Enemy of the State

Emprexx Plush · #1

Matthew Wilde stared through bleary eyes at the blinking cursor on his screen. He'd barely slept or eaten since the news came in nearly a month ago. His son, and the bulk of his class, had disappeared on their way to Disneyland. He had always been careful to use the word "disappeared" when talking about his son, because he refused to believe he was dead. In his mind, the search crews had never found significant evidence that the plane had crashed. There was some minute about of debris in the surrounding area, but there were never any bodies, never any sufficiently notable signs that some spectacular technical failure had wiped them out without so much as a whimper. He'd been a news hound for too long to over-look the missing details in this story, and he wasn't about to lose hope until someone could fill them in. So he waited, day in and day out, for some small sign that he was right, that the boy he'd abandoned for so many years was alive and well. Each evening he held his wife a little closer after running his contact list dry with requests for information and investigations. After weeks of waiting, however, the Wildes' supply of hope was beginning to run dry, and they began to accept that their son was truly lost.

Then their hopes were fulfilled in the most ghastly way possible. Garrett didn't die in a fiery crash. He survived the plane's disappearance, only to be placed in that horrid, supposedly dead circus of depravity that some people dared to call a game. They'd discovered it the same way everyone else had: broadcast feeds streaming from an undisclosed location across the Internet. As Matthew shakily watched his son's first few minutes of life on the island, waves of emotion washed through him. Relief that he was alive. Disgust that someone would do this to him. Despair that he was going to die. Anguish that the only way to be sure was to watch every excruciating moment, no matter what occurred.

Most of all, he felt an anger that he hadn't tasted in years. Pure, righteous fury boiling his blood as a consequence of a sickening abuse of power. It was a rage that Matthew could only excise one way: He had to put it on paper.

There was a general rule that many of Matthew's editors and professors had tried to instill in him over the years about writing in anger. Namely, it's rarely good form if you expect your piece to be taken seriously. Joy, sorrow, jealousy, and hope were all emotions that were easily manipulated in writing, but anger was fickle. It would burn you just as quickly as fuel you. For the most part, he took that lesson to heart. The fire inside of him had to be shared, however. He had been wronged, but so had so many others. Those responsible needed to be held accountable for their mistakes, and he'd be damned if he'd calm down before they paid.

So he worked for hours writing the most scathing, personal piece of his life. He didn't need to do any research. He wasn't concerned with the editing. His contact at the Seattle Post had assured him that would all be taken care of, he just needed to send in the op-ed as soon as he was ready. He swallowed the last swig of what must have been his thousandth pot of coffee as he stared down the shaky bar next to his electronic signature, and finally found the strength to send off the final copy of the most personal article of his career, titled simply "Mr. President." By morning, his open letter would be live and viewable by readers around the world at the Seattle Post's website.

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Mr. President,

I am sure that you have heard the unfortunate news regarding the Aurora High School Senior Class. I'm sure you've heard that they have been kidnapped by deranged terrorists. I'm sure you've heard that they've been forced to compete for a chance at survival, and I'm sure that you've heard that they are almost all certainly dead. I'm sure you have a dossier on those responsible, and that you are putting forth token effort to discover how our national security could have been so thoroughly breached without so much as a hint of danger being delivered to the public by your administration. I believe I have some information that should prove illuminating. I have the name of someone who collaborated with these monstrous individuals to endanger the lives of millions of innocent, unsuspecting students across this fair nation.

His name is Oscar Chase McAllister, and he is the President of these United States. I believe you've met.

Are you surprised, Mr. President? Have the years passed so quickly that you've already forgotten that you sounded the all-clear on this particular threat? My son certainly hasn't. Have you seen the videos, Mr. President? I'm sure you have. I'm sure you've seen the feed marked "Garrett Wilde." I'm sure you know that he remembered you, that he laid the blame for this travesty squarely on your shoulders, while expressing full faith that your people would come to rescue him and his fellow students. I'm sure you've seen the conviction in his eyes as he assures those around him of the strength and skill of this great nation, and why shouldn't he? He hails from a country famous for its military expenditures. With the sheer level of technology, expertise, and connections at our collective fingertips, this sort of operation should have been as simple. He truly believed that it would be. My son was a Patriot to the end, Mr. President. He never gave up the hope this country and your administration had promised him.

