Our Contest

by Phillip Murrell

“Of course, Father. The only other thing is that we will wear Gudz gray on our left shoulders during the decisive battle,” Drorus says.

  “Gudz gray?” Abel asks.

  “In honor of your first warrior,” Leebuch answers. “We have regarded many informational recordings on his prowess in battle. We intend to honor him when the time comes.”

  “I am sure Votary will be completely indifferent to the homage,” Abel muses.

  The passing Malignant no longer sound through the door. Drorus takes the opportunity to obey Abel’s suggestion.

  “Father, it sounds like the sentries have passed. Please follow me on the rest of the tour of the ship,” Drorus says.

  “The whole ship?” Abel asks.

  “As much as possible,” Leebuch says. “Every Malignant who sees you leads to more who choose you over Mother.”

  “Follow me,” Drorus repeats.

  The three exit their confined space and continue the tour of the Womb.

  Claire pounds on the front door to the building that houses Sam’s psychology office. The small parking lot in front of the building is empty, and Benji watches with worry as Claire tries to force herself into an obviously closed building.

  “Dr. Cameron!” Claire shouts. “Open up, I need to see you!”

  Benji places his hands on Claire’s shoulders and kindly pulls her away.

  “I don’t think he’s in there,” Benji states. “I don’t think anyone’s in there.”

  Claire slumps and slowly turns away from the door, defeated. Benji looks at the notice attached on the outside of the building.

  “Did you even bother to read this?” Benji asks.

  Claire shakes her head. Benji leans in closer to see what the single piece of paper says.

  Benji reads it aloud. “I am closing down my practice indefinitely. As you most assuredly know, life has become more hectic in recent years. It has made me more appreciative of what is important to me. That means family. My father is having a tough time with the recent arrivals in space, and I need to be there to support him. I hope you all understand.”

  Claire sighs. “Great, Doc, thanks; way to leave me hanging.”

  Benji wraps Claire in a hug and rubs her back.

  “Don’t be mad at him. Dr. Cameron was just smart enough to get out while he still could,” Benji says.

  “What’s that say about us?”

  “It says we’re the stubborn type who don’t scare easy.”

  “I wish that was true. I’m scared of almost everything, it seems.”

  “That’s not true. You’ve had to deal with a lot of death and destruction lately. You may have had a few days of self-pity along the way, but that’s understandable. You are without a doubt the toughest woman I know.”

  “Flattery won’t get you any extra booty, Sergeant Tanner.”

  “It was worth a shot.”

  Claire sits on the curb and rests her head in her hands with her elbows propped on her knees. Benji sits beside her. Claire shifts her head from her hands to his shoulder.

  “What are we gonna do?” she wonders. “The world is on the brink of destroying itself, and the Malignant haven’t even fired a shot yet.”

  “It’s calm enough today.”

  “I’ll chalk that up to a Sunday truce.”

  “All I’m saying is that today is still a normal day. We can’t spend our time worrying about the future. Now, more than ever, we have to live in the present.”

  Claire fiddles with the large engagement ring on her finger. The three stones reflect the morning sunlight. This simple action makes her smile.

  “Benji?”

  “Yeah, babe?”

  “I want to get married today.”

  Benji shifts his weight away from her and almost causes her to lose her balance. He looks at his fiancée with concern.

  “What? Why? We can’t.”

  “Because the Justice of the Peace is closed?” Claire jokes.

  “No, because civilized people get married with class. Don’t take this away from me.”

  “Why not, Groomzilla?”

  “We have to make the day special. I know you like a big party. Our wedding is going to be the biggest.”

  “I don’t care about that. All I care about is becoming Mrs. Tanner. I’m afraid if we wait for the world to calm itself down, it may be too late. We’ll die single individuals.”

  Benji allows Claire to lie her head back down on his shoulder. He strokes her hair as he attempts to soothe her.

  “We’re already married in our hearts. The rest is just a formality, but it’s an important formality. I don’t want to let fear dictate the terms of my life.”

  “I need to hear the words ‘husband and wife’ by someone with the power to declare it. You don’t understand, baby, but I never thought those words would be said about me. I’m forty years old and have never been married. It’s important to me. Please tell me that we’ll find a judge or someone tomorrow and make it official.”

  “Claire, we can do better than this. We don’t need the paper. We just need each other.”

  “Please, Benji.”

  Benji looks into Claire’s eyes. They glisten with passion. Benji decides that his best bet is to try and compromise with his stubborn fiancée.

  “How about—” he begins.

  “Yes?” Claire interrupts.

  “How about we try to set things up to go to Las Vegas in a few weeks? That way we can at least have a little spectacle with it, but it won’t take over a year to plan.”

  Claire appears to mull this over. She looks up to the sky, possibly trying to discern what the Malignant may do between now and a few weeks. It’s an impossible task, and Claire seems to quickly abandon it. Claire slowly turns Benji’s head to face her own.

  “Deal.”

  She kisses Benji soulfully. Benji feels her hand slowly loosen his belt. Despite his desire, he’s fully aware that they’re in the middle of a public, albeit deserted, place. He pushes her hand away.

