This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons or events is entirely coincidental.
*****
*****
The old woman should never have been in the briefing room to begin with, and Jason LeGrand would personally make sure she never saw the light of day again. Same for the president of the news network that provided the false credentials that got her in, and the network itself was barred from the airwaves almost as soon as the incident occurred.
Press Secretary LeGrand was usually prepared for questions from journalists, especially now that the only ones allowed into the briefing room were from news outlets whose philosophies aligned with the president’s. So it had been a surprise when the old woman asked him about the virus that was quietly but swiftly killing its way through low-income and rural areas, recently stripped clean of local hospitals due to budget cuts.
“The Department of Health and Human Services is aware of a more aggressive than usual strain of flu,” LeGrand said coolly, trying to stare down the woman, like a lion staring down a gazelle. “The advice is to eat plenty of protein and get fresh air and sunshine.” No need to cause a panic, especially with an already overburdened health care system.
But the old woman wouldn’t back down. “Scientists from the recently-disbanded CDC are claiming the disease is a variant of ebola,” she stated, moving forward through the knot of journalists, already scribbling down the exchange unfolding before them. “Do you have any comment on that?”
The Press Secretary drew himself up, willing himself to look more imposing and powerful. His voice when he spoke was full of disdain, but his eyes…his eyes had suddenly shifted to a spot on the far wall, avoiding the old woman’s direct gaze. “I’m not going to acknowledge fearmongering from politically-motivated individuals who are angry at the president’s reforms,” he stated. Even though some of the president’s own medical team were beginning to show severe alarm at the developing pandemic.
The old woman stepped forward, unafraid of the man behind the podium. “Is the president keeping secrets from the people?” she asked. Her voice was quiet, but seemed to ring in his ears at the same time. “Are you keeping secrets, Mr. Secretary?”
That was enough.
“Okay, get her out of here,” LeGrand said, making a gesture to the nearby security team. Immediately they began to swarm towards the old woman, while the other journalists cleared a path, not wanting to get caught up in the takedown.
“Los secretos saldrán a la luz!” The old woman screamed as the armed men tackled her to the ground with what the president would have called “reasonable force”, the sounds of her ancient bones snapping like thunder.
LeGrand immediately turned his back on the scene, disappearing into the secured corridor behind the briefing room. His heart rate was only slightly elevated, and only the thinnest sheen of sweat had broken out on his brow.
But his thighs had begun to burn madly.
First came the debrief with the security team—yes, the old woman was in secure custody, and yes they were already tracking down the individuals who got her in—then came the debrief with the president, who hardly seemed to care about the incident except for the fact that the secret service was now trying to discourage him from an afternoon of golf with a visiting prince. Finally excused for a few minutes, the Press Secretary made his way to the men’s room, trying to get some relief of the burning and itching on his thighs.
Alone in a stall, he dropped his designer trousers, and saw on the pallid flesh beneath, red and swollen words scrawling down the inside of his left thigh:
There is a pandemic. People are dying.
And on the inside of his right…
I AM CURSED
The words weren’t written in blood, and they didn’t resemble a scar. The letters were raised and irritated, like welts, though they itched and burned like a bite from some hellish combination of mosquito and fire ant. Later on when he saw a physician, the doctor thought it might be a type of dermatographia, a condition where when a person scratches along their skin, it causes similar raised welts, allowing someone to “write” on another’s skin. Of course, with normal dermatographia, the letters face after a period of twenty minutes or so, but by nightfall the words on Jason LeGrand’s thighs were still redder and more painful than ever.
Gritting his teeth, he slathered himself with steroid cream then took several shots of whiskey, thankful that his wife was away on business and that he and his mistress were on the outs. In the morning, perhaps, the welts would heal.
*****
LeGrand’s legs still itched and burned at the next press conference, one that seemed a bit less crowded than usual. As expected, there were questions about the incident in the last conference.
“Is the withdrawal of B— Network’s broadcasting license meant to be a temporary ban or a permanent one?” one journalist, a representative from one of B—’s rival news outlets, asked with a rather smug grin on their face.
The Press Secretary relaxed somewhat. “The Bureau of Investigation is currently looking into network executives and personnel to ensure there is no further risk to anyone in the government or in the public. If they can confirm that there’s no further threat, I’m sure the Board of Public Communications will be more than happy to reinstate B—’s broadcasting license.”
As he spoke the words though, a strange and familiar tingling, then burning, sparked beneath his Rolex, creeping upward towards his elbow. He gritted his teeth but tried otherwise to hide his reaction, and his knuckles went white as he gripped the podium, determined to continue with the questions.
Yes it was true the woman who caused a scene last week was not an employee of B— Network. And yes the person who falsified her credentials was taken into custody for conspiracy, with the Justice Department possibly considering a charge of sedition. Likewise, several security officers were placed on leave for their failure to keep her out of the briefing room. No, the Press Secretary could not speak to when a court date would be set for any of the individuals involved.
It was a heroic effort, but LeGrand saw the press conference through to the end. Rather than going for a debrief this time, the Press Secretary almost ran to the men’s room (though running would make his sore thighs chafe and burn even more), locking the door behind him before tossing his suit coat on the floor and nearly tearing the sleeves of his shirt in an effort to shove them up to the elbows.
They are imprisoned in the camp.
They are imprisoned in the camp.
They are imprisoned in the camp…
Not just one line this time, but many, wrapping around his forearm from wrist to elbow, over and over again.
At that moment, a toilet flushed and let Jason LeGrand know he wasn’t alone in the restroom. A stall door opened, and the Chief of Staff stepped out, giving him an odd look. “You all right Jason?” the other man asked, picking up the Press Secretary’s coat from the floor and holding out to him. As he did, his eyes fell on the swollen red words on LeGrand’s otherwise pale flesh.
