Network 2015

"You understand what I'm suggesting?" said the man at the wheel of a car cruising down a dark road.

"Murder," said the passenger, grimly.

"I look at it as assassination or maybe a back-end abortion. When a financially strapped woman finds herself pregnant - what does she do?"

"You don't have to tell me. It's been three years, and my wife still has nightmares about ours." He reflected a moment. "It just dawned on me that if abortion'd always stayed illegal we might not be in this position. At least we wouldn't be as bad off. Millions more'd be paying taxes right now."

"Crazy, isn't it? Man just can't seem to avoid killing. Maybe we're not as advanced a species as we think."

"Do we have any choices, though? It's us or them now, or it will be if Congress doesn't do something soon."

"We're already there. It just hasn't been acknowledged publicly, yet. People read about these incidents and assume it's just the random violence that's always plagued us. We've got the edge as long as the press doesn't catch on. Once they do."

The passenger stared out the window as the vehicle carved through the night.

"It's tough; believe me, I know," said the driver, who was perhaps 40, smartly dressed. "I wasn't sure I'd be able to do it until I pulled the trigger. The poor bastard may not have lasted much longer, anyway. Then again, he may have. No matter what you tell yourself, it's still a human life you're taking. Sure, he was raking in ridiculous benefits, but it wasn't his fault, really. The system let him get away with it. Most of us would've taken it, too."

"I lost my job, my house. I had to sell my car. I can barely support my family - and they're talking about raising taxes again. I'll have to become a criminal for us to survive."

"Maybe that's what you should focus on if you decide to do it."

He paused. "How many have you taken out so far?"

The driver shrugged. "I couldn't say. Thousands, I'd guess. Not enough to make a difference, yet. I'm just a link in what I think of as a long chain letter. I couldn't tell you where command is or even if there is one. Although there must be."

"You'd think the CIA or FBI'd catch on."

"Maybe they have. Maybe we have their tacit approval. Or maybe they just haven't figured it out, yet. The idea is to target singles and make it look like robbery, which doesn't surprise anybody. I bet each target is thoroughly researched. If somebody with a connection got hit, everything'd be jeopardized."

"It's hard to believe the government'd let it happen."

"Is it? They created this mess. Nobody had the will to attack runaway entitlements - at least not seriously. They've left it up to the citizenry. It's a modern tax revolt. All any of them cared about was being re-elected so they could pile up their own outrageous benefits."

The hum of the car became prevalent as silence fell.

"I'm not sure I could do it," said the passenger, who was approximately 35. "Even if I convinced myself it was right."

"You wouldn't know until the moment of truth. Who knows - by the time you get an assignment, all-out war may have already begun. You think all the snipers are just copycat wackos?"

"Another group?"

"That's my guess. I bet it's the same fringe that revolted in '05 when that reparations bill came up."

"It stopped it. Christ, will life ever be anything but brutal, again?"

"I lost two friends in that carnage - and neither of them wanted a dime. They were collateral damage."

"I had a softball teammate get it. Great guy, too."

"It wouldn't surprise me if that 'mysterious' crack house explosion wasn't part of that undeclared war, too."

"Maybe our kids'll see better days."

"Probably our kids' kids, sad to say. This is bound to get a hell of a lot uglier. The old-timers will eventually catch on and dig in."

A grimace of realization struck the passenger. "Somebody like me might be assigned to kill my parents."

"Your grandparents, more likely, if they were living alone and isolated. I'd guess all the victims are over eighty."

"How do you know I won't go to the cops?"

"I don't."

"How do I know you won't kill me if I refuse or even if I go through with it?"

"You don't. Look - go to a major newsstand regularly the next few weeks, check the out-of-town papers, note the incidents. This is going to go on with or without you. I'll be on a plane in less than an hour. You'll never see me again."

"How'd you find me?"

"The same way 'they' found me - somebody somewhere overheard you talking."

