by Platt, Sean
He’d go cunt crazy if cooped up too long. Of course, if he were convicted, he’d likely be sent to Oz, a place packed with skinheads and other factions that would all have to learn about Team Boricio.
After what seemed like his life’s longest morning, a prison guard approached Boricio’s cell and peeked through the security glass. He was a pig, fat, late forties, with shoe polish-black hair and a fat gray caterpillar mustache. He also had that slow look that suggested his parents were siblings.
Guard Tard told Boricio to sit on the bed with his back to the wall. He took his sweet time but complied.
Guard Tard stepped inside Boricio’s cell and crossed his arms over his ample chest. “So, your name is John Doe, eh?”
Boricio smiled, remembering how much shit the booking officer gave him while taking his prints and purty picture while Boricio refused to say shit. Let ‘em look — they wouldn’t find dick with Boricio’s name. Even his driver’s license was a decoy.
“Yeah.” Boricio smiled.
“You think you’re a real smart ass, eh? Walkin’ around like your shit don’t stink.”
“I’m new, and we’ve yet to share the pleasure of a proper introduction. I suggest you take it down a notch, hoss.” Boricio winked. “That way you’ll have less regrets later.”
Guard Tard looked as if Boricio had pulled out his pecker and pissed on Old Glory while using the bible to wipe his ass.
“Excuse me, boy?”
“Boy?” Boricio laughed. “Do I look like I want a trip to Chuck E. Cheese?”
Guard Tard’s face turned bright red.
He reached for his nightstick and stepped toward Boricio, looking hungry for an excuse to whip it from his belt.
Boricio stared at the man without flinching, and smiled. “You touch your sister with that stick? She ask you to shove it up her poop chute, or does she prefer it in her purty little slit?”
Guard Tard responded as predicted — he leaped at Boricio, swinging.
Boricio kicked the man hard, just missing his knee and striking right below it. Rather than breaking his leg as planned, the man merely fell forward, nightstick hitting Boricio twice in the ribs.
Guard Tard raised the stick and swung at his head.
Boricio threw his left arm up to deflect the blow.
Unfortunately, his arm didn’t fare as well.
Something cracked. An unholy pain streaked through Boricio’s forearm.
He screamed out, surprised by how much pain the fat, fucking retard had managed to inflict.
Guard Tard stopped his attack, eyes wide, realizing he’d gone too far and would have shit to explain.
“Help!” Boricio yelled.
Another guard appeared, a heavyset black dude with a graying beard and thick black glasses. His name badge read: BOYLE.
Boyle yelled at Guard Tard. “What the hell, Sanders?”
Guard Tard withdrew from the cell, whining. “He hit me, sir!”
“Bullshit! He got pissed 'cuz I asked if he fucks his sister with his nightstick.”
Boyle looked at Boricio as if to ask: What? Did you just say what I thought you said?
Boyle might’ve smiled. It was hard to focus through the pain.
The guard looked down at Boricio’s arm, saw the huge swelling welt.
“Hang tight, I’ll get a doc to check you out.” He turned to Guard Tard. “You, out here, now.”
Guard Tard left with his tail between his legs.
Boricio held his clucking and smiled, hoping the fucker’s superiors would turn his ass into burger. He wasn’t sure how long his stay in ButtFuck County Lockup would be, but Boricio was no one’s bitch to beat on.
Sharks, bears, and Boricio: top of the fucking chain.
* * * *
CHAPTER 7 — MARINA HARMON
Marina woke in a dimly lit room not unlike Acevedo’s chamber — a bed, dresser, and trunk. An open door revealed a bathroom with a shower.
A single bare light bulb hung from the ceiling. The bare stone walls bore no windows.
Marina stood, her head still dizzy, then went to the door and jiggled the knob, trying to open it.
It was locked.
“Hello?” she yelled.
No response.
“Hey!” she yelled again, louder.
Still no answer.
“Let me out of here!” Marina screamed, wondering what the hell Acevedo had done to her. She vaguely recalled him saying something about her purity, whatever the hell that meant. If the man meant virginity, her dress hadn’t been white for a while.
Wait a second. Where’s—
She searched the room: trunk, dresser, and under the bed, but couldn’t find the vials.
They took the vials!
I knew I shouldn’t have trusted him!
“Where are the vials?!” Marina cried out to whoever might be listening. Acevedo had to be somewhere nearby.
His taking the vials didn’t make sense. He told her not to surrender them under any circumstance — so why would he take them?
Marina paced her cell.
A folded blue paper slid beneath the door.
She picked it up.
It read: 21 days. Training starts tomorrow.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
No response.
**
The next morning Marina woke to the sound of a bell ringing from above.
She snapped awake and saw an old man standing over her. He, like Acevedo, was wearing robes. He was skinny, bald, and his face and hands, the only areas not concealed by robes, were covered in intricate tattoos with designs she couldn’t quite place.
“Who are you?” She sat up in bed, remembering that the note had said that training — whatever that meant — started today.
