Page 2 of Booked for Theft

Medical bills had disappeared. Untraceable envelopes containing small cash payments with printed notes of apology kept appearing. Care packages appeared on doorsteps with no evidence of who had sent them.

When tragedy had come calling for one of the families, somebody had covered all medical costs and funeral expenses, and nobody had been able to find out anything about the anonymous donor.

By the day, things became stranger, confusion took over, and nobody knew what to believe anymore.

I suspected I still lived, safe from the government’s long reach, solely because of the efforts of those in the shadows, who muddied the waters a little more every day. My natural inclinations, to stay out of politics, go to work, and only handle cell activities as needed or directed by the FBI, likely helped my cause. In reality, I poked my nose where it didn’t belong and would continue to do so.

The watchful eyes of the government wouldn’t know that, not if I had my way. To them, I would be a pawn in their game, one determined to be a safe enough risk. As long as the people kept watching, the government might not be able to act, not without playing their cards early.

If I judged from the calendar Senator Thaddens had sent me, we had limited time to act.

Judgment Day came for the United States, and the lack of an election trail, the lack of the people having a voice, all pointed at the same conclusion.

The people no longer had a choice.

Sometime when we hadn’t been looking—or had been too busy looking the other way—someone had silenced us. Nobody had been even given a chance to squeak, let alone scream. Our freedom to decide hadn’t perished with even a whisper, but in the still quiet of the grave.

Unlike those who’d perished, the American people clawed at their coffins, determined to break themselves free and rise again into a new life, one free from the stranglehold of their own government. Deep within the hallowed vaults of the library, history provided a roadmap to how the people might reclaim the sacred words the founding fathers had declared upon securing independence.

‘We the People’ would return, shed off the burial soil the government had tossed over our battered bodies, and reclaim our heritage. Those brave enough to learn from the past understood what would happen.

The wise braced for the worst, knowing what would come when the government took its final misstep and roused the sleeping beast.

Only one question remained: how many would die before the people once again enjoyed freedom from prosecution and tyranny?

I feared the question because I knew the answer: too many.

At four in the morning, I woke Bradley, gave him a kiss, promised I would be careful, and got behind the wheel of his precious red car, determined to reclaim the final pieces of my broken life. Despite frequent trips to the mechanic, after making the four hour drive to Senator Thaddens’s home, I understood the vehicle’s fate.

She would become a garage princess, only driven long enough to move her fluids sufficiently, likely no more than ten miles a week, until the time came to drain her of life, flush the lines, and retire her in a showcase room, her engine forever silenced. The car’s sorry state matched well with my country’s predicament. The people were much like her engine, worn and tired, barely able to keep moving forward.

By the inauguration, I wondered if the engine would be able to start at all. Would the country’s lifeblood be drained dry? Could everything truly fall completely apart in less than a year?

Dark and dreary thoughts haunted me right up until I parked in front of the senator’s estate, a planation style manor dating back to the Civil War. I wondered if it would survive the second Civil War. I wouldn’t be waiting for long to discover the truth of that, not if everything continued on the same path.

I picked up my purse, slung it over my shoulder, and took care with locking Bradley’s baby. I even gave the roof a fond caress, something those who monitored me would expect.

Being able to drive the vehicle had crystalized a few truths for me.

I had healed.

I would continue to heal, although my foot would pain me on stormy nights and cold days. I would have reminders, in the form of discomfort, all pointing to the moment when I had put the love of my life over my survival. Every now and then, I dreamed of the crash, and the memories fortified me for the days to come.

With my chin lifted, I headed for the senator’s front door. As the government had spies everywhere, especially among those forced to serve, I behaved as expected. I hesitated for a brief moment before pressing the doorbell. They would read into that pause.

They would assume I maintained a certain amount of discomfort around those of higher station despite the rarity of my abilities and my encroaching entry into the Hampton family. My existence would continue to bother them, as I walked a path they hadn’t anticipated.

I’d only been the first exsanguinator to pursue the healing arts. I would not be the last. Day by day, the media showcased some new soul, likewise cursed with magic like mine, doing good in their community. Even those with low aptitude for the art drew attention.

Some served as doctors.

Some served as nurses.

Some served as field medics.

All beat the national averages for survivability of their patients. All helped hold death’s chilling hand at bay.

The government could no longer tout exsanguinators as beings to be feared.