The alarm clock beeps incessantly in the bedroom. A hand reaches from the bed, and silences it. The shuffle of the bed cover follows, and an old man rises from the covers. Glasses left on the nightstand next to the alarm clock are fetched, then brought up to the man's eyes. A swig of water with the morning pills precedes his trip to the bathroom.
Richard Marsh stares at his tired, weary reflection in the mirror. Wrinkles line the edges of his faded blue eyes, his features dressed in exhaustion. A splash of water brings him from his lifeless state, and he goes about his business.
After fifteen minutes, breakfast is served on a paper plate. Two eggs and leftover meatloaf from three days ago. It's stale, and he forces through every bite. A glass of water is his only friend through the hardship.
His wife is coming down the steps as he's putting on his uniform, and she gives him a gentle kiss goodbye.
"Have a good day," she whispers. He smiles despite the heartache he feels. The day never gets better after this moment, and he cannot tell her lest she becomes too worried about him. Yet, he does not let the sting of heartache control him; he's gone for years like this, and he knows that so long as he can come back to his wife and daughters every day, then he can do many years more.
"I love you, dear."
"Love you too."
The bike is unlocked, and he begins his ten-minute trek to the town hall.
There are three levels of clearance for any man, woman, and unsuspecting child that dare to enter the area in and surrounding the town hall. The first one is the one that allows you to get through the perimeter of militiamen guarding the intersections surrounding the structure, usually in the form of a driver's license obtained from the local department of motor vehicle's office. The second hurdle comes once one makes their way to the town hall's entrance, where more militiamen and a detachment of Arcadian police officers guard a secondary security checkpoint, their purpose to operate the x-ray machines and screen anyone passing through the town hall entrance. Inside the building's front lobby, divided by a line of retractable belt barriers, a clearance card related to one's occupation was necessary to bypass the final line of guardsmen, but once through this last checkpoint, one could finally enter into the town hall and begin the work they were tasked with from the get-go.
Richard stood in the middle of the lobby, a square of open space with two hallways on his left and right, these leading to the ancillary chambers where many important conversations were being held. In front of him, a large bulletin board highlighted the topics of discussion for today and which chambers these conversations were being held. He was due to attend one scheduled in twenty minutes, and had with him the notes he took of the last conversation back in September.
A group of advisors from a firm called Portland Financial Planning were keen on setting up an office downtown and offering financial services to the untapped multitude of poor natives and any newcomers that might flock to the fledgling town within the next couple years. Of course, Richard knew better: the Prescotts were investing in their start-up and had given them incentives to fall in-line with the family's own ambitions, which meant certain limitations on the "financial services" being given. They could not risk people becoming financially independent, not after all the work they put in to make the population subservient to them.
"Hey, Rich'!"
A man a couple years younger than him walked up to the bench Richard is waiting at. This man has on him a suit and tie, and a cup of coffee obtained from the lone coffee machine inside the building.
"Jimmy, good to see you."
"How're you doing, buddy?" he asks, stricken with nervousness. The caffeine must be getting to him.
"I'm fine," Richard replies, "Why do you ask?"
"I mean, you know," the man sits down next to Marsh, the briefcase in his other hand placed beside him, "I know how stressful it can get, doing this kind of work. Those guys in the chambers, rattling on-and-on about this and that, even the best of us go crazy if there's no relief. I remember when Steve—you remember that guy? Tall sonuvabitch with those big glasses like he was from the 80's—well, he had a shift one day, and they had him do overtime for another six hours after his shift was supposed to end. I tell you, he was ready to snap by the time they let him off, and all they were talking about were the zoning laws. I mean, come on, zoning legislation can't be that boring, can it? But if they found a way to make Steve crack, then they can do it to any one of us. I'm telling you, us clerk typists got to stick together and make sure that we got someone in our corner, lest something real bad happens."
"Well, I appreciate the sentiment," Richard concurred, "but I'm fine, really. I'm not getting burnt out from this, not yet at least."
