Revolution Read online

  REVOLUTION

  Peter Cawdron

  thinkingscifi.wordpress.com

  Copyright © Peter Cawdron 2014

  All rights reserved

  The right of Peter Cawdron to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  First published as an eBook by Peter Cawdron using Kindle Digital Publishing

  US Kindle Edition.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental

  Revolution

  Ding!

  “Good morning! We are thirty minutes from JFK. If you need to use the restrooms, please do so in the next few minutes.”

  My eyes open as the lights flicker overhead. The artificial dawn lasts only a second or so and suddenly the cabin of the airplane is as bright as noonday. I squint, struggling to adjust to being abruptly woken. I've been drooling. I wipe my mouth¸ feeling self-conscious, only to see Phil snoring, with a mask protecting his eyes from the glare. Saliva drips from the side of his open mouth.

  “Hey,” I say, nudging past him with my travel kit. I barely drank anything last night and feel a little dehydrated, but on the upside, Nature isn't calling. Being somewhat of a germaphobe, I feel compelled to brush my teeth to get the taste of Moscow out of my mouth before we land. I want to get in the line for the bathroom before either the line or the bathroom backs up.

  There are three people ahead of me so I wait patiently as the aisle beneath my feet flexes softly with the motion of the 777. The turbulence is light, but enough to have me resting one hand on the back of a seat to steady myself. The gorgeous brunette seated there turns and looks up at me. I'm expecting some backlash. I know I hate it when someone wrestles with my seat back, but she smiles. Damn, she's hot. Her long straight hair looks immaculate, as though she's just walked out of a salon and not spent the past sixteen hours negotiating departure delays at two crappy airports on the red-eye hop, skip and jump from Russia. She's wearing bright red lipstick. It's hard to focus on anything other than those passionate lips, and I catch myself staring.

  “Turbulence,” I say by way of explanation.

  “Sveta,” she says in reply, turning to face me and offering me her hand. At this point, I'm guessing she thought my name was Terrance or something. We shake hands. Her fingers are warm.

  “I, ah,” I say, embarrassed by everything. I'm half asleep. I'm sure I look like I've just crawled out of a car wreck or a zombie movie. I tuck my wrinkled business shirt back into my trousers.

  I'm clumsy.

  She's composed.

  I'm flustered.

  She's relaxed.

  “May I?”

  Cut the line in front of me and half a dozen other people backing up behind me? Sure, but only because you're dressed like a goddess, I think, nodding and trying to smile without looking like a creep. Sveta gets up. She's wearing skin-tight black leather pants and a plain blue T-shirt, although on her the T-shirt looks anything but plain.

  We shuffle forward in the line, but Sveta makes an effort not to turn her back on me, standing sideways in the aisle so we can talk. Someone behind me is grumbling about queue jumpers. Must be a Brit, but I ignore him as Sveta's smile is intoxicating.

  “Where are you from?” she asks in her distinctly Russian/English accent.

  “Oh, for me, this is home. I was born and raised in Queens, New York.”

  “And recently divorced,” she says, gesturing to my hands. Without realizing, I've been playing nervously with the ring finger on my left hand. She's right. The habit of playing with my wedding ring has outlived my marriage, and my fingers toy with a ring that's no longer there. Why am I feeling guilty? Is talking with a beautiful woman a crime?

  “Ah, yeah,” I reply, running my hands up through my hair, giving them something to do while assessing the unruly state of the mop on top of my head. Sveta laughs. She can see how uncomfortable I am talking with her. She's clearly good natured about her stunning looks. She ought to be in the movies or on the front cover of a magazine. Slowly, we edge forward as the line shortens.

  “Sorry,” a steward says, pushing past us. “There's only one working toilet up here.”

  He steps beyond me and addresses the passengers behind me, saying, “Can I get everyone here to please go back to the galley bathroom.”

  The Brit complains about going from first place to last as he wanders away with the others.

