Badger: Replaced or Dead

When the President of the United States of America got himself assonated by an illegal immigrant, the last thing the public expected was a Muslim-American woman in the oval office. I suppose this is what I signed up for as the Secretary of State. Still, with the first three in line conveniently dead after the coordinated attack, the eyes around me spark like the sun’s rays on a magnifying glass. Slowly wishing to destruct but unable to find the right angle.

In thirty-six hours I will be replaced or dead. At least, that’s what the Chief Justice muttered as he shoved my hand on a Bible and proclaimed my new position as the most powerful woman in the world.

I wipe the sweat off my palms as they start to stick to the stacks of papers. I spot the first camera poked through a bookshelf and my chest throbs. I feel more like the suspect in interrogation than the leader amidst a crisis. A woman is swiping my face with blush. My hair is framed around my face. The woman has drawn lines to age my cheeks, to sharpen my eyes. To make it look as if I have more than two days of experience in the government system.

Yesterday I celebrated my new position as Secretary of State. Today I am governing a nation.

A balding man pokes his eyes between his phone’s Twitter accounts and the nearby television news reports. I don’t remember his name. He curses between breaths, and I imagine the social media manhandling this event, each attention-snatching news anchor, each conspiracist who itches to glimpse the face of their new president. Those who see my eyes and conjure “suspect” instead of “leader.”

At last, a light narrows to focus.

“President al-Guler,” the cameraman says. I think he wants to make sure he is pronouncing my name right. He isn’t. “You are live in five, four, three, two...” He points at me. I feel the world at my fingertips, and the earthquake of chatters gnashing my teeth transforms. My lips curl slightly, and I open my mouth hoping I don’t sound like a mutant bullfrog.

I read the words off the screen. “Good Evening. I am Zumruda al-Guler. Terrible atrocities bring me here today in front of you, the nation that stands for freedom and justice. For, your president and many of his cabinet...are now dead.” I grip my hand beneath the table. “However, one remains. Your Speaker of the House, Greg Spinder, is set to recover in thirty-six hours. Having had been proclaimed dead until moments ago...and only recently brought to a live state...”

My words catch. Letters swim off every screen, and something snatches my tongue and pins it down. The large man who had been checking Twitter accounts stares at me.

“We urge our beloved citizens to remain calm under this crisis,” I say. “For, until Mr. Spinder is recovered, I will serve as President al-Gular.”

My voice cracks and the cameraman cuts to a sponsor ad before my tears can smudge my eyeliner.

The man beside him drops his phone and faces me. “Average Job, Cupcake.” He grabs my hand and shakes it. “I'm Al Couper. Head of Security. Come with me, President al-Gular.”

He is the first person today to pronounce my name right on the first go. I suppose “Miss President” doesn’t have the same authoritative ring to it. Al Couper nudges his head for the door. We are followed by each cameraman as they reign in every detail. The terms were settled as soon as they saw my face: everything would be livestreamed. They said it had to do with my security. I think they want to assure I am not the one to be afraid of.

“I am afraid you put me in an awkward situation,” Al Couper says. The cameras capture the angles of my reaction.

Our conversation relays these facts: I know I shouldn’t be here. Two murderous sprees put me in this position today. First, the death of the first Secretary of State and all of his potential predecessors. Then, of course, the series of assassins that put me from grad school to the White House in the course of three days.

“Your position will be short-lived.”

Al Couper is the second person to say this to me today. Except, this time, the whole nation hears it.

He shows me the phone he had been swiping through. A meme has morphed me with a badger and won international fame. Tweets have nearly broken the system, most laughing at the poor performance of their badger president, a few others terrified of the preditor ahead. I wish I could have told them the truth.

I wish I could tell them that our nation is under complete captivity.

For no one knows the identity of the latest assassin.

"Take five," he tells the cameramen. They cut to another commercial.

Al throws a white towel at me and stops in front of the bathroom. With a shiver, I sprint inside and lock myself in the stall. I relay faces, names, and I know I'm in danger. The earpiece, the tan skin, the buzzed hair. I have a bodyguard. Al Couper is serving as my bodyguard. How did I get here?

Security means nothing anymore. Dead or replaced. Dead or replaced. Replaced or...

My past swallows my emotions. Training settles over my senses and sharpens them. Adrenaline courses through me. I am not safe here. I am not safe anywhere. I feel the target weighing down my spine, feel the assassins distorted fingers over mine.

No. I am still in the bathroom stall.

I step out and linger in front of the mirror. The sink water runs over my hands and threatens to melt them.

I watch Al Couper's shadow linger at the door. Those of the cameramen have dissolved.

Cool water evaporates off my face as I splash sink water into my eyes. I kept them shut tight. Shapes overpass my irises. Perhaps this way I will wake up.

When I open them, the shadow of my security guard is gone. Before I can celebrate this fact, my senses kick back in. My past disciplines me.

I notice the vent in the bathroom’s corner. It’s been impounded, and the lock along its lining is destroyed. Judging the damage I know it is recent. A splintered drum has settled in my forehead, but I push myself up the stall, flash my phone’s light through the vent, and catch glimpses. I stare long enough to catch an odorless green smoke enveloping the rounded corner the vent.

I don’t scream. I run.

My past. My training. My few years in service, armed, defending our nation before finishing my education. Military work when interactions are limited and questions are nonexistent. I know buildings, I know vents, and I know what room would be so close to a bathroom.

There’s a target, and it’s not myself. There’s someone strong enough to show a threat, someone who knows how to talk in front of a camera.

There’s a man being transported here. Perhaps he already has. He is recovering. Thirty-six hours from now he is supposed to kick me off my pedestal and assure the nation of my innocence and the public's safety.

The next target.

Greg Spinder.

***

Alarms have sounded. Security is looking for me.

But I know which life is more important.

I have just enough time to sweep Greg Spinder's hospital bed from the floors. I know the code that no one else does. The safe house. I swing the bed into encased floor. I ready myself to slide beneath the closing doors, counting back the seconds, knowing there has to be room for me and me alone. It inches down, Greg Spinder is moaning, and I drop to my stomach.

Al Couper grabs me from behind. There is ringing. A gun in his hand. A bullet in my chest.

Before my eyes close, I see a tweet. My assassination has already been announced.

By Al Couper.

But I see I’ve acted quickly enough. Greg Spinder has been sprawled to the saferoom. No corrupted security sits with him. These are assassins. Not bombers. I see the blood soak my clothes. Irrefutable evidence of the criminal mastermind.

If Greg Spinder has a chance, so does our country.

I smile at the enraged face of Al Couper one last time.

Dead or replaced. Dead or replaced. Replaced or...