The Lover's Parable Through A Seven World Journey

by Millerson, Brady

  The deafening noise of the engines was reaching its peak, and contact with the surface was imminent. The Simulator’s killing fields were about to be put to the test.

  With his knees buckling under the strain of landing, John bumped up against several of the Sweep members among which he was surrounded. There were no words spoken. They were like robots, cold and without emotion.

  The hydraulic locks of the ship’s hull began to release. The mouth of the door’s hubs lifted from their sockets. The anxiousness to get on with the work was apparent in the posturing of every man present.

  The ceiling door opened above, and the Sweep agents from the upper decks began descending the ladder, preparing to embark on their murderous missions. The clanking of their boots against the metal rungs brought back memories of Sofia, when the two of them had ascended that identical ladder several months prior. He had followed her through the top door and, upon closing its hatch, he held her… John immediately quashed the thought. It was too painful. Pain needed to be turned to hate. Hate was easier to deal with.

  The red sand blowing in from the opening under the rising, bay door gathered at their feet. Grinding it under the toe of his boot, John felt the familiarity of being in the Simulator, as it had apparently been filled with the Red planet’s exported gravel, adding to its pre-planned realism.

  The bars of light sifting through the silhouetted figures standing in front of him, waiting to exit the ship, were much too bright and unnaturally white to be falling from the Great Star in the sky. As the agents began to make their way out the door, the joints of John’s fingers cracked under the sweating grip by which he held his rifle.

  Moving at a crawling pace towards the exit, he could now see that the brightness was coming from the operating base’s mounted lamps, just as he had suspected. Descending the ramp to gather with the troops of Sweepers outside, he took a moment to look to the sky above: it was filled with stars.

  The base appeared to be situated on a steep hilltop or relatively short mountain. But, due to the surrounding walls, John was unable to see what was happening outside of the installation. Thumping explosions vibrated in the hollow of his chest, and the war cries and machine gun fire of hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of men and women could be heard rising from the valley below.

  Forced into a single file line, the agents were separated into various sized parties before being escorted outside of the compound. John was assigned to a four-man squad led by one Sergeant Madison. The other two men, Goldman and Roberts, were as equally unknown to John as was his squad leader. As all the men were dressed in full gear, there were no discerning features to distinguish one man from another, with the exception of the nametags embroidered on their chests.

  Yelling to the Sergeant through the microphone that he wore across his neck, a lower ranked officer was barking out orders, muffled and incomprehensible due to the thundering blasts from the valley. According to the officer’s hand gestures and the movements of his lips, they were being assigned to an off-road transporter that was located in the Security Zone approximately one hundred meters downhill.

  Motioning with his rifle for their attention and cooperation, the Sergeant directed his men to receive his attention. John and the other two men fell in line in front of him.

  “We’re assigned to watch for deserters from above the Valley of Blood. Anything more than a three or four-man group we call in for further orders, otherwise, it’s hunting time,” he said through their earpieces.

  Sofia fell to her knees just outside of the entrance to the apartment. Groaning under the pain, Maryanne huddled over her, doing her best to comfort her during her periods of suffering.

  As she regained her composure with the easing of the stress, she took a deep breath and stepped inside. The musty odor of death was more pronounced than ever, and having become accustomed to it over the past several months, Sofia was surprised to find her sense of smell so heightened, and her propensity towards nausea so easily triggered. The stairs leading to their room above seemed so steep and uninviting, but the cot waiting for her on the other side of the door, despite all its shortcomings, would be a wonderful comfort.

  After a dreadfully difficult time of conquering the stairwell, they finally reached their room. Falling onto its semi-soft springs, Sofia lifted her legs onto the bed. She attempted to relax, but she felt the tugging pains beginning all over again.

  The mountaintop upon which their base was situated was steeper and higher than the ones below, and gave a full view of the entire battleground. As they made their way to the base’s edge, John and his assigned team were finally able to see the war being fought firsthand. The Valley of Blood appeared to be divided into two distinct areas. It was, according to the deaths John was witnessing, living up to its name.

  Two military bases were situated on the ridges of two opposing ranges of steep, rocky hills, each with their own respective, over-active, air transporter systems. They faced one another from across an open wasteland by approximately four thousand meters. Watching from his vantage point was like witnessing a sick game that was being played out by the warped and twisted mind of Insanity itself. Hundreds of thousands of men and women were standing in rows and columns of formations, blanketing the faces of the hills directly across from each other. With the echoing blow of an unseen battle horn filling the valley with its wailing, the multitude of formations descended upon the waves of their own battle cries, firing their weapons wildly, charging blindly to their deaths.

  Sitting on the hood of their assigned transporter, John sat beside the Sergeant, looking through a pair of handheld binoculars. There was no order to the battle. Each soldier appeared to be emptying his or her rifle before using it as a club or an instrument for stabbing. The soldiers in the distal formations, still waiting their turns to descend into battle, were throwing explosive devices into the valley, sending body parts and whole corpses, as well as their own fellow mates, hurdling through the air. Piled up thick, and forming a coagulating pool of blood at the valley’s basin, floated millions of fallen soldiers, bloated and pale and torn to pieces.

