, quite the opposite. His cells were repulsed by the construction. Along with the intestines, his brain decided to join in the riot, projecting in his mind the door of O’Briain’s and adding a beautiful glowing outline to it. Hostage to his viscera, Tom turned around and, in seconds, he was back in front of the red door—he felt the heat generated by the eager joy of his organs. Would he really find something special there? Could there be light? And if there is… Would he want to see it? Anyway, taking the reins of the situation, his right hand decided to end the hesitation.

Tommy! A familiar voice brought him immediate satisfaction for the boldness of his hand. It was old Aengus Ó Briain—the only one who called him that way since the death of his grandfather. He wore a dark brown felt hat, with a flat central part and a horizontal black band at its base. He was looking at Tom through the big round lenses of his glasses, which were attached to the frame only at the top. Gus! he exclaimed, hugging him. Step on your toes, boy? he said, while still hugging him. Tom didn’t understand the question, but he felt a warmth in his chest that was once the rule, and today was the exception. Haven’t seen you in what… a year? added the old man, who had noticed Tom’s confused expression. Ah… a lot of work, you know… he replied and looked away. In fact, taking care of the winery was demanding, but they both knew the real reason he had avoided his friend’s bar for so long. Two years before, the old man had attended Julia’s wake, and since then—he always counted on Drew to give him rides—they’d only seen each other at Father Paul’s masses. However, with the closure of the church by the State, the old man refused to go to the masses celebrated in front of the building, which had been spray-painted and damaged by so-called peaceful protesters.

What do you want to drink, boy? There is no more of your wine… Tom was not surprised, as he had given his friend a box two Christmases ago. I’ll bring you more one of these days, he said. I would buy it, but nobody here has been able to pay for it… Gus apologized; the price of Walsh wine was, in fact, beyond the possibilities not only of the old man’s clientele, but also of a large part of the population. I know, it hasn’t been easy for anyone, he replied, looking at the now well-crumpled paper still in his left hand. I went over to the committee today, he said in a wistful voice. Fuel or meat?—these quotas were in fact the two biggest reasons for visiting the committee. No, I tried to renew the license of two machines there, but…—he shook his head regretfully. So you can’t use them anymore? Tom confirmed. Maria? Come listen to this! Well, they are geniuses, aren’t they? Now the planet is safe, joked the old man, waving his arms.

A few seconds later, a beautiful woman in her late thirties emerged from the service door, which led to the stairs to Aengus’s house. Now everything will get better, Maria… Tommy just told me he can’t use his machines anymore, he satirized. What kind of machine? Does it smoke a lot? she asked, even before introducing herself. Not at all! It’s just two tanks… Those for wine fermentation, you know?—the woman laughed, showing all her teeth. Her thick hair, as black as her delicate glasses with small rectangular lenses, contrasted with her porcelain skin. You can use them… Thomas?—she looked for confirmation. Just Tom, he replied. Well, Tom, you can keep using them, you see… they make a lot of rules, but they don’t have the slightest ability to enforce them, she said, giving rise to some hope in him, who hadn’t thought of that possibility; it was Drew who tended to be the source of comments containing such contempt for the law. Maria Demetra—she finally introduced herself, shaking his hand. But you can call me DEMI, she emphasized, looking at Aengus, who insisted on calling her by her first name; he hid a laugh as he poured three shots of vodka. Maria was the chief scientist on the committee, Tommy, he explained, giving more meaning to the design that Tom saw on the woman’s shirt: the planet Earth in the center, surrounded by the phrase: There is no Planet B.

Just above her red eyes, Demi had a scar that vertically interrupted her left eyebrow. It couldn’t have been very old, but it was already closed; Tom, however, didn’t have the heart to ask what had happened to the woman he had just met. And why did you leave the committee?—he decided to ask a seemingly less intrusive question, unaware that it had to do with both the scar and her reason for living in a small back room at O’Briain’s. Well, that’s a story for another day, she deflected, while Tom tried to mentally match the events of the previous day with the sentence he had heard two minutes before. Doesn’t the SS do that kind of inspection too? he asked, arousing curiosity in both of them. SS? she asked, squinting one eye as she searched her memory. He had no choice; he needed to share what he had witnessed—a tragedy whose protagonist must still be languishing in his bed. He drank his vodka and began.

II

The morning dawned as cloudy as the fate of little Jimmy York. Tom selected a few bunches of grapes from his plantation, put the basket on the seat of his old truck and headed down the narrow lane towards the sealed church, although there were no more masses and Father Paul’s whereabouts were still unknown. Route 33 ended at the foot of the mountain, so the route to the left led to the bridge—a necessary passage to reach the city—while the route to the right gave access not only to other farms, but also to the entrance of the hill that led to the Valley, a small town two hours away from there, isolated on top of the mountains. As he passed in front of the church, he turned right, arriving at the cemetery where Julia had been for two years. Even though he felt ice cold in his stomach and his eyes moistened whenever he did it, for a second he felt her present again as in the other twenty-seven years, and not just in his chest, a place she would never leave.