“Jesus…what the fuck is that…?”
*****
Jason LeGrand had to beg the president for a leave of absence, but the president just accused him of scratching the words—national secrets—into his skin on purpose. So he was another enemy in the inner circle, just the latest to be fired. What did that make it since Inauguration Day, eight? Nine people? Someone paid off LeGrand’s mistress to go to a tabloid and share some embarrassing sexual stories about him, and that was a perfectly good excuse to let him go (after all, they could hardly fire LeGrand for scrawling words onto his limbs). The Press Secretary was stepping down to due personal business, the president wishes him all the best, and the podcast hosts immediately began sending invites, trying to get the real story.
Still, the humiliation of his departure didn’t burn as badly as the words in his flesh that refused to heal. LeGrand was somewhat relieved that by stepping out of the government limelight, he wouldn’t know any secrets to keep, so surely nothing new could be etched into his skin. And perhaps in time, the words on his legs and arm would heal, and the nightmare would end. He could get a job commentating on his party’s preferred news network, maybe do some lobbying here and there, eventually retire to a sunny island in the south.
Then came the divorce letter. His wife wanted everything. LeGrand would lawyer up of course, but he was technically unemployed, and the president, once a close personal friend, would no longer take his calls. But a certain Mr. Nogar, with a multi-million subscriber podcast, did. The appearance fee for one interview would certainly secure a viper who'd make sure Lisa never got a dime of LeGrand's hard-earned money.
It would be a fun, light conversation, Mr. Nogar promised, more about LeGrand’s earlier career before his time as Press Secretary. But fifteen minutes in, the inevitable question came up.
“So what do you think? Is the president going to run for a third term?” Mr. Nogar asked with an amused smile on his face.
LeGrand returned it, and though something in his heart warned him not to answer, not to speak at all, the words came out as light and easy as a hornet on a breeze. “I highly doubt it.”
Then the sting, right in the middle of his chest, and spreading fast. The former Press Secretary winced visibly, extinguishing Mr. Nogar’s smile. “Whoa, you okay man?” he asked, motioning to his producer to cut the mike. LeGrand shook his head as the pain shot down his right arm, burning and twitching as bad as any heart attack.
In fact, that was what Mr. Nogar told the paramedics was happening when they arrived. His guest wouldn’t speak, oh how he’d learned the danger of speaking, and not speaking true, and it wasn’t until the paramedics opened LeGrand’s shirt and saw the giant letters spreading over his chest and towards his arm that they realized it wasn’t a heart attack at all.
The president will cancel the election.
*****
Former Press Secretary Jason LeGrand was held under indefinite observation at the nearby hospital. He refused to speak, and mental health professionals were arguing for the necessity of transferring him to a more specialized facility when against all odds, his would-be ex-wife arrived to speak in his defense.
Dermatographia? No, of course not. She knew his health history forward and backward, hadn’t they been married for twenty-five years? Sitting at his bedside, she reached for his hand in an apparent sign of tenderness, but in fact scratched a perfectly-manicured nail into the back of his still-wordless knuckles, making what should have been a letter A. If it was true dermatographia, it should have risen up with the other words scrawling over his body, but save for a white mark that vanished almost instantly, there was no change.
“He didn’t do this to himself. Bring him a dermatologist, but he doesn’t need a shrink. This man knows national secrets, he doesn’t need to speak if he doesn’t want to,” she said, then immediately began filling out insurance paperwork. “If there’s nothing we can do about his skin, he needs to come home, where it’s secure.”
Despite the upcoming divorce, LeGrand was grateful for his wife’s presence, and even murmured a small “thank you” as she helped him into her BMW. She only nodded and handed him his phone so he could at the very least respond to some important emails and texts, praying that wouldn’t bring in another bout of painful writing. The first time he hit “send” he braced himself…but nothing.
The doctors had given him pills for the pain, and although LeGrand was sure his wife had stolen a few of them herself before excusing herself to the living room, they helped immensely after he’d gotten himself settled into his bed for the night. The strangeness of his situation kept sleep at bay however, and it was well past midnight when his phone suddenly went off. It was a Signal chat with a large number of LeGrand’s former colleagues, including the vice president. Curiously, the president himself was absent.
“Operation Stalin is underway,” typed the Secretary of War.
Operation Stalin? Oh god. Oh fuck. Oh no.
Why was LeGrand even in this group chat? He wasn’t Press Secretary any longer, he’d been replaced by a beautiful young blonde fresh off cable news (who, to her credit, was also in the group chat). As he looked at the other names, the only one that stuck out to him was Jack Smythe. Jack Smith was the head of the secret service, but…
A quick Google search told him Jack Smythe was a journalist for The Pacific News, clearly someone added to the chat by accident. Like LeGrand himself.
Still, that didn’t stop the messages from coming in, an administration in crisis trying (unsuccessfully, it would turn out) to put out a small fire before it became a blazing inferno. LeGrand shouldn’t have seen any of it, but he did. And so would a writer for The Pacific News. Those stupid, stupid fucks...
Los secretos saldrán a la luz.
The secrets will come to light.
“Lisa…” he groaned, dropping the phone and trying to call out for his wife. “Lisa…help…”
His eyes and lips were burning.
*****
Lisa LeGrand screamed when she saw him the next morning, his face spotted and swollen with letters and his mouth hanging open in a silent scream. For the second day in a row paramedics were called, but this time there was nothing to do for the former Press Secretary. In a way it was a good thing, because even if Jason LeGrand could have been saved, the traffic reaching his house was so bad it took the ambulance nearly an hour to reach him.
When they did, and the paramedics observed the corpse, they stared at one another. In another room, a news broadcast was sharing the secret written in blistering red letters on the deceased’s face.
The president is dead.