The Xtra- Volume One

by Oliver Willis

  "You, on the other hand, are Cupcake. You're that little son of a gun that tracked mud all over my house. That pooped her diapers – my God, it stunk. That couldn't even look me in the eye when she told me Javon Carmichael had asked her out to the dance. Carmichael, with his big old buck teeth."

  "Really Dad? Cupcake?"

  "Yes. Really. Cupcake. A cupcake with a college degree."

  "Dad."

  "Cupcake with a degree!" He yelled way too loudly. People milling about, also taking their pictures, or otherwise involved in preparation for the graduation ceremony later that day, looked our way.

  "Dad!"

  "What?" He asked, in mock sincerity. "I'm proud of you." Now he was really sincere. "I'm a lucky man. Cupcake's dad."

  I looked down at my sneakers. He'd bought me a new pair for the big day. He wanted to buy me something serious and "ladylike," maybe with heels. I refused, and so that I wouldn't wear my old track shoes he had compromised and bought me this new pair.

  "It's not that big of a deal dad. Thousands of people do it. Thousands of people at this school do it. I'm just one of –"

  "Stop it," he said, cutting me off in a way he almost never did. Dad was – is – a softie and he'd let me wrap him around my finger if I wanted to. He isn't a disciplinarian and can barely even manage to reprimand me when I'm caught dead to rights. So the tone is out of place for him.

  "But –"

  "I said stop it. Right now. Don't you dare."

  He stepped closer to me so that there was almost no space between us anymore. He reached down and held my chin between his thumb and forefinger. I could feel how rough his hands were and even though I had some idea of where they'd been, what they'd done, he was also very gentle.

  He tilted my head upward so I was looking him directly in the eyes. His big, brown eyes. It was always funny to me that kids visiting our house, especially some of the boys I dated, were intimidated by him. I couldn't see it. I've never seen it. He's just a big old teddy bear to me.

  "You have to stop running yourself down, Carla," he said. "I won't have it. No daughter of mine – my only child – is going to play down her major accomplishments. You worked too hard for this."

  "But, dad—"

  "I'm not done. You worked hard for this. You didn't have to. You're smart as hell. For damn sure much smarter than me. You could have coasted through the last four years without a second thought. Just show up, pass the test, and bounce through. The last person in your class that's got a minimum GPA is still a graduate."

  I looked down at the ground. My robe fluttered a little in the soft breeze. I knew he was telling the truth, after all, Dad barely knows how to lie. But hearing it like that, from him, it made me uncomfortable.

  My stomach felt tied up in knots. My palms felt sweaty. I got lost staring at the pattern the crack in the asphalt made.

  He pulled my chin up again. I resisted a bit, but he was firm. I gave in. I saw his big puppy dog eyes and I could feel what was about to happen.

  "Look at me, girl. You're a champion. A fighter. You came here to win. Win. And you did it. That's what you came to this school for, and you did it. I'm proud, and she —"

  "Dad. No."

  "And she would be proud of you. This is everything she wanted for you. She would be God damned proud and she'd be yelling about it from the highest mountain top."

  Then it came. The tears. Not just a few here and there but a torrent, streaming down my face. I was sick of them, but they had been a nearly constant companion for the previous few months. I cried so much in that time period I seriously wondered if I could legitimately run out of tears.

  It sounds absurd but that's how it felt.

  Dad cried too. He cried all the time. I think he cried more than me. Over Mom, but really over a lot of things. A lot of military guys, they bottle up their emotions, hold them in, or if they do have them they keep it behind closed doors, out of the way.

  Not my dad.

  He's a crier. Of the two of us, I'm better at keeping things in check. I feel the need to put a lid on things and bury feelings deep inside underneath everything else.

  But there we were, crying together, about the greatest tragedy in our entire lives. Our shared tragedy.

  He opened his arms and wrapped them around me. I could feel the tight squeeze as he pulled me in and the world disappeared as I buried my head in his chest.

  It was safe in there, unlike practically everywhere else. The world had become a minefield of sights, sounds, smells and even tastes that constantly reminded me of Mom and the fact that she wasn't there anymore.

  In there, in my father's arms, buried in the makeshift protective cocoon he had created for me, I was safe.

  I didn't want to come out. I could have stayed in there forever. It has been three years but sometimes I think about that moment and what it's like to feel that kind of unconditional love.

  Dad broke his embrace and I kept still, huddling against him.

  "I'm proud of you," he whispered. It was so low it was almost inaudible. The complete opposite of the yelling he had just embarrassed me with.

  He kissed me on the forehead. Then he looked in my eyes again.

  "She's proud of you."

  He kissed my forehead again, and I swear to God I felt something.

  Mom? I thought. Then the moment passed as soon as it had floated in.

  "We're both proud of you. Our cupcake," he said, and kissed me again.

  "I know," I whispered.

  ###

  I feel a hand on my shoulder, gently shaking me. It startles me and I quickly spin around to see what the hell is behind me.

  "Taylor," I say, as she takes a step back, an embarrassed look on her face.

  "Sorry, you were – I was – you drifted off, again. Was it—"

  "Yeah."