The passenger's pupils constricted in pain and regret. His words had come back to haunt him.

"I know how you feel, and I don't envy you. One night you'll get a call, giving you an address, and your life will be miserable for months."

"It's already miserable."

"It's hard. I still see that old coot's face in my dreams. I suppose I always will. If you're lucky, your target'll be asleep and not looking you in the eye. They're just victims of circumstance, not people you'd hate. You have to really believe to participate in this."

He cased the house for a month. He'd have no trouble gaining access. The place was on a poorly illumined road, tucked away from traffic, hidden by large trees in full bloom.

He told his wife he was going deep-sea fishing.

"Aren't you a little early?" she said, groggily, from bed.

"I can't sleep. I'm looking forward to it so much. I figure I'll hit a restaurant for breakfast. Then again, maybe I shouldn't."

"Do it. You deserve it. I can't remember the last time you had a whole day off." She paused, wistful. Remember when one job was enough? Four between us, and we still barely squeeze by."

"I can't even take the kids to a game," he choked, plopping onto the edge of the bed.

"Things'll get better," she said, caressing his back.

"We have to make 'em better."

"We will. This won't last forever."

"It already has."

He kissed her good-bye, experiencing a chill. The next time he'd see her he'd be a killer. His children would hold a hand that fired a bullet into the brain of an old woman.

"Bring home lots of fish. We'll freeze 'em."

"Maybe I'll break even on the day," he said, gloomily.

"Maybe you'll win the pool. Oh, and if you happen to run into one of your old bosses, 'accidentally' push him overboard."

The roads were clear. He parked at a nook he'd scouted out and made his way through back streets and woods well ahead of schedule. He'd make the boat with time to spare, maybe even have a few minutes for a bite to eat. He was amazed at his resolve. Why? Something had to be done. And he had to do his share. Even fate seemed with him, as not a single car passed, not a single potential witness whose headlights would have placed him near the scene.

Poised at the rear door, he took several deep breaths to compose himself. Light was flickering on the ground floor. He assumed it emanated from the living room, the television. He hoped she was asleep on the couch. Once more he visualized his plan of attack. He figured it'd be best to do it quickly, without thinking. He lowered the zipper of his jacket and pulled out a pistol that had a silencer affixed to it. Holding the gun high, he lashed out at the door with the heel of his boot. It gave way on the fourth blow. He rushed toward the light, which was extinguished as he was moving. He stumbled, knocking over a lamp. He fumbled for the switch. There was a gasp. She was on the stairs, cowering against the wall in
the dimness.

"Take whatever you want and go," she croaked, gaze averted.

He climbed toward her and aimed, point-blank. She shrank form the barrel. Suddenly, conscience struck him. This was just an old lady in a shabby slip. She reminded him of his grandmother, for God's sake. A flash flew down his spine. He quickly found fresh resolve, however, recalling his family's refusal to lend him any money when he was about to default on his mortgage. They hoarded every penny, terrified their entitlements would be slashed.

"My money's in my room," said the woman, who was gray and withered.

He urged himself to deny the compulsion he felt to speak. "Sorry, Grandma, I came for you."

"Me? Why? What've I done?"

She turned to face him. She seemed so pathetic. Burning arose in his chest.

"There're too many of you for us younger people to support."

"Oh," she said, almost resigned. "Go ahead, then."

He lowered the gun. He hadn't expected her to make it so easy for him.

"You don't wanna live?"

"I'm so sick of it all - the resentment, the hate, the killing. As if being old isn't bad enough."

"If you Baby Boomers hadn't been so greedy it'd never have come to this."

"I'm much older than a Baby Boomer," she shot back, bitterly. "Can't you even get that right?"

Again, she'd disarmed him psychologically, momentarily. "You're guilty, too, though. How many of you collect despite having more than adequate sources of income?"

"Why not? We paid into it. We're entitled to our share."

"It was designed for the poor, not the middle class. You could've sold this house and lived like a queen 'til you were a hundred."

