by P. J. Day
“I’m not here to argue about the dynamics of our upbringing; my friend is dying,” Paolo said, his voice irritated and growing coarse with frustration. “Are you going to help me?”
“No,” said Shia. “I’m not. I gave you an opportunity to convince me and you didn’t.”
Paolo stood up and grimaced. “What? Convince you to do what?” he grumbled. “Wait...wait, okay, hold on. Look, you’re right I would have taken the deal, too. I was way too self-involved with my own privileged upbringing that I couldn’t comprehend your circumstance. There, is that better?”
“Sarcasm?” Shia asked, with a chuckle. “We have time for sarcasm now?”
The floor beneath Shia and Paolo began to shake again. A small quake—around a 4.0—swayed the lanterns on the wall and the spires of white light. Shia’s face looked more concerned than Paolo’s as soon as the shaking stopped, which made Paolo take notice. “You look scared. I thought you had a grip on your fate?”
Nervous, Shia’s voice vibrated. “Part of me is kinda happy you showed up, actually.”
“What do you mean?”
“Listen, if we open this here box, we’re gonna die. But there’s a chance that my fuck-up could be corrected.”
“What are you talking about?” Paolo said loudly, in frustration. “I don’t care what’s in the box anymore; we need to help my friend.”
Shia walked up to Paolo and flashed him a crazed look. The long locks he had grown, probably for a movie, twinkled against the light, as they were greased in sweat. “I want to correct my mistake, I’ve sold out humanity. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I need you to convince me to open this box up. Tell me it’s all worth it. Tell me that the promise of everlasting life is worth trading in for a chance at saving mankind.”
A frazzled Paolo began tugging at his hair and pacing the cave like a madman, desperately trying to conjure some type of solution to Shia’s question. How do you convince anyone from rejecting everlasting life, he thought. “Who approached you with this deal?”
“A bald man approached me at an audition when I was 12. He knew of my work as a child actor. He said he studied up on my circumstances. He promised me that I’d get more callbacks if I agreed to some vague deal. I didn’t believe him, but he told me that if I said yes, and promised to keep my mouth shut, I’d get more callbacks. He was right, I got three callbacks the next day. When I was 16, and after getting some major work, he found me again outside a trailer I was using on set, and asked me if I agreed right then and there if I’d hold up my end of the bargain, which involved keeping this box tucked away in my home. Of course, I said yes. So they transported this glass box you see before you, via freight, and delivered it into my basement. They titled me a Kronotos, Guardian of the Blessed Sacrament. Some guardian, though, am I right? Because your dumpy ass made it here somehow.”
“What did he tell you would happen if this box were compromised?” asked Paolo.
“In reality or in dreams?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the bald dude said if anything were to happen to the box, I’d lose my career and eventually, my life. Then in my dreams, this horrible-looking demon, with small teeth and galaxies for eyes, warned me that my entrails would be spread all across the 110 if something were to happen to this box.”
Paolo stood up and faced the glass box. He turned to Shia. “Her hand got glued to the box...you should have seen it. Do you know what’s going on in there?”
“Of course, Thalia and I have had many conversations.”
“Is she alive in there?”
“She’s neither dead or alive. She just is,” said Shia.
Paolo leaned down toward the floor and picked up the Apocryphon. He walked up to Shia and opened the book, flipped through the pages, and eventually landed on the page which showed the process of Thalia’s imprisonment. Next to the representation of Thalia, a jester was drawn with his tongue out and holding a sword. “That’s you?” asked Paolo.
Shia nodded.
Paolo flipped through three more pages. He showed Shia a depiction of people burning a in a sea of fire. Below them was another group drowning in water, and the next page showed others roasting like pigs. “How do you feel about all this?”
“Horrible. Like I said, I think I sold everyone out.”
“How about you help me get Thalia out then?”
“I’m scared of dying.”
“Listen, I don’t know what’s going to happen. But I know you’ll be doing the noble thing if you release Thalia. Are you really prepared to live with yourself knowing that everyone you loved will not join you? Your mother, father, siblings, friends, people that watched your back are all going to disappear, poof! Just like that,” Paolo said snapping his fingers. “Used, absorbed, made to suffer. Something tells me all this can be prevented.”
