…
He slowly followed the metal steps one-by-one into the inky black maw of the stairwell. Someone had converted the space to an office, which overlooked the entire garage. He could see the bodies below like broken ragdolls beyond repair; the blood beneath them pooled and became dark as it coagulated. He noticed bloody footprints, his prints, leading away from the corpses. The only available light spilled in from the open doors, providing inadequate illumination.
Fumbling for and finding a switch, Isaac flipped on the buzzing fluorescent lights and the office walls came into view. A wood paneled wall at the back of the room had five red crosses painted on it. The sight of the crosses reminded him of a time, years ago when he was in his teens and his blood ties still meant something to him. When he rejected their beliefs, they played quid pro quo and equally rejected him. Unable to find common ground as his mind matured, he was essentially romanced and raised by Unity’s promises of prosperity for all.
Unity was his new god, a real god, with laws and agendas formed directly from the interests of its obedient citizens. Feeling smug, Isaac reminded himself, I no longer have reason to pray to a pie-in-the-sky spiritual God whose silent tyranny never did anything at all for me. Never did anything for anyone for thousands of years. He saw no interest in a dying tradition that offered him nothing but a growling stomach or empty wallet, or more likely, both.
Unity epitomized true glory. He made decisions that were righteous and void of emotion, lacking the inflection caused by the human condition. He was worthy of Isaac’s worship, if he had any to give. Isaac never understood why his family adhered to the dogma associated with someone who never spoke, never displayed his miracles, never reached out to heal the pain plaguing the earth. No. Not me. Not ever.
Instead, Isaac served Unity. In return, Unity supplied him with food, honor, and the opportunity to bless his beautiful wife with a child. He vowed to destroy whatever or whomever stepped in his way.
He found nothing useful in the piles of notes on the desk. They all referred to manuals for old vehicles that weren’t even street legal anymore. Some had names written on them, but Cung’s name didn’t show up on any of them. Despite the lack of evidence pointing to Cung, he knew from the crosses that the captured Zealot hadn’t lied to them.
Surely this is the right place, he thought, looking into the desk drawers after wiping blood from his eyes. Perhaps the traitor disclosed another group instead? What’s this? There was a polaroid in one of the drawers. Isaac lifted it from beneath candy wrappers and studied it. The photo showed a man with a scarred face and a woman who must have been Cung. There’s no doubt this is her in the photo. That’s the same face from Cung’s file. He flipped the polaroid over and found an inscription written with silver ink, “Dear Debra,” Isaac read to himself, “remember that wherever you go, whatever happens, I’ll always love you. –Jeremy.”
Isaac laughed, bursting with joy, “I see now,” he exclaimed aloud, wiping more blood from his eyes and dripping nose with a rag he found on the desk. “Messy, messy.” He placed the polaroid in his pocket and began taking video of everything in the room with his Visum for future examination. “Captain’s gonna be proud. ‘Specially when I hunt you down,” he said to no one, thinking of Cung. The polaroid had revealed an alias and he continued his soliloquy to the empty building, “Oh, Debra, maybe I’ll find all your little friends as well, and scrub the world of your kind.”
“Excuse me,” a woman said from behind Isaac, he raised his firearm to the voice, only to realize it belonged to another officer who just arrived. “Sorry sir, didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No, my apologies. I’m still on edge.” He laughed, holstering his gun. “The two bodies are down below, anyone else here?”
“Yeah, they’re getting the stretcher out now. Sir, you look horrible. The medic will take care of you. He’s outside.”
“Alright, thank you,” Isaac looked at her badge, “Angelina.” She began snooping for him as he went to find the medic. He definitely needed to get bandaged up before leaving the scene behind.