  "Oh. I'm sorry. So, so sorry."

  "It's okay. I'm here to work, not sit here and daydream all day."

  "Yeah, but Carla, it's your mom."

  "I know," I say.

  "If you want to talk—"

  "Maybe later."

  "Okay."

  Taylor's not usually quiet like this. But she's really been there for me through this whole thing, listening, nodding her head, making ridiculous suggestions, just sitting there and listening to me. Or just sitting there and being quiet while I'm doing my usual quiet thing.

  "Oh right, why I came over. They're calling us over to the big meeting room. Everybody."

  She points over her shoulder with her thumb in the direction of the general hubbub. I sigh and stand up. I make a quick glance at my "before" picture and I see my mother looking back at me, completely unaware of everything ahead of her.

  She would tell me not to be late. So I turn away and make a step. I won't be late.

  Chapter 17

  Madden Blanc sits in his overstuffed, custom-built, leather command chair. It still smells brand new and has been so finely polished and buffed it always look like nobody has ever sat in it.

  It is Blanc's chosen seat to overlook everything he has built.

  He is a thin, pale-skinned man in his late forties leaning back in his exquisitely decorated Washington, D.C. office building. The office is in the penthouse of the building and both physically and spiritually sits atop one of the biggest enterprises in the world.

  Blanc sits with his fingers pressed tightly together, the muscles in his arms stretching along with his motion. He is in peak physical shape, a product of daily intensive workouts with a series of personal trainers.

  Blanc goes through trainers at a rapid pace, quickly tiring of their individual quirks and habits. They are in his employ to cater to his whims and needs, and he does not care if they feel ill or have a relative in distress or a pet on its last legs.

  Blanc gets what he wants. Always. He has billions of dollars in his bank account that loudly says so.

  The thin LED screen in front of him was filled with information. Multiple stock prices, commodities char
ts, weather reports, news, even a celebrity gossip site. To most it would be noise, at best. But Madden Blanc saw patterns.

  He had seen these patterns often in his life and at a young age had begun to generate wealth for himself.

  That considerable nest egg sustained him for years, as he took one big gamble after another that paid off. Then he began making even more audacious trades and gambles, far below the risk tolerance of other multi-billionaires and even a few banks.

  They paid off. Over and over. The hot streak was so legendary, so massive, that the government even launched an inquiry. It of course came up clean.

  Blanc lives on top of those spoils and does whatever he wants.

  A window on his screen softly pulses with light. He clicks it and sees a message window appear. There is Arley, his personal assistant who's top is far too low cut and who is wearing makeup that would be more at home at a strip club than in an office setting.

  But that is the look Blanc wants, and he gets what he desires as long as the checks clear. They always clear.

  "What?" he asks, his tone already exasperated. Arley has heard it a lot and has come to expect it. The expression on her face does not change.

  "Incoming call on the secure line, sir. Transmission from Africa station. You asked to be immediately alerted."

  Blanc does not acknowledge her statement, even though it is completely accurate. In his world, you exert dominance over your underlings, put them in their place. There is no loyalty, so you have to make it abundantly clear they stand underneath you.

  Arley's no fool. She knows this too and doesn't expect any graciousness from her boss. She gets paid to do what he demands; praise isn't part of the equation.

  He grunts in response and she goes away. He presses another spot on the screen and the video conference from his personal mercenary begins.

  Chapter 18

  Edison Carnivale stares at the camera, his prominent pug nose dead center on his face, his bright white hair in strong contrast to the darkness behind him. He is dressed in his usual desert camo and looks to be holding a gun in his hands, just below the frame.

  Carnivale is always carrying and always looks as if he is just seconds away from unleashing a barrage of fire. That's why he's on the payroll.

  "Sir," he begins, dispensing with greetings or any other trivia that would frankly waste both men's time. Neither has any interest in pleasantries. "Forces in place. Assets positioned around the perimeter. Highest value targets have been identified and will be eliminated in the first wave."

  "We expect high casualties," he continues.

  "Odds of success?" Madden Blanc asked. His tone is flat and unemotional, as if Carnivale is merely telling him about a column of figures on a spreadsheet.

  "One hundred percent sir."

  Blanc likes what he hears. So many others within his corporation like to brown nose. They give him wishy-washy political answers and try to tell him stories that they assume he likes to hear.

  Carnivale operates on the plane of brutal efficiency. He isn't interested in climbing up the corporate ladder, or like so many of his underlings, crawling over Blanc to make it to the top of the heap.

  The mercenary sold his services to the highest bidder in the marketplace. That's why he works for Madden Blanc. The check cleared.

  Blanc respects this far more than he would ever respect a standard bootlicker. It is a world outlook that reflects his own, in its purest form.

  Through their mutual brutality, both men had spilled a lot of blood and today won't be any different.

  "Good. Get it done. Quickly."

  "Affirmative sir."

  The transmission goes dead. Blanc stares at his screen for a few seconds more. The wheels turn in his head. There are trades to be made. Assets to buy and sell. He has advance knowledge of world events and in his line of work that is the equivalent of repeatedly striking a mine filled with gold.

