by Joseph Storm
“Anything...everything. You and I are one,” Joe said.
“What are your plans for us? Are we going to stay here forever?”
“If you want...I will stay forever.”
“I don’t want that. In fact, I want a life with you. An actual life...a house...a child,” she said.
Sickness came over Joe. Fleeing thoughts of his missing son had returned to his mind. He got up and moved away.
“Did I say something wrong, babe?” she asked.
“No...it’s not you. It’s...you reminded me of my son. The pain had started to lessen...for some reason.”
“You have a son? Where is he? I want to know him!”
“They took him...when they took my wife. They have him to this day...or so they tell me.”
“That’s so terrible. It’s all so terrible. Do you think you’ll ever see him again?”
“Only by beating them...or joining them.”
“What do they want from you?”
“A microchip.”
“That’s it?”
“It’s more than it appears. It has names, acts of murder...acts which the world does not know of yet. It’s too late for our country...but the world is not yet in their hands.”
“I’m sorry...but a piece of plastic can’t be worth your son,” she said, causing him to look at her in shock. “Can it?” she asked.
“I ask myself that question every day. Is it worth it? One of these days...the answer just may be...that it isn’t,” he said, moving back into her arms. “That’s the day it will all come to an end.”
“Where is it? This chip? Can I...see it?”
Joe was about to answer, though a random memory played throughout his mind. It was of Becky, who had waited for a rare moment where Jane did not occupy his time.
“Be careful,” Becky had once told him in warning.
“Of what?”
“You don’t know her.”
‘Neither do you,” he said to Becky. “I know her well enough to love her...and that’s enough for me.”
Becky tried to hide the hurt on her face. “You can love her...and still keep some secrets. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her...what she does...could end up hurting us all. Don’t be manipulated.”
Anger filled Joe’s face. “Don’t try to force your trust issues on me. I don’t know why you dislike her...but she’s in my life now. You have to make room for her...or less room for me,” he said, walking away.
Tears filled Becky’s eyes, as she watched him exit. “She’s not your wife,” Becky called out. Joe stopped for a moment. Then, he continued his exit.
“The chip?” Jane asked, bringing Joe back to the moment.
“It’s safe,” Joe said, not revealing it’s location. He decided to heed the advice of a woman that he had much ignored recently. “In the hands of someone I trust.”
The look of jealousy covered Jane’s face. All of her suspicions pointed to Becky Fox, as the two shared much distain for each other.
Little did she know, but Becky Fox witnessed the act of them making love. The hurt girl watched from a hidden spot, out of sight. Becky stormed away, not being able to stomach the final act that would push her over the edge. It’s time to accept it, she told herself. He just doesn’t love you. No one does.
Becky went to wake Gunner, smacking him on the head. “What the hell’s your problem?” he asked, waking with a startle.
“Let’s go...before I change my mind!” she demanded.
“Go where?”
“Where do you think?” she asked.
“If it’s where I think...you don’t have to ask twice,” he said.
“Then move it!” she demanded, exiting the room.
Gunner blew into his hand, checking his breath. He darted from his bed of a single sheet, and followed Becky to a secluded part of the cave.
Becky attacked Gunner down to the ground, using all of her pent up aggression and anger at Joe. She tore Shoman’s clothes from him, making quick work of the man. Five minutes later, she climbed off. “I’m done.”
“That’s it?” he asked, almost frozen in disbelief.
“Good night,” she said, exiting the room, and heading back to bed.
“What just happened here? Could I really have just been used for sex?” he asked himself. “That’s my job!”
Although Gunner may have been Becky’s first experience in years, he had been quite busy himself.
One day while out on patrol, he ran into Stacey. She was lounging topless in the sunlight.
“What are you doing out here? They could stumble onto you!” Gunner yelled.
Stacey covered herself up, “How dare you!”
“Like I haven’t seen it before.”
“Not while I was married to someone else.”
