Holly Raynes
was inspired to write A Nation of
Enemies by a family member who was a Titanic survivor and another who
escaped from Poland in World War II. Combining lessons from the past with a
healthy fear of the modern landscape, this novel was born. A longtime member of
the Boston writing community, she has a history of trying anything once
(acting, diving out of a plane, white water rafting, and parenting). Writing
and raising children seem to have stuck.
The Scribbler is very happy to Holly as the featured guest this week. You don't want to miss out on the thriller - A Nation of Enemies.
An excerpt;
CHAPTER ONE
London, England - 2032
So, this is freedom. No sirens pierce the
air. Buildings in the distance are whole. Yet the ground beneath his feet feels
no different. Dr. Cole Fitzgerald glances past their docked cruise ship, to the
horizon. The sky blends into the ocean, a monochromatic swatch of gray. A chill
in the air penetrates him, dampens his coat and makes all the layers underneath
heavy. When they left Boston, pink-tinged magnolia petals blanketed the
sidewalks, blew across overgrown parks and the burnt remains of brownstones. He’d
reached up and touched a blossom, still hanging on a limb. It’s remarkable to
see beauty amid war.
The din of
discontent is constant. On the vast dock of England’s Southampton Cruise Port,
a few thousand passengers stand in line, all on the same quest to flee the
United States. He’s heard that three million citizens emigrate annually. But no
one documents whether those people are more afraid of the lone wolves and
militias, or of their government bent on regaining control. Cole isn’t sure
which is worse. But London is a safe place to start again. They have family
here, built-in support. No point in dwelling.
Beside him,
Lily’s usual grace and composure are visibly in decline. He reaches out and
gently strokes the nape of his wife’s neck, where pieces of her dark hair have
strayed from her ponytail. The coat she wears can’t hide her belly, now twenty-nine
weeks swollen with a baby girl. Cole wishes he could offer her a chair. Instead
she rests on one of their enormous suitcases.
Their son Ian sits cross-legged on
the asphalt and reads a paperback. Throughout the journey, he’s gone along with
few complaints. Ten years ago he was born the night The Planes Fell, the night
that changed everything. Living in a constant state of fear is all he’s ever
known. The joy and devastation of that night was so complete. To become parents
at the same time terrorists took down fifty passenger planes…there were no
words. It was impossible to celebrate while so many were mourning.
The mist
turns to rain as night comes. Every fifty feet or so, instructions are posted: Prepare left arm for MRS scan; Citizenship
Applications must be completed; Use of electronic devices prohibited.
Finally they cross the threshold of the Southampton Port Customs and
Immigration building. The air is sour with sickness and stress and filth. Dingy
subway tiles cover the walls of the enormous hall. Ahead, above dozens of
immigration officer booths, a one-way mirror spans the width of the wall.
Cameras, security officers, judgment. Cole’s skin prickles.
In one of numerous queues, they
finally near the end. Lily elbows him and juts her chin toward the front of the
line. People are scanned and then directed to one of three signs: “Processing,” “Return to Country of Origin” or “Hearings.”
Bile stings Cole’s throat. He calculated the risk of this trip, turned the
possible outcomes in his mind endlessly. But thanks to Senator Richard Hensley
and the biochip he legislated, it’s all about genetics, DNA. Black and white.
The
immigration officer at desk number 26 does not smile. The man’s shorn, square
head sits atop a barely discernible neck. Without glancing up he shouts,
“Next.”
Cole hands him their citizenship
applications.
“Prepare
for scanning,” the officer says. Wearing latex gloves, he holds the MedID
scanner aloft, as Cole lifts his left arm. The officer scans the biochip,
barely discernable under the forearm skin. The process repeats with Lily and
Ian.
“Mrs. Fitzgerald, please come
forward again,” the officer orders.
She trades concerned looks with
Cole. “Yes?”
The officer rifles for something
under the desktop and his hands return with some kind of an apparatus. “What is
that?” Cole asks.
“IUMS,” the man says. “In-Utero
MedID Scanner. It’s just another version of the MRS.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
Lily asks.
“Ma’am
I need you to lean forward.” He gestures with the scanner in his hand.
Cole’s mind spins. They opted out of
prenatal testing, wanted to enjoy their baby girl before knowing what her
genetic future might hold. Despite his research, he’s never read about this
technology.
“New protocol.” The man smirks. He
aims the scanner at Lily’s belly.
“You don’t need a MedID? A blood
test?” Cole presses.
The officer shakes his head. “It’s
an estimation but it’s good enough for our purposes.” He swipes the wand across
her sweater-covered belly and once again regards the small screen.
With wet
eyes, Lily wraps the coat tightly around her. Ian leans into them and the three
meld in anticipation. They watch as he stamps each application. From this
angle, Cole can’t read it, but he knows. Lily’s MedID number of 67 is
eight points from the clean benchmark of 75. There’s a thirty-percent chance
she’ll develop leukemia. A fifty-percent chance depression will strike. And a
ten-percent chance she’ll be diagnosed with early Alzheimer’s. Fortunately,
both Cole and Ian are in the clear with MedID scores of 84 and 78 respectively.
They have virtually no markers for disease. In the eyes of England’s society,
Lily will be a drain on public resources. But what about the baby?
Wearing the
same bored expression, the officer says, “Cole and Ian Fitzgerald you’ve been
approved and may proceed to the Processing line. Lily Fitzgerald, you and your
unborn child have been denied and will immediately return to the United States.
