Zav sat behind his table and watched, grunting with anger, and stood up, running forward with his gun outward, charging at the Russian soldier. The barrel hit the soldier in the chest but served no more purpose. He dropped the gun to the ground and punched the soldier in the face, but the Russian grabbed his combat vest and slammed his helmet against Zav’s head.
Zav’s helmet knocked backwards but stayed secured. He gasped for breath as his vision blurred for a moment, then pushed his arms up to break the Russian’s grip. He stepped back as the Russian dove towards him, grabbing Zav’s legs and throwing him to the ground.
Zav yelped as the soldier climbed on top of him and threw his fist down, striking Zav’s nose and spraying blood into his eyes. The soldier wound up his arm for another punch before a force knocked him off Zav.
Marx rolled with the soldier, then wrapped his arm around the Russian’s neck and squeezed.
Zav sat up and wiped blood from his face, trying to make out the figures around him. He blinked, his head throbbing, and panted intensely, unable to see the people in front of him. He closed his eyes and laid back.
Marx released his grip on the soldier and pushed the body to the side. He grabbed the soldier’s gun from the ground and pointed it towards the entrance, waiting patiently.
Time did not feel as it normally did. Everything was spinning fast, but the world itself felt like it was moving in slow motion. Marx breathed through his mouth, his aim swaying slightly with the motion of his expanding and compressing chest.
A Russian soldier ran into the lobby and Marx pulled back on his trigger in a rage, sending a spray of bullets at the soldier.
The Russian toppled to the ground with a thud, combined with the annoying sound of metal hitting the floor. Marx exhaled and dropped the gun to the floor, ignoring the loud clatter of the gun on the tiles.
He looked around at the civilians. Some had moved to the side of the room, hands over their head, others stood in corners, or left the room entirely. And those who had not...were now lifeless on the floor.
Marx gagged at the sight of so many dead people. He relaxed his stiff shoulders and walked to the receptionists’ counter, leaning over the marble and peeking behind the counter.
The same clerk from earlier sat there, his hands over his head, shaking, and mumbling to himself. Marx walked through the swinging door on the side of the desk and sat down next to the clerk.
“Did you tell the Russians where we were?”
The clerk rocked forward and backwards, his feet pushing against his body weight. He lifted his head and whimpered, nodding his head slightly.
“And you realize people died because of that?”
The clerk buried his head in his arms and shook his head side to side. Marx stared at the top of man’s head and peeked over the counter, looking at the dozens of bodies lying around the room.
“We cannot have traitors. We haven’t room for the weak.” Marx pulled the knife from his pocket and hugged his arm around the clerk, then pressed the knife against the man’s neck. There was little resistance. And in moments, there was no more whimpering.
Marx cleaned the knife on his pants and stood up. He exited the counter and stuck out his hand to Zav, helping him to his feet. They looked at each other, then around the room, and spotted Jimenez sitting upright against the wall, holding his left eye.
Zav rubbed his temples with his palms and limped over to Jimenez. He stared at Jimenez for a moment, wondering why he was not moving.
Jimenez slouched his head and loosened his shoulders. “Find medical supplies. My eye is bleeding. Quickly now, before I lose too much blood.”
Zav blinked slowly and looked around the room, as if he was half asleep. He walked over to the check-in counter and leaned over. He gasped and shot back, spinning around, awoken from his absent-mindedness.
“Did you fucking kill the guy? Now how am I supposed to find a first aid—” Zav stared at a red box hanging on the opposite wall.
Zav clenched his jaw and walked over to Jimenez as Marx ripped the box off the wall and brought it over to them, prying open the lid. He found gauze and pressed a few pieces against Jimenez’s eye, soaking up blood as it seeped out.
He took the medical tape and ripped a long piece, twisting it into a makeshift rope and wrapped it around Jimenez’s head, securing the gauzes in place.
“‘Der! Makeshift eyepatch. Now, to clean up some other wounds,” Marx said, uncapping a bottle of rubbing alcohol and taking a swab of cotton. He dapped at scrapes and cuts on Jimenez, ignoring the grunts and hints of pain.
“We’re lucky we made it out alive. We were a five-man army against more than two dozen of the finest soldiers in the world. And we did have casualties, and injuries, but we have claimed this tower back and everything the soldiers dropped. Zav, go now and speak to the civilians,” Jimenez said, scooting against the wall and resting his head.
Zav stood up straight and nodded his head. He put a hand on Marx’s shoulder and said, “just like old times, huh?”
Marx gave a weak smile and stepped to the side.
Zav looked around the room, eyeing up the civilians. He took a deep breath. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have experienced a grave loss not only as a country, but in our lives. We are partaking in a war that we were not ready to fight. But this is only a call to arms now! The strong must stand united, as one America, and defend our homeland from the invaders!
“The government may think they can bargain with our lives like we are chess pieces, but they themselves have crumpled and it is us, the strong American foundation, that stands sturdy,” Zav scanned the room, looking for the attention of his small audience.
“If you are willing to fight this battle, step forward, and we will arm you and welcome you to my militia,” Zav barked. He paused for a moment, recalling exactly what he had said. Was it his militia? It was most likely that nobody was paying that close of attention.
