Every day I go to work is another day I feel proud to be an American. Not just anyone can work here. Only the truest patriots can serve at the Bureau of Anti-American Investigations. Just to get in the door you need to pass through a rigorous gauntlet designed to keep out the traitors that infest our great nation.
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Today is another exceptional American day. I step through the metal detector. No beep. I pick up my briefcase from the x-ray machine. No problem. The explosives scanner, the fingerprint reader, and the facial recognition camera all register that I’m not a threat.
It’s the last machine—The Anti-American Sentiment Scanner—that I love the most. Every time I step through it, it validates my true patriotism. Designed by our top scientists, it can detect even the most minute hint of Anti-American feelings. It can’t be fooled. I’ve seen it work firsthand, over and over again, letting patriots like me past, while rejecting traitorous scum intent on destroying God’s own blessing to the world—The United States of America. Everyone inside this building bleeds red, white, and blue. I know that as sure as I know my own name—Marcus McKinney.
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Some say the machine is nothing more than a ruse to scare people away. But I’ve seen it work. Just last week it sniffed out a radical leftist that was trying to infiltrate the Bureau. God only knows what he was going to do, but we don’t have to worry about it because the machine caught him. He said his name was Harvey, but I found out later it was Javier. Can you believe the nerve? A guy named Javier trying to get a job at the BAI?
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He was a pretty good imposter. He fooled me during the pre-screen. He looked okay, and his background check was clean—I still wonder how he managed that. So I recommended we bring him in for a full interview, but he never made it past the Anti-American Sentiment Scanner.
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It wasn’t long before his name showed up on my list. Naturally I approved his deportation right away, and I recommended him for stronger punishment. You have to be tough on these radicals or they’ll destroy everything we’ve built since The New Revolution.
I was a little worried about how my boss would react to me letting him slip by the screening, but he was very understanding. He said, “These radicals are sneaky. You didn’t do anything wrong. That’s why we have multiple layers of protection. To keep those bastards from getting to good people like you and me.”
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So I go into the office, log on and grab my first case—Edward Robert McKinney. Damn, that’s exactly the same name as my youngest brother. Let’s see what this creep did. A couple clicks and I’m looking at his rap sheet. Not much until recently. It seems like he’s been radicalized by a group called the American Workers’ Association. I’ve heard of them, but I can’t remember what it was. Something about being for workers. Thinking about it now, it has a bit of a commie ring to it.
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A couple more clicks and I got all his info—address, phone number, parents’ names, siblings’ names. Damn, it is my brother. And I’m staring at my own name on the screen. My pulse quickens. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears.
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I read on. It says he comes from the right sort of family—six generations American, originating from good countries in Europe. Not like the shitholes where the more recent immigrants came from. His grandparents participated in The New Revolution on the right side. His brothers and sister show no signs of leftist activity, but the bureau should monitor them closely.
Monitor me closely.
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The details about Eddie are dead on—perfect attendance award in sixth grade; seriously dated a girl named Melinda while in college; almost got engaged. How do they know he almost got engaged?
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Apparently, while he was getting over his breakup with Melinda, those leftist bastards started grooming him as an asset. That’s how they work. They take advantage of people when they’re at their lowest.
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It looks like my baby brother got himself into a real jam, and now it’s my job to deal with him. I look at the two buttons at the bottom of the screen—“convict” or “release.”. Why isn’t there a reassign button? Maybe I’m being tested. Could it be because I let Javier through? Are they testing my allegiance to America?
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If I choose “convict,” he’ll be on the next flight to a hard-labor camp in northern Alaska. If I choose “release,” I have to write a justification. How can I do that with these facts? I’ll be bumped up from the “watch” list to the “suspect” list. Chances are we’ll both end up in Alaska. That’s what I would do if one of the other case workers sprung their brother.
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I hover over the convict button. It’s the only choice… right? I mean, it’s my job. And my life. And my country. But Eddie, he’s always been weak. Not bad, just weak. How many jams have I gotten him out of? Like when we were kids, and he told the teacher that he heard about something called “The Vietnam War,” which he said America lost.