Do you wish to make a plea?”
“We do.” A wave of nausea hits Cole.
“What’s the baby’s number?”
“The estimate is 74.” The officer
taps his device and
reaches below his desk to retrieve a piece of paper from a
printer, the medical summary for their family. He hands the paperwork back to
Cole and directs them to the “HEARINGS” line.
“Seventy-four,” Lily whispers. Her
skin is ashen.
One number away from being a clean,
cherished 75. It might as well be twenty. Denied is denied. Still, they’re
prepared to fight. The rumor is that immigration judges rarely turn away
individuals with specialized degrees.
Down the
corridor, they enter another section of Immigration as Cole rehearses his
speech silently. They join one of the lines, each ending at a glass-encased
booth. A digital monitor hangs atop each one with the name of a judge.
“How do you
feel?” Lily asks.
“Like I’m about to kill someone on
the operating table.” Cole reads the name on the booth ahead. “Let’s hope
Judge Alistair Cornwall is having a good day.”
They will have five minutes to make
their plea. Gavel-like sounds punctuate the hearings as the lines move ahead
simultaneously. Cole’s heart pounds as he clings to his CV, Harvard and Yale
doctoral certificates. Sell, sell, sell. I’m a commodity. My family is worth
more than numbers.
The gavel
sounds. It’s their turn. Cole slides the stack of papers through an opening to
Judge Cornwall. Wiry gray eyebrows fan out over the judge’s dark eyes. He
glances briefly at Cole, then turns his attention to the documents.
“Proceed,”
says the judge.
“Your
honor, I’m Doctor Cole Fitzgerald, Chief of Emergency Medicine at Massachusetts
General Hospital in Boston. For the past six years I’ve been on the Bioscience
Board there, which has lead the world in testing protein-based drugs targeting
cancerous cells.” Cole coughs, glances at Lily. “For five years my wife, Lily,
has been on a prophylactic course of medication used to delay or completely
stop the onset of Alzheimer’s. Your new scanning system has just informed us
that Lily’s carrying a baby girl with an approximate MedID number of 74. But
with eleven weeks left in the pregnancy, there are still opportunities to gain
that one point needed to give this child a clean number. We’ll make it our
priority. I realize the immigration safeguards are in place to insure England’s
physical and economic health. And I assure you that the four of us will
contribute to the well-being of this country.”
The timer sounds. The judge peers
over Cole’s shoulder at Lily.
“Mrs.
Fitzgerald,” Judge Cornwall says. “You’ve brought quite the trifecta with you.”
“Excuse me,
sir?” Lily slides beside Cole.
“Cancer.
Alzheimer’s. Depression.”
Her mouth
opens, closes.
The judge
continues. “Fortunately, cures seem to be on the horizon. But they’re not here
yet.” He flips through the paperwork. “After reviewing your case and
considering your statement, my decision is to grant you, Dr. Fitzgerald, and
your son Ian, temporary visas. However, I am unable to grant both Lily
Fitzgerald and the unborn child the same. Mrs. Fitzgerald, your health is cost-prohibitive
and as for your fetus, there is already an endless line of children in our
medical system.”
The timer
sounds. Thirty seconds to argue.
“Please,
sir.” Cole’s chest tightens. “My son needs his mother, and I need my wife. Our
new child needs a chance. My services to your healthcare system will be of
great benefit and I’ll work tirelessly to make sure your investment in me is a
wise one. Ian will thrive in your schools. And we’ll treat our daughter
in-utero, as I mentioned. She’ll grow up and contribute to your society. I
swear she will. Please.”
The final
timer goes off.
“But you
can’t guarantee it, can you?” Judge Cornwall slides the papers back through the
slot. “No one can predict the future and many a parent has been disappointed in
the outcome of children. One never knows. I regret to tell you that my
decisions are final.”
The gavel
sounds. People behind them in line push past to get in front of the judge. In
silence, the Fitzgeralds gather their things and move along the white tile
floor, marred by a continuous gray smudge. At the entrance to the two
final corridors, Lily moves toward the “Return to Country of Origin” sign. She
says, “I want you and Ian to stay.”
“No,” Cole says. “We tried. We did
our best. It didn’t work.”
“It worked for the two of you. You
can be safe here.”
“It’s not an option, Lily.”
“I’ll go back. Have the baby. Maybe
Kate or Sebastian can help us get visas.”
Cole shakes
his head. “You can’t ask an FBI agent to help you do something illegal.”
Ian watches
them wordlessly.
“This isn’t forever.” Lily reaches
for his hand and presses it between hers.
“What if Ian stayed here with your
cousins?” Cole suggests. “He’d be safe while we work things out at home.”
“No way,” Ian interjects. “What if
you don’t come back?”
A river of people flows around them,
arms and suitcases jostling them. The faces around them display raw emotion,
nothing hidden: joy, angst, fear, relief. A security officer stationed a few
feet ahead of them signals people forward with a waving hand.
Finally Lily nods. Defeat burns in
Cole’s gut. The three of them wrap arms, touch hair, kiss cheeks, and hold on
as they savor the one moment they have left in this safe haven. And then it’s
time to go. Once again they pick up their belongings and head in the direction
they no longer want to go. Back home.
Thank you Holly for sharing your work.
For those that are interested you can read more about Holly and where to buy her novel at these links.
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Watch here next week when the 4Q Interview features Chuck Bowie of Fredericton, NB and an excerpt from his latest thriller - AMACAT.
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