Marx stood next to Zav, and Jimenez limped over. They stood, shoulder to shoulder, as civilians came forward one by one.
A makeshift line formed, and Zav was face to face with his first recruit. He looked the woman up and down, nodded his head, and pointed to the corpse of a female Russian soldier. “Take your gear back to your room. What is your name? – Marx, get a notepad from the counter and write these things down.”
Marx returned with a notepad.
“Jaiyana Alexandria. Twenty-seven years old.”
Marx smiled and eyed the woman from her toes up, but she ignored the gesture. Jaiyana stripped the soldier of her gear and took off to the elevator.
“Oh, Jesus Christ, that is disgusting!” a muffled shout rang out, and Marx glanced at the puke and blood covered elevator. Jaiyana covered her eyes and walked to the stairs.
The next in line stepped forward. “Mike Adams. Thirty.”
“Joseph MacArthur. Thirty-seven.”
“Emilia Robin. Forty.”
The line finished, and all who had volunteered to fight had gathered their belongings and taken off to a room. Marx looked down the list and turned the pad around to face Zav.
“Twenty-one people are under your command. Don’t let it go to your head, Führer.” And with that, Marx and Jimenez pushed through the glass doors to the carpeted staircase, and Zav stood alone in the lobby.
Zav looked around at the almost-naked corpses. This was life now – war-stricken, unfair, full of death – but he had won.
Chapter 12
The stench of death and vomit filled Zav’s nostrils as he rode the elevator to the twentieth floor. The smooth jazz was comforting, but did not distract from what had happened. Zav gagged as the doors opened, stepping into the hallway and taking a large breath in.
He knocked once, twice, three times at his hotel room, keeping rhythm with the beat of his fist against the door.
It swung open, and Jimenez stepped aside inside to allow Zav to enter the room. “Evenin’,” Zav mumbled, fumbling his way to the bedroom.
“Tired? I’m not. Well, I also slept most of the day,” Jimenez called from the living room.
Zav grunted back and pulled himself to the bathroom. He flicked the light switch and the lights flickered on.
His eyes met themselves in the mirror. He stepped closer to the mirror, not breaking his gaze, and pressed his lips against the glass. “Xavier Starr,” he whispered.
He unequipped his combat gear, dropping it to the floor. He pulled off his shirt and unbuttoned his pants, then pulled off his yellowed socks and dropped everything near the base of the bathtub.
Zav swung the door shut and locked it, pressing his finger against the metallic button on the doorknob. He bent over the tub and twisted the handle. Water poured out like graceful waterfalls from small rectangular slits just above the base of the tub.
He stepped in and submerged his feet, then the rest of his body. He grabbed a towel hanging on the wall, just inches away from the water, and propped it behind his head. He relaxed and closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the water.
“Xavier!” called Jimenez, knocking on the bathroom door. “Lemme take a leak.”
“Use the bathroom in the other damn room!” responded Zav, rolling his head to one side.
He listened to the footsteps as they became fainter and resumed his bath.
“Mmm, this does not feel quite like luxury,” Zav whispered to himself, and opened his eyes. He looked around and pinpointed exactly what he was looking for. He waded through the water and over to the touch screen mounted on the side of the tub.
There were four tabs titled: Lights, Water, Music, and Tub. Zav tapped Lights and scrolled through the various options. First, he dimmed the lights in the room, then adjusted them to have a golden, sun-like hue. Then, he made the water electric blue, like the clean waters of an ocean.
Using the Water tab, he made the waterjets power on and a wonderful-smelling, tropical fruit soap filled the water.
After sifting through the many options, he chose relaxing Hawaiian music, although the state had been abandoned years before due to rising ocean levels, violent ocean storms, and unexpected volcanic activity.
Finally, he made the base of the tub vibrate gently, relaxing him to a state of pure serenity. And at last, he felt at home.
Just over the music, he could hear the sound of the room door slamming shut as Jimenez returned.
“I’m back!” Jimenez called out. He looked over at the bathroom door, shrugged, and plopped himself down on the massive couch. He faced the television and turned it on using the small, transparent remote.
He pressed down, scrolling through the channels, many of which were static. On one, there was a cartoon, another had a rerun of a family that was already long dead, and finally, the national news.
After 2020, most news organizations had crumpled, and those that remained received government subsidies and funding, yet promised to stay unbiased. Whether that was the truth or not was hard to tell, as the news shown was the only information some people ever knew – he knew this. Jimenez leaned forward. He knew everything, from his position in the government, and was already disturbed by the headline.
PRESIDENT TO GIVE SPEECH FROM WHITE HOUSE. Jimenez squinted and reread the line. A premade recording, a stunt double, a new president? One thing was for sure, the president of the United States was dead, but the corrupted media was still spewing lies on all pistons.
But nobody knew that. If anybody knew, there would be anarchy unlike anything seen in the states yet. Of course, everybody knew about the attacks, but if there was solid evidence that the United States government had fallen completely, there would be bloodshed like no other day.
