For most of the residents on Filamore, the working day is done, (if it had ever gotten started in the first place), and the adults are all huddled together in front of their televisions, supping beers and making out.
The sounds emanating from the assortment of trailers that line both sides of the dusty little neighbourhood fight for supremacy in the Texan dusk – radios kick out the classics, televisions drone their familiar drones, a sole lawnmower buzzes like an angry wasp as an elderly man fights a losing battle with his rapidly declining patch of grass.
There's a trailer parked a little farther back than the rest of them.
Off the beaten track, as it were.
One that looks exceptionally run down, even in this less-than-dazzling environment.
From inside, the familiar sounds of the community’s, (and perhaps the state’s), most well-loved news show push themselves through the cracked front window and out into the relative quiet of the weed-infested driveway.
The sounds never reach the rest of the community to mingle with the rest of the comforting symphony that is small-town living.
It’s 8pm on the fifteenth of June, and in Sandy shores, life is going down smooth and slow.
***
For Mike, life had always been a stone cold case of black and white.
Each and every aspect of his existence was built around the concept of absolutes - right and wrong, good and evil, reality and fantasy.
It wasn’t that he spent a great deal of his time speculating on the limitations of human existence, only that simplicity was built into his very DNA.
Hardwired into his internal computer - the program remaining assuredly unaltered over his years.
Mike was no theologian nor was he of an intellectual bent. Those were pastimes and concerns for wiser, more passionate men.
In fact, Mike Echol’s entire worldview was not of the sort that anyone, even in their most generous moment, could call perceptive. Mike’s mind never swayed into the realms of human experience or the mysteries of man’s condition, and it rarely left the comfortable conscious campfire of his two great loves – his country and his beer.
Mike loved both with a fervour that bordered on religious.
Religion, as it happened, came a close runner-up to the two dominating poles of his existence.
A star-spangled flag danced proudly in the Texan winds on a pole he’d erected to the rusted panelling of his trailer, and his cooler was never short of a brew or two. Any time his buddies Merle and josh came by, the guitar would come out, the songs would be sung – mostly Christian – and the alcohol would flow. His bible, though rarely opened, rested on a dusty dressing table, right underneath a small framed image of his lord and saviour, Jesus. The Good Lord’s image looked worse for wear these days. The corners turned up with time, and the deep blue of those glorious eyes that used to shine so bright that Mike imagined He was looking straight into his heart, was all but grey.
If there had ever been erected a poster boy to represent the great American western man - the blue-collar, hard-working god-fearing and country-loving gentleman that made the great united states of America run smoothly - it was Mike.
As honest and humble a man as he was, he saw himself as ranking the most grounded of people. He loved the baby Jesus Christ, he loved the man in the white house, and he loved the beautiful state where he’d spent the entirety of his quiet, humble life.
He was neither fanciful in his thinking nor belligerent in nature. Anyone living in Sandy Waters would tell you he was a stand-up guy.
A true ‘good-ole boy’.
No airs and no graces to be found.
And certainly a man with no desire to upset the applecart of his own simple, uncomplicated existence.
So it came as a huge shock to Mike as he sat there before his TV on his beaten down sofa with a cold Coors in one hand and a Marlboro burning down in the other, when like a bolt out of a clear southern sky he found himself realising - with all the terrible clarity of an alcoholic who wakes up after oblivion to find his life has jumped ship - that every word that was coming out of the pretty blonde newsreaders mouth was absolute, 100% pure, multi-coloured bullshit.
Mike hadn’t been giving much thought to what the gal had been reporting on when his moment of clarity came knocking. He’d been far more concerned with the tantalising contours of her full-breasts as they pressed against the fabric of her slightly-too-tight shirt, and the come-to-bed glint behind her smiling eyes, to give any real attention to the crisis she was documenting.
After all, it was more of the same thing that each and every other day filled the airwaves.
Another fire-fight had taken place in some far-flung corner of the middle-east – surely in another god forsaken region where the populace where more prone to strapping bombs to their chests and blowing themselves into kibbles than enjoying a good pint – leaving casualties on both sides.
Same old, same old...
It was all too depressing, and as far as Mike was concerned, the whole lot of them could burn.
Bunch of damned barbarians anyway, he’d thought.
Prism News was the only news organisation he would ever give his time to, and he saw himself as just as much of a card carrying member of the chest-beating, patriotic crowd the channel embodied as any good American man.
He was proud of this and saw it as his duty as a citizen to unquestioningly support the war machine. After all, America was and always would be the good guys. The government that sent our boys and girls out there had only our best interests at heart.
The least we could do was support the government in their efforts with no questions asked.
One Muslim dead or a thousand, it wasn’t his problem.
The presenter - he’d forgotten her name somewhere between his fourth and fifth beer - had been detailing an attack on an outpost that had led to the deaths of three US troops, two British boys and an unspecified number of middle-eastern casualties. The footage shown was the usual sad cavalcade of destruction, military nobility and heartfelt praise for the dead soldiers. There had been an interview with a high-standing member of congress who forcefully maintained that the boys had died in the name of duty, and that the sacrifice they’d made at the altar of freedom was one that, ‘we as a nation’ would not take in vain.