  As the hours passed by with only large groups of deserters to call in, one of the squad members drew out his rifle in boredom and began firing into the carnage of the valley. They all knew very well that the distance was too far for him to make contact, but his actions were understandable under the monotonous circumstances, and the Sergeant refrained from keeping the Sweeper back from venting his frustration.

  Attempting to track his squad mate’s bullets, John spied out a small group of soldiers commandeering a transporter and driving off into the blood red hills towards the rising of the Great Star.

  “I’ve just caught sight of three individuals making a run,” he said to the Sergeant.

  Handing over the binoculars to his superior, John swung his rifle from off of his back, anticipating further orders. With their team leader scanning the area below, Goldman, anxious to get into the fight, said, “What do you see? Are we red light, Sarge?”

  “I see ‘em,” the Sergeant mumbled. “It’s killing time.”

  Howling and laughing as they hopped down from the roof of their off-road vehicle, Goldman and Roberts hustled to get into the hunt, throwing themselves through the doorways of the transporter. The Sergeant handed back the binoculars to John as the two of them slid off the hood. Taking their seats inside, they buckled in, preparing for the rough ride ahead.

  As the engine kicked on, Roberts threw the transporter into gear, and began driving them down the steep, dirt road that descended the mountain. Guiding them towards the deserters’ last known position, John poked his head out of the window searching for the tire tracks that would lead them to the kill. As they appeared to be heading in the direction of the solar rise, the Sergeant commented that they were probably trying to make their way to the Old World ruins, but that the fuel cells of the war machines were never filled to capacity due to such a high potential for soldiers to attempt escape.


  “They won’t get far,” He assured them. “Nobody ever does.”

  Wringing the towels and sheets out as she pulled them from the boiling water with her gloved hands, Maryanne was making all the preparations necessary for the birth of Sofia’s child. Covering the floor with the stained, thin cloth, she attempted to make the room as clean as she possibly could within such a filthy environment.

  With both of their cots situated alongside each other forming one large bed, Sofia had a much larger area to spread out on. As she lay on her back, the long shadows cast upon the ceiling by Maryanne as she moved past the lantern and through the room, busy at her work, appeared like alien clouds gathering in the night sky. The pain was growing stronger and more frequent. With the cloth removed from their only window to the world outside, Sofia could see the dispersing haze of light gathering in the sky as the Savior was about to make his entrance.

  As they rounded the base of the mountain, the tracks to the escapees’ vehicle were quite lengthy, and it appeared as though they may have had more fuel in the vehicle than the Sergeant had anticipated. As his team leader lifted the visor from his face, John had his first glimpse of the man. He was middle-aged, probably in his late thirties, with facial hair that seemed far grayer than he would have expected. By the creases of his forehead and the scowl of his brow, he was as equally hardened as Crawford and Michaels, perhaps even the Monster himself. Lifting the binoculars to his eyes, the Sergeant peered at the horizon in the direction of the bluish-purple sky, beyond the red sand hills, where pillars of black smoke arose from the ruins. Placing the viewing apparatus on his lap, he closed his face shield and ordered Roberts to continue driving.

  The clarity of the redness of the sand was becoming more pronounced with each passing minute as the brightness over the hills indicated the nearness of daylight. The ruins, according to Goldman, who had been incessantly blabbing into his microphone, were situated on the other side of the ridge.

  “I’ve only seen a few stragglers actually make it out this far,” he commented. “They’re usually too dehydrated and beat to continue fighting, though.”

  The trail of rubescent dust following their transporter was too easily marked out from a distant vantage point. Knowing that there was a possibility that the deserters would be waiting in ambush, the Sergeant ordered Roberts to stop the vehicle: they would be hoofing the remaining distance to the targets.

  With all the preparations complete, it was now only a matter of time before the child would be entering the world. Maryanne had pulled her wooden-box seat under the sheets, situating it at the bedside near Sofia’s head. Sweating profusely under the dense, moist heat of the room, Maryanne used a soft, damp cloth to cool Sofia down.

  “We’re getting so close now,” she smiled.

  Dipping the cloth into the can of cool water at her feet, Maryanne flinched under the sharp pinching of Sofia’s hand as she took hold of her wrist. Her contractions were now only a few minutes apart.

  Low crawling to the peak of the hill, the four men kept a safe distance from one another, preparing to return fire should it become necessary. They had reached the edge of the ruins, and John could see what had once been, in the distant past, a thriving metropolis similar to Labor, only much greater in extent and height. Although it may have been awe-inspiring at one time, it was now an empty shell of a city under the unforgiving hand of war. Still used for urban battles to entertain the powers-that-be, the fires and billowing smoke of destruction seemed to be in a perpetual state of burning.

  Retracting the face protectors back, as ordered by the Sergeant, each man pulled his gas mask from the pouch hanging upon his hip before sliding it into place. Inhaling and exhaling, the seals of their masks were complete. At his further command, the team members retrieved a single canister from their vests, throwing them into the nearby buildings.