But already, with the Russians invading cities in an attempt to take over, the Americans must have some idea as to what was happening. If not, then maybe Chicago would be the first of the resistance.
Jimenez sat back and watched the screen. The news reporter sat behind a glossy red desk, holding a stack of papers in her hand. She smiled as she talked, and Jimenez realized there was no sound. He pressed the volume on the controller and raised it.
“...officials have been very clear that power is returning to the cities. Areas within four hundred miles of the two nuclear explosions have been declared Dead Zones. The southern half of the United States will receive no further military assistance as the war in the North continues. Eastern states have been untouched and any survivors wishing to relocate are welcome. Jerry, how is the weather?”
“Thanks, Amanda. The temperatures across the northern half of the country are at a record high, and global scientists have predicted that the atomic blasts did in two minutes what one hundred years of pollution did to the earth. While under attack, it is very difficult to assist civilians across the southern border, but relief efforts with food and water will be on the way. The West Coast has seen very little light and this already vacant land is now experiencing a nuclear winter. Amanda, back to you.”
Amanda shuffled her papers and smiled to the camera. “Reports indicate that at least forty million people have been killed in Russia and the United States, but this number continues to rise as our society loses control of itself. Police forces have been disbanded in the West and are under military control from either Russia or the United States, as some cities have already been annexed. Russian officials have made it clear that at least 13 states on the Eastern border are and will be untouched by military force – presumably out of fear that they will not have the firepower to take the area.”
Jimenez shook his head and put his face in his hands, massaging one eye with his palm.
The clear resolution combined with the giant screen made him feel that he himself was living the plot of an apocalyptic show, but there was also a pain in his heart that reminded him that this was the corrupted world now, crippled by bureaucracy and crushed by diplomats, refounded by tyrants.
Jimenez returned the TV to the screensaver and laid back on the couch. His eye sat still, pupils wide and taking in the light of the moon, as his breathing began to slow. His chest moved up and down as his mind drifted to many places – life before the war; the nights when he used to look at this same sky from the White House, but above an Earth that did not resemble Hell – the bitter taste of nostalgia in the back of his mouth.
His eyelid closed as the bathroom door creaked open, but he ignored the noise and remained still. Zav stood in the doorway, peeking through the crack in the door, then walked out with a white bathrobe.
He knotted the belt and jumped onto the bed, crawling under the layers of blankets and fortifying himself with pillows. He smiled to himself and admired the day’s work.
Both soon fell asleep, but Marx was still awake in the other room, drawing on his television with a stylus, creating blueprints and battle plans. Using a schematic of the city, he designed a layout for their base, routes for the guards, advances for soldiers, and masterminded a plan to retake the city.
He dropped the stylus and fell to his knees, looking up and down the wall like it was the Holy Grail of war. He gave a hearty laugh and rubbed his hands together.
After taking a moment to take pride in his work, Marx saved the file and turned the television off. He stepped to the window and looked across the dark city, imagining the world he’d created.
He knew Xavier had elected himself leader. And so be it. Xavier did have the power to rally people like the leader of a revolution – but he did not have the dexterity nor the intelligence to formulate such a precise future for the city.
Marx walked to the small kitchen corner and prepared himself a cup of tea, dabbing the teabag in the hot water. The mug was a metallic, oddly-shaped creation, not quite a cylinder, but not a sphere.
Marx licked his lips to get the full spectrum of flavor from the herbal tea. “Ovoid,” he said to himself, looking at the mug.
He returned to the window and gracefully drank. The hotel could serve as a new capital of Chicago. The militia could defend it well, and it had all the resources and technol
ogy necessary to attract the attention of and satisfy wealthy visitors.
Then, as the strength of the army grew, and Zav achieved more diplomatic power, their reign could expand across the city until the Russians were completely defeated. He had heard the television in the other room very clearly and had come to the conclusion that the government would abandon the American West if they felt they were losing the war. And if there were no Russians around, everything would be free to take!
But just like Fairland and Shelbyville, it was only a matter of time before another group attempted to take over. And who could say another government or group wouldn’t be tyrannical leaders, or just complete idiots? Anarchy would only last so long before somebody tried to take control.
And if anybody was going to take over, it would be them.
Marx sipped the last drop of his tea and returned the mug to the small kitchen counter. His lips formed a small smile, satisfied with the night, but also with his personal recognition that he had found a place where he could use his full potential.
He walked to the bedroom and dug around in the wardrobe, looking for any clothing that might be provided. And to his surprise, there was in fact a pair of silk pajamas hanging in the very front. He slipped out of his combat gear and nestled into the soft and warm pajama pants, throwing the shirt to the side.
He combed his hair and sat back on the bed, then flopped down, sinking into the foam. He stared at the ceiling as it became increasingly dark and opened his eyes as the light in the room began to grow, shining through the drapes.
Marx grunted and sat up, looking at his feet. He had awoken in the very position he laid himself to rest. He stood up and undressed himself and put back on the combat gear from the day prior. To ensure it was still...fresh, he swiped some perfume from the bathroom and sprayed it over the gear.
Fall, Rise, Repeat Page 12