CHAPTER 2: THE SHOT HEARD ROUND THE WORLD

  “By the rude bridge that arched the flood, their flag to April’s breeze unfurled, here once the embattled farmers stood and fired the shot heard round the world.”

  —Ralph Waldo Emerson, Concord Hymn

  West Oakland Neighborhood, California, Federation of American States, August 10th, 1945, 1006 hours.

  Ant and Lucius sat in stunned silence as they read the newspapers. Bold black letters lined the tops of each page:

  AFRICAN REBELS LINKED TO EMBASSY SHOOTING

  BRUTISH BLACK KILLS AMBASSADOR IN ATTEMPT TO SPARK WAR

  AFRICAN BARBARISM IN CAPE TOWN, NO WHERE IS SAFE

  “This is madness…” Lucius muttered.

  Ant could not muster up any words.

  Top Deuce nodded, “This is the second matter I’d like to discuss. Last night, the FAS Ambassador to the CN, Anthony Conolly was gunned down by an African man. As one can imagine, this has been making quite a stir since dawn broke today.”

  And indeed it had been. An African male in a brown trenchcoat was seen breaking and entering the FAS embassy and shooting the FAS Ambassador to the CN, Anthony Conolly, dead before escaping in a vehicle identified as a green MG TC Midget.

  Cape Town authorities and European news coverage blames African insurgent groups such as the Nkrumahist Convention People’s Party, the Herero and Nama Movement (HNM) and the Zulu Kingdom among others.

  However, many others blamed the Cambion Church, seeing as they once assassinated Secretary General Bethmann Hollweg outside CN HQ in broad daylight. Yet oddly enough neither faction had blamed it on the Cambion Church. Nevertheless this case seemed to have no direct connection with the Cambions… as far as the public knew anyway.

  “How did we miss this!?” Ant yelled.

  “It’s possible the government’s trying to close information channels into our communities,” Isaiah said.

  “I see, that’s why you brought us newspapers from foreign publication companies,” Lucius examined the papers, none of which were particularly popular among the American people, black or white.

  “That’s partly the reason,” Top Deuce groaned, “Here’s what the big papers say.” He handed the pair a paper from the San Francisco Examiner, the Sacramento Bee and the Los Angeles Examiner. The headlines of which were quite different in comparison to the foreign publications:

  ANTHONY CONOLLY, FAMILY MAN, HERO, SHOT TO DEATH NEAR CN HQ

  ANTHONY CONOLLY ASSASSINATION RAISES QUESTIONS ABOUT CN

  AMBASSADOR TO CN MURDERED, CN REFUSES PUBLIC STATEMENT

  “They… aren’t antagonizing the Africans?” Lucius asked.

  “Yes, that’s what’s peculiar about this case,” Top Deuce spun a pen between his fingers, “Not a mention of Africans at all in the opening paragraphs, only small references in the latter half, ‘Others in the embassy reported that the shooter was an African male of approximately forty years,’ ‘Cape Town authorities claims shooter has ties to far-left insurgent groups, though evidence is lackluster,’ and of course, ‘Anthony Conolly had sent a telegraph to D.C. just before his death, American authorities speculate that he was silenced.’

  “Silenced?” Ant reread the passage again. Scrutinizing every word.

  “In summary, the Europeans are trying to paint the situation as a racial dispute as it seems to be on the surface. But the Americans are trying to push away the race factor and make it about the suspicious circumstances surrounding the death?” Lucius said.

  “Bingo,” grunted Bastion.

  “But why?” Lucius had never been so shocked in his life. What could this mean for… for everything!?

  History had taught many times over, that race-based sentencing and executing was far more efficient than a thorough, nuanced investigation. It gave rise to anger. And anger was much more powerful than truth. Such was the fate of many black men in the past. To name just one famous case: Perry Soyinka, an African male of 46 years was blamed and killed for the assassination of political speaker C. J. ‘Redneck’ Creek without trial, purely for his alleged proximity to the crime scene.