“If I open this box, I’m as good as dead, do you hear me?”
“I’ll join you. I’m prepared to join you in death. There’s a reason Cindy made it here. There’s a reason she was determined to rescue Thalia.”
Shia breathed deeply through his nostrils and pulled the side of his thick, black hair in a display of agitated indecision. “I really want to live forever, you know?”
“Who’s to say you still can’t?” Paolo said, patting Shia on the side of his shoulder.
“You have no idea what’s involved in all this, do you?”
Paolo shook his head. But he was unfazed as he was determined to release Thalia for Cindy.
Shia walked to the glass box and dug into one of the pockets of his tight, black skinny jeans. He procured a rondure, similar to the one Cindy found and which Paolo now had in his possession. He faced the glass box, hands at his side, his Chucks squared with his shoulders. Paolo watched, his eyes glued on Shia with intensity. Shia grabbed the bottom corner of his jacket and gripped it tight, nervousness trembling his long, narrow digits.
“Whatever happens, put in a good word for me, okay?” said Shia, flashing Paolo a nervous smile.
“Of course,” Paolo said. “You do the same for me, too.”
Shia nodded and stood on his toes as he placed the rondure in the indentation that was at the top of the box. He blinked. A long blink, in fact, it was more like he closed his eyes for five seconds then reopened them.
Suddenly, they were no longer in the same place...
Dizzy with confusion, Shia gulped at the man leaning down into his car window.
“Step out of the car,” demanded the officer.
“Excuse me?”
“Step out of the fucking car, or I’ll do it by force.”
“Wait, I know you,” Shia said as he looked up at the officer through the rolled-down window of his yellow Murciélago that was pulled over on Sunset Boulevard.
The officer was Augustus Fisker. His unmistakable neck tattoos visible just above his collar. “You’ve been drinking. I can smell your breath from here. Step out, now.”
Shia looked over his shoulder. A group of fast-moving photographers convened at the back of his car. The flashes from their cameras blinded him.
Augustus grinned. “It’s over, Mr. Labeouf. You had a wonderful opportunity and you pissed it all away and for what? So, you could save these animals that treat you like dirt and who don’t appreciate you?”
Shia stared through his windshield. Regret began to wash over him. His biggest fear was coming true. The fear of public humiliation, the fear of stardom snatched away as if it were nothing more than just a pebble in his hand. As he held both his hands on the steering wheel, flashes of red and blue lights appeared ahead of him. A cavalry of squad cars approached, sirens blaring. As they neared, he noticed a silver Honda Accord speeding through the stopped cars on Sunset. The Accord zoomed past him and Fisker followed by four black and whites. “Professor?” he asked out loud. “That was the professor,” he said excitedly.
The doors of the Murciélago opened upward like wings. Fisker grabbed Shia by the arm, yanking him out
of his car without effort and proceeded to cuff him. “You were chosen to do one thing and one thing only. You’re lucky there’s paparazzi around or I’d eviscerate you,” Fisker hissed in his ear.
Fisker escorted Shia to the back of a parked squad car, opened the back door, and shoved him into the backseat. He closed the door and tapped the top of the squad car. Fisker watched as Shia was whisked away toward the police station. He then entered Shia’s Murciélago and accelerated away from the paparazzo, almost hitting one of them who stubbornly stepped out onto the street for a better shot. Fisker slammed on the gas pedal of Shia’s supercar to catch up to the high-speed police chase which Paolo’s Accord was leading down the strip.
—oOo—
Feeling the sweat trickle down the grooves of his brow as if it were the tap of ants’ feet, Paolo wiped his forehead and glanced at his rearview mirror. Nervousness wrenched his face as swirling flashes of red and blue splashed off the bare, black console of his base model Accord. He weaved through the sparse traffic on Sunset, running the red lights and praying that his front bumper didn’t meet the knees of a wayward, early morning pedestrian.