  I turn back and Sveta is gone. She's disappeared into the one working bathroom, only she didn't lock the door. I stand there alone for a few minutes—watching, waiting, listening. There's none of the sounds I'd normally expect—no toilet flushing or washing of hands, no hand towels being torn free or trash covers springing shut. I look around feeling more awkward than when Sveta was standing beside me. Stewards and stewardesses are prowling the aisles, getting passengers to put away their laptops, put their seat backs in the upright position, all that guff, and still Sveta hasn't come out of the bathroom.

  I look down at the travel case in my hand. I don't really need to brush my teeth, I tell myself. I'm about to turn away from the bathroom and sit down when the door opens. Sveta steps out looking as fresh as a breeze. She squeezes past me as I hurry into the cramped bathroom wondering if I should be taking my seat. I'm about to turn and close the door when Sveta squeezes in behind me and shuts the door, locking the latch.

  I'm speechless.

  I go to say god-knows-what as I turn to face her, but she raises her finger to her lips as though she were hiding a deadly secret. She presses herself against me, running one hand around behind my neck while the other presses heavily against my groin. Our lips lock as her fingernails scratch at the skin on the back of my neck. Sveta groans softly as our tongues touch. Her hand runs up beneath my shirt as she pushes me back against the sink. Her fingernails claw at my chest. I try to pull away, but I must admit, my motion isn't convincing and seems only to enflame her passion further. The stainless steel basin digs into my hip, but somehow that doesn't matter.

  “Please return to your seats,” sounds through the speaker overhead, and I grab the opportunity to break away from what has been the most intense, passionate kiss I have ever experienced to return to reality. We're about to land at JFK. We need to be seated. I see a sultry look in Sveta's dark eyes that screams, I don't care.

  “Sveta,” I manage as though I were a drowning man gasping for breath.

  She pulls back, biting her lip. She looks as though she can barely contain herself.

  “This is ridiculous,” I say, raising my hands and gesturing for reason. “I'm sorry.”

  Why am I apologizing? I'm not sure, but I continue, saying, “Please don't take this the wrong way, but I—”

  “Call me,” she says, shoving a crumpled piece of paper into my trouser pocket. Her motion is brisk, her nails are like daggers. I stand there stunned as she unlocks the door and steps out of the bathroom.

  Outside, a stewardess waits impatiently. She glares at me with disapproval. Her pursed lips suggest no amount of explanation will suffice so I offer none and slink back to my seat. As I pass Sveta she ignores me. She's laughing with infectious enthusiasm, talking loudly in Russian with the woman beside her who's every bit as photogenic. It's as though nothing happened, and I find myself doing a double-take, wondering if I imagined the whole thing.

  I take my seat and Phil asks, “What took you so long?” Followed quickly by, “Is that lipstick?”

  I rub my mouth, hoping I'm rubbing the blood red smudge away.

  “You Dawg,” Phil says. “Who was it? One of the stewardesses?”

  “Remember those two Russian models we saw in the lounge back in Moscow?” br />
  “Are you serious?”

  I pull out the crumpled scrap of paper and show him the phone number scrawled on it. There's no name, just the area code for Manhattan and a number.

  “Damn! You scored big time.”

  Phil is so excited I don't have the heart to destroy the illusion with a dose of reality. I was accosted. Sure, she's beautiful. Sure, I'd take her out for a drink in a heartbeat, but being grabbed and manhandled like that, well... Huh, manhandled, that's quite the term. I cannot help but marvel at the irony in that word.

  “So, what about it, stud? Are you going to call her?” he asks. “Or are you a love 'em and leave 'em, kinda guy?”

  I'm neither. I'm stunned.

  “I don't know,” I reply, which is entirely honest. I'm tempted to screw up the phone number and leave it in the pouch on the back of the seat. I'd like to forget anything ever happened, but that would raise even more questions from Phil so I feign a smile and slip the phone number back into my pocket.

  “You are so lucky,” he says. I'm silent. I'd rather not talk about it as anything I say would be a lie, a pretense to save face. Instead, I crane my neck and stare out the tiny porthole-like window of the plane.

  The lights of New York are visible in the distance. Dawn is breaking.

