by D. A. Bale
All bore the last traces of Samantha Jane Bartlett.
She tugged at her earlobe. The sting that greeted her drilled the reminder home. Now she belonged to the Elite.
“You’ll get used to it,” offered Dr. Marcus.
Samantha glared at him through the veil. Marcus only stared at her with a bemused expression on his lips, but his eyes remained flat, devoid of emotion. What a shame to waste gorgeous blue eyes on such a creep. When she’d agreed to join the Elite she hadn’t realized they would implant the microchip in her earlobe. GPS, microphone, whatever it all was – now she was a freak, a walking satellite transponder allowing Debrille to track her every move, fill her head with his irritating shrill voice whenever he pleased. Was this how schizos spent their every waking moment? No wonder psychological medicine had never appealed to her.
“The damn thing hurts worse than my stinking arm,” Samantha retorted as she rubbed the air cast.
“Well it will be the only thing coming off in another two weeks.” He thumped the cast.
She wanted to deck him. Several weeks gone and the man rarely let her out of his sight. His presence irritated her already. Besides the jerk had an explanation for everything.
He’d arrived at the scene of Gramm’s accident to see if she could be rescued. Claimed to have had nothing to do with it. Said Warner had targeted Gramm to draw Samantha back into the open. The good Dr. Marcus had deposited the note in her coat pocket to urge her toward learning the truth. They’d known Warner was closing in on her. She didn’t know what to believe. Samantha didn’t trust the man farther than she could spit, something Gramm had failed to teach her.
As the limousine rolled to a stop, Dr. Marcus slipped on his shades and exited, walking around to her side and opening the door. If she hadn’t had the cast on her arm, she would have opened the door herself right into his crotch.
Take that family jewels.
The summer heat hit her like an oven. Her lungs still ached from the smoke inhalation, and heat only exacerbated it. Even so, it felt good to see the sun after weeks underground. How many long months before she would see it again after this?
She slipped the black sling over the cast and stepped from the limo.
“Remember, Samantha Bartlett is dead,” stated Dr. Marcus.
“Screw you, Shades,” Samantha muttered.
“We’ll get to that soon enough.”
The twin graves stared her down as Samantha covered the distance as if she were in an ever-stretching tunnel, the walk never so far on previous visits. The wind fluttered the veil, everything muted and dark like a gathering storm. Her grave rose to greet her in mocking welcome. Mr. Eddis had likely buried ashes scraped from the explosion.
Poor Mr. Eddis.
The presence of death hung over her like a black cloud. She turned her back on the macabre mound.
“Momma, it’s not really me there. I’m here. I’m still breathing,” Samantha whispered. Tears sprang to her eyes. “I’m following in your footsteps, though, so don’t worry about me. I have a chance to set things right, but to do that I’m going away for a long time. A very long time.” Samantha stared off into the distance. “I don’t even know how I’ll ever return.”
Tapping behind drew her attention. Dr. Marcus urged her toward the waiting limo in some stupid Morse code or something he beat out on the window. He could wait a little longer.
“Shades is having a conniption fit over there, so I better go before he zaps me with an electric shock treatment. I’ll probably need one before this is all over.”
Samantha pressed her gloved hand to the stone. A familiar ache seeped into her heart. The sun soaked through her black attire as if she were near the fires of hell itself.
“I miss you so much right now, wish you were here to help me make sense of all this.” She choked back the lump in her throat. “I’ll get Warner, Momma, for what he did to you and Gramm – and what he only thinks he did to me. I can’t let him do this to anyone else ever again.”
With a glance at the second grave, Samantha walked back to Shades and the waiting limousine. Samