by Jesse Moya
Leon sat staring across his dining room table at the cobwebbed corner of the ceiling. Today was Thursday– or was it Wednesday? Either way the gin, who had been his only companion last night, was pounding at his temples and plucking at the nausea in his stomach.
The orange room was lit from the sunrise peeking in through the windows which meant he was already late for today. After a minute of stern thought he figured he would not be making it to work today, which was to be his third mark against him at that damn job.
He pulled a cigarette out of his pack on the table and walked outside to light it. There was no one else in the house, but he figured it wouldn’t hurt to keep the house smelling somewhat clean.
“Old habits…”, he said with a smirk.
Leon walked to a crooked stack of books he pulled out last night and picked up a dusty copy of “Mutual Aid” on the way out and sat on the front porch. With the cigarette to his lips, he lit the lighter and inhaled the first bit of butane tinted smoke. Blowing it out, he opened to his bookmark and began again on Avoiding Competition. Who ever would have thought cooperation was such a radical idea? But that’s how far things have gone in today’s world. After The Patriots took over, everyone had to crawl over each other. Any type of collaboration could be seen as “communism”.
On the sidewalk, a mother walked by with a stroller and caused his reflexes to drop the book. She looked at him and then glanced down at the book. Could she see the title? Just possession of this type of material was enough to cause alarm. They both knew he was already dead.
“Mornin’ Mrs. Padilla,” he said politely with a nod.
She looked at him with a pitying glance and muttered, “Hello there, Leon,” but kept walking.
If this were a different world, he would have said more, however she was a Daughter of the Patriots and couldn’t be seen even talking to such a subvert.
He returned to his cigarette, now halfway gone, and turned a page in the book. His focus shifted to the lack of traffic today, which was odd for the early morning work rush. Not even a car passed by. He got up and looked down the sidewalk to find Mrs. Padilla. She was gone. As if she had vanished into the neighbor’s hedge or been pulled into a black SUV. He crushed his cigarette, grabbed his book and went back inside.
As he walked down the hallway he dragged his fingers along the walls, raising and lowering his arms just in time to knock the pictures off their hangers. They hit the floor with a loud crash and shattered behind him. He didn’t care.
They would be here soon, anyways and make more of a mess, he thought.
At the sound of the front door closing, the cat had been bothered and walked in expecting a full bowl of food.
“Alright, you mangy beast, here you go,” Leon told his friend. “You get some extra today, ok? Don’t eat it all at once.”
He filled the dish and poured an additional saucerful of the dry kibble.
Pulling the phone out of his pocket, he laughed.
“7:47, come on you bastards, I thought we could do better.”
There were still coffee shops open and friendly enough to someone reading radical literature and so he grabbed the studded leather jacket out of the closet and walked out the door. They’d find him.
The streets were still empty. No cars honking horns or blaring music, no one walking or riding their bikes to work. Nothing.
The Patriot’s posters were on the street poles demanding obedience to the cause.
“We’re Saving America” one read with a caricaturistic policeman pushing a man against the wall by his neck. The Patriot Party, as they were previously known, took power sometime after the Pandemic. Leon didn’t know how long after, nor did he care. According to the new laws of the country, he was a criminal. He was a criminal because he read something. Something that was not to be hidden or forgotten. He had hidden it from his wife. And now she was gone, as was that book.
At the coffee shop, there were a surprising number of people. These were laborers, as they were called. Laborers were not part of The Patriot Party, but worked for them instead. They were not allowed to vote. They were not allowed to read anything not approved by The Patriots. They were allowed to exist, work and create more workers.
“I’ll take a black coffee, please,” Leon said to the lady at the counter.
She said nothing.
Leon put five dollars on the table, raised his cup, met the eyes of the woman and walked to a table near the door.
The shop was a small drive-through building which probably was a fast food place at some point. There were tables attached to the floor and booth seating that was wide enough to fit the modern rotund American. Leon sat with his back towards the door and sipped his coffee staring out the window; still no traffic.
Halfway through his cup, he heard the door open. Just then, the crowd in the shop all turned to the entrance, except for Leon.
A man in a brown suit jacket with yellow elbow pads nervously looked towards the side door, desperate for an exit.
Three sets of boots began trudging toward the counter. Two stopped short and one continued to where Leon sat.
“Leon Monarez…”, said an ominous and calm voice from behind him.
“Yup,” Leon replied, sipping his coffee staring out the window.
The pair of boots turned into a well fitted black suit which sat down across from him in the booth.
“You don’t mind of course,” the man said as he put his folded hands on the table.
Leon glanced at the table noticing first the man’s hands which were tattooed from the knuckles up to inside the suit. “TRUE GRIT” inked across his fingers indicated he was of The Patriot’s collection squad, a group of people who were formally in the U.S. Military but were now considered Special Forces for The Party’s dirty work.
