"I don't imagine that's exactly what they asked you to do, Bärli."
Rynard shrugged and helped himself to the remains of schnecken left on a plate on her dresser. The nuns had withheld his lunch, so the cinnamon roll tasted delicious despite being slightly stale.
"You know, life could be a little easier for you if you didn't insist on fighting everyone."
"I don't care," he mumbled with his mouth full, "I really don't. There are only two things I've ever cared about in this world. One of those things was Papa. The other is you. The rest of the world can go to Hell."
"Rynard, please!"
Rynard flushed, "I'm sorry, Anna. I get... frustrated."
"Well, that's no reason to use that word. And as for what you were saying, you simply need to find things to care about. The world is full of beauty."
"We live in East Berlin."
"Nevertheless." Anna reached down and stroked his cheek. The startling warmth of her touch defrosted his disposition. "Don't let your heart turn to stone, Bärli."
Rynard rolled his eyes and tossed back the final bite of pastry.
"Promise me," she said sternly.
Rynard saw then how serious his sister was and swallowed. He looked into her eyes, nodded earnestly, and gave his word.
* * *
The following day, Rynard's unwilling penance continued. All of the nuns chided him and pushed him to break. Throughout it, he held his tongue, determined not to give them an excuse to punish him further. They didn't need one. He was kept after school without explanation, and forced to work with Father Klauss, proofing pages for his new Papal Dictionary. Klauss, a former Vatican scholar, had amassed copies of every document ever written by Popes that contained a misspelled word or typo. The priest's assertion was that, since the Pope was infallible, ipso facto, these could not be errors. They must, therefore, be documented as legitimate new spellings of these words ordained by God himself. Most of these typos, of course, were in Italian and Latin, as put fourth in Klauss's initial thesis Eradoom X-libris Addendumb. Since, however, the Popes were often required to speak in unfamiliar tongues, this meant the Holy Fathers often transubstantiated words in those languages as well. This resulted in a series of articles published in the theological journal Cummunio, including Holy Rightings: Papal Spelinks of Englich Frases and Wrods. The priest saw his work as a sacred labour. Rynard Gruber did not. He resented his detention as well as Father Klauss himself. The obese clergyman smelled of tea tree oil and sacramental wine and had no hesitation in putting the school children to work on his new Vadigan Too Digshunary. Still, Rynard thought, at least, unlike Father Braun, he keeps his hands to himself.
Father Klauss was particularly inspired that evening, having recently discovered that, by implied Papal decree, the English words there, their and they're, were, in fact, interchangeable. He was devoting an entire chapter to the subject and required Rynard to search out as many supporting instances as possible. By the time The boy was permitted to leave, it was growing dark. Before Rynard reached home, night had fallen. He entered by the backdoor and headed upstairs to see his sister. "She's not home!" his mother yelled from the kitchen.
"Where is she?" he asked.
"Church."
Rynard's heart sank. He felt that it was his job to escort Anna to evening mass. This was not only for safety's sake, but also because he enjoyed it. Missing this, he decided, was his real punishment. Still, he thought, at least I can walk her home. Without a word, he ran out into the night.
Rynard jogged along the main road which was now lit by regularly spaced street lights. He soon reached St. Eunich's Cathedral. All three sets of doors were flung wide with the end of the evening service, casting a trinity of light beams onto the cobblestone street. Most of the worshippers had already left, although a few still mingled. There was no sign of Anna. Rynard recognized a teenage girl named Elsi, who knew Anna, and approached her. As he did so, he assumed the pretence of shy insecurity he used to make adults feel more at ease. "Fraulein Elsi?" he asked.
"Why hello Herr Gruber," she said with a laugh.
"Have you see my sister?"
"She left a long time ago," said Elsi. "She never stays to chat. You should tell your sister to be more sociable."
Rynard nodded. He knew this. Anna regarded mass as a time for spiritual kinship with God, not gossip.
"You're getting to be quite big, Rynard," said Elsi. "Soon you'll be a man."
Rynard ignored her, turned and headed for home. Since he hadn't seen Anna on the way there, she must have taken the north road. From what Elsi had said, Anna had a good start, but her crippled foot meant she moved more slowly. Rynard was certain he could catch her.
