First Blood
Nashville,
Tennessee
Eight
Days before the Presidential Election
The young man stood on the far left of the crowd
gathered in front of the State Capitol Building, as he was instructed to do. He
had been there for hours. Waiting. Preparing.
It was almost time.
The
unseasonably frigid autumn air made him shiver in spite of the dirty military
surplus coat he wore. Unkempt hair poked from his woolen cap and ran down his cheeks
to form a scraggly beard. A boyish brow framed dark, merciless eyes.
His shaggy appearance contrasted that of the crowd
of typical bourgeoisie types, well dressed, middle-class, clean-cut. Some had their kids with them,
bundled up snuggly against the cold. Thousands of them filled the frigid Capitol
grounds. They were here to see one person, the person he came to kill.
Cheers and campaign chants filled the icy air
as the excitement grew. Finally, an attractive woman in a thick coat and scarf stepped
up to the outdoor podium in front of the gathering. She droned on and on about
the Founding Fathers, tossing in a quote from one of them with every other
breath. She was Congresswoman Martha Jefferson, freshman member of the House of
Representatives on the newly formed Constitutional Party ticket.
“We are being lulled to sleep,” she said, her
breath an ethereal vapor in the wintry air. “The media ignores injustice and
covers up scandals within our corrupt government. Instead, they serve us
stories about celebrities and sports teams disguised as real news and we eat it
up and ask for more.” The crowd was silent, hanging on her every word. “Our
nation is on the verge of bankruptcy, and we sleep. The educational system
turns our children against the heroes and virtues that made America great, and
we sleep. Government policies and pop culture destroy our families. The police
are militarized. Our communications are monitored. Our every move is watched as
our rights are stripped from us one by one. And we sleep. Our very civilization
is on the verge of collapse. And yet we sleep!” Her eyes locked onto her
audience. “But we cannot sleep anymore. We must wake up! Wake up to the
intentions of those who seek to destroy our republic. Wake up and halt our
nation’s drift into tyranny. Wake up before our children became slaves to the
State!”
The crowd cheered in agreement.
The young man remained still.
Jefferson’s delivery was polished and
charismatic. Her people were primed for the call to action.
“Boycott the media. Stand up to the
educational system. Refuse to vote for establishment candidates. Educate your
friends and neighbors before it’s too late.” She paused. “But the biggest thing
I ask of you today is your help. I know
that we are leading in every poll, but Election Day is still more than a week
away. A lot can happen between now and then. Now is not a time to rest. It is a
time for action. It’s going to take every one of us to get the job done, but we
can do it together. And with your help, I am going to be the next President of
the United States!”
The crowd erupted into raucous applause.
Jefferson raised a hand to still the multitude.
“In closing, I will defer once again to our founders. E Pluribus Unum. From
many, one. They knew that our greatest strength is and always will be our
unity. It is only when we come together as one that we are truly the United States. Thank you. God bless you
all and God bless America.”
More applause.
Jefferson turned to her right and exited the
stage, shaking hands with exuberant supporters as she went.
The young man elbowed his way through the devotees,
moving into Jefferson’s path until almost within arm’s reach. His hand slipped
into his coat.
“Martha!” he yelled.
Jefferson looked to him, still smiling. She
reached to shake his hand.
“GUN!” Someone yelled.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Campaign cheers turned to primal screams as
people fought to escape the gunman.
Blood spattered the congresswoman’s face. An aid
fell to the ground next to her, gore pouring from his chest and neck.
A body guard shoved Jefferson to the ground
with violent urgency.
Hands from the crowd clawed at the young
man’s arm as he tried to aim his revolver for another shot.
Crack! Crack!
Another body fell—a woman in a ‘Jefferson for
President’ sweatshirt this time.
The assassin hit the ground, tackled from behind
by a muscular state trooper.
More body guards rushed Jefferson into a
nearby car, shut the door and pound the roof. Tires squealed as the vehicle
sped to safety.
The shooter wrestled free of the trooper as more
police arrived. His quarry was gone. There was no escape. He had one bullet
left.
He put the pistol to his head and said, “The revolution
has begun! There is nothing you can do to stop it!”
He pulled the trigger. His lifeless body
crumpled to the frozen ground, steam rising from the bloody hole in his temple.
“Search him!” a senior policeman ordered.
Two officers rushed up and opened the killer's jacket.
“No bombs!” one of the searchers called out.The other officer rifled through the assassin’s pockets. All were empty except for one. In it he found a few dollars, a Vanderbilt University student ID, and a little green book.
The officer examined the book. It was about
the size of a pocket Testament and worn from heavy reading.
Handwritten notes and highlighted passages littered its thin dog-eared pages. A
rubber band marked a page with the underlined quote,
‘There is only one
way to shorten the death rattles of the old world and hasten the bloody birth
pangs of the new—revolutionary terror.’
The officer closed the booklet and examined
the cover. Faded letters across the stained, dingy, emerald cover spelled out
the title,
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