I don't know how my son's story ends, Mr. President. I know that that particular chapter, however, wherein the United States Military comes blazing into an unmarked island as glorious fanfare pounds away in the background, never occurs. You do not slaughter these villains, and you are not the savior of over a hundred bright young men and women forced to struggle like animals while their loved ones watch on in horror. If you did, my wife and I wouldn't have seen our poor boy for the first time in a month over a grainy internet feed, praying futilely for a search crew that isn't coming. I don't know exactly how my son's story ends, Mr. President, but I know he died with your name on his lips, and his blood on your hands.

Does that strike you as unfair, Mr. President? Are you shocked to be indicted in this tragedy? Good. You now understand the the dilemma of every parent in America still raising a child. From now on, they will clutch them just a little bit closer because of your failure. You are not totally to blame, of course. We let our children go. A group of madmen stole them away. You, however, told us it was safe. You urged us to return to normal. You left the gate wide open for these foxes to roost among our chicks, and it is because of your loose watch that they were taken.

Because of you, I will spend my remaining waking hours pouring through my son's last days of life, hoping that he will come out the other side even while I know that the best I can hope for is that his death is painless. It is said that no parent should ever have to bury their child, Mr. President. If that is the case, then no parent should ever have to watch their child die. No parent should ever see their child hunted like an animal. Yet over a hundred parents just like myself will be doing just that, because of your incompetence. Do you have any concept of how that feels? Do you even care? Can you honestly say you did anything to save the life of this young American who had such faith in your administration, in your personal competence, despite glaring evidence to the contrary? I wish I could believe that you did, but unlike my son, I suddenly find my faith to be a scarce good in an increasingly troubled market.

I have made two mistakes in this affair, Mr. President. The first was trusting your weak declaration, and the second was letting my son go. I cannot correct the latter mistake. I have no more children to send to the slaughter on your account. To all that do, however, I would urge you not to repeat my first mistake. President McAllister, by sheer ignorance if not by malice, has willfully endangered the lives of all of our children. He has led us to trust in their safety with empty assurances and laughably lax security measures. Let it be known that this administration, your administration, Mr. President, was either completely unaware of this drastic threat to national security, or saw fit to leave the public in the dark about the looming danger for our young and beloved. Neither scenario should earn your confidence, your support, or your trust.

Some of you may regard this warning as reactionary, or emotional. I will not deny that both of these charges are absolutely true. Remember a series of very simple facts before you dismiss me, though: Seattle could have been your city. Aurora High School could have been your school. Garrett could have been your son or daughter. My story could have been yours. Keep that in mind whenever you're feeling particularly forgiving about how this horrific event has been handled. If you can stomach it, watch a few minutes of the feed and imagine that it was your child on the screen. Under the McAllister Administration, it very well could have been. Next year, it very well may be. It's a chilling thought, and one I do not inject lightly, but the safety of our children must come before the lazy comfort of our peace of mind, something President McAllister seems to have disgracefully forgotten.

In short, Mr. President? I've seen what this country can do. I've stared across the blasted hell-scapes we turn other nations into when we feel sufficiently threatened. I've been on hunts for wanted criminals, and I've seen them found. I know what you've done, and what you could have done. Out of sheer incompetence, you have played as instrumental a role in this macabre drama as any terrorist leader. Perhaps you've been working behind closed doors, and you can deliver my son safely into my arms once more. I doubt this will be the case, though, unless you've been lying by omission for longer than you'd ever care to admit. Your complete failure to prevent or mitigate this attack leaves you equally guilty in my eyes, perhaps to the point of treason against these great United States, and if there is any justice in our system the people will make you pay for your crime with your office. Your dismissal won't bring my child back, Mr. President. It won't bring any of the children of Aurora High School back. But perhaps it will help make sure that no one ever puts their child's life on the line on your word alone again. Perhaps it will make sure that the safety of our children will once again become a priority, and we never see a day like this again. That is the only hope I have left.

Sincerely,
Matthew Q. Wilde