  At the sound of the popping explosions that indicated the release of the poison into the air, the agents were brought to their feet and ordered to commence the hunt. Stalking in a “V” formation, they existed as a single unit, a single entity: a killing machine. Somewhere hidden in the skeletal remains of the ancient city, the four men were running for their lives. Their bleeding hearts were the trophies of Sweeper society.

  Picking up the embedded tracks left by the feet of the deserters in the ash and sand, the team members cautiously peered around every corner and over every wall. Wherever the boot prints led them, the team would follow.

  The distant thundering of explosions and snapping machine guns, the local crackling fires of burning vehicles and gelled fuel, these were the only sounds audible in the city. The blood gurgling coughs of the choking escapees that they had expected to hear never materialized. The Sergeant ordered more canisters of the fatal gas to be administered in the streets and alleys ahead of them. He wanted the poison to fill the air, to fill the buildings, to flow on the rooftops, anywhere that was a potential hiding place.

  Wandering deeper into the city under the cloak of the thin, hazy smoke, the rising complexes surrounding them appeared to have been built steadily taller. A portion of the inner hub of the city became visible between the walls of the rising structures that lined the streets as they made their way through another cross-section. The rotted frames of the skyscrapers, packed together at the central aspect of the long-deceased metropolis, were still several kilometers inward. It seemed to John as if their prey could be anywhere, and yet nowhere. He was feeling the frustration and anger of defeat, knowing that the deserters had got the best of them.

  The heavens above were beginning to change to a lighter shade of blue, leaving the purple haze of the early morning behind and blotting out the last remaining stars. The Great Star of the sky was soon to be presenting itself, and with it the discomfort of the heat that would build up under the agents’ armored gear.

  With the crack of a rifle, and the ricocheting buzz that accompanied the bullet as it bit into the concrete wall next to Goldman’s head, the Sergeant yelled into his microphone, “Everyone down!”

  Grabbing Goldman by the shoulder, the Sergeant pulled him into a building on the opposite side of the street.

  Taking cover beside Roberts, set between the walls of a narrow alleyway, John attempted to peek his head around the corner, hoping to catch a glimpse of the shooter. The concrete exploded into a chalky puff of dust and debris as another piece of lead slammed into the wall only a few centimeters from his mask-covered face.

  “We need to split up,” John whispered through his microphone. “Let me take Roberts. We’ll move along this side of the street. We might be able to take their flank.”

  Hidden deep within the debris of the old apartment complex, Goldman and the Sergeant sat in silence. Contemplating John’s suggestion, the Team Leader tried to consider the possibilities of the action.

  Leaning against the wall, John and Roberts slid down to the rubble-covered floor of the alley. While awaiting their orders, another crack of a rifle rang out, and the bullet embedded into the corner a meter from their position. The crackling of their earpieces indicated that the Sergeant was about to give his command.

  “We’re pinned down in here,” he said. “See what you can do.”

  With a thumbs-up, Roberts patted John on the back.

  “Let’s do it,” he said.

  Duck-walking to the end of the building, they made their way through the alley. Climbing through a hole that had been blasted into the side of the structure at one point in its long exhausted past, the two of them entered in.

  Working their way towards the shooter’s direction, the two-man team scuttled through several rooms before reaching their exit. Out through the window frame they climbed, back into another alleyway. Another shot fired, apparently directed towards Goldman and the Sergeant. It would take time, John thought, but with such amateurish gunplay at work, he and Roberts would soon make an end to their annoying targets.

  Screaming under the intensity of the pain, Sofia’s head was beginning t
o spin.

  “You need to slow your breathing down,” Maryanne urged. “You’re going pass out.”

  “Okay,” she panted. “I’m sorry. It just hurts so much.”

  As the squeezing of the contraction faded, Sofia rolled onto her side, attempting to stand upon her feet.

  “I need to get up, my back’s hurting.”

  Maryanne wrapped her arms around Sofia’s waist, placing most of the pressure at the small of her back. As the contractions began again, Sofia began her tachypneic breathing while Maryanne increased the force against her lumbar region.

  The Savior was just peeking over the edge of the hills, bringing its warming rays of light upon the city’s cardboard rooftops. The women of the town had long ago busied themselves with their daily routines. The crowds of the streets were now openly visible. From the direction of the flatlands, the cottony rise of dust from the speeding transporters heading into Basket Town were an unusual sight at such an early hour of the day.

  Several women, upon seeing the Security vehicles heading towards the city, began forsaking their fieldwork, shouting out the alarm towards the other groups of women. Lifting their heads from their work, the women downrange turned towards the city, hollering out, alerting the next group in line. As the distress calls reached the edge of the city, the cries grew louder as nearly every woman, upon hearing the warning calls, lifted their voices in a chorus of admonition.

  Floating upon the breeze through the window, the melodic monition fell upon Maryanne’s ears.

  “They’re coming,” she said under her breath.