"…that's not what I'm trying to say, Rich'."
Marsh looked to his companion, and frowns in confusion, "What are you talking about?"
There is a pause, as Jimmy gauges the question and the look he's being given, and he sighs in regret, "Oh, Jesus—you haven't seen it, have you?"
"No, what?"
There's some fiddling, and Jimmy pulls his phone out and taps on the screen, "I wish I didn't have to be the one to show you this, but I can't let you not know, especially with what you told me about that email you got from Blackwell a few days ago. I found this out from my son, he didn't go to the party, thank God, but this started circulating in his friend group not too long after it happened."
Richard is given the phone, and he silently watches the video being played on the screen. He says not a word as it plays. He doesn't need to. Jimmy can see the way his brows furrow, see the muscles under his eye twitch in disgust. It wasn't halfway through when Richard handed the phone back, and huffed away his frustrations.
"…I'm sorry you had to find out like this, Rich'," Jimmy eventually muttered, "But if I were you, I'd want to know as soon as I could. It only gets worse, the longer it goes unknown."
"…my wife and I met with the principal," the Marsh elder recalled, "and he was adamant about keeping our daughter in Blackwell, saying it was just a tragic accident. Katie had not told us what exactly happened, and I assumed the worst—I guess I assumed correctly."
"…yeah. You did."
The lobby is abuzz with activity, but on this bench, it was terribly silent. Richard checks the clock on the wall overlooking the lobby, and saw that he was due to be at his post in ten minutes and counting. He sighed, knowing the next nine hours of his shift would play out in much the same manner as last time.
"…is there any way I can get this taken down?"
"You'd have to file a defamation suit and get the judges to mandate that video as evidence, then have it be taken down. Of course, that requires a lawyer to take up the case and bring it to a judge—your best bet would be getting in contact with the law firm on Main Street, I've met the couple who runs the place and they're your best bet when it comes to defamation cases."
"Isn't that firm the same one that bought out the shop Terry Malfoy and his wife used to own?"
"…yes," Jimmy somberly replied, "Unfortunately, yes."
Terry Malfoy was a local fisherman and baker. His family had lived in Arcadia since the town's inception back in the late 19th Century. The Malfoys were among the first to branch off from the fishing market that dominated the town's economy and opened up a bakery to give the fishermen a place to eat that was relatively close to the docks. Terry's father taught him the process of baking bread and pastries with a fire oven, and with this knowledge the Malfoy family created a small and well-respected business adored by both fishermen and townsfolk alike. Children would badger their mothers and fathers for money so they could go down and buy a fresh cinnamon bun or apple fritter, the fishermen exchanged a few dollars and were given a hearty sandwich of their choice and a strong cup of joe. For the tired and needy, the Malfoys gave away any leftovers before closing, and worked with the church to help feed the homeless seeking shelter in the church's hostel building.
The Prescotts, eager to set up their pawns on such prime real estate, asked the Malfoy family to give up their shop on Main Street in exchange for a generous lump sum of cash. However, much to the surprise of both the Prescotts and the local fishermen, the Malfoys refused, and made their sentiments clear by having the Prescotts trespassed on their business, barring them from ever stepping foot on the property. While the cops would not enforce the trespass, the message it generated in both the local population and the news gave the townsfolk more reason to support the Malfoys in defying Prescott hegemony.
This hopeful streak of defiance ended when Terry's father was caught in a traffic accident on his way to work, in which a semi-truck failed to stop and collided with the side of the vehicle in an intersection. Terry and other members of the Malfoy family suspected foul play when the cops refused to prosecute the truck driver for his negligence, and then when the medical staff charged them exceptionally high fees to store and hold their deceased patriarch's body in the morgue. Between this and the funeral costs, the Malfoy family were forced into a financial pinch, and had to sell their business to avoid bankruptcy. Since then, the Malfoys have lived like the rest of the Arcadian natives in the midst of the town, barely making ends meet.
