The Death of Our Beloved Leader: A Romance

The Death of Our Beloved Leader: A Romance

Graham Swanson

written November 2024 

The Motherland Calls

Lana Lena waited for her sweetheart to return to the village. She missed him even though nearly two decades went by without them speaking to each other. When she heard about him coming back home, her curiosity got the better of her, and she planned to find him and talk one more time. She waited at the station, listening to the news about the Minister’s death and how the believers of his Thunderfist movement refused to buy the “accident” story. They already attacked the houses of any judge who ever convicted a member. She worried about Thorn, once dear to her, because she heard he was swept in in the violence of the movement. 

Col. Marcus Gaius Thorne came back from war to find his beloved home transformed beyond his imagination. Not really. It was exactly the same. But he couldn’t see it the same way. Now it felt physically disappointing and wrong. Not because of the problems that always existed there, but because he didn’t understand the folk’s contempt for his hero, the former minister, teacher, and warrior who chased the foreign invaders away with his fleet of bulldozers and electrician fencing. 

His radio broadcasts still echoed from speakers all over town. His sweet voice celebrated the victories of the poor nation, yet the folk hated the sermons. They said the foreigners he deposed lived and worked among them, played with their children on the playground, and attended the town festivals and parades with their happy babies. 

Thorne disregarded the protests and participated in the punishment of a teenager who vandalized one of the speakers so that it played loud fart noises during the broadcast. They all said the Minister betrayed them to their adversaries in the frozen wastes. Thorne knew better. Before the wise and distinguished Adam Hitmaker appeared, Thorne left the army in disgrace after being caught with 1000 pounds of heroin he had been stealing and selling back to the locals. He lived in bus stops, boarding houses, trailers, wearing rags and living out of his combat bag. He ate out of trash, and the only places that hired him liked to take on dropouts and felons. 

Then one day a man appeared from the wash of weary faces and polluted streets overflowing with garbage. From the subway trains to the water towers, the mountains to the meadows. From the flames and smoke of tarnished ruins. He said that the day when the satanic infiltrators who run our systems of power are in control had come to an end, and that he’d purge those infected the schools and the media with the virus of heretical teachings. 

Men who buried their fathers wept over the grave, spending bundles to put up a headstone and prepare a funeral. In all the pain in their hearts, they turned to the Minister. “Once he’s in power, it will all be better.” One man said. 

A woman who worked in a sandwich shop in a small town grew frustrated over the dying town she worked in. The mayor gave all the town money to the police or the factory, and despite land leased nearly 15 years ago, no construction started. She looked up to the minister and said “Once he’s in power, this will all change.”

Men like Thorne, desperate, cold and hungry, but most of all, angry at the world that left them behind, flocked to join him. He called out their enemies by name, promised to cleanse them from the land, promised to bring back the golden days of the past when men like them were conquerors and respected fathers, lords, and icons. Unlike today, when they boxed out of the windows of opportunities, and looked down on by the charmed elite who founded the nation of Verengam when refugees from across the ocean washed up on shore. 

Thorne led the rallies. He organized them and orchestrated the marches. Banners bore the black emblem of their movement, the Thunderfist! The once vanquished rose again, and now led by a fearless leader, they pledged to take the world. They waited in their positions for him to appear. Waiting, holding their breath. Their dress boots hurt to march in. Maybe he wouldn’t show up… maybe something happened to him. 

Then he arrived in a helicopter. The crowd went wild. Threw hurled their fists into the air and beat their boots on the pavement. They screamed until the veins in their necks popped. They clapped until their wrists ached. First his right hand men stepped to the microphone, their belts tight and weapons hoisted to their shoulders. 

“Hitmaker will speak shortly.” 

The crowd of black clad soldiers stomped and shouted.

“The time is now. Hitmaker will soon speak.”

The crowd jumped and cheered.

“The age of oppression is over. Hitmaker approaches!”

The crowd began to stir in their boots, looking in all directions. Heavy raindrops fell from the sky and washed down their helmets and gasmasks. Then they stopped in silence, amid steam from the pavement, and hesitated as the lights lowered. Vapor arose from their collars, like lost souls exhausting upwards towards the night sky. Then he appeared at the podium. Thorn stood there behind him leading the chants.

“Minister! Minister! Minister!” 

Tall as a tree, the striking physique of an NFL quarterback, dark wavy hair neatly cut, piercing black eyes that glimmered in the spotlights. fair and vibrant with a healthy red in his cheeks. Black necktie illuminated by sharp lines, a combat vest under a tailored trench coat over a crisp white shirt over combat boots On his wrist a watch ticked, as the lapel of the Thunderfist brought a splash of color to his outfit.

A charming smile wrinkled his forehead, with scowling eyelids that struck fear in the hearts of his enemies. Tattoos from prison marked his knuckles, and when speaking he kept that fist balled up so show them off. 

When The Minister raised his fist to show the crowd they hoorahed over and over until he opened his palm. Then they stopped. He reached out like he was touching their hearts, and they repeated the gesture, then quickly snatched his claw back to his chest like he just ripped someone’s heart out, growling like a charging knight with each tremendous pull. The crowd repeated the salute. For about 20 minutes they went back and forth. 

Cameras lit up, people recorded him with their phones, and the broadcasts went across the world. Hitmaker didn’t speak long, they all knew his spiel about loyalty, honor, but now as his ascension into power became more apparent, he emboldened his claims. “We will root out the vermin who have poisoned the blood of our beloved land! The enemy within who betrayed us for centuries will taste our bitter vengeance!”

The crowd raised their fists in approval. 