“You still look good,” he told her, making a glow come over her face.
“Like I did when I was younger?”
“Better.”
“Well then,” she said, uncovering herself. “Feel free to look all you want.”
“I want to do more than look. It’s all I’ve wanted to do...since you left.”
The ongoing complement turned Stacey on like nothing else. Memories of a wild, risque’ sex life entered her mind, contrasting with a mild, boring one with Robert.
“Then do it...Robert will never find out.”
“Frankly...I don’t give a damn if he does,” Gunner said.
“Where was this bad boy during our marriage, Gun?” she asked. “I like it.”
“Well, then...you’re in for a treat.”
“What’s that?”
“In bed...I’m even badder,” he said, jumping on top of her. He pinned her down by her wrists, entering her hard and fast. The act was a common fantasy that Stacey had, though Robert wouldn’t dare fulfill. Gunner continued on, lifting Stacey, slamming her into a large rock, yanking a handful of hair on her head. The sex was rough, animalistic, and savage, in other words, pure satisfaction. His thrusts were hard, almost angry, as years of loneliness and barflies were avenged with each one. He blasted his seed inside her, hoping that another child would take hold; one that didn’t belong to Robert Yale. Gunner dropped Stacey back down. They rolled off each other, wiping the sticky sweat from their bodies. Stacey said, “What I’d give for a cigarette, right now.”
Aside from the enjoyable activity of sex, the decade mostly offered depression and down time. With each new person, food, space, and boredom led to new tensions, as fights began to break out. Little groups would form, trying to outwit the other. Stealing, assault, and common criminal acts of society began to happen, minus the police force.
Joe Striker knew that his group was not ready, though there was little time left. The long, hard wait had taken its toll. The people were starting to consider creating a mutiny of leadership, or bolting, using the cave’s location as a bargaining chip.
The decision was made. Ready or not, the attack had begun.
The group of one hundred made their way through the moonlit woods. Reflections of the last ten years had stopped playing in their heads. One way or another, the past was the past. Everything was about to change for better or worse.
They arrived at the coordinates, being met by Ray Park.
“Let’s get this show started,” Gunner said.
Joe Striker gave the nod to Park, who dropped to the ground. He crawled his way along the edge, quickly disappearing from sight. The group waited for the explosion to go off.
Suddenly, an alarm blared. Guard lights blasted on the group.
“That wasn’t the sound I expected to hear,” Gunner said. Though before the large group could run, a massive team of 300 guards and mercenaries charged from all directions. “We’ve been sold out,” Joe Striker said.
“By her,” Becky said, pointing to Jane.
“Excuse me?” Jane asked.
“Don’t think you’ve fooled all of us,” Becky said.
“Take your blinders off, kid...she’s been playin
g you like a damaged fiddle the whole time,” Gunner implied.
“Ray never set off the M80’s...he’s nowhere in sight. He sold us out!” Joe said.
“Well...I guess it no longer matters,” Gunner announced. “We’re done for.”
The teams descended on the group, beating them with clubs. The makeshift weapons of sticks and stones were dropped to the ground. The groups’ hands went into the air.
“On ground!” one of the mercenaries yelled.
They followed his orders, laying down with their hands in the air. Wrists were forced behind their backs, tied tightly with steel wire.
“God...have mercy on us,” the 79 year-old Father Tyme called out.
“God may...but they sure as hell won’t,” Gunner said.
A masked Authoritarian Guard spoke into the radio. He was clearly an American. “Yes, sir. I will deliver them directly to camp,” he said, closing the connection. “On your feet, scum!” He kicked Striker in the side.
Joe’s weapon bulged from the back of his pants. The guard yanked it out. “What do we have here? I’ve never seen one of these before. A fine weapon...one I think I’ll keep for myself,” he said. “Let’s get them out of here.”
All the members of the group were pulled to their feet. Each person was violently yanked up, as lines of gatherer vehicles pulled into the arsenal’s dirt parking area.