  The actions of men thousands of miles away are about to make Madden Blanc, one of the wealthiest men in the world, even richer.

  Chapter 19

  Edison Carnivale waits to be sure the transmission is really over. Not that it would really matter to a man like Madden Blanc, but Carnivale runs a professional shop. You don't pick your nose in front of the boss or rip a fart or smile. You nod, tell him or her what you need to, get orders or tweaks to those orders and then you execute.

  Standing here in the desert, the wind gently blowing grains of sand across his face, Carnivale is ready to execute. The backdrop is exotic. Sometimes it isn't. Carnivale has seen a lot of this world this way. Every continent. Cities. Jungles. Suburbs. The desert.

  Everywhere in the world something needed killing and rich people have a seemingly endless supply of money to finance such bloody business.

  "We're greenlit," Carnivale says.

  The members of his team smile in response. Their camp is a beehive of activity and they are ready to deploy. They hold massive guns in their hands and stand near dozens of cases of deadly explosives and other instruments of death.

  They didn't do anything half-assed and they hold more firepower than many organized militaries around the world.

  In the privatized army game, Carnivale and his squad outperform the rest.

  "How much wet work?" One of the men asks Carnivale, raising his eyebrows. As he speaks, he is wiping down the considerable barrel of his weapon and entertaining thoughts of using it that are lurid.

  "Whatever it takes to suppress and clean the zone," Carnivale replies.

  The grunt nods.

  "Good. I didn't want to do any babysitting today anyway."

  "Me either," Carnivale answers. The leader of the mercenary squad rubs his thumb along the safety of his gun.

  It's time to work.

  Chapter 20

  It is quiet down in the village. The people there are happy, content. They don't have regular dealings with any outsiders and are so removed from much of the rest of society that they tend to be left alone.

  But lately there was a constant stream of men, white men, at their doors. They smiled fake smiles and promised the village elders that they would fulfill all of their most heartfelt desires.

  The men from outside offered the village piles and piles of money. They pointed out that the wealth they could provide would significantly improve the lives of everyone inside. Medicine, food, clothing, whatever they needed and more.

  How could they turn away from such offers? But there was a catch. There's always a catch.

  They had to move, from the land that their ancestors migrated to years before, going through blood, sweat, and tears to establish this little settlement in the middle of nowhere.

  The answer was obvious to the elders and they delivered it without hesitation: No.

  The men had returned, increasing the value of their offers. Each time the number grew and grew. One or two of the elders seemed to consider it. It would "change everything" one said as the elders met to decide.

  But the result was eventually the same. They would reject the money. Reject the offer. Make do with what they have.

  That attitude, the unwillingness to bend, the stubbornness they exhibited as a group, would be fatal.

  Snipers positioned on nearby hills have the high ground. They are the first to fire on the village, methodically going through the list of targets they were given. As each shot rings out and a bullet hurtles across the desert, a head on the other end explodes in a puff of red blood.

  There is no time to react to the act of mass murder.

  Mortars fire and in seconds, explosive death is being delivered from the sky. The villagers can't see where the bombs destroying their lives is coming from, and even if they did there would be no way to stop them.

  The mortars make a loud "chunk" sound as they fire on their targets without remorse. Members of Carnivale's team just keep loading and loading them up, never stopping to thing about the carnage at the other end. It's just a job.

  Machine guns fir
e, seemingly from every angle. There is no escape. No hiding. No rescue. People are just mowed down in the streets. Those escaping from mortar blasts run every which way, only to be confronted by rows of muzzle flashes.

  The steady "clack-clack-clack" of the guns now accompanies the mortars in a cacophonous orgy of sound.

  Men, women and children try to get out of the way. They furiously pump their arms as they run, trying to get around the horror. But it is everywhere. Coming from all sides. From above. Left, right, back, front. Nowhere is safe.

  A desperate call is made from one of the elders, trying to raise alarms with nearby villages. The call is unanswered. Somebody took the money that was offered and in exchange as the village burns to the ground, as the citizens are murdered in cold blood, there is no help coming.

  It won't take long.

  Already just a few minutes in, the cries of protest and anguish are dying down. Weak sobbing comes from a couple of corners. There is a baby screaming for its now-dead mother.

  She will soon also be silenced.

  Pools of blood are now splashed across the village's peaceful roads. Blood and bile drip down the walls. The air smells of death and burning wood. Every building is damaged or completely destroyed.

  The mercenaries are efficiently brutal.

  They have suffered no casualties, no injuries, and certainly no deaths. Two of their firefighters have wicked sunburns, however, and it will be hours before the right kind of lotion can be found.

  Chapter 21

  "Assets removed," the text message reads.

  Madden Blanc smiles. It isn't something he does often. You can't give in to emotion. Hold them in. Let the others fight for the scraps when they put their feelings on their sleeves.

  But here, in his cavernous private office, Blanc allows himself a fleeting moment of self-satisfaction.

  The village was an annoyance. It was as if fate or God or whatever had conspired to put the rural backwater right in the path of the pipeline he was building. If they had simply taken the money he had offered this whole thing could have been avoided.