  “We’re not sure, but if we can monopolise on this event somehow, we may be able to gain some favor with our brothers in Africa,” Top Deuce stopped his pen mid spin, allowing it to drop onto the desk with a thud.

  “Of course,” Lucius said, almost robotically. That was not his assumption. His mind went to gaining favor with the white men of America. He scolded himself. How naive he was. After all they’d done to him.

  “So what now? What’s the big plan?” Ant asked.

  “About that,” Top Deuce said.

  ***

  The Blackland Prairie, Texas, Federation of American States, September 2nd, 1945, 1843 hours.

  On a certain field, once red with Cambion flora now lush green and golden with the vigor of ripening maize crops, a small farmhouse sat alone in the tranquility of the setting sun.

  Nicholas Branch leant down to seat himself onto his rocking chair on the front porch. A neatly folded newspaper sat on a table to his right, nestled between a proper dinner of eggs and bacon, delicate silver utensils and a glass of thick white milk. Under the table was a well maintained New Ithaca Double-barrel shotgun.

  He was an older man, in his early fifties at present. His blonde hair was halfway to greying into silver. His face and features were round, yet he was surprisingly strong as he always had been. The way his muscles strung together into tight trunks were nothing less to be expected from someone with the surname ‘Branch.’ The patches of hair on his face were roughly shaved. And the blue in his eyes still sparked the exact shade of sapphires.

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  He held a pint of cider in his hand but chose to lower it back onto the table. He sighed. He tried eating dinner, yet he felt none of its warmth. The flavors dissipated in his mouth. The texture was drowned out by saliva. It was a heavy feeling. The kind that made you forget the sweetness of things. Even the setting sun was a morbid omen of the night to come. Goddammit. He thought. So this is how cattle feel before slaughter.

  With a deep exhale he flipped open the newspaper. His only portal to the outside world and its beasts. Nicholas read the words. A clash with the Cambions in the Atlantic. The red forests grow in the South. A senator or other warns about oncoming war with the Europeans. Cambion raids on American occupied territories in Australia on the rise. The dreaded Antarctic Cambion Hoard is on the move.

  “The world’s gone to shit,” he mumbled to himself in his deep southern drawl, “ever since those damned negroes killed the ambassador to the globalist cabal.”

  He flipped to the back page, furrowing his eyebrows. Something caught his eye. An advertisement.

  The SS America sails for Australia! On September 30th, the SS America is set to be the first ocean liner to cross the Pacific in decades. And one of the grandest in recent memory, seeing as the SS America is a top of the line vessel able to carry 1200 passengers from all walks of life.

  Cabin Class - Luxury Offering; Large Suites; Highest Quality Amenities: $250

  Tourist Class - Medium Tier Offering; Comfortable Cabins; Semi-private/Shared Baths: $150

  Third Class - Economic Offering; Indoor Lounges; Communal Bathrooms: $90

  A tremendous achievement in part of the navy, having secured a safe passage to Australia for commercial purposes. The government is currently sponsoring the voyage and allowing special promotions to encourage the settlement of the new Australian territories. Exclusive privileges will be given to veterans, farmers, medics, sawyers, machinists, educators and any jobs relating to civil infrastructure. Discounts can be elevated up to 50% depending on the applicant’s viability. The deadline for booking is 9/27/45. Departure time is set to be 0900 hours at the Port of Los Angeles.

  “Exclusive privileges, eh?” Nicholas grinned, “‘least somethin’s are still right ‘bout this world.”

  There was a rustle in the leaves.

  “Who goes there!?” Nicholas kicked the gun into his hands and pointed it straight for the noise.

  “Calm down, dad, it’s me,” said the silhouette.

  “Ah… Sharon,” the man dropped back into his rocking chair.

  The figure emerged from the shadow. A woman in her twenties with her father’s blonde hair (finely combed and curled), blue eyes and underlying strength, though without his seemingly natural rotundness. She wore a grey suit, fashioned by the so-called God of Glamor, Gilbert Adrian, and wore a pair of bright red heels. With such a luxurious lifestyle and such a poor upbringing, one would not have to be a genius to know she worked for the government. “Have you read the news?”