  Neither of us talk much during the landing.

  Sveta is near the front of the plane and gets off before us. I'm half expecting her to look back at me, but she doesn't. She and her girlfriend are full of zest. The last I see of her is the two of them disappearing up the air-bridge arm in arm, which is confusing for me.

  “JFK is at bio security level four,” a voice says from a billboard. There's an image of a police officer talking to the passengers walking out into the concourse. “Vigilant but not scared. Concerned but not alarmed. Report any suspicious activity to your customs officer.”

  It's always bio security level four, and I switch off mentally. I'm still thinking about Sveta. I'm perplexed by her sexual magnetism, but in an abstract way. I'm trying to figure out how our brief, chance encounter can have such a hold over me. It's as though she's cast a spell on me. On a rational level, I can think objectively about her and how absurd our encounter was, and yet deep down inside something primal yearns for more. If this had happened to anyone else, I'd tell them they were being silly—stupid. I feel like a drug addict, unable to control my cravings.

  We walk through the bio security checkpoint. Phil is a few places ahead of me as I dawdle along, lost in thought. Scans of our bodies appear as colorful blobs on the screen overhead so the various officers watching us can determine if anyone's running a fever. They weed out a couple of people with a mild orange tinge around their ankles. I look for Sveta but don't see her anywhere.

  “Do you have anything to declare?” a preprogrammed voice says through the overhead speakers. “Bio security searches include automated foreign body scans. If you have had recent surgery, or have breast, pectoral, abdominal or penile implants, or if you have taken any medical capsules in the last twenty four hours, declare these to your bio security officer. Failure to declare a foreign body may result in fines of up to one hundred thousand dollars and ten years in prison.”

  I follow Phil through one of the customs turnstiles.

  “Anything to declare?” asks a robotic interface with the face of a grumpy old man.

  “No,” I reply, holding out my wrist for bio signature recognition.

  “Hopkins, Alexander. Welcome back to the United States of America.”

  “Thanks,” I reply, even though the welcome was the insincere machination of a silicon wafer.

  My wrist band beeps almost as soon as I step beyond the security zone with its electronic jammers.

  Phil asks, “Are you grabbing a cab?”

  “Nah,” I reply, looking at the message on my wrist band. “My brother's picking me up but he's running late.”

  A set of automatic doors with frosted glass separates the baggage claim area from the arrivals lounge. As passengers walk through with their bags, the doors slide open revealing a glimpse of friends and family waiting for their loved ones. There's a camera crew out there. The harsh glare from a handheld spotlight catches my eye as the doors close. There must be someone famous coming through customs.

  As I grab my bag from the carousel, I hear shouting behind me. I turn and see Sveta vault over the customs desk, followed closely by her girlfriend. Dozens of security officers converge, but from where, I'm not sure. I could have sworn there were no more than three of four when I walked through. They have guns drawn, although some have tasers, with their distinct bright yellow stocks. They're all yelling.

  Sveta is yelling something about freedom, but everything happens so quickly I don't catch a coherent sentence. Shots are fired. I'm expecting this. All of us docile, grazing sheep are expecting something from the wolves swarming in around us, but I don't think anyone expected the gunfire to be so loud.

  The reports of multiple shots are deafening. Someone's screaming, but it sounds as though they're easily a quarter mile away. It's a woman. She's bleeding. She's lying sprawled at my feet. Brilliant red splatter patterns stain the marble floor.

  Sveta barrels past me, and it's only then I realize the woman lying before me is her Russian girlfriend. Sveta makes it to the door only to have four bloody puncture marks appear in her back in rapid succession as bullets slam into her from behind. The doors open, but they're not quick enough, and her frail body slams into the frosted glass. Shattered fragments of glass cascade out into the arrivals hall.

  There's a gun being held to my head. The hot barrel singes my hair, burning my skin. A police officer is yelling in my ear, but my ears are ringing. Although he’s yelling, I can barely hear him.

  “Get down. Get down on the ground!”