All good stuff.
Yet it was right then that Mike had a vague sense that something was wrong with this picture.
He was pretty sure the esteemed member of congress’ father, or perhaps grandfather, was a known deserter during that ugly business in Vietnam, yet here he was, standing proudly and bravely declaring that the conflict must continue.
Mike also was becoming fitfully aware that there were no images being shown of the dead on the enemy’s side.
This feeling he was having didn’t sit well with his worldview. He didn’t care about the damned Iraqis, or the collateral damage for that matter.
Did he?
I do, he thought. Of course I fucking do.
These are people just like me. Just like -
In that moment, something inside him rose to the surface.
It began in his belly as a sickly fluttering of wings and spread through his system, making his heart beat to a faster drum. His eyes began to sting and his vision clouded over for a fraction of a second. He felt his palms begin to sweat and his mouth begin to dry. A creeping guilt was beginning to build in him. How could he have been so heartless?
Am I having a panic attack?
Mike had little time to ponder the matter at any length before his mind truly betrayed his lifelong belief system and whispered ever so softly into his conscience...
This is all a lie. This is fucking propaganda I’m seeing –innocent people are dying for these bastards and this channel is propagating it.
Mike’s beer slipped from his numb grip and clunked onto the carpet, lukewarm liquid slowly chugging out onto the flowered design like a tainted bloodstain.
We’re being duped, h
e thought. How the fuck about that!?
Without realising, Mike was shocked to find himself declaring aloud, in semi-inebriated disgust, ““Fuck these wars!”
His mind was reeling from this vastly unwelcome realisation. The sure-fire certainty he’d heard in his own voice shocked Mike to his core, more than he could ever have imagined.
Although what shocked him profoundly more, was when Mrs Full-Tits on the TV stopped what she was saying mid-sentence, looked up into the camera from the report she’d been perusing on her shiny silver desk, dropped her trademark sexy smile, and in a chillingly cold tone, said, “ That’s not the reaction we’re looking for, Michael.”
***
Mike stared at the screen.
The reporter stared back.
His thoughts tumbling down dark tunnels, he reached with shaking hands for the controller, and began to press the channel-change button in rapid succession.
Nothing happened.
The screen flickered momentarily every time he pushed the button, as though the channel would indeed change, but the image that remained before him was that of the no-nonsense reporter.
She was still staring directly at him, silent.
This can’t be, he thought.
He mustered the best and only reasonable response he could find. “What the fuck?”
Without missing a beat, the woman smiled as though on cue.
He noticed in the moment that the smile never met her eyes. There was no humour there, other than the mirth a spider may affect had it the capacity to express its vicious intent to the fly.
“The ‘fuck’, as you so eloquently put it, Michael, is that you’re beginning to upset me.”
Mike tried to formulate words. None were forthcoming, though his mind was rushing headlong into some very scary places.
Did she just fucking respond to me!?
That’s not possible.
I’m having a panic attack or something.
I must be.
No way did that gal just berate me from the damn telly.
He dropped the remote and stared, aghast.
She continued. “Do you think it would be at all possible to close your mouth, Michael? I have no desire to study the contents of your gullet.”
“What the fuck?” Mike asked again, to no one at all.
“Mike. Can I call you Mike?”
The words seemed to slide from his mouth, like drool from a baby, “Sure...okay.” I'm talking to the fucking TV.
“Thank you, Mike. Thank you.” She cleared her throat and clasped her hands on the desk before her. “You’re probably wondering why you’re sat her in your dirty underwear, talking to your television, yes?”
It took him a moment to find his voice. “I’m having a fucking breakdown, aren’t I? That or the beer was out of date. Or I’ve been spiked. Or...”
“No, Mike. You’re not having a breakdown of any sort. At least not of any sort you have in mind. We do have a breakdown though, between you and me – one of communication.”
“The fuck?” She may have had a point on that note.
“Could you be a dear and put out the cigarette in your hand before you burn the whole house down, Mike? That would be set a good precedent for our time together.”
The Marlboro was burned down to the filter, and his forefinger had already begun blackening from the heat.
Mike hadn’t felt a thing until she mentioned it.
With a small hiss of pain, he threw the remains of the cigarette in the ashtray, wondering as he did so if perhaps it really had been laced with some of that wacky-tobacco Merle was so fond of.
“I’ll kill the bastard.”
The television lady sighed as though she’d been through this rigmarole a thousand times before. “Kill who, Mike? No one has brought you to this moment but yourself.”
“You’re an hallucination.”
“I assure you I'm not.”
“And I assure you, you are. Now fuck off! Televisions don’t talk back!”
She smiled. “This one does.”
“No. This one doesn’t!” Mike lunged of the couch and hit the manual on/off button, this time so hard he nearly broke his finger.
The image remained.
The creepy bitch had raised her eyebrow like she was dealing with the dumbest dipshit at the Derry.