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She informed him it was just a myth made up by America’s enemies. But he wouldn’t stop asking questions. “What if it’s true? Why can’t it be true?” And on and on. I had to promise the teacher and the school’s corrections officer that I would set him straight and he would never mention it again.
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I hated giving him his beating, but dad said I had to do it. “Sometimes doing the right thing is hard,” he said. “But, a man’s gotta do what’s right. You wanna be a man, don’t you?”
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I can still see Eddie’s ten-year-old face, blood flowing from his nose, his bottom lip plump and purple. “Please, Marcus. I won’t do it again. Please stop.” And the old man standing over me, “Go on. Keep going. Be a man.”
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With a twitch of my finger, he’s convicted. It’s done. In the system. Locked down. Irreversible.
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My stomach revolts against what my finger just did. I make it to the bathroom, but barely. After retching up everything left and then some, I lift my head from the toilet seat and sit.
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My heart’s pounding. I start to sweat. Against my will, my mind shows me Eddie’s bloody, ten-year-old face again. “Please,” he begs me. “Help me. I need you.” I pull out my phone and consider contacting him. But I know they’re monitoring all calls and texts in and out of the building. I’m sorry Eddie. I’ll fix this. I’ll figure something out.
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Someone walks in, and heads over to the urinal. I mop the sweat from my forehead, flush the toilet, and head out.
It’s my boss, Mike. He zips up and heads to the sink. “Hey Marcus,” he says, smiling.
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I look like a sweaty mess. He must see that. He’s toying with me.
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“Hi,” I say turning on the water and trying to look casual as I wash my grimy face.
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“Watcha doing for lunch?” Mike asks.
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Lunch with Mike is the last thing I want. I need to get to Eddie to warn him before it’s too late. He needs to hide. He has an hour at most before ABI agents kick down his door. “Uh, running errands,” I say, but my voice is unsteady.
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“You okay?”
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“Uh, yeah. Good. Great. Just kinda busy is all.” I’m blowing it.
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Mike continues, “Me and a bunch of the guys are going out for wings and beer. Why don’t you take care of those errands later?”
He’s baiting me. He knows what I just did, and he wants to see if my resolve is faltering. “Sounds great, yeah… but it’s important. I… I really gotta take care of this stuff.” Jesus, could I seem any more guilty?
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Mike shrugs and exits the bathroom.
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I wait for a while, staring at my screen until I can leave without looking suspicious. Eleven forty-five isn’t too early for lunch. As soon as I’m out of the building, I get in my car and head for Eddie’s apartment. I don’t think I’m being tailed, but I make some evasive maneuvers just in case—lots of extra turns and cheating the yellow lights. I park three blocks away and surveil the area as I walk to his building.
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I hit the button, and he buzzes me right up. I bound up the stairs feeling the sweat soaking through my shirt. I knock, but no one answers. I knock again. Nothing. I pound on the door. “Come on Eddie. I really need to talk to you.”
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Eddie opens the door, and he says my name. It sounds weird, though. He doesn’t sound happy or surprised or concerned. His eyes are downcast. His shoulders are slumped. He sounds disappointed. He opens the door wider, and I see Mike with a grin like the cat who caught the canary. I look back at Eddie, and I understand. I’m the canary.
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As if reading my mind, Mike says, “I wouldn’t run if I were you.”
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I have never seen Mike like this before. His malevolent smile and steady gaze are terrifying, yet I cannot look away.
Mike continues, “There’s nothing I would like better than to see you pumped full of bullets by the patriots blocking every exit.”
I look back at Eddie. “You shouldn’t have come,” he says. “But I knew you would.”
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Mike pulls my arms behind my back.
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“I love America, Mike. I always have.”
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“Sure you do, Marcus,” he replies as he puts the cuffs on me.
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I catch Eddie’s eye. “Why, Eddie? It didn’t have to go like this.” I hear the desperation in my own voice and hate myself for it.
Eddie levels his gaze. “Sometimes doing the right thing is hard, Marcus. You should know that.”