  Before I can respond, a sharp kick strikes at the back of my right knee and my legs buckle. I fall to my knees on the slick marble. A boot slams the middle of my back and I barely have time to break my fall with my hands. The boot pins me to the ground.

  There are several police officers standing around me, all yelling. I’m not sure if they want me to heed their directions individually. I don't know what they expect of me while I'm pinned to the ground, but they're yelling contradictory commands: Stay on the ground, open you right hand, don't move, arms out, stay still, legs apart. At the moment, I’m having a hard time breathing, let alone responding to authority. I'm not sure where my arms are, or the position of my legs. How far apart should they be? And if they're not far enough apart, am I going to be shot for moving them? In any other context this would be comical, but I'm terrified.

  With my face pressed against the cold marble floor, I stare into the dead woman’s eyes. Blood trickles from the corner of her lips. Her hair lies fanned out around her in a tangled mess. She’s staring at me, staring through me. I can’t help but wonder if those pretty eyes can still see, if there’s a light fading and the last view she has of this world is of the terror on my face.

  The officers keep me pinned for what feels like an eternity. Radios squark. What I thought was a boot must have been a knee as my hands are pulled up briskly behind my back and I’m cuffed. My wrist communicator is confiscated.

  “What have I done?” I ask, still lying face down on the unforgiving marble floor, but no one replies.

  After a while, I’m hauled to my knees and then onto my feet and I get my first good look at the aftermath of the shooting. Everyone’s wearing hazmat suits. I can hear the crinkle of the rubber suit worn by the officer holding me. At some point, he must have switched with the officer that knocked me to the ground, as no one was dressed in bright yellow when I went down.

  Sveta’s body is gone. The broken glass in the door allows me to see through into the empty arrivals area.

  Two men in hazmat suits open a black body bag and lift the girlfriend into it. They pull the thick rubberized plastic over her shoulders and zip the bag closed, sealing her in darkness. As her face disappea
rs, I can't help but think about how easily that could have been me.

  “What about this one?” the officer behind me asks.

  Another officer in a hazmat suit runs an ultraviolet light up and down my body, examining my clothing carefully. With the gentlest of touches, he gestures for me to raise my hands, split my legs, and moves the light slowly over every inch of my body. Finally, he puts the light down and uses a pair of shears to cut away the fabric on my lower left trouser leg.

  “A little blood splatter, nothing else. Get him out of here.”

  I’m expecting to be pushed rudely forward, but the officer pulls me back, away from the blood splatter on the marble floor, and then walks me to a side door. He stops by the door, handing me off to an officer in regular uniform.

  “Collateral,” Mr Hazmat says by way of explanation, pushing me through the open door. That seems to mean something to the regular police officer.

  The officer unlocks my handcuffs and leads me to an empty cafe in the arrivals area. A lone barista stands solemn behind an exotic coffee machine. He looks nervous.

  Police officers have always intimidated me, but never more so than today when the subtlest of their mannerisms seems to imply potentially lethal consequences. The officer appears polite, gesturing toward a seat in the cafe, but I get the distinct impression he’s anything but courteous.

  “Coffee?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I reply, trying to hide the tremor in my hands. He doesn’t ask what type of coffee I'd like or if I’d like milk and sugar, and I figure now is not the time to be fussy. I’ll take coffee any way I can get it.

  We sit down and he pulls out an electronic tablet.

  “Hopkins, Alexander,” he says.

  “Alex,” I reply, trying to make the conversation less painful.

  “You work for GT Finance. Stocks and futures. You’ve been setting up a fund in Moscow for the past two weeks.”

  I nod.

  A cup of black coffee is placed in front of me. There’s none of the usual fancy barista swirls on top, no chocolate wafer on the side or frothed milk floating on the surface, but I don’t care. I lift the cup to my lips. The drink is scalding hot, burning the tip of my tongue. It's the middle of winter and negative whatever outside. The barista has served the coffee in a disposable thermal cup. They're great in a blizzard but are only appropriate for handling radioactive waste for most of the year. I curl my lips in anguish.