NORMIE [Chapter 3]
The third chapter of NORMIE, a novel by C.S.M.
Welcome back to NORMIE, a dystopian novel by C.S.M.
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Here is Chapter 3:
JACK CAMPBELL stared straight ahead, images flashing through his mind.
Fire roaring through ornately decorated halls.
Red, white, and blue flags melting in an inferno.
A man in a sharp suit held at gunpoint.
“Everything okay?”
Jack blinked. The restaurant around him came back into focus. It was crowded for the lunch hour, soft music accompanying the sound of utensils against porcelain plates. A brilliant chandelier hung above rounded tables filled with diners in business attire. Television screens encircled the upper walls with various programs being broadcast.
There was a menu in Jack’s hands and his fingers were pressed white against the plastic cover. His coworker, Patrick Fisher, was seated directly across from him.
“I’m fine,” Jack answered, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.
But he wasn’t fine. His thoughts were on the thumb drive, or more specifically, the files on the drive.
He’d spent the entire morning ignoring emails and constantly whipping his head back to the entrance of his cubicle. His hand had moved autonomously with the mouse, combing through the drive’s contents. What he saw was branded in his mind’s eye, replaying in a constant loop. The thumb drive, carelessly dropped by the White Rabbit, couldn’t be left at the office while he went to lunch with Patrick. It was now buried beside his phone in the front pocket of his khaki pants.
Wouldn’t the White Rabbit be looking for the drive?
The menu began shaking in his hands.
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“Sure you’re alright?” Patrick said in a near whisper, leaning forward while glancing at the neighboring tables.
“Fine,” Jack said. “Great.”
Another voice spoke beside them.
“Sorry for the wait, gentlemen. Welcome to Charlie’s. Can I get you something to drink?”
The waitress’ brunette hair was pulled back, a curled strand falling over each ear. She wore an ivory blouse and held a tablet under her arm. On a normal afternoon, Jack would have noticed the alluring shape of her mouth, her lips painted candy-red.
But it wasn’t a normal afternoon.
“I’m fine with water,” Patrick said, offering a smile as he adjusted his gold watch band.
The waitress returned a smile and shifted her attention to Jack.
“Water. Yes. Thanks.” He took a deep breath.
She nodded. “Got it. Two waters. And do you need some more time, or are you ready to order food?”
Patrick glanced at Jack, and then looked back at the waitress. “I think we’ll need a couple minutes.”
“No problem,” she said. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
Patrick watched as she walked away. “Well, she must be new, huh? We would have remembered her.”
Jack folded his hands over his menu. “You know what day it is, right?”
Patrick leaned back in his chair. “The sixth? Or is it the eighth?”
“Be serious.”
Patrick laughed. “Of course I know what day it is. November seventh. I don’t think you could walk outside for two seconds without seeing some kind of banner or poster. We passed a thousand of them on the walk over here.”
“Never forget 11/7,” Jack said ominously, scanning the room.
“Right. So what about it?”
Jack paused, catching a glimpse of one of the television screens in the corner. Bradley Davenport was back on for a special afternoon edition of Davenport Daily. He was framed in a medium shot, that ever-concerned expression on his face.
“And what message do you want to convey at tonight’s memorial?” Davenport asked.
The shot reversed to show President Ramsey. She sat upright wearing a pearl necklace, a United America flag pinned to the lapel of her dark suit.
“Tonight I want to celebrate the rebirth of our nation. The five years since the White House Fire have shown the resiliency of our democracy. Not only who we are, but who we can be.”
Davenport adjusted his rounded glasses. “And who can we be, Madam President? What is your vision?”
“To be a nation of opportunity for everyone, not just the few. Howard and his cronies had a vision of this country that has gone the wayside of history. We didn’t let the hateful few who would poison our process win. There’s no room for hate in United America.”
“Jack!” Patrick snapped.
The restaurant returned to Jack’s vision. For a long moment it seemed like he’d been in the interview room himself.
“What’s going on? You look like hell.”
Jack brought his hand up to his forehead and felt thick beads of sweat wipe from his skin. He lowered his voice.
“How much do you know about the White House Fire?”
“How much do I know?” Patrick glanced around the room. “I mean, it was a national tragedy. An attack on our democracy itself—”
“No, don’t repeat what they say on TV. What do you actually know?”
Patrick sighed. “What is there to know? Howard and his supporters were pissed about losing the election. So the next night they burned the White House down and tried to take over. They tried to end our democracy.”
“And then what?”
“And then we fortified how we do things. Things are safer for everyone. No more, what do they call them? Loose strings? We’re all on the same front. We’re all one United America.”
“For democracy,” Jack repeated. “So then let me ask you, it’s been five years,” he gripped the edge of the table. “Why haven’t we had an election since?”
Patrick laughed. It was a loud, cackling laugh, his eyes rolling back into his head. “You know perfectly well why we didn’t have an election last year. The riots out west and war in the Middle East. Too much instability. You can’t have a change of power when our democracy itself is at risk. We’ll have the next election as normal in, what now, three years?”
“That’s what they say.”
“Oh, come on now, Jack. You can’t be serious. Next you’re going to be talking about secret islands and owl statues.”