“I wish I could kill you myself,” the guard said, breathing into Joe’s face with rank breath. “This force has chased you through these damn woods for a decade. Our revenge will be sweet...and long. I promise you that.”
“Do it,” Striker dared him. “Take your best shot...right now.”
“You’ve already been claimed. But don’t worry...I’ll get my turn,” the masked guard said, spitting in Joe Striker’s face. Although neither one of them knew it, father and son had finally been united. The unnaturally, and freakishly powerful boy behind the mask was Rock. His steroid induced strength equaled that of a muscular man.
“Let’s take them to their new home,” Rock told the other guards. The group was forced into the gatherers, and driven off to their unknown destiny.
******
“Mr. Sorka, sir, I am proud to present you the congressman and his friends. The fugitives have been apprehended,” Rock said, appearing as a projected hologram before Mika Sorka. The grinning grayed man sat in his dark, Moscow office. He was never a fan of sunlight.
“Remove your mask, let me look upon you with my eyes,” the 80 year-old Sorka said. Money bought him the best vision and health. He had the vital signs of a young man.
The teenage boy unmasked himself, revealing a spitting image of his father. His age may have been fourteen, though he had the body and muscular structure of a man in his prime. Muscles popped from his arms. Hungry veins crawled up each appendage like unpruned ivy vines. His legs were like chiseled stone, neck thick and round, and his face drained of all empathy. The purpose of giving American guard members the lab-spawned steroid cocktail was for more than strength. It also prematurely aged them, stimulating both mind and body well beyond their years.
“You look just like him.”
“Who do I look like, sir?”
“All will be revealed in time, Rock. I must say...I am pleased with your progress. So pleased, in fact...that I am putting you in charge of the camps.”
A proud look came across Rock’s face. It was the first legitimacy he had ever received. “I am not worthy of such an honor, sir.”
“We shall soon find out. My investment in you was always meant to achieve greatness...and I would say that you are on that road. Soon, I shall step foot on American soil, and will get to gaze upon my creation in person.”
“I await the day, sir. We all do...as we owe everything to you.”
“I must admit...I had long thought our secret operative...dead or turned, though it appears planting the mole in has paid off. This long annoyance may have finally been brought to an end.
“Yes, Mr. Sorka. How should I reward the mole? Rank? Freedom?”
“Let the traitor rot with the others.” Even Rock, who was raised on such ruthlessness, was shocked at Sorka’s response. “Remember, Rock...never trust a rat...even one that was called upon to do your bidding. Debrief them. Place them with the general population...string them along for a while with false promises. See what other info we can obtain.”
“I will see to it personally, sir.”
“Did you locate the microchip?”
“They will all be searched and interrogated directly after I leave you. We will get it...I will hold myself accountable, sir.”
“Do not permanently disable anyone...until we have it in our hands. The final phase is nearly upon us, and we cannot allow anything to stand in our way. World domination will soon be at our feet. One day soon, you will stand at my side. I expect great things from you Rock, do not let me down.”
“It is my honor to serve you, sir.”
“Yes...it is. Go greet our new guests,” he said, turning off the hologram phone image. Mika inhaled the deep scent of a Cuban cigar. Entire boxes were sent to him personally by a member of the Castro dynasty.
It was a celebration of sort, as the last chink in Sorka’s armor was about to be repaired. The long and expensive road to the top had paid off. His investment had netted him the most powerful nation in the world, along with the ability to print its money at will.
The fake propaganda was constantly being floated across the globe. International populations had just started to reject their own leaders. Rioting began, as the citizens started demanding a new way of life, a new allegiance to a one world order. Simon Judas, aka, Mika Sorka’s puppet would reap the benefits. The hammer hadn’t fallen yet, but it was nearing the gavel.