  “We can’t. Too public,” Benji protests.

  Claire maintains a devilish lust in her eyes.

  “If you want to buy yourself those precious weeks to make that perfect drive-thru wedding, you’re gonna have to put out now.”

  Claire repositions her hands on Benji’s chest and begins to tear it open. The buttons easily pop off.

  “Wait, I love this shirt,” Benji protests.

  “I love what’s beneath it,” Claire seductively says.

  Benji finally relents. He lies back on the warm pavement of a July Sunday morning. He feels Claire as she straddles his waist and positions him to satisfy her carnal desires and possibly, at least by Benji’s perception, help her to briefly forget about the Malignant.

  Julie sits at the head of her table in The Enterprise conference room. She must settle her criminal affairs before fully dedicating herself as a Templar.

  Sitting around the table are several men and women of various ages and ethnicities. They display a range of emotions that revolve around anxiousness, anger, and trepidation. This is most likely because Julie has her Templar helmet on the table in front of her. She wears her black armor with the thin red pinstripes along her arms and legs. Julie opted to surprise her people by wearing it. The number of spent shell casings on the floor suggests her plan worked.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, now that we’ve all calmed down from my arrival, it’s time to handle the business at hand. I’ve used my secret connections to identify The Opposition, and they elected to buy my silence by gifting me this armor.”

  “You’re not one of them, Mr. Chairman?” an associate asks.

  Julies shakes her head to answer the man. “No, I’m just a person whom they eventually realized has the resources to make their existence much more difficult.”

  “So
, that’s why you haven’t been around for so long?” a woman asks.

  “If that isn’t obvious, you don’t belong in this room,” Julie says with a disapproving glare.

  The woman averts her eyes. Julie is satisfied that the woman is sufficiently embarrassed.

  “No more questions. Let The Chairman issue her instructions,” a gruff man says.

  “Thank you, Marvin,” Julie says. “I do have instructions to issue.”

  The Enterprise executives lean in for the details.

  Julie clears her throat and begins. “First, I won’t be around to help in making day-to-day decisions. I need to appoint a new speaker.”

  The executives lean in closer. Julie can tell that each wishes to be selected as the number two person in the premiere criminal organization on Earth. Julie surprises them all when the door to her right opens. A woman walks through with a small tablet, The Speaker’s tablet, cradled in her arms.

  She’s in her early forties with dark, curly hair that falls to her shoulders, framing her wire spectacles. She strides straight toward Julie with an air of confidence.

  “What are you doing in here?” one executive asks. “This is a private meeting.”

  “One that I invited her to,” Julie informs. “This is Cecilia Torres. She’s now to be referred to as Speaker. She’ll make all decisions during my many absences.”

  “Who is she?” another executive asks.

  The woman voiced a concern that many clearly share.

  “I’m not too vain to believe all of you are completely loyal.”

  Julie holds up a hand to end the declarations of loyalty that many were moments from espousing. Once content that the assembled will remain silent, Julie continues.

  “I searched through my ranks to find someone competent enough to handle this business without having the political organization necessary to force my retirement. That being said, if any of you decide to attempt to pressure her, ignore her, or defy her, you will be retired immediately. We’ve had many conversations on how this business will run. I have complete confidence that she’ll follow my orders and faithfully serve as my proxy.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” Cecilia says.

  Julie nods and continues with her directions.

  “Next, we need to complete missions that are not normal to those in our profession.”

  “Meaning what?” a man asks for the benefit of the group.

  “Meaning that we’ll focus more of our efforts to maintaining order versus making profit.”

  Gasps around the table indicate to Julie that her orders are not expected nor appreciated. She ignores them and presses on.

  “There are many terrified people out there. I don’t need to tell you that many businesses are understaffed as the sheep of this planet choose to run and hide. This means the police are underrepresented. This may seem like good news on the surface, but it actually leads to less profits. Death is a sobering reality, and it seems to have worked for many of our casual clients. Only the true addicts purchase our products and services. We need to create the illusion of law and order to get the recreational adventurers to return to us.”

  Julie is pleased when she sees the number of nodding heads to her rationale.

  “Don’t mistake my orders to mean that we don’t support the habits of our most dedicated clients. I just want it known that there’s a temporary shift of priorities to protection, then to sales. If the planet is to survive, this has to be,” Julie clarifies.

  “Has The Opposition told you about the aliens? What do they want?”

  Julie doesn’t need her augmentation to answer this question.

  “They want to kill anyone who doesn’t have an inherent power,” Julie answers.

  Julie waits for the startled gasps and murmurs of hardened criminals to dissipate.

  “Can we even win?” someone asks.

  A slow smile crosses Julie’s face.

  “Possibly,” she answers, “but that isn’t your concern. You need to follow my orders and the orders of The Speaker.”

  “Yes, Mr. Chairman,” everyone says together.

  Julie smiles with Cecilia standing sentinel over her left shoulder. Julie allows herself a moment of optimism despite the grave threat facing the planet.