Is this my trainer?
“My name is Seven. I’m here to strengthen your mind.”
“My mind is strong enough, thank you. I’d like to leave.”
Marina stood, walking past the man on her way to the door. She grabbed the knob and tried to turn it, but the door was locked.
“Open the damned door.”
“It’ll open it when you’re ready.”
“This is stupid! Let me out. People are counting on me. I can’t be locked away for three weeks.”
“Father Acevedo said you must be ready for what’s next. I am here to prepare you, same as I did for him.”
“Where are my vials?”
“Locked away safely, don’t worry.”
“I want them. Now. And I want to talk to Acevedo.”
“So, you are not ready to train?”
“No!”
“OK.” The old man turned and opened the door with no key.
How the hell did he open the door?
Is someone watching via secret cameras and they opened it from outside?
Marina chased him, not about to let some weirdo in robes keep her in a cell. She reached the doorway, and he spun to face her, deceptively fast. The old man raised his palm, landing it flat on her chest. It didn’t hurt, though the look in his eyes and the force with which he moved said that hurt wasn’t far from the table.
“Please, Ms. Harmon. Return to your room. Food will be sent shortly.”
“I want out,” she said, her eyes wetting with tears.
“Your life is in danger right now. You need to be trained in the way.”
“I—”
He pressed a pair of fingers to her lips.
She pulled away, not appreciating the old man’s touch. She stepped back, and he closed the door. From the other side, he said, “Be ready to train tomorrow.”
Marina reached for the doorknob. Locked.
“Damn it!” she yelled, pounding her fists on the door. “I want to talk to Acevedo!!”
No response.
**
Marina woke to the smell of food.
She sat up in bed, with no memory of drifting off. She looked on the floor beside the door and saw a bowl of what looked like chicken nood
le soup with steam rising from the broth, a single piece of bread, and a glass of ice water, sweat beading the outside.
She jumped out of bed and tried the doorknob again. Still locked.
Stomach grumbling, Marina brought the tray of food to her bed, sat, and begrudgingly took a bite of the surprisingly fresh bread.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. Hell, the lack of windows made it so Marina couldn’t even tell what time it was now.
“Could at least give me something to read!” she yelled, assuming someone was listening, if not watching.
No response.
**
The next time she woke, Marina found a book on the bed beside her.
The volume looked old: brown, leather-bound, and thin. The spine read: On Mindful Meditation by O.M.
Who the hell is O.M.?
She opened the book and began to thumb through the pages. The first few were oddly left blank. No title page or copyright. Nothing.
Marina kept flipping, and was surprised to find that the entire volume was blank.
“Is this some of joke?” she yelled, throwing the book hard at the door.
Marina growled as she dipped her bread into the soup then tore off a chunk with her teeth, glaring at the door.
No response.
**
Marina woke to another bell.
The old man was standing over her, again.
“Are you ready to train?”
“Fuck you.”
The man said nothing, turned, and headed toward the door.
“Wait!” she yelled.
Without waiting, he left her alone.
Marina screamed.
“You can’t just keep me here! I have a church! A board of directors to answer to! People relying on me for their living! You can’t just keep me here!”
No response.
**
Again Marina woke to the scent of soup.
She wasn’t sure how many days had passed her. So far, she’d been brought the same meal four times with no regard for time. Apparently, soup wasn’t just lunch or dinner, it was her only meal. Still, Marina was just hungry enough to look forward to the broth.
By her estimation, she was nearing the end of her second day being locked in the room. This must be dinner.
The book she’d thrown at the door the day before was back on the bed when she opened her eyes. The pages were still blank.
Marina figured that this was the sort of thing the cult did to new members. A way of slowly breaking her down until she was susceptible to whatever religion they planned to indoctrinate her into. The Church of Original Design had its own methods of doing the same, though not as extreme — until you reached the higher levels and went away to retreats.
They apparently don’t know who they’re messing with if they think they can convert me.
She finished her soup and continued to stare at the door, wondering when it might open.
Part of her wanted to attack the next person who stepped through the doorway. The old man was fast, but still old. She might be able to knock him down, at least long enough to run out into the hall. But what then?
Would she search the monastery’s every room until she found the vials? Even if she managed to find them, Marina doubted she’d do so easily or without interference. And even if she managed to get the vials and was able to leave without incident, she still had no idea how to handle the situation with Steven.
What could she do? Call the police and tell them that he was infected with some kind of alien? She couldn’t rely on her security, as he’d been the head. Marina had to assume that her entire team was compromised.
As much as she hated to admit it, Marina needed Acevedo. Her father had sent her to him for a reason, and she had to trust instincts that were proving far less insane than she once thought.
Marina finished her soup and stared at the empty book.
**
She woke to the bell and the old man standing over her.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Yes.”