The north road was a longer, darker route. Despite her difficulties walking, Rynard knew why Anna chose to take it sometimes. She enjoyed the bit along the river where the moon made the water sparkle. She thought it was beautiful. Anna could always find beauty in even the darkest path. As he walked briskly along the winding streets, snow began to fall for the first time that December. Rynard barely noticed. River or no, he couldn't imagine what would possess his sister to go that way, alone at night. He was wondering that still, when he passed the alleyway and heard a girl's whimper. He listened for a moment as the blood froze in his veins. Filled with ice, he plunged into the black abyss between the buildings. For a moment he could see nothing then, with heart-stopping horror, he spotted his sister's unmistakable foot.
The man had offered to walk Anna home. It was not the first time. He'd escorted her safely the night before, although she'd told no one. He'd expressed the desire to come in. She said 'no', that she was not that kind of girl. He asked her whether he could walk her home the following night as well, and she'd replied, "Yes". Despite his impropriety, she couldn't help herself. He was so handsome and charming and he didn't seem to care about her unfortunate foot. That night, as they passed the pitch black alleyway, he shoved her inside. In the dark his five friends were waiting. He had his way with her, followed by each of the other men. When they left her, they left her for dead, crumpled on the cobbles, strangled with her own rosary.
At the hospital Rynard sat beside his sister's bed, along with his mother, in numb, naked silence. For all their brutality the men had somehow fallen short of murder, at least in the legal sense. His sister was, for now, alive. She was, however, hemorrhaging internally and would die soon enough without expert intervention. Fortunately, the doctors told them, there was such an expert. Dr. Zufällig was on his way from Potsdam and would most certainly be able to help when he arrived in the morning. "Thank God," said Rynard's mother, crossing herself for the first time Rynard could remember.
They waited all through the night. Outside, the first flurries of winter gathered strength and began to blanket the earth, Rynard held his sister’s hand, noticing how cold it felt and how, by morning, it had begun to quake gently. In the morning light he could see the deep drifts of snow that had formed in the dark. When he saw the look in the doctor's face, he knew what the physician was going to say. "I'm afraid the blizzard has made the roads impassable. Dr. Zufällig's unable to get through. I'm sorry, there's nothing we can do. It is an act of God."
Later that morning, Anna quietly slipped away. She never said anything, or even woke up. He so desperately wanted her to open her eyes and call him "Bärli" one last time. Instead, just once, she squeezed her brother's hand, held it tightly for a moment, then released it forever. The boy knew it was more likely a death spasm than any last conscious act. Rynard stood up with calm deliberation. He bent over and lovingly tucked in Anna's blankets, as if she were simply sleeping. He then kissed her gently on the forehead and said, "I'm sorry, Anna, I cannot keep my promise."
The twelve-year-old boy then turned and, without acknowledging his sobbing mother, headed out into the frozen world, never to return home again.
Chapter 25
"You make me want to be a better person."
– A. Hitler (to E. Braun)
> Mathias Boltzmann's Estate, Munich, Germany, Today.
Rynard Gruber's grey crewcut was spiked with sweat into a buzz-saw blade as he unleashed round after round at the rear doors of the house. Finally, he released the trigger and let the rotating gun barrel spin itself out. The back wall of the hall was nearly disintegrated with bullet holes. The doors themselves were shredded to sawdust and every pane of glass was reduced to powder. The air was thick with gun smoke and the pungent reek of gore. Just inside the doors, were the crumpled corpses of a half-dozen German police officers. They lay in a swelling pond of blood that flooded the floor and ran in rivulets between the tiles. In his enthusiasm, Rynard had reduced several of the invaders to pulp. He panted, wiped the perspiration from his brow, and calmly awaited the next wave. It was work, but it was good work. Beside him, two of his men simply gawked at the Colonel as if in the presence of some primordial god. To them, Rynard had become death, destroyer of worlds, and they loved him for it.