Every year, the townspeople try to get together at the local park and have a cookout in honor of the Malfoy family and their defiance in the face of tyranny, though in recent years the police have made it clear that such gatherings will not be tolerated. Last year's cookout was cancelled when cops arrived and shut down the event, going so far as to arrest people in attendance for refusing to leave. No charges were levied against those who were arrested, but the message was clear.
The idea of giving business to those lawyers, whether good-intentioned or not, left a bad taste in Richard's mouth.
"…as if I got a chance in hell."
"Hey, don't get too down in the dumps, you've still got a chance," Jimmy tried to encourage, "You just got to stick with it, and don't let those bastards get to your head."
A check of the watch on his left wrist informed the younger man of something important, and he stood up, "I gotta get moving, my next one's due in a few minutes, and I'm pretty sure yours is as well. Give yourself some time to recover, that way, you don't make any rash decisions. Anger is never a proper guide to anything, that's what my father always told me."
Jimmy leaves. Richard watches him go, then stands up and makes his way to his first session. He intends to do his work, and to this effort he does his best, but he can never get rid of the images he saw on the screen, can never unsee the terrible sight of his daughter, alone, terrified, surrounded by evil and no one to save her from it. A true den of vipers and snakes, all orchestrated by Sean Prescott and his son.
He opens the door to the chamber he's assigned to, and becomes another face among many.
The taste of the pilsner would normally be too much for him, but when the day is long and the mind refuses to relax, Richard understands he needs something with enough kick in it to knock the stress out of himself. Although, this time around, the pale lager was not quite as effective as it used to be.
It's been nine hours since he started today. Every single minute of those hours passed in a blur of typing on the keyboard, spelling out words he could not recall, names and voices which jumble together into one infernal chorus. He had no recollection.
He thinks again of the way those dark limbs had taken hold of his daughter, poking and prodding at her like a piece of marbled meat. He remembered the shine of those tears falling from her eyes, the pained look on her face. It brought him to anger many times. He'd nearly lost concentration when typing and had to correct the transcript several times over. Thankfully, the colorful language of the committee made it seem like unintentional mistakes on his part.
The sound of footfalls approach from the entrance of the bar, catching his interest over the usual ambience. Marsh hears the newcomer take a seat on the barstool right beside him, and a familiar baritone voice orders a pint of Guinness.
"…Rich'," the newcomer greets him.
"R.J," Richard greeted back. A glance revealed the newcomer as a fisherman, still on the younger side of life as Richard would describe.
R.J. MacReady, the son of Arcadian fisherman Charles "Charlie" MacReady, was just another fisherman amongst the countless that called this small town their home. For his part, R.J. never made an image of himself, and never dressed like a celebrity; yet amongst the lot of fishermen one would hear his name spoken in reverence and admiration. His grandfather was the first to give life to the town's fishing prospects, using his own profits to give others the chance to start their own lives in the fledgling town. R.J. followed aptly in his family's footsteps, and has stood with his fellow fishermen in the face of economic disparity and Prescott hegemonic influence ever since his late father passed away.
At least, that was the story told to most people who bothered to ask. Richard would scoff in amusement at the simplicity of it; for nothing was clear-cut in this town. A more omniscient observer would note that R.J. did not gain his notoriety simply by matter of circumstance—such men do not speak of their goodwill only to refrain from action, after all.
Ever since the turn of the decade, when the dynastic rulers ramped up their efforts to turn the small fishing hub into their little financial playground, the men and women of Arcadia have questioned which method of dissent would give them the advantage in the coming fight for their home. Many believed in the times and sought the constitutional right to petition. They voted with their ballots, and with their wallets—and were rewarded with insignificant progress. Most would laud the success they had back in 2012, when the representative of their county, a Prescott-backed puppet with false smiles and false promises, was replaced by another representative who campaigned for the revitalizing of the local fishing industry and other relevant markets. A victory, they would say, but there was no great change besides an increase in the regulations touted by clueless activists to protect the environment, regulations which larger fishing companies could weather and which local fishermen could not. A victory, they would say: at least they're not kissing the Prescotts' rear-end!