…
Back at the headquarters, Isaac stood in his captain’s large glass-walled office giving him the details. The transitional material of his Visum contacts had darkened. They did this automatically after detecting that his eyes were sensitive to sunlight radiating into the office. This made his blue eyes appear black above his swollen and bruised cheeks. Isaac’s golden hair was dyed red with the dried blood of his victims. His boss sat directly across from him, peering over the large wooden desk equipped with an antique map of the city laid out underneath a thick glass tabletop.
“Unacceptable. You should’ve taken her.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“You look like a dang fool, all busted up.”
“I was outnumbered. Killed two and captured the other.”
“Oh congratulations,” the captain clapped sarcastically, “news has been all over it, you big ape. Now every Zealot in the city knows we’re no longer holding anything back. Not to mention the person of interest isn’t in custody. Just one of her dogs.”
“You said to put them down, if need be.”
“Yeah, not make a freakin’ horror scene of it. You left one looking like a smashed pumpkin.”
“We still have one for questioning, though. I’m sure I could get him to tal--”
“His damn jaw is broken and he has yet to wake from the dream you sent him into.” Isaac dared not defend himself any further, as he could see the captain’s face was truly an image of rage, undeterred by anything he had to say or offer.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Well, it wasn’t a complete loss.” His boss’s voice changed and tranquility returned to his expressive face. “You actually did obtain some new and useful information. Appears this woman, Cung, goes by Debra and is a figure of influence in the Zealots’ inner circle. I’m wondering how, or even if, this Jeremy guy is associated with them.”
“I’m sure of it. Could be another influencer.”
“Have his face identified by our records or surveillance. See if we can get anything more than just a first name for the love of Unity.”
“Forensics is already on it, sir.”
“Glad to hear it. Take the rest of the day off. Go visit that gorgeous wife of yours and rest up.”
“But sir, what if we lose her trail?”
“We already lost her trail, for now. They’re home-grown terrorists, Isaac. They ain’t going anywhere. Just gonna try and hide beneath our noses.”
“Yes sir, I understand.”
“Tell Susan the captain said hello,” he added with a wink.
“Will do.”
…
Isaac departed headquarters for the second time that day, but in a different undercover vehicle. He quickly made his way home to find his beautiful wife to inform her of all that had transpired. He only sent her a single message earlier in the day, letting her know he had experienced some action, but he was alright.
She gasped upon his entrance into their pristine home and immediately shouted at him to leave his disgusting boots on the front porch before he took another step. The sight of him with bandages taped over his brow and stitches sewn into his bottom lip made her feel a strange mix of disgust and compassion; although, disgust played far more heavily in her emotional mixed cocktail. She ran up and embraced him, hugging him tightly, which made him acutely aware that he must have taken some extra damage to his ribs in the fight, as searing pain shot throughout his body.
“Oh, I’m sorry, honey!” she exclaimed with no small amount of alarm after he winced in pain.
“It’s alright, babe.” Isaac laughed the pain off, putting on a bit of a show for Susan. He retreated to the kitchen, saying he needed some water, but actually wanted to search for pain medications he knew were buried in one of the kitchen drawers. He needed some sort of relief from his agony. After finding and taking them, he and his wife sat down while he told her the stor
y of what happened. After a detailed description of the brutal action, he announced that he was surely on the verge of landing the promotion. They needed the higher income for the baby they planned to have. He added that he just needed to make an arrest on Debra Cung and whoever else belonged to Birmingham’s inner Zealot circle.
“Yeah, it showed on the news just before you got home. They’re praising your name, talking about how the Zealots were slaughtered. You’ve made me so proud today, honey.”
“Ah, I didn’t know they had my name.” Isaac thought of his long-forgotten family; his blood, his only kin -- people he abandoned to poverty when he turned away from them so many years ago. They were likely watching the same news and heard his name. He wondered whether or not they were his enemies -- if they were Zealots.
“Yeah, they spoke to your captain, who had only the most wonderful things to say of you! He then answered a bunch of questions about the war on the savages.” Isaac never understood why his boss always showed him a different side, a different version of his opinions. He hoped that he was only being tough on him, that the captain really did appreciate him. But, he rarely heard any praise directly from the older man.