Jack squirmed in his seat. “I’m not saying anything like that. I’m just saying that maybe, maybe, things didn’t happen like we were told. Maybe there’s more to the—”
“Two waters,” the waitress said, reappearing at their table like an apparition.
Jack straightened his posture as she placed the glasses on their table.
“Are you ready to order? Or still need a few minutes?”
“We’re ready,” Patrick said, handing over his menu. “I’ll take the protein bowl.” He glared at Jack while repositioning the gold chain around his neck. “And an old fashioned.”
The waitress nodded, tapping the order onto her tablet. “And you, sir?”
Jack flipped open the menu. He scanned through the images of dishes: acheta powder protein bowl, sesame seared tofu, wild mushroom flatbread. Food just didn’t excite him as much since the bird flu and livestock diseases spread like wildfire a couple years back. He closed the menu. “I’ll have the same thing. Hold the old fashioned.”
The waitress nodded and gave a final tap on the tablet. “Coming right up.” She strolled back from their table.
“Look at her,” Patrick said, his water glass hovering below his chin. “This might have to be our new regular lunch spot.”
Jack smiled weakly. “Yeah.”
Patrick set down his glass. “You need to relax. I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but they’re obviously filling your head with some crazy ideas. What happened five years ago isn’t up for debate. It’s history.”
Jack nodded. Maybe Patrick was right.
It’s history.
What did Jack really know anyway? He was basing all of these thoughts off a random thumb drive some lunatic in a rabbit mask had dropped. Everything on it could be made up. Or maybe even some kind of bad joke. It was all a prank. Dress up in a rabbit mask and spray paint the train station. Hilarious.
But why take the time for such an elaborate joke?
Jack shook his head. He took a sip of water and followed Patrick’s gaze to one of the televisions lining the upper walls. It was showing highlights from last night’s football game between the District Red Tails and the New York Defenders. A District player was spread unconscious on the field, his left leg twisted back at a disturbing angle.
Jack used to enjoy going to the games, but it had become harder to secure tickets in advance. The league had moved to a lottery system to give everyone an equal opportunity to go. The games had also become increasingly violent since the doping rules had been changed. The camera shot changed to a New York defensive player. He was knocked over by a District player during a drive and then trampled by a stampede of opposing teammates. The camera zoomed in on his hands, the fingers gnarled and twisted, as the arena behind him celebrated a touchdown.
Jack wrenched away from the screen and saw their waitress waiting at the bar. She was saying something to another worker, then her mouth settled back into a closed position. He noticed the fullness of her lips.
Patrick’s right, she must be new.
He now wished he’d also ordered an old fashioned. The morning’s hangover had dissipated, but at least it would steady his nerves. He’d order one when she returned. Catch a small buzz before heading back to the office.
The screen above the waitress changed to a commercial, orchestral music playing alongside a deep voice: “Tonight, a special presentation: 5 Years of Renewal. President Ramsey addresses the nation.”
Jack turned to Patrick, who seemed to be reading his thoughts, which were fully returning to the drive. He tapped the outside of his pants pocket. The drive was still secure beside his phone.
Five-year-old footage of the White House Fire played on the screen and then transitioned to a construction timelapse of the People’s House. The site of rubble was cleared away and replaced by a cylindrical tower of steel and glass.
The voice continued: “Live from the People’s House. Featuring a debut performance of Rebecca Stone’s new song, Phoenix.”
President Ramsey appeared next, standing proudly in front of a United America flag. “Tonight we reflect on five years since the White House Fire. Howard and his supporters sought to send us backwards through history by destroying a symbol of our democracy. We didn’t let them win, and now stand united as ever against all prevailing threats.”
Jack’s hands balled into fists.
Lies.
They’re all lying.
That’s not what really happened.
Then his thoughts stopped all at once.
A loud ringing sound broke out from inside the restaurant. The high-pitched noise cut through the space, utensils falling onto plates as diners plugged their ears.
Jack swirled around in his chair looking for the source, and realized something in his pocket was vibrating. He pulled out his phone and the entire screen was crimson with huge letters reading:
Emergency Broadcast Commencing...
He looked up and saw everyone else in the restaurant had taken their phones out too. The same message was displayed on each. The television screens on the upper walls were all showing static. Then, simultaneously, every screen in the room — televisions, phones, tablets — began playing the same broadcast.
Bradley Davenport spoke directly to the camera. “This is an emergency broadcast. District authorities have issued a widespread search for individuals connected to remaining remnants of Howard supporters.”
Whispers broke through the restaurant. A glass shattered— the waitress stood shakily beside a puddle of liquor as she watched the broadcast.
“If you have any information pertaining to the location of these traitors,” Davenport said, “notify the authorities immediately. Failure to do so will result in assumed accompliceship. The two individuals in question were last seen exchanging information that risks the very safety of our democracy.”
Video footage played as he continued: a crowded train platform, a thumb drive on a concrete floor, a figure in a white rabbit mask.
“One individual is currently unidentified, concealing his face behind a cowardly mask.”
The image then changed, every screen in unison, to a close-up of a man in a button-down shirt and coat.
“The other has been identified as Jack Campbell.”
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I am so enjoying your story. Such a cliff hanger at the end of Chapter 3.