R.J. and his fellow men, regardless of whether they were fishermen or from other walks of life, came to the swift conclusion that something more had to be done. Their voices were not reaching past the ballot box nor the cash register, and if there was no significant change, then soon it would not matter how loudly they could shout. And so it was, that reasonable men with reasonable motivations were motivated to do unreasonable things, for they saw no other choice.
Richard remembers when he first stumbled into one of R.J.'s meetups. Marsh was a mailman at the time, a job which he had loathed for reasons most people would not be able to assume. He loathed it because he was the courier of the Prescotts, sending their rotten messages to people they were pleased with, and people they were trying to crush under their financial weight. Either case made Richard out as the "face" of the family's evildoings, and this left a sore wound in his heart. He quickly lost the hope he had when he first took the job, naively thinking he would be a well-respected courier for his townsfolk and nothing more.
That changed one day when he delivered a message to R.J.'s fishing office, a notice of intent in which the Prescotts threatened to take legal action against him. R.J. had taken the letter, read it, then crumpled it into a ball and tossed it in the trash bin, full to the brim with similar notices sent previously. On that day, he gave Richard a choice: continue his life as the devil's messenger, or obtain a new and fulfilling purpose, as well as a paid side-gig down by the docks. Seeing no better option, Richard accepted.
The older man's faith was tested not too long after that, when R.J. brought him up to speed on which mail was to be passed to who, and which was "fair game." One such letter was addressed to a construction company from Tillamook asking for their expertise in the demo-and-construction of an apartment complex, which was to be built on the land of several Arcadian townsfolk whose generations stretch back to the town's inception. The details were forwarded by Richard to MacReady and his men, who took time off from their jobs and spread the word to the rest of the town. An organized protest brought out more people than the police were prepared to handle, especially once R.J. and the others showed up and exploited their overwhelming numbers to force the police into a rout. When the construction crew arrived they were given a warm, pleasant welcome by the locals.
By this, it is meant that they were packed up and out of town within a half-hour.
It is said that when Sean Prescott had come by to investigate the trouble, he fell into a fit of rage whereupon figuring out why the construction crew was not present when he arrived.
Richard also knew of other exploits R.J. and his fellows engaged in outside of that particular event. One time, a real-estate agent fresh from some faraway place in the Midwest went door-to-door and asked people to give him the financial clientele needed to take down the Prescott monopoly on the housing market. He gave those he spoke to a run for their money, offering them all kinds of promises and assurances that seemed reasonable given his credentials. Unfortunately for him, some residents do not place their trust in someone they just happen to agree with, and his social media profile littered with comments from his ex-wife and former coworkers painted a more sinister picture than what he showed. R.J. addressed this matter personally, and with a group of his men dressed in balaclavas and with a cord of rope, they ambushed the swindler and strung him up on a lamppost by the ankles, then gave an anonymous tipoff to the police so that they would rescue him before any serious harm befell him. Nobody's seen nor heard of that man since, and the townsfolk take his departure as a good riddance.
However, despite the tangible good that comes from being a part of R.J.'s operation and knowing that he has contributed to helping his people, Richard found himself hesitant to be at R.J.'s side. The Marsh elder recognizes that being with R.J. does not simply mean being with another fisherman or acquaintance—it means he surrounds himself with the legends and the rumors that follow in MacReady's footsteps. A cop might not have the evidence to point to any wrongdoing, but he can still suspect someone of being more than what they seem. Richard has noticed the looks police officers give to the fishermen, and to others they suspect to be behind the string of violent dissent within the town. Likewise, R.J. and his men do not forego any attempt to mock the police for their role as puppets to the Prescotts. Tensions have never been higher between the tradesmen, the fishermen, the local truckers and the Prescott-backed police and militia.