* * *
In the White House Situation Room, the atmosphere was tense. Every eye was fixed on the projection screen where police, paramedics and naked people ran amok on a well-tended lawn half a world away. While they couldn't see inside the structure, clearly resistance was fierce with reports of several officers down. Still, General Troy insisted, it was just a matter of time. His was an 'old school' strategy, employed by army ants and perfected by the generals of World War I. The idea was to simply throw wave after wave of bodies on the pile and, eventually, the side with the most to lose wins. To that end, a small army of German Landespolizei were on hand. There was also a busload of US operatives, as backup. The Americans weren't supposed to be needed. Now, however, reports were suggesting that while the strategy of shock and awe was working, it was working in the wrong direction.
"Gummy bear?" asked General Troy, offering bag full of bright coloured candies to the Secretary of State.
Jim moved to take one, then hesitated. "Where are all the red ones?"
General Troy looked somewhat embarrassed. "I ate them," he said. "They're my favourite."
"Never mind then," said Jim, waving the bag away.
"The black ones are good."
"I hate them. I hate liquorice."
"Oh. Orange?"
"We're done here."
General Troy hung his head in defeat.
"The President likes liquorice," Bob suggested, his teeth full of popcorn.
"Ah..." said Sarah, glancing about, "where is the President?"
The men looked around the room. Jim went so far as to steal a glance under the table. The President, unnoticed by anyone, had simply slipped away. His Secret Service detail, who had also been enthralled by the on-screen action, whispered hurriedly into their lapel mics. "The President is back in the Oval Office, sir," one of the agents reported, hoping to make it sound as if he'd known this all along.
"Then why aren't you?" asked Jim pointedly.
"Um..."
"Never mind, we'll all go up together." Jim turned to Robert Morely and asked, "Do we know how this ends?"
"We always do, Jim."
"Good."
The Secretary of State stormed from the room flanked by the two somewhat sheepish Secret Service agents. His fear was that the President had actually nodded off and wandered away. The President had been prescribed Ambian, months before, to help him sleep. Jim's theory was that the drug explained much of the Commander-in-Chief's peculiar behaviour since then. He first considered this when noticing that the President's poetry and other missives always seemed to be left on his secretary's desk between three and four in the morning. Clearly the President was sleep walking, sleep writing and even making sleep phone calls, including one to the President of Georgia, asking him to change the country's name to something "less confusing". It certainly explained the poems that read as if written by someone else. Jim himself had been in several meetings with the President, only to suspect twenty minutes in that his boss was actually asleep. The fact that his eyes were open and he was capable of carrying on a conversation made it difficult to be sure. The President seemed confused by it as well, and Jim had noticed him pinching himself at times as if checking. The Chief of Staff had tried to get the President to stop taking the drug, warning him that he might be a "somnambulist". The President told Jim to stop talking gibberish, declaring, "I don't know the meaning of the word!" Jim had little doubt that this was true.
As they marched down the hall, The Chief of Staff received an encrypted text message on his phone. American Carl Weiss had been arrested at the scene. Damn it, thought Jim. Weiss was a major campaign contributor. They had been hoping that the businessman would simply be shot. It would be so much cleaner, he thought, now there will be questions to answer. Weiss was too prominent to just disappear into a black site in Bucharest. Jim's phone chirped again. A prominent Dutch businessman had apparently been shot dead after grabbing the ankle of one of the arresting officers, this despite being several feet away at the time. Jim frowned at the confusing account, but decided to ignore it. He had more important things to worry about.
* * *
The party was over at the Azylum Mahall. Most of the guests had departed by limousine, helicopter, or private jet, while others had taken advantage of Ali Madda's offer to 'crash'. "Friends don't let friends drink and jihad," he said, imploring them to stay in one of the palace's seventy-two bedrooms. The palace was so large, it might be days before some of them would be seen again.