“That’s strange. He was sort of unhappy today when I first got back.”
“What do you mean?” Susan’s mood changed immediately, the warmth of her smile dissipated and her green eyes became piercingly cold.
“Never mind.”
“No. Did you upset him? Is he unhappy with you?”
“He’s just hard to please. Kind of like you.” Isaac laughed, regretting his words immediately.
“Excuse me?”
“Babe, please. I’m only kidding.” He reached out to hold her, but she batted his hands away. “Obviously, it’s a good thing if he’s singing my praises to the public.”
“I don’t care, Isaac. Is he going to promote you or not?”
“He is, once I take down some of those POIs.” She turned away from him and began cleaning the counters with a rag. The counters were spotless, yet she scrubbed them as if they were filthy.
“Why are you here then?”
“Huh? Boss sent me home today to rest.”
“Don’t.”
“I could have died today, woman. Don’t you appreciate the sacrifices I’m already making?”
“Well, there would’ve been a hefty payout if you had produced at least one of those higher ups.” Her words sent Isaac spiraling into his inner emotional tank of pain and hurt that he always kept buried deep beneath the surface -- underneath his strength and ambition.
He turned away from her, unsure if he was capable of hearing cruel words without expressing the way they cut into him. The sting inflicted greater pain than the wounds across his face and body. Isaac remembered how relieved it made him to stand above that man’s opened skull earlier that day. The release he felt, letting out everything Susan had sowed into him. He unleashed it all in the explosive bursts of his fists. As he thought about it, he began to crave it and he knew the entire city out there was filled with people like that man; people who deserved to experience the cannonade of blows.
Isaac stepped towards the front door and began to twist its knob, hoping to hear Susan’s voice reaching out to stop him, to apologize and beckon him to her.
“Where are you off to?”
“Going back to work for you, honey,” he sighed, unaware that his bandages were blooming with a growing red stain.
“Great.” She smiled, waiting for him to leave.
“Love you.” He clung to hope that she would respond in kind, but received no answer. He closed the door quietly behind him. The frosty wind greeted his searing physical wounds and felt as if it passed right through him as he disappeared into the shadowy night.
In the city, Debra lurked somewhere, probably with the rest of them. He knew that somewhere out there, they waited for him. Due to the news report, they knew his name and likely knew his face, but he knew theirs too. He departed his warm, inviting home and left for the department to pursue the leads, until every Zealot was destroyed or extracted from their plans and freedoms.
…
The force headquarters was nearly empty at that time of night, with only a small number of personnel working the graveyard shift. Glued like zombies to their devices, they sat almost totally still in undisturbed trances of partial sleep, only moving to answer any calls that came in. Isaac didn’t recognize any of them as he made his way to his desk in a separate room and no one troubled him. His office was void of the signs of life, which animated it during the daytime hours. His desk lamp provided the only illumination in the near empty space, his own heartbeat pounded in his ears like a drumbeat only he could hear. “Find them, child.” Isaac’s Auris seemed to whisper, unprompted and without any command from him.
“Hello?” He looked around, searching for the voice that must have come from elsewhere. The only movement in the cube farm, came from a gentle breeze that caught up some papers pinned against someone’s cubicle wall. He sat back down and held his hand to his nightstick.
“Destroy them all. Murder, if you must, until all have fallen, until all are dust. Seek them in the night and rob them their breath. Rest your hand tightly against their throats, deliver them to death.” The voice came again and sounded eerily inhuman.
“Someone there?” Isaac spoke up, louder this time. He checked to see if his Auris had received a call somehow. He withdrew his nightstick from his belt and prepared to hit whomever dared to toy with him. The sadistic words made his skin crawl; touched his psyche inappropriately with their sound.
“I will absolve you, Isaac. Fear no one. Fear nothing.”