“Hmmm, let’s see,” the man said as his thumb raced up and down his phone. “Concealing of subversive material, conspiracy to commit treason, distribution of seditious media – my, my my– Mr. Monarez, you have been busy.”
Leon gave a low chuckle and checked the time on the wall.
“8:34… hmph. I expected better of The Great Patriot Army,” he said and sipped his coffee.
The man shot a sinister grin at Leon, showing a hint of a gold tooth between his lips.
“Now don’t be testy, Mr. Monarez, you’re a traitor,” the man said. “See, according to Section 7 of Decree 2025, I have the right to kill you here.”
“I read a book–”
“Ah yes,” chimed the man, “We’ll add that to the list as well. A book Mrs. Monarez brought to us. Tell me, how DOES it feel– Mr. Monarez, to have that one person in this world you can trust the most turn you in?”
Leon clenched his fist under the table but gave no facial response.
“You were married for what– six years, yes? Your wife gave us quite a list of crimes you committed during that time.”
They were interrupted by some commotion. Across the room, one of the pairs of boots could be heard pulling out a pistol from his holster. With a loud bang, the man in the brown suit jacket hit the floor followed by a slow red drip on the table.
“You see– We’re not just here for you, Mr. Monarez,” the man smiled, shaking his head. “All you people are the same. You congregate to the easiest of targets thinking you are safe in your conversations and your books.”
He got up and knocked over a plant in a large clay pot. Through the terracotta shards and soil, he pulled out a small red booklet.
“You think we don’t know the owner here was stashing Marx? Atwood? Goldman?” he said pointing at the man in the brown suit.
“There is only ONE book that is to be read in this nation, Mr. Monarez, and I think you’re smart enough to know which one that is.”
“1984?” Leon said, raising an eyebrow.
A second pistol draw was heard across the room.
The man put his hand up toward the noise and straightened his posture.
“Mr. Monarez, I hereby charge you with Disturbing the Peace of this fine establishment, and will now have you trespassed from the property.”
The two pairs of boots pounded toward him but before he could get a good look at his abductors, his view went black. With his head in a thick burlap sack, the men slapped handcuffs on his wrists and dragged him out of the booth, spilling the last two sips of coffee from his cup.
He was shoved outside where he heard a heavy metal door creak open. The two men threw him inside and he found his way up to a cold, metal bench. An engine started and the bench inside gave a jolt as the vehicle started moving.
Through the thick burlap he caught the faint reminder of his home. A smell he would never forget. Confused, his mind began racing until he arrived at what was causing the scent.
“Hello, Darling,” he said into the darkness. “Fancy seeing you here.”
There was no reply, but he knew her perfume.
“Well I’ll just go out with it,” he said. “I fed the cat, so don’t bother giving him any today or tomorrow.”
Still, no reply.
“I’m sorry I didn’t see it, after all those years,” he laughed. “A Daughter of The Patriots, in my own home. Well, you sure played it off well. Asking questions about this and that, and how to apply my theories in everyday life. They trained you well, Marina.”
“I should have known,” he said laughing and shaking his head. “How much are you paid for this, by the way? You know technically I will get half of your cut.”
The vehicle thudded to a sudden halt and the boots outside were drawing close to the door. It opened with its creaky hinges and he was pulled out by one man this time. The other he assumed was escorting his traitorous wife down the two stairs.
“Mr. Monarez,” said the familiar sinister voice. “I do apologize for the temporary accommodations, but our other vans were out blocking the road to your favorite coffee shop.”
“Oh, now don’t go spending all those tax dollars on me now,” he replied. “Just make sure my wife knows I will be signing those divorce papers. That’s sort of a sin to you people, right?”
A rifle stock hit his cheek with a loud crack.
“Ah, yes, and I do apologize for you riding with her,” said the sinister voice. “I was afraid we would cause alarm if we pulled up to the shop with her in the backseat. She died this morning, Mr. Monarez, right when you put out your first cigarette.”
“Wha–”
“You see, though your wife did a great service to her country, exposure to such seditious and treasonous material still bears the penalty of our courts. She will be awarded the Presidential Appreciation Medal for stopping a member of the Radical Left!”
Leon dropped to his knees.
“And you sir,” said the sinister voice, “will disappear along with your books.”
Three days later, it was reported in The Journal that The Patriots responded to a call of a man and a woman engaged in a marital dispute. The man had been corrupted by Communists which had led him to attack his loving wife who had called on the Patriots for help. The prompt response of the heroic Patriots was celebrated for days.
At 7:45 the next morning, Mrs. Padilla walked down the sidewalk with a stroller. The morning traffic nearly drowned the noise of “The Handmaid’s Tale” in her headphones.
Curiosity Killed the Cat 