He made the sign of the cross and returned to the avenue that led to the hill, heading straight for the York house. As he passed the entrance to the mountain, he remembered months before when he had helped Pastor Lawrence in his escape to the Valley, the day Father Paul was arrested. Always a Catholic, Tom also attended—as long as the government allowed—the evangelical church, influenced by Julia. He did notice some differences between them, but he felt welcomed by both communities. Other than this couple, no one participated in both masses and worship services, and no one had been in a better position to see over the years just how these herds had been shrinking. Had the dropouts migrated to another temple, found other gods? Or would they have definitively abandoned any religiosity? Thomas Walsh walked faster and faster towards his destination, and that was one of the answers he was bound to find.

He passed by one of the many warehouses owned by the Bear, a foreign businessman with narrowed eyes and giant cheeks, who he always heard about in the news. The meaning of foreign, however, was losing strength every day, as well as country and borders. The guy must have been very well connected, as he always participated in events with politicians and journalists from the news conglomerate that owned all the channels, radios and newspapers: the MSDNC network. However, none of this helped him make a decent wine; the one Tom made cost twice as much, but the difference in quality was so great that he still sold more. He was filled with pride when he thought about it, for it was a sign that he was keeping alive the tradition started by his grandfather. The winery was the family legacy, and it would be his as well.

His clients were almost exclusively inhabitants of the upscale neighborhood, part of the city located on the other side of the river, which merged with the ocean where it emptied due to its proximity. It would even be possible to get there without crossing the waters; however, doing the entire route by land would require much more time and fuel, which meant that everyone opted for the crossing, either through the large bridge or via the boats that left the pier at the Diversity Square.

A few miles past the Bear’s warehouse, he could already see the entrance to the small road that led to the York’s farm. Less than a minute from the curve, he noticed a black car pulling up, with the appearance of a police cruiser. He continued unhurriedly, thinking they must have been looking for some criminal or something, but then his memory gave him a reality check—the hair on the back of his neck remembered too. There was a very specific reason for the police visit, but it had been over three years. Was it possible they were there for… Jimmy?

Tom quickly pulled over the truck in front of his friend’s house, next to the car that he now realized was not a police car. Maybe it had been at some point, because the model was the same, but its ceiling did not have the traditional lights, and it was all black, except for the small white print on the door’s bodywork: SS-013. He didn’t know what that meant; perhaps the number was the identification of the unit, but what about the acronym? Run, son! RUN! Kate’s scream interrupted his observation of the car. He hurried to the back of the property, where he saw a strong man in a black uniform holding little Jimmy by his arms, while another shorter, younger man tried to restrain the desperate woman.

What’s the problem, sir? he asked with wild eyes. Abortion order. The boy was born without authorization, said the officer who was holding Jimmy, confirming Tom’s suspicion, who noticed that the men wore a sky-blue armband on their left arm, with a white symbol that resembled the shape of the continents, and just below the acronym SS. Up against the wall, ordered the taller officer, and Tom obeyed. That’s right. Now stay there, no tricks, added the leader of the operation. The other, clearly less experienced, was holding Kate with difficulty. At the peak of her animal instinct, holding her was an arduous task for the rookie; finally getting enough room for the blow, Kate landed a powerful elbow to his testicles, knocking him down immediately.

Oh, for fuck’s sake… the leader lamented his partner’s incompetence, seeing the jaguar approaching with determination to retrieve her calf. Tom feinted, still processing all the variables exposed there, but the woman didn’t seem to need any help. She yanked her son from the officer’s arms, who offered no resistance. His passivity, however, hid another tactic: after she took the third step away while looking at her executioner, he drew his gun and fired, hitting the side of the woman’s left thigh. In a second, Kate and Jimmy were stretched out on the lawn, ten feet from the other officer, who was still trying to catch his breath, resting his arms on the first of the three steps that led to the kitchen. Reflexively, Tom took two steps towards the shooter. Hey! Do you want one too, pal? the man asked, pointing the gun at him, who froze and slightly raised his arms. Get up, faggot! he ordered the younger officer, while Tom knelt beside his friend, who, bleeding, grabbed her son in tears, as if only her hug could protect him from the executioner.

Tom was trying to figure out what he could do to prevent the kid’s capture, help his friend and punish the sadistic officer. He wasn’t a black belt at all, he was unarmed, and even if by a miracle he managed to take the gun from one of them, he didn’t know how to shoot. Drew had tried to teach him one weird dawn a few months ago, but it was such a quick class… Was it possible? Enough with the excuses, he thought, with his eyes flashing red. All this internal debate had lasted about five seconds, and now he was determined to react. He would get up and go to the Ford, where he would find his revolver, which Drew had practically forced him to keep in his door bin. It’s in God’s hands! he thought, as he planted his right foot to get up towards the cinematic reaction he had projected.

However, he had no time to react; he felt a blow to the back of his head and passed out. The leader repeated the gesture over Kate’s skull, and ordered his partner to retrieve the child. Do you think you can at least take care of him? he asked mockingly, while pulling the boy, who was trying to hold to a passed out Kate. His crying and calling for his unconscious mother had already turned into an inaudible shriek by the time he was placed in the back seat of the car. Little Jimmy no longer had the energy to protest, and soon he wouldn’t even have the right to breathe. State orders, carried out to the letter by the SS