Sorka commanded the phone’s memory banks to playback hologram messages of frantic, desperate world leaders. They begged for help and a return on the investments they were made under Mika’s promises. The look of lust covered his face, as the quivering in their voices vibrated his ear drums. After the last one played, he hit delete. His hacking laughter filled the room. The next time they would hear from him, would be at their own executions.
“Take a bow, Mr. Sorka,” he said to himself. “You did it.” Pride filled his body as memories of the road to domination danced through his mind. Unlike the desperate souls that he collected, his own upbringing was not one of hardship, but of pleasure.
Born to a Soviet politician father in 1950, and the supportive wife of one, Mika got everything he desired. He was loved, spoiled, and free to say as he liked. When he was denied a wish, he watched his father beat the man, woman or child who denied it. In the end, he got what he wanted.
Sorka had never been poor in his life, nor did he ever treat the less fortunate with an ounce of respect. He often assaulted anyone that bothered him with panhandling or what he called “the smell of homelessness...the scent of the living dead.” Although he didn’t see them as human beings, he did see them as something else. It was his favorite lesson learned from the bible of Communism.
They were the direct words of Joseph Stalin, the idol he only heard about in stories. “Useful idiots are the tools to our success...the poor, the uneducated. They will hand you the future...for a mere scrap of bread,” his father read to him, putting the boy to bed. “Beat the West...by turning its own ideals against it. Beat America by using their freedom...to crush freedom itself.” Mika’s father had idolized the man, raising his own son to worship the cruel leader’s rule as a role model. The dictator’s words molded Sorka into the man he eventually became.
At the age of 8, Mika’s parents would lose their lives’ at the hands of Russia’s next leader, Nikita Khrushchev. His plan to de-Stalinize the Soviet Union went into effect, murdering those who still held the regime’s ideals close to their hearts.
Upon Mika’s parents “untimely death,” the boy inherited a small fortune. However, by the time he reached his teenage years, he was not content with it. “Mon
ey without power...is like life without living,” became his motto. Angry with Russia’s western style reforms, he fled, traveling the world as a man without country. He would eventually return to Russia, slowly pushing the pins which would reunite the country with an official return to Communism in 2017. It was never the main goal. His purpose was to rid all influence that America had on the world.
Sorka realized that his only roadblock was the American flame of freedom, which had to be extinguished. It would allow him to fill the superpower vacuum left behind. However, unlike his comrades, the plan wasn’t to darken the light through annihilation.
“I will destroy them through democracy,” he said.
Willing to pay his dues, he moved in secret. The man used pseudonyms to cover his existence and trail. He made connections to form more connections, networking with every scoundrel and money making scheme in existence.
Mika befriended the oil alliance countries of OPEC, investing in the production of Arab and South American oil fields. His bribery shot him to the top of the board, ensuring that gas prices stayed high, and America’s production stayed low. He accomplished it by bribing the United States’ own congress and Environmental Protection Agency. The payoffs made sure that they never drilled on their own lands, not benefiting from their own resources.
The millions OPEC made him, barely compared to his investment in the Mexican drug cartels. He boosted the making of highly addictive meth and cocaine. Sorka bribed border guards on both sides, carving a clear path to rob Americans of income, therefore eroding the minds and moral standing of the population. It made them even more dependent on outside forces. In doing so, they became slaves to themselves.
His greatest payday came in the form of more payoffs, to the tune of 100 million dollars. Large shipments of money found its way into the executive’s bank accounts of Standard & Poor’s in 2011, convincing them to drop the prized AAA credit rating. He eventually bribed Moody’s Investors Service, and Fitch Ratings to lower their recommended ratings a few years after that.
Of course, the out of control debt made it easy for Mika to complete his real goal. Why stop the downgrade at AA, but sink it to BBB-, alongside Peru, Tunisia, Romania, and so on. The markets tanked, and the global economy collapsed, breeding poverty like a prostitute without birth control. However, there was one man who made a billion dollars profit by betting against the most powerful nation in the world.