He reached out for Cindy in the passenger seat, while intensely focused on the road ahead. Expecting the sensation of cold skin pressing against the palm of his hand, he jumped in his seat when a warm hand grabbed his wrist. “Umm...keep your hand away from my chest and keep it on the steering wheel, please,” said Cindy, who was surprisingly awake, alert, and with not a scratch on her face or head.
“Cindy!” Paolo exclaimed. “What the hell?”
“Just drive. I’m just as confused as you are.”
“How?”
“I don’t know,” Cindy said, looking back through the window.
In the backseat, Thalia, gray and sweaty, curled herself into a ball like a cat. Her long and greasy hair covered her face and chest. She panted. Prolonged exposure to the earthly plane ate at her, both physically and spiritually. There was a reason gods communicated through their progeny or through their prophets. Thalia was no exception, as Man’s inherent wickedness was like leprosy to the divine.
Paolo’s darting eyes alternated between the rearview mirror and the semi-empty boulevard ahead of him. “Where am I supposed to go?” he yelled.
“Drive, dammit,” Cindy said, as she leaned toward the backseat and tried waking Thalia. “Your Holiness, can you hear me?”
Paolo reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, only to fumble it and have it tumble down his shins.
The patrol cars trailed closely behind. In fact, so close, one of them attempted a brazen pit maneuver, but Paolo accelerated as soon as he felt a tap at his back bumper. “Why are they chasing me?” he said aloud. Realities shifted so quickly from one blink to the next, it left him no choice but to act purely on instinct and flee from his pursuers.
“Thalia?” Paolo yelled, as Cindy did her best to wake Thalia by lightly tapping her face. “Can you hear me?” She didn’t respond. Instead, her wheezing heightened and her pants grew sicklier and coarse.
He took another glance at the rearview mirror. A set of bright, halogen lights, which were lower to the ground than the squad cars, pulled out from behind them. Fisker accelerated the Murciélago and managed to pull up beside Paolo, keeping pace without effort. He rolled his window down and yelled at Paolo to pull over.
Paolo glanced at him but then quickly centered his eyes on the road. Cindy purposely avoided eye contact.
“Last chance, pull over!” barked Fisker, this time louder, as if his larynx were connected to an amplifier.
Paolo rolled down the window and responded harshly through the bluster of the engines. “I haven’t done shit.”
“You broke into a home and kidnapped someone, jackass. Pull the hell over, now,” Fisker continued to shout.
Paolo ignored him and continued to drive.
Angered by Paolo’s insolence, Fisker immediately sideswiped the professor’s Accord, not giving a damn that he was using a quarter-million dollars of hi-tech metal as a crude battering ram.
Paolo curled his fingers tightly around the steering wheel as soon as he saw Fisker jolt the supercar toward him. His anticipation helped him absorb the initial hit without losing control of the car. Both cars continued to race side by side on Sunset Boulevard. Cindy stopped trying to wake Thalia and sat herself down in the passenger seat, holding onto the grab handle.
Fisker bit his lips and lowered his head, then steered left and then right swiftly and heavily, slamming onto the passenger door of the Accord one more time, with added force. Instantly, both Fisker and Paolo lost control of their vehicles. Tires screeched as the Accord slid sideways, slamming straight through the wrought-iron fence of a parking lot. Its front end was pulverized as it crashed into the back of a delivery truck’s motorized lift-gate. The Murciélago spun wildly before striking a traffic light pole, splitting the fiberglass frame in two. The front end of the Lamborghini where Fisker sat skidded two hundred yards down the boulevard before chafing to a halt in front of an empty bus stop.
The Accord’s airbags erupted, saving Paolo from debilitating injuries and protecting Cindy from crushing against the glove compartment. Thalia’s body was thrown against the backseat. She moaned as her contorted body lay on the backseat floor. Dazed, Paolo and Cindy stepped out from the vehicle and were immediately surrounded by squad cars. They both faced the police, who had all stepped out of their vehicles with guns drawn.
