Dawn of The Dumpers: A Trump Novel

Devon

          "SORRY, KID. We don't harbor rebels here," the man spits. The hatred in his voice is so evident that it borders on revulsion. It's obvious that his opinion of the Resistance is less than high. He sits behind the counter of a cheap drugstore on an unstable three-legged stool that barely manages to hold up his corpulent frame. At least, the counter of what used to be a cheap drugstore. It's now an enclosed junkyard filled with old "Calexit" signs, mutilated cardboard cutouts of Trump, and various other remnants of California's failed War of Secession against the Trumpets. A puff of residual smoke from the cigarette he has just crushed under his worn boot escapes the man's swollen lips as he looks up at the scrawny boy who stands before him. 

"They aren't rebels!" the boy insists, removing his hands from his pockets and clasping them together in front of his chest in fervent entreaty. "Please, they're my parents! They never supported Trump, but they've never been Resistance, either! Please, I beg you, there must be something you can do! My uncles and aunts were all killed in the secession movement. They're the only family I have left!"

"Look, kid, you're not gonna get any sympathy out of me," the man uncrosses his arms to run his fingers through his greasy hair. "You don't know how many people like you come to me every day with the exact same story. I don't know why- I'm no magician. I can't pull your parents out o' thin air."

"Look, Mr. Bedford, I can be just as cold as you can," the boy's gaze hardens. "The last thing my mother gave to me was a note with your name on it, and I intend to find out why. If you know something you aren't telling me..." 

"Devon, my boy," the man- Bedford- lets out a low chuckle, hopping off his stool and walking around the counter toward Devon. "Count your blessings, son. You're a white male. A Trumpet wouldn't kill you if you walked right in front of him; unless, of course, you gave him a good reason to do it. Get out there and survive, boy. Stop worrying about people who ain't gonna come back." 

"They're not dead!" Devon yells. 

"Yellin' it don't make it true," Bedford shakes his head. "Kids these days..."

Devon swallows hard, backing away from the former store clerk. The heel of his right sneaker descends on top of an old soda can with a loud crunch, and he sighs deeply. It has been two weeks since the Trumpists attacked his neighborhood. Two weeks since every liberal, woman, Mexican, Muslim, and African American had been shot in the once safe Californian streets. Two weeks since the state had paid the ultimate price for its rebellion. Two weeks since Devon Sutherland last saw his family. 

Two weeks, and he still hasn't found a trace of them. 

Damian Bedford had been Devon's only hope- his one chance. He clearly remembers the feeling of the thin, smoldering paper of his mother's note in his hand, and the words that were scrawled across it in immaculate cursive. 

Find Bedford at Old Joe's. Burn this.

It would've been cruel of her feed him a false lead. Devon knows that there was some kind of meaning to the note. What can he possibly be missing? 

"Look, I'm really sorry, kid," Bedford says after a long pause. He stands in front of the counter now, looking straight at the boy. As he tucks his hands into the loose pockets of his oversized jeans, Devon notices a sudden shift in the clerk's mood. His apology is no longer sarcastic- he appears completely sincere in his actions. 

"...wait, for what?" Devon stammers, his heart pounding in his ears. "They're dead, aren't they," he whispers, unable to comprehend the words that escape his mouth. "The Trumpets killed them." 

"Worse," Bedford grits his teeth, before lowering his head in shame. 

"What do you mean!?" Devon gasps. 

His question is almost immediately answered. 

Every window in the store simultaneously shatters with a deafening crash, and Devon yelps in surprise, diving under the counter to escape the flying shards of glass. He shields his eyes with his left hand while steadying himself with his right. Thinking the coast is clear, he slowly turns his head to survey the damage. 

He is very wrong. 

Two lines of soldiers have climbed through the now empty window frames. They are all heavily armed, but their weapons hang, untouched, at their sides. A Trumpet officer stands in the middle of their formation, which resembles a lopsided letter V. 

"Devon Eric Sutherland?" he asks tersely. 

"Uh...yeah?" Devon answers. 

The officer nods, clapping his gloved hands together. The soldiers shuffle in their lines, bringing those who were in the back to the front of the block. Devon gasps as two very familiar faces come into view. 

His parents. 

They are each held in place by two soldiers, but there does not appear to be a struggle. In fact, they look quite happy to be in the possession of the sadistic Trumpets, even proud. 

"Devon!" his mother gushes, her eyes glistening with tears. "Oh, I am so glad to see you! You have no idea how worried I was. I thought you were dead!" 

"Mom," Devon smiles. He, too, is overjoyed to see his parents alive and well, but his doubts outweigh his relief. "How does it not bother you at all that there are ten armed soldiers standing behind you?" he frowns. "And what on Earth is happening here?" 

"Oh, they'll explain it all when we get to the base," Devon's father says cheerily. "And don't worry about the soldiers. They're just here to protect us from the rebels, just in case we happen to encounter any of those unpatriotic scumbags." 

"What base?" Devon narrows his eyes suspiciously. Something about his parents' attitudes is...off. They are acting far too bubbly...

"The Trumpet base," Devon's mom beams. "They're taking all white survivors there, to be safe. I promise you, you'll love it! There's no mass shootings there, no violence, no rebels, no constant death. They don't even ask for much- just your freedom." She holds up her handcuffed wrist. 

"Just your freedom?" Devon stares at her in disbelief. "Mom, this is America!"

"I strongly recommend that you come with us to the base, Mr. Sutherland," the Trumpet officer says firmly. "It is for your own safety and well-being." 

"Yes, sir," Devon nods obediently. 

He turns his head, realizing that Mr. Bedford is nowhere in sight. 

Then, he runs.