* * * *
CHAPTER 8 — MARINA HARMON
Three weeks later
As Marina waited for Acevedo in a downstairs chamber, she couldn’t help but wonder how the hell she and the Father would get around. Did he have a car? Or did he surrender an old life at the monastery door? Marina felt naked and not just because she was wearing jeans and a shirt that weren’t hers. She’d never had a chance to grab her cell, purse, credit cards, or anything when Steven dragged her from bed and locked her in the estate’s subterranean crypt.
She’d gone from heading one of the nation’s most powerful religions — someone nested firmly in the top one-percent — to no one in hours.
She hated feeling so exposed, so at fate’s mercy.
Marina hardly recognized Acevedo when he met her in the chamber. He was wearing jeans, a black shirt, and a matching leather jacket. A gun’s butt peeked from beneath the black leather.
A monk, or Father, with a pistol?
He’d also cleaned the blood which dimmed his apparent insanity, even if his brown eyes were still very intense. He looked like a cop, or a soldier, on a mission.
“How did your training go?” he asked.
“You mean you don’t know?”
“Well, I see that you’re here, so obviously you passed. But no, Ondo didn’t tell me how you did.”
Ondo? Until now, she’d not known his name. The old man had identified himself as Seven, then told her to refer to her as master, something which annoyed her at first, but she played along.
“Well,” she said, “I hated the master at first, and hated you and this whole damned whatever the hell you have going on here, too. But, in time, I came to appreciate the training. He taught me to keep my emotions in check, to not give into anger, and to learn patience. Well, to be more patient, anyway.”
“Good,” Acevedo said. “I couldn’t risk entering battle with a weak mind beside me.”
“Battle? What is it you’ve got planned?”
“First, we have to take care of Steven.”
“We are?”
“Yes ma’am. You ready?”
Marina stood, still clutching the vials to her chest, glad to have them back. Despite the clarity and calmness the master had given her, she couldn’t help the nerves that came with Steven’s name.
“What if he has others on his side? I don’t know who I can trust. He handpicked our most recent staff. Any, or all of them, could be compromised.”
“In more ways than you know. But we’ll handle it as it comes.” Acevedo led Marina from the chamber, outside into the day’s harsh light.
The monastery was fenced in, tucked behind a large garden which hid it from the street. Several monks in brown robes were tending to Camellias, ignoring her and Acevedo as they made their way to the garage.
“You have a car?” Marina forgot that she meant to ask him what ‘in more ways than you know’ meant.
“Yes ma’am,” he chuckled. “You know I’m not a monk, right?”
“I’m not sure what you are.”
“That’s OK, neither am I most days.” Acevedo seemed more at ease than when Marina had first met him. His eyes and movements were still business, but his smile had warmed along with his voice.
Perhaps he also spent some time being trained by the master?
They reached Acevedo’s car, a late '70s cherry red Mustang with dark tinted windows, which looked like it could still have a sticker on the windshield.
“What happened?”
“What do you mean?” Acevedo asked.
“You were quiet and scared up there when I showed you the vials. Now you’re all ready for ‘battle.’ Why the change?”
At the passenger side door he met Marina’s eyes, his intensity fading.
“I’ve spent the past two years afraid this day would come. I thought it would happen on October 15, 2011. It didn’t, and I began to doubt myself and the prophecy I’d
seen.”
Great, another person seeing prophecies.
Marina wondered if he was a disciple of her fathers, after all. Maybe the master had been as well?
“When you walked in the door, I was terrified that I wasn’t ready. But then I prayed and found the courage to do what must be done. And, of course, I spent some time with the master.”
Marina stared at Acevedo, trying to decide if she should ask the question tipping her tongue. She had nothing to lose — she was standing in borrowed clothes with a monk, not a monk, Father who had sewn his lips shut.
“Prayed to who?”
“Are you asking about my faith?” Acevedo asked, smiling. “Still Catholic, ma’am.”
“OK. For a moment I thought perhaps you were Church of Original Design.”
“Oh, God no. Your father and I were close, but we never agreed on theology.”
“Us either,” Marina admitted.
“After you.” Acevedo held her door.
**
They arrived at the compound to six news vans camped outside the gates.
“What the hell is going on?” Marina asked no one.
Acevedo pulled up to the gate where Clancy, one of the guards, stepped out of the entry shack to meet them.
Acevedo manually rolled down the window. Marina leaned forward so Clancy could see her.
“Ma’am?” he asked, surprised. “Everyone’s been looking for you.”
“Everyone? You mean Steven?”
Clancy stared at her, then licked his lips. “Oh God, you haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“It’s best you go in, Ms. Harmon. Mr. Walker is waiting inside.”
“Mr. Walker?” she asked, surprised. Walker had been her family’s lawyer for three decades.
“Yes, Ma’am, he’ll explain everything.”
Marina hated the sound of that.
**
Marina stepped into the downstairs media room where Walker was speaking to someone on his cell in terse, bitchy little sentences. She heard no words, only tone. Marina didn’t know who Walker was arguing with, or what he was fighting about, but she was sure he was winning.