"Then kill the politicians."

He was unable to refute that. "I guess we should've, but it's too late now." Why was he arguing, trying to justify himself? He was in danger of missing the boat. He raised the gun.

"Would you, at least, have the decency to let me die in bed?"

He paused. "Okay."

She entered a room filled with old furnishings.

"The money's in the top drawer," she said, climbing into bed, "in the pages of the album."

He thumbed through it, pocketing a few hundred dollars. He avoided focusing on the photographs. Instead, he concentrated on the ire so large a sum in the hands of an old, single woman elicited in him.
Again, doubt gripped him fiercely. A picture reminded him of his own wedding day. He suspected the sly, old fox had hoped he'd weaken at the sight. What was he doing here? What a fool he was! He'd allowed himself to be suckered by some neo-Nazi, and he'd become a common thief, as well. He needed the money desperately, however, and so resolved only to rob the woman. He, then, realized she'd be able to identify him. He despaired, realizing there was no recourse. He wouldn't even be able to remain half-moral. As he turned toward her, he heard a muffled burst. Had she spit at him? The goo was red and thin and poured down his face. Suddenly, he couldn't see. His feet went out from under him.

The gun fell from her grasp to the floor. Weeping, she made the sign of the cross, then turned to her night table. She gazed at a number taped to it as her fingers struggled to dial. "Doris Reilly," she said, sniffling. She waited. "Yes. No. Thank you."

It was still dark when a van pulled into the driveway. She opened the front door to four, elderly men.

"Are you all right, dear?" said the first, the youngest.

"Yes," she said, gravely. "I was lucky. He had me, but he wasn't sure of himself. He's upstairs."

"The alarm didn't go off. You didn't forget to set it, did you? Most of them run like rabbits when it goes off."

She tensed, pained. "He'd still be...."

"I'll have my man check it." He jerked his head, and one of the others hurried from the room.

"Shouldn't we call the police?"

"No, dear. We don't know who can be trusted. We have to look after ourselves. We're turning the tide. You may have had the honor of the first kill. If the rest of us conduct ourselves half as valiantly as you have, we'll surely win."

She hung her head.

Two men had gone upstairs with a body bag. The other was now repairing the back door.

"We're gonna need your help, Bob," someone called. "He's a ton."

"Coming."

"Can I fix you breakfast?" said Mrs. Reilly.

"No, thank you. Perhaps another time. It's best to attend to these matters as quickly as possible."

"What'll you do with him?"

"He'll be cremated, his ashes scattered, his bones and teeth crushed to prevent identification. We have allies everywhere. Our network is expanding every day."

"His family won't know what happened to him."

"That's our strategy for now. We'd rather they think he ran out on them, like in the days of the great depression. Resentment toward us is just too severe. We can't risk an open defiance that might fan the flames even more."

She watched them carry the burden downstairs. Suddenly there was a thrashing within the bag.

"Jeez, he's still alive," said one man, red-faced, huffing, fighting to keep his grip.

The bag fell to the floor with a thud. Mrs. Reilly gasped. Annoyed, Bob drew a pistol from his jacket, pressed the silencer to the shape of the body, and fired. Movement ceased.

"There," he said, raising up.

Mrs. Reilly broke into sobs. Bob comforted her, patting her shoulder, gun at his side.

"He was so young, poor thing. Maybe it should have been me."

"Come now, dear. I know it's horrible, but you mustn't think like that. He has no right to decide who must die. He's not God."

"Let's get goin', Bob. It's almost light."

Bob looked at the body bag. "Reminds me of 'nam. I wonder if this'll get as ugly as that. Funny how fast those instincts come back. Makes you wonder."

Somewhere in the distance a church bell tolled. It was Sunday.

Mrs. Reilly approached a window. "Looks like rain." She peered right and left. "The coast is clear. Am I supposed to say that?"

"That's the spirit," said Bob chirpily.