On hands and knees, he desperately crawled behind the box and yanked the plug from the socket.
The television remained on. “I'm not going anywhere, Mike. Now do you think you could sit down and start acting like a good boy?”
Her tone reminded him of his fifth grade English teacher.
He hated his fifth grade English teacher.
Still, he found himself standing up and backing towards the sofa. He plunked down on the soft couch and stared, caught somewhere in a minefield between crippling fear and stark outrage.
She cleared her throat again. “As I was saying, you’re not going insane. You’re not under the influence of any intoxicants other than the ones we deem fit for consumption, one of which is now spilled liberally across your fine rug.”
Acceptance began to thaw his scepticism. She was really talking to him. Looking at him.
“You can see that?” he asked, knowing the answer.
She looked down. “Yes, Mike. I can see that. I'm looking directly at you. I'm talking to you. Is it really that much of a surprise that I can see your surroundings too? You really ought to get up to speed on modern technology.”
You’re not fucking kidding, he thought.
“Anyway, as I was saying. You are sober, or as close to sober as you ever seem to get, and you’re absolutely lucid. You’re also having a conversation with your television. I realise that these two things may not seem like perfect bedside companions to you at this time, but that is neither here nor there.”
“What do you want?” he asked, now riding this utterly crazy train to its dreaded destination.
“We were discussing a breakdown in communications, were we not?”
“Yes. I think so. I ...”
“Now I need you to stay calm here, Mike, and answer me as honestly as possible.”
“Okay...” Mike felt his bladder clenching.
“Good. Now...not five minutes ago you were happily watching the news, yes?”
“Yes.”
“And you said something, didn’t you, Michael?”
He noted she'd reverted back to calling him by his full name. “I don’t understand.”
“Yes you do. You were watching a report on the fire fight is Fallujah when you had yourself a little epiphany of sorts. Is that correct? Answer me honestly, Michael this is very important.”
Mike was having difficulty holding onto his thoughts, but yes, he had been thinking something, hadn’t he? He’d felt sick and had, for the first time in his life, allowed himself to entertain thoughts that didn’t sit well with his own system of belief.
He’d said something too.
Out loud.
Don’t tell her what you said.
“I may have been thinking of something strange, yeah. I drank quite a bit and...”
“You only had five beers, Michael. Four and a half considering you spilt that last one. You can drink that volume of alcohol without experiencing flatulence. We both know this.”
“I suppose, but...”
“You said something, Michael. What was it you said? And remember to answer truthfully.”
Instinctually, he knew that this strange, attractive woman was extremely dangerous. He was authentically stuck in this fucking lunatic situation, and he sensed that the answer to her question was the crux of all this madness.
Mike was trembling. Her emphasis on the question was daunting, and he had no time to conjure up a lie that would hold any water.
Think, Mike.
He stared into the woman’s eyes, no longer seeing her beauty or her sex appeal but instead seeing real threat, and a terrifying lack of emotion. You woke up, didn’t you, you fucker
. You clicked onto the parade. You saw through the veneer to the truth of it propaganda machine. This is what she's getting at. This is real. And you could be in a whole bucketful of shit if you play this thing wrong. She already knows the answer. She's somehow monitoring you. This is some fucking black ops bull-crap and you’re smack-bang in the centre of it. Play it cool.
“I think I said...I think I said ‘fuck these wars’.”
She smiled. It seemed to last a lifetime. “Thank you for answering honestly, Michael. As a reward for your willingness to admit to truth, your daughter will not be harmed.”
My daughter!
Rebecca lived with his ex-wife in the heart of the city. Lucy had landed her dream job out in the big old world and had up and left him without a word of warning or a pot to piss in. She had taken their only child and rose to great success while Mike had plummeted into loneliness and alcoholic dependency.
It had broken his heart.
Rebecca was ten years old, had hair like golden sunlight, and was the only thing Mike had ever loved more than his own life.
“What have you done with Rebecca!?” he shouted at the witch on the screen.
Again, she smiled. “Nothing at all. Right now she's at home with Susan baking chocolate brownies. She's hoping you’ll visit tomorrow as she's very proud of her cooking and has made them especially for you.”
“How in the hell can you know this!?”
The sly smile never left her lips, as she calmly responded. “I know this because the same software runs in her home too. The only time the code breaks is when one of you steps out of line.”
“If you harm a hair on her head I’ll hunt you down! I’ll burn your world to the ground! Who the fuck are you!?”
“First of all, Michael, you can’t harm what doesn’t exist. I'm a computer construct, existing simultaneously in homes all across the nation. I'm an approximation of a sexually appealing woman based on studies that tested over a thousand American male’s idea of the perfect woman. I serve only as eye candy, and on days like today, as a messenger. Second, you and your family are not exclusive to the ideals or import of the organisation I serve. You are serfs. You are not unique. You are fuel for the fires of the military industrial complex, and you are malleable thought existing only to serve us. And when one of you has an original thought, it’s my job to step in and clean up the mess.”
Consumed - Volume 1 Page 11