Civil Colors: A Prequel

The gun was warm in his hands, smoke still ascending to the heavens. Behind the pulpit laid three deacons, all dead. Among the rows of pews were five dead parishioners including a woman and the body of the terrorist who had targeted them.

The man had walked in through the double doors at the back of the church and opened fire with a semi-automatic assault rifle. The pastor had crouched behind his enormous Oak pulpit for only a moment, quickly freeing the Ruger LC9 from the holster beneath his jacket. He had fired four shots, all hitting the shooter in the chest.

Pastor Bill was a tough man, everyone knew it. He preached tough and he loved tough, the kind of Pastor who seemed unapproachable but still caring. His Civil Color was Red, evident by the Red pocket square peeking from his coat. His congregation was Red. The women wore red scarves, the men red ties and the tiniest of infants red ribbon bows around their heads. The irony of the blood-soaked victims was lost on Bill as he surveyed what remained of his congregation.

Outside, the police were beginning to gain control of the crowds who had managed to evacuate safely. The police wore Black and White, like all government workers, and the street outside the church became a chessboard of cops with Red pieces moving about it in madness.

Bill was asked by the officers who first entered the church to kneel and place his hands in the air. Again, the irony of this imagery was wasted on the Pastor, too shaken to behold such things.

When he had been politely restrained and carried away to the patrol unit, he was placed inside the backseat for the short ride up the street to the Police Precinct, where awaited the FBI.

Agent Dickey was a Blue, though he wore black and white only. When the colors someday became a mandate, he would chose Blue. For now, they were optional. He had poured himself a cup of coffee and peeked over it now at the Pastor sitting in the chair across from him.

“I know you’re shaken up,” Dickey began. “But I need to get a statement while it’s fresh in your mind.”

Bill began babbling all he remembered of the shooting.  When he was done, Agent Dickey sat back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head.

“You know the shooter right?” he asked. Pastor Bill seemed confused.

“Of course not,” he replied indignantly.

“His name was Carl Johnson,” Dickey began. “We’ve been watching him for a while now.”

The Pastor shrugged.

Agent Dickey stood from his desk and moved to close the door to his office. “I’m gonna ask you again.” He didn’t go back to the desk, but stood with arms crossed behind the shut door. “How do you know Carl Johnson?”

“I don’t!” Pastor Bill was getting flustered.

“Then why do we have these?” Dickey produced an orange envelope, tossing them onto the desk where a few black and white photos from within poured out onto the table. They showed Pastor Bill speaking alone with the shooter in various places around town.

“We know you know him,” Agent Dickey continued, “We know you had something to do with this. So, why don’t you just save yourself the trouble and tell me now? Were you two lovers?”

The Pastor was outraged. “No! Of course not!” Agent Dickey was stoic, easing the rope from his hands so the Pastor could hang himself with it. Bill continued, “He was just a guy who came to the church after hours one day to talk, that’s all.”

“Then why lie about knowing him?”

“Because he turned out to be a terrorist.”

“What did he want to talk about?”

The Pastor squirmed in his chair, then sat up straight and collected himself. “He was considering suicide. He was considering killing himself and others.”

“And you didn’t report any of this to the authorities?” Pastor Bill shook his head then straightened his red pocket square.

“No, I did not,” the Pastor said, distracted still by the red fabric peeking from the top of his breast pocket. His eyes began to gaze into nothing and murmurs were now seeping from his mouth.

“Are you okay?”

Pastor Bill seemed suddenly distraught. “My God, my God,” he murmured. “What have I done?”

Agent Dickey sat now in the chair next to Bill, rather than behind his desk, offering a  hand on the mumbling man’s back. “Talk to me Pastor Bill.”

“What have I done? My God.”

“It’s okay,” Dickey delicately urged. “Tell me what happened.” The old Pastor raised his eyes to behold Agent Dickey’s attire.

“Which color would you choose if it were a mandate?” he asked. Dickey seemed non-plussed by the question.

“Does it matter?”

Bill shook his head, his countenance seemed to change. His round, understanding eyes turned to oval windows of judgement. “You people and your damn ambiguity. Don’t you know we are close to Civil War? The Blues want us to give up our guns and be controlled by the Big Blue Government and we will not abide that, you hear? We will not abide!”

“Tell me about Carl Johnson,” Dickey said sternly.

“Carl wanted what I want,” Pastor Bill began. “He and I both knew there was only one way to rally Red support, to show the bleeding-heart Blues that guns are not a privilege, but a right. Our only means to defend ourselves from being taken over by those with whom we disagree.”

Agent Dickey shook his head, placing a hand over his mouth. “You mean…”

Pastor Bill nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Carl and I planned the shooting.”

Dickey’s face drained itself of color as he asked simply, “Why?”

“Because this war is gonna happen one way or another. Because a few Reds have enough honor to sacrifice themselves for the greater good…”

Agent Dickey interrupted, “Because if a Blue was shot down while trying to attack a church full of Reds, support for Reds would rise to an all time high.”

Pastor Bill nodded his head. “I’m so sorry,” he said through held back tears.

“No, you’re not” replied Agent Dickey. “You are under arrest.”