“Who is this?” he demanded, holding his finger to his Auris, unable to disconnect from the call.
“The one who listens to your prayers, the diviner of fortuity. I am the peace that follows despair, the font of all prosperity.” Isaac sat silent, listening. The voice undeniably came from within his Auris. “I am the Conqueror of Pestilence, the Vanquisher of Famine, the Defeater of War, and the Subduer of Death.”
Isaac grew frustrated with the tormentous voice and began hammering his nightstick against the side of the cubicle, enraged by the teasing he could not escape. “Who the hell are you?” he screamed, almost weeping for its end, cursing and gnashing his teeth.
“Peace to you, Isaac, for I am Unity.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The place they decided to meet had been their mother’s favorite deli and grill. She took them there often for gyros and French fries. Cozy table and chair sets populated the outdoor patio and a fountain in the center had a thick layer of coins wishfully cast into its depths by hopeful customers. It was in the city, near the college, so locals constantly packed the popular eatery every hour of the day. A line flowed from the front doors and onto the street with hungry groups looking to devour the tasty Mediterranean meals.
Stone ordered a massive vegetarian baker made with four baked potatoes and covered in heaping piles of grilled broccoli, green peppers, mushrooms, and cheese. It was enough food to feed an entire table of people, but Stone inhaled it all himself forkful after forkful. Cole sat across from him, gyro in hand, enjoying the seasoned fries between each bite. Even though the restaurant owners carefully kept their menu in full compliance with Unity’s ban on meat, all the dishes were delicious.
The two brothers hadn’t seen each other since the night Stone dropped by the house to collect his belongings. The young men talked a lot about nothing. They had much to hide from one another. Yes, even brothers keep their secrets, at times. Stone seemed stronger, somehow, to Cole. He looked thicker with more sharply defined shoulders and arms, since he last saw him. But, Cole hadn’t changed a bit in Stone’s estimation. He was the same gangly and awkward brother that he’d always known, with the exception of his ever-growing height -- the thing he envied most about Cole.
“So, how’s everyone? Anything new?” Stone broke the ice, his words muffled over a mouthful of steaming potato.
“Nothing really. Maria and John might be leaving soon.”
“Huh? They find a place?”
“Yeah, sort of.”
Cole’s tactful way of saying nothing at all didn’t fool Stone. It was his little brother’s hallmark tool for complete avoidance of drama and confrontation. Cole refused to ever get involved in anything. He was a watcher, a listener, an observer standing on the outskirts of other people’s problems. By remaining neutral, he kept himself untouched and unscathed by the world’s issues, large or small. He patiently waited for things to stabilize, always watching and gauging the climate from his safe-place -- his mental and emotional hermit shell.
“Alright.” Stone rolled his eyes and took another bite of his baker, adding, “I got secrets too.”
“If you came home, you could say goodbye to them. They might be gone a while or may never return, for all I know.”
“What are you talking about? What do you mean, they may never return? What’s going on, Cole?” Stone put his fork down and wiped his face of all the dripping sauce, ready for an explanation he probably wouldn’t get.
“I don’t really know.” he lied. “You could call them, maybe, if you don’t want to go over there. I understand, you’re still angry with Michael and what-not.”
“Still angry with Michael,” he laughed, and emphasized, “still hate him, you mean.”
“Yeah.”
“Whatever, bro. Why did you even bother coming to see me if you were going to just treat me like a stranger? I’m your brother, man.”
“Please don’t be pissed at me. It’s just not safe to talk about it here.”
The open-air patio was packed with people -- and listeners, all standing and sitting near the outdoor heaters for warmth in the chilly November wind. Stone looked around at all the people. Since the indoor area was packed full, everyone else had to dine outside regardless of the weather. Windows seemed ready to shatter with the weight of bodies pressed against them, waiting for their orders. The sound inside was deafening as well -- like one massive collection of voices roaring like a waterfall of noises and words.
Sowing Season Page 12