“Unity is our strength! Unyielding, unstoppable, together we shall rise as one! They may call us radicals, but we are the visionaries of a new era- those who dream of greatness! History will not remember us for our failures, but for our relentless pursuit of a brighter future! To those who oppose us: You stand in the way of progress, and history has no mercy for the weak! We shall cleanse our nation of dissent, for only through purity of purpose can we achieve our greater destiny! Fear is a tool, and hope is the weapon. As a whole, we will wield both to forge a new path! The time for complacency is over… We must awaken the spirit of our ancestors and reclaim what is rightfully ours! Awaken! Awaken!”

The crowd repeated, Awaken! Awaken!

“Down with the Establishment!” 

“Down with the Establishment!”

Thorne wept in the rain holding an umbrella over the man’s head as the warriors marched out with their voting cards in hand. They took up their ATVS and Motorcycles to clear the brick roads. Men, women, and children cheered on the racing vehicles from their porches. They filed into the cities, battled the police. Buildings went ablaze and glorious rock anthems from the 80s rang in the streets. He won in a landslide. The Thunderfist movement rebranded their official logo with the election result. 287/244. This was just the inauguration. 

“Today we take the palace and change the world!”  he said as a shadow fell over him.

The crowd stood awestruck, lost in their frenzy, few took the threat as serious until a loud crack shook the ground. One of the statues overhead fell from its pedestal and crashed through the stage. When the debris cleared a large hole smoked where the Minster stood. His boots stuck out from under the torch in the statue's hand. Within hours the whole world saw footage of him being crushed under the cascading model. 

Thousands rushed the stage to haul scraps to recover the Minister. However, as coroners later reported, the statue killed him on impact. Investigators and forensic experts analysed the scene and determined that the statue fell because the rods that held it up simply corroded over time. Hard winds and changing temperatures, storms and ice forming inside of the granite caused the integrity of the stone to come apart. However the movement didn’t believe the report. To them, the Establishment caused his death. 

Thorne tried to tell the movement that he witnessed an accident, but they didn’t believe him. If he had nothing to do with it, then perhaps he should’ve tossed himself in place of the leader under the falling statue.

“You saw it?”

“Yes I was right there.”

“And what did you do?”

“I didn’t think the statue was going to fall.” 

“You didn’t think of rushing him out of there?”

“No, it was loud, foggy, dark, hard to see. I didn’t know what was happening.”

“Then you’re a fool, if you’re not a fool, then you had something to do with it.”

“No, never.”

“Why did you choose this location? Why did you choose those statues?”

“The Minister choose the location. He liked the statues. I actually wanted to do this in an indoor arena but he insisted on doing this outside near the capitol so everyone could follow him to the palace.”

“You will be rejected from the party. The movement will go on without you. Though we will see about any culpability, the Thunderfist will not forget your ultimate failure.”

“I will make this right. I will get on the phone and let our followers know what happened.”

“We don’t want them to know what happened. They're angry, and as we speak, they are trying to figure out what happened. We will let them know the truth.”

Thorne took a train ride home and listened to the outpour on social media. They blamed the Establishment, and promised to take revenge on those who supported it.

“It’s a conspiracy and the Establishment is at the root of it.” the Thunderfist supporters said. The political rivals who challenged the Minister felt the blame. “An assassination. These bastards have gone too far. Now they will pay.”

As night fell the streets of Verengam became a hailstorm of fire and turmoil. Violence echoed in the farthest alley as bricks and flaming bottles filled the air. Anyone vaguely responsible for the Minister’s death became a target, so Thorn hid in the basement of his parents house in the quiet village. The Thunderfist movement targeted homes and descended on them with crowbars and hammers. They found symbols of their opposition and burned them down. The cries of the innocent rang out only to be drowned by the roar of engines and the marching of boots. 

Lana watched the few people step off he train. Thorn got off at the very end of the line. She wanted to reach out but something frightened her. The coat and uniform eh wore. Gone were the days when he wore bright neon shoes and curled his hair up like a poodle. Gone was his scrawny arms and neck. She didn’t know if it could be the same man, but once he noticed her the kind memories swarmed them both. 

They talked over coffee.

“I’m a school teacher.” She told him. “I got married.” 

“Maybe I should’ve stayed too.”

“My mother used to tell me stories about her trips to the city when she was a girl. How united everyone was. How happy it all seemed.”

“It cant be like that anymore.” 

“Why did you join him?”

“His dream of the unification.”

Their reunion went on like this. Glances off to the distance, lingering. Careful nodding, sitting still, smoking, searching for unspoken words. A barrier stood between them both.  

“This isn’t what any of us wanted.” She said.

“The boy didn’t mean to touch the radios.” 

“He was smart.”

“Soon they’ll come here. They’ll find me.”

“I’ll keep them away.” 

“No Lana. Stay away from them.” He grabbed her hand. “I will leave and go far away. I’m sorry I ever returned.” 

They kissed once more, and he went off into the dust and wind. 

As Thorn thought, armed killers arrived in trucks. They parked in the middle of the village, heavy weapons and black masks over their faces. Posters of the man they hunted went up on all corners. People let them into their homes to search. Others refused, so the masked invaders kicked down their doors and threw the dwellers into the mud outside. 

Eventually they came to the farm house of Lana and her husband, Oakland. Lana hid inside while her husband marched out. The gun case hung open. She gasped when she heard his voice rise over the roar of their engines. Their shouts escalated until soft spoken old man stepped between them. 

“We just want to talk to her.” He said to the farmer. “And we will leave once we have the answers we search for.”

“Over my dead body.” He rose the weapon to his shoulder, and killers did the same.