  Mr. Polite drives his electric car with an anxious Melanie in the passenger seat. They pass buildings, mostly closed, and barren streets. She looks longingly out the windows and Mr. Polite apparently picks up on this.

  “Is there a problem, my dear?” he asks.

  Melanie shakes her head.

  “No, I just miss home.”

  “This is our home now,” Mr. Polite flatly states. “Colberton is where people like us apparently belong.”

  “If you say so,” Melanie says. “I don’t see many people on the streets.”

  “It’s Sunday. Many are probably at church and giving reverence to our Father.”

  “I’m sure churches are packed these days. A lot of people claim the world is about to end.”

  “That won’t happen. God will provide for us. I’m sure things will soon go back to how they were.”

  Melanie snickers. “Really? So, we’re all gonna lose our powers?”

  Mr. Polite smiles. “Perhaps not exactly as things were but close enough.”

  Mr. Polite slows his car as the light turns orange. He had sufficient time to beat the red light, but he chose to stop instead. The screech of tires and the honk of an angry driver informs the two augments that the driver behind them had a different plan.

  Melanie notices Mr. Polite’s brow furrow, and she feels compelled to intervene on behalf of the foolish honker behind them.

  “Please don’t,” Melanie begs. “At least he’s trying to live his life. Don’t punish him for a momentary lapse in etiquette.”

  Mr. Polite closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and slowly lets it out.

  “Of course, Melanie. I’ll just give his vehicle some problems. He has to be punished, but perhaps it can be financially for once.”

  Melanie lets out her own breath that she hadn’t realized she was holding.

  “Thank you.”

  The cross-traffic rushes to beat its own red light. Melanie watches Mr. Polite’s knuckles whiten as he grips the steering wheel. Everything seems to annoy him. She constantly has to protect the witless.

  Mr. Polite forces a smile as, despite him having a green light, he sees an additional four cars essentially run their red light to clear the intersection and force him to wait longer to continue his journey. Melanie is concerned that his patience will soon wane, allowing his unpredictable emotions to boil over.

  It turns out that the cars are not the problem. Melanie notices a teenager is now in the crosswalk. He slowly moves, despite the red hand telling him not to, across the street. His eyes focus on the phone in his hands. He bobs his head to the music pumped directly into his ears. The motorist behind Mr. Polite begins to blare his horn once again, and Melanie almost senses the moment that Mr. Polite snaps.

  “It’s no longer my fault,” he coldly states.

  Dread overwhelms Melanie as she looks over her shoulder to force herself to witness the man’s demise. Unfortunately for the pedestrian, Melanie was incorrect on the object of Mr. Polite’s wrath.

  Mr. Polite fixes the teenager with a stare, and soon the boy’s ankles are lifted out from under him. His body is hurled the full distance of the crosswalk, and his frail body collapses when it strikes the streetlight post.

  Melanie hears the anguished yelp from the teenager moments before the panic of the other witnesses. She turns her head and sees half a dozen onlookers watching the boy’s body convulse. Even Melanie is annoyed when she realizes that none of the bystanders are attempting first aid or even notifying the authorities.

  Mr. Polite appears unconcerned. Now that the
intersection is clear, he casually drives forward. The vehicle behind him doesn’t move. A puddle of various fluids beneath the pickup truck indicates the reason it’s immobile.

  Melanie stares with horror at the scene and, despite her own reluctance, decides to chastise Mr. Polite.

  “He was just a child!”

  “He was in the way and knew it. He looked at me, then back at his phone. I can’t tolerate rudeness that blatant.”

  “Just because he looked at you doesn’t mean his goal was to insult you!”

  “Lower your voice, Melanie. You seem to forget how polite conversation is supposed to go.”

  “I don’t care. I’m sick of being your prisoner! Let me—”

  Melanie feels an invisible object slap her across her left cheek. The strength of the unseen force turns her face into her window and ricochets her head off the transparent glass.

  Melanie’s cheek is flush, but she rubs the quickly growing bump on her forehead. She tastes blood in her mouth, which she quickly swallows to keep from contaminating Mr. Polite’s immaculate interior.

  “Perhaps we should just listen to some music in silence while we find a hotel. It should probably be one that charges by the week versus the day, don’t you think?”

  Melanie refuses to look at Mr. Polite. She wishes she was strong enough to run away, but she knows he’ll kill her if it comes to it. She decides she needs to beat him to that ultimate conclusion.

  Mr. Polite continues to think out loud.

  “Would you care to watch the remainder of season two tonight while we enjoy some takeout?”

  “Sure,” Melanie whispers.

  “Good. It should be a wonderful evening in.”

  Mr. Polite searches for a classic tune on the radio and whistles along when he finds a chipper beat. Melanie stares at him.

  Cancer, cancer, cancer, she thinks.

  Papa Nutmare groggily enters the office he shares with Shattered Blanket down the hall from their studio. The large sidekick is already present and eats a giant container of strawberry yogurt.

  “C’mon, man, that shit stinks,” Papa Nutmare complains.

  “I’m almost done, Jimmy,” Shattered Blanket answers.