“Get on the ground with your hands behind your head,” yelled one of the officers, whose face was obscured by the spotlights, his voice vibrating with controlled panic. Paolo quickly obeyed and fell to his knees, grimacing as he hit the rough asphalt. Cindy was somewhat defiant and didn’t heed the initial order. “I will not hesitate to shoot,” added the officer. “My Taser is out of batteries…and I’m gonna count to three.”
“Fine...whatever,” Cindy relented. She lowered herself toward the hard ground, interlocked her fingers behind her head, closed her eyes and muttered to herself, “Thalia, I pray to you. Help us.”
Across the street, Fisker pushed and tore through the twisted and mangled cockpit, without a scratch on his face. One of his pants legs was sliced down the middle, exposing his thin and pasty limb. With haste, he limped away from the smoldering wreckage, barking at Paolo and Cindy from fifty yards away. “Where is she?”
Blinded and confused, Paolo answered, “Who?”
“Thalia,” yelled Fisker. “Is she alive?”
“I don’t know,” said Paolo.
“Sir, do you need medical attention?” one of the officers asked Fisker, whose suit was tattered and scorched by road rash.
“I’m perfectly fine,” Fisker asserted, as he dusted off grains of shaved asphalt from his suit. He then asked one of the officers, “Is there any movement coming from inside the vehicle?”
“I can’t see anything else moving in there.”
Fisker hoped Thalia was dead. A goddess in a weakened state, even one clinging to life, was a formidable opponent for Uriel.
“State your name, officer,” Fisker asked the policeman right next to him.
“Joel Martinez, sir.”
“Mr. Martinez, can you please approach the vehicle and tell us what you see inside,” Fisker commanded, while keeping his eyes focused on Paolo and Cindy.
Officer Martinez carefully walked toward the car while keeping his gun aimed at the couple. He stretched his neck and peeked in through the back window. “There is a woman in the backseat. She’s definitely breathing. I don’t see anyone else.”
“Please, call an ambulance,” cried Paolo. “She’s not doing so well.”
“How’d you find her?” Fisker asked Paolo and Cindy. “Who are you people? Who sent you here?”
Paolo hesitated at first but then answered. “I’m Paolo Rivers, professor of linguistics at USC.”
Fisker was skeptical. “A professor? Who’s she?” He nodded toward Cindy.
“She’s my partn
er. She’s the one who led me to Thalia,” Paolo said.
“Thanks...” Cindy said, eying the professor with slight disdain.
Fisker took a deep breath. He then turned toward the officers. “You can leave.”
“What?” asked Martinez. The other policemen mumbled with confusion.
“The crime scene is now under federal jurisdiction,” stated Fisker.
“It’s just breaking and entering...a kidnapping...what makes this a federal crime?” asked Officer Martinez.
The radios attached to the officer’s uniforms began to emit static then the dispatchers voice followed. We have a 1099 at 1801 South Grand. All available units please respond. Multiple fatalities and injuries. Reports of a possible collapse. The officers looked at each other, their faces checkered with confusion and indecision.
“Do you think the earthquake did that?” asked Officer Martinez, staring at his colleagues for affirmation. “That little rinky-dink quake from 30 minutes ago?”
“Are you surprised? That arena is fucking ancient. You guys should go. I have this situation under control,” said Fisker, as he pulled out a pistol from inside his jacket pocket.
Martinez’ partner spoke up. “Pat them down real quick...check to see if they’re armed. G-man over here says he’s got it under control, so let him have control. We should probably head downtown.”
Officer Martinez gave Fisker a longer than usual glare before walking up to Paolo and Cindy. He asked them both to stand up, Paolo and Cindy obliged. Officer Martinez first patted Paolo down from shoulders to ankles, and then walked over to Cindy and patted her down as well. After deeming them unarmed, he turned to Fisker and said, “Looks like it’s going to be easy for you. I’m reporting this incident and there will be a follow-up, just so you know.”
“Cuff her,” ordered Fisker.
Officer Martinez grabbed both of Cindy’s wrists and pulled her arms to her back, cuffing her carefully.