In a week when the federal government ordered troops into Los Angeles and Seattle’s police chief said that he expects to be arrested for resisting federal bullies, I invite you to read an excerpt from “Unwanted Visitors.” Originally published by B Cubed Press, it’s one of the stories in my new collection Patti 209: Fifteen Tales of the Very Near Future.
“Routine check of the block.” The agent’s speech was devoid of inflection. He probably said that same phrase 50 times a day. Or, in the case of Federal Security, a night. They usually came at night.
His partner was already pawing through magazines on my coffee table, peering at books in my bookcases, and opening drawers in the table where I sort the mail. Marie had come out from the kitchen. Now she perched on the arm of a club chair, her open mouth proclaiming her disbelief.
I stood by the sofa, my eyes on anything but the agents. I always stood when Federal Security came.
The taller agent, the one who’d spoken, brushed past. I wrinkled my nose. His cloying body spray was an assault in and of itself. He jogged heavily upstairs to the bedrooms, squeezing his bulk through the narrow staircase. Meanwhile, in the dining room, his colleague stuck his hand in a vase.
I moved closer to Marie. “Security theater.” I kept my voice low. “Ever since the new administration declared Seattle a terrorist haven—” I rolled my eyes to indicate the absurdity of it, “the feds have been sending these rent-a-cops around to keep us on our toes, keep us frightened. They’ll check the computers, maybe ask to see my phone.”
“But that’s illegal!” Marie said, spluttering. “They need warrants! You should just tell them to leave.”
I wished she’d keep her voice down. I kept my tone even. “Well, the feds have declared a state of emergency and they claim that means they don’t need warrants. Of course, people are filing lawsuits. But in the meantime, putting up with these visits is easier than being arrested.” I didn’t add that my next-door neighbor who’d resisted an inspection had disappeared the following day. His bungalow now sat empty, the front lawn overgrown. The couple across the street had adopted his dogs. Had he left town? Or was he in a detention camp?