Richard sees this, and realizes the vulnerability of being associated with R.J. and his pals. If the police suspect him, they might try to get under his skin, bury themselves into his life and smoke him out of his hole like a gopher. They'll follow the procedure they always do: they'll first ask politely, and when that doesn't work, they'll watch his every move for a slip-up, then have the courts deliver an excuse to bash his front door down with a warrant. He'd seen it happen to this poor mechanic who didn't know when to stop badmouthing the cops—not that this was a crime, but the police did not need a better excuse to target someone. The mere idea of involving his wife and daughters in such a scenario was enough to give Richard pause, and he has made it clear to R.J. that he cannot afford to be involved in every operation. Richard hasn't found a chance to become involved besides the letter incident, and he is subconsciously glad that he hasn't.
Then, the fourth of October happened. The email. The conversation with Principal Wells. The visit to the police station. The fear, the defeat written in his daughter's expression. The video.
It brought him to anger.
All that is necessary for the triumph of evil, is that good men do nothing.
A pint of Guinness is placed before the fisherman, and he gives his thanks. A sip, then he sets it down gently.
"…Rich'," R.J. opens, "I've had a couple men keeping an' eye out near your place. I know you don't like it when I start involving you in my business, but I…I'm worried about you, and so's a great many of the folks in town. Lotta' parents saw what happened up at Blackwell a few days ago, and it's got a lot of people talking."
"…is there anybody that hasn't seen that damn video before me?" he grumbled. He tightened his hold on his bottle of pilsner, "My wife and I had no clue—she still doesn't know about it, and I don't know how I can tell her. I only found out today because a coworker of mine showed it to me. My lunch break was full of people giving me their pitiful looks and apologies. It was hell."
"I'm sorry, Rich—"
"I don't want your pity," the older man huffed, "I appreciate the thought of it, I really do, but I do not want it. I know I've already failed as a father."
"You shouldn't kick yourself down like that," came the swift retort, "I've seen the talk around town, most people know that there's something wrong. Ms. Stevens has called her squadron of mother hens and plans to help your wife at the next bible study. Speaking of which, I hope you like chicken casserole for the next week."
R.J. chuckled to himself at that, and even Richard couldn't deny the amusement of it—Ms. Stevens cooked a mean casserole, but it was the kind of meal that left one feeling like an overinflated balloon. Many times he had been the victim of Ms. Steven's dishes at the annual Fourth of July cookout, but it was all good fun. People like Ms. Stevens often take their cooking skills and apply them to those in need, especially the families on the poorer end of the class structure. Without them, it's likely that there would not be any means for those to feed themselves and their families.
Both men seemed to reach that conclusion simultaneously, and their smiles receded.
"…look, I know that…you're very averse to committing," R.J. resumed, "I get it. It's not easy, you got your family to look after. If I were you, I'd be making sure my daughter's alright, too."
Richard's grip on his drink tightened.
"…just, let me know if you need some space. I can have my men stop guarding your house if you feel it's too much."
R.J. finishes his drink, then asks the bartender to ring him up. He rises from the barstool, and pulled forth his wallet to lay out a twenty-dollar bill on the counter.
Richard's free hand caught the fisherman's arm as he was turning to leave, and the old man spoke with an iron resolve, "I'll do it."
"Rich'," MacReady frowned with surprise, "are you sure?"
His eyes have faded from the sharp blue they once were. But his gaze was determined, "Yes."
R.J. nodded slowly, then said, "Meet down by the dock entrance two hours from now. We're going in tonight, and won't be done until past curfew. Make up an excuse to your wife, make it good."
The fisherman left. Richard returned to nursing his pilsner, wondering to himself what kind of excuse Evelyn would accept. He was never the kind to abandon the house, unless it was an emergency.
But the thought of his daughters, it was enough to dissuade the doubt in his heart. He took a swig, finishing the drink in one go. He caught the bartender's attention soon after.
"Hey, excuse me—can I borrow your payphone?"