  “Just finished it,” he grunted, slapping the newspaper into his palm, “It’s dogshit as always. Don’t know why I even bother anymore.”

  “You are as cynical as ever, dad,” she smiled.

  “Where are the kids? Are ye here alone? Parker had better be takin’ good care of ya or I swear I’ll have his head mounted on my wall!”

  “The kids are with Owen, dad, I came to see you on business.”

  “Business?” he raised an eyebrow, “What sort of business?”

  She fished a hand into her Koretelope purse and pulled out a ticket for the SS America, handing it to her father.

  “Christ!” He said, “You want me t’ move to Australia!? The place is overrun with those demon-Cambions! It’s in this very same newspaper!” he began to flip through the pages but his daughter stopped him.

  “It’ll be alright, dad. A Cambion or two could never kill America’s beloved Paul Bunyan.”

  He sighed. Then paused. Realising there was a smile on his face. Has it been there ever since they started talking? Oh Rosie, thank you for granting me such a lovely daughter.

  “You’re a hero, dad. The higher ups say that they can grant you a substantial pension as well as farmland. This old place is too small for the likes of you.”

  “Callin’ yer old man fat? Hahaha! You’ve got the gall, Sharon!”

  “Someone had to keep you in check after mom passed.”

  “Hey now,” he gestured to his dinner, “I cut down a lot, mind you!”

  There was a moment of pause before he started again, “I can’t leave Sharon. I can’t leave this farm. Or this country.”

  “Richard won’t come back, dad. Neither will Oliver. And I’m too busy at home with Owen and the kids to come see you often.”

  “I know… I know…,” he sighed with bitterness.

  “The higher ups wanted Owen to deliver this news himself but… you know Owen, he’s too scared of you, so he sent me in his stead.”

  “Little city boy bastard! I knew I should’ve picked another man for ya!”

  Sharon did not respond. Fresh out of college, Owen Parker had courted her as his wife and she had no grounds of denying, she was a woman after all, and women were meant to be mothers and wives first and second. She was Sharon Parker now, not Sharon Branch, the Federation said so—nay—God said so.

  Clearly the rise of political marriages was never going to sit well in a country built on freedom, but she had found her happiness with her husband as artificial as it may have been. And she would never abandon her sons, little Richy and little Nicky.

  She tried again, “Dad, this is for the best. You’ve been here too long mourning for mom. It’s about time you retire propper, without anything to weigh you down. I hear Australia’s got some wild game.”

  “What, Koalas? Listen kid, this ain’t just about yer mother, I—”

  “You can’t save Oliver, dad.”

  Nicholas’ eyes went mad.

  “He’s a traitor to the Federation. He’s as good as dead.”

  “I KNOW GOD DAMMIT!” he slammed a fist on the table, smashing what would've been dinner into smithereens. “HE’S NOT MY SON! …that beast, that wicked beast… …I’ll kill him myself! I’ll beat him to death with the stock of my shotgun! I’ll burn him and spread his ashes in the Prairie… so my Oliver can rest.”

  Sharon closed her eyes, “That’s right, dad. He’s not your son anymore. He’s been taken by the Marxist machine. Better leave him to die.”

  “But I…” he gritted his teeth, “I have to do it myself. I have to be the one who ends this. That beast killed my son.”

  “I’ll have Owen put in a special word with the higher ups. But you don’t have to fight anymore. This isn’t your war. Get away from all this. Please, dad. I want you to be happy.”

  When Nicholas looked at her, he saw the first drops of sweet tears brimming in her eyes. He stood up and approached her, and the pair embraced for a long solemn moment.

  “I’ll go,” he finally said.

  “Thank you, dad.”

  Sharon held back something from entering her voice. A pitiable lie. No. Not a lie. A piece of information withheld. The Federation needed the Blackland Prairie. The purpose of this acquisition was classified but Sharon was informed of its true purpose by her husband before the visit. And this made her truly afraid.