As the sunrise seeped over the horizon, Ali Madda, three fellow terrorists, and three foreign backers were the only ones left in the party room. Technically there was one more, a Syrian passed out under a sofa whom no one seemed to know and no one wanted to touch as he'd vomited down his front. The seven stragglers sat in a lounge area in front of one of the big screen TVs, sipping beverages and snacking on pita chips. Ali himself was sucking on a Cuban cigar with one hand, while cradling a glass of warmed cognac in the other. He was wearing a Texas Rangers baseball cap that belonged to Dallas oilman Howard Crawford. Howard was slumped in a nearby armchair, in a state of alcohol induced slumber. He was wearing Madda's keffiyeh backwards on his head, so that the cloth covered his face and fluttered each time the fat man snored. The Texas tycoon suffered from sleep apnea and would occasionally stop breathing for seconds at a time before resuming with a loud snort. Howard had initially joined Ali Madda's cause for his own idealogical purposes. He believed that America needed an existential threat to remain strong and ready. Since joining, however, he and Ali had found they shared much in common and had become fast friends. He'd even promised to introduce Ali to the Koch brothers, believing they'd also "hit it off like gangbusters." For now, Ali and the others bathed in a warm tidal pool of self-satisfaction. "I think..." Ali announced, "I think I will buy England."
A grey haired Russian snorted derisively. "I'd rather own Yugoslavia," he said, "or whatever the stupid Yugos are calling it now-a-days." As he spoke, he sloshed a glass of vodka about, spilling it down his sleeve.
"England? Why England?" asked an Iraqi warlord. "The reason the English built the empire was to get the hell out of England. It rains there all the time! Trust me, I grew up in London."
"He has a point," the Russian nodded, "Why else would someone want to conquer Iraq?"
Madda shrugged and tasted the cognac with his tongue. "I miss England. I suppose you could call it nostalgia for my college years, sipping bitter in the local pub, chanting death to America over a basket of fish & chips... It was a good time, a time of dreams, foolish, ideal dreams."
"My head is really starting to hurt," moaned Ali #2, one of Ali Madda's many sons. "You really shouldn't mix arak and wine... especially in the same glass."
"Well, I'm from England," argued a British backer from Bristol whose name Ali had forgotten. "And I wouldn't live there. If it's an island you want, I recommend Tahiti. Lovely girls there, beaches... It's bloody brilliant."
"If it's girls you want... " began the Russian. He then
trailed off. He'd been trying to pat down his vodka soaked arm, whilst holding a cigarette between his fingers. Consequently, he'd managed to set fire to his sleeve. In a panic for something to extinguish the flames, he'd reached for a nearby bottle of Stolichnaya vodka. One of the other terrorists grabbed his arm before he could self-immolate, suggesting he use a seltzer bottle instead. "Thank-you!" said the Russian, shaking his head with amusement, "I would have been pretty red-faced, had I—"
"What the Hell?" shouted Ali, sitting up in his chair and pointing anxiously at one of the ultra HD TVs. On screen was Karim flanked by masked jihadists. They were holding what appeared to be a press conference. Karim was speaking, but the television was on mute. Ali rifled through a coffee table drawer filled with remotes. "DVD player... VHS... lights... ah ha!" He clicked a button. Outside the lawn sprinklers started up. "God Damn it!"
"Is that it, old fellow?" asked the Englishman, pointing under Ali's chair.
The terrorist leader snarled, retrieved the remote and tapped the volume button.
"... our great leader, Ali Madda, has lost his way," said Karim, shaking his head sadly. "This is the problem of western evil. It corrupts all who touch it. In the end, evil cannot be redeemed, it must be destroyed. Fortunately, Allah has blessed us with the means to do so." With that Karim reached beneath his robes and withdrew a shiny steel canister. "Allahu Akbar!" he said.
Ali stared in shock. "Is that...?" He reached for another remote and entered his secret code, "1 2 3 4". This caused a hidden panel in the wall to rise up, revealing an empty velvet pedestal in the alcove within. "God damn it!" he swore, flinging the remote against the wall and inadvertently changing the channel to The Real Housewives of Bucharest. "That... lunatic!"
"He couldn't... well, I mean, he wouldn't really... would he?" asked the Englishman.
"You don't know Karim," moaned Ali, putting his face into his hands.
"Can we watch something else?" whined the Russian. "I've seen this one already."
Chaos Theory: A Feel Good Story About the End of the World Page 21