This is the 22nd in a series of 365 Flash Fiction stories I’m writing from 2nd December 2012 until the 1st December 2013. It’s intent is to keep me writing throughout the year, and not just in November. you can find out more about the challenge here.
Darwin Lane, by Jonathan L. Lawrence, 23rd December 2012
Word count: 727
Theme: dystopia, mutants, false accusation, pieces in a game
The story:
“I don’t really know how I do it,” Johnson claimed.
“Yeah sure, I know what you freaks are capable of these days,” the sergeant said snarling.
“I really don’t,” the young man protested, “I never wanted to be one of those freaks.”
There was a top on the police interview room’s door. The sergeant walked out, there were mutterings, and Johnson thought he heard someone exclaim, “Son of a Bitch Human Fucking Right Activists”.
The sergeant came back in, “I’d through the god damn book at you, the library that it was sitting in,” he said still snarling, “But it appears your fellow freaks are kicking up a stink. I hope you all have a really good time together,” somehow Johnson felt he didn’t mean this.
An hour later he was finally exiting the police station. There was no one around, and he wondered where his parents had gone, he’d tried to phone them with his one phone call, but no one had answered at home, or on their mobiles. He didn’t have his wallet on him, it had been lost in the fight with the school bully. There was nothing to do but set off walking, he’d try reverse charging a call home once he found the next pay phone box.
Just as he turned the corner away from the police station, a black van pulled up with a screech, Johnson turned to look expecting some kind of accident, instead three men in black masks, and black combat gear piled out and grabbed him. A rotten smelling rag was pushed over his mouth and he his last concious sensation was of being dragged backwards.
Johnson awoke to a bright light shining on him, he wanted to scratch his nose but his arms were handcuffed to the sides of the chair was sitting on. He was uncomfortably aware that he was naked, and the light made it impossible to see anything.
“Your name is Theodore Johnson Travis,” a deep booming voice declared.
Johnson didn’t know what to do, or what to so say.
“I said your name is Theodore Johnson Travis, is that correct?”
“Yes,” he mumbled.
“How long have you been a terrorist Mr Travis?”
“I’m not a terrorist,” Johnson protested.
“You are one of these so called new revolutionaries, are you not? And at four pm, in Chesterfield, you did use these so called powers to throw a guy twelve feet into the air, killing him.”
“It wasn’t me! You’ve got to believe me!”
“Why’s that Mister Travis?”
“He was punching me, over and over, and then suddenly he stopped, I don’t know what happened! I told the police this, they believed me, they let me go,” he said pleadingly.
“No, the police let you go because my boss made a call, the police know you’re one of these freaks,” the deep voice said, “Now tell me, how long have you been one of these terrorist freaks known as the New Revolutionaries?”
“I’m not, I’ve never been,” Johnson protested. Johnson would go on to protest his history again, and again. They kept him for two days, interviewing him, and then putting him through tests, and situation checks. Whatever power he had never manifested, even during stress tests that left him crying, and rolling about in his own piss begging them to stop.
“You’re one sick freak,” Michael said to the young man beside him as they looked down at the building where the black clad men had taken Johnson.
“What? We needed bait, and they took it,” Pounder said defensively as he looked through the binoculars.
“And the fact that he called you an evolutionary reject, and a freak had nothing to do with it?”
“Well, I’ll admit there’s a certain satisfaction that the racist git got what he deserved,” Pound said smiling, as he lowered the binoculars. “Okay, let the team know, we know where their base is, let’s make sure these fuckers get something for their time and their effort.”
“This is Unit A, targets acquired, meet on the corner of Wilson Street and Darwin Lane, out,” Michael said into his walkie talkie. “I really hope you know what you’re doing Pounder, we had a plan where we avoided the authorities.”
“That was ‘A’ plan, not ‘THE’ plan. Besides they’ve got an innocent kid in there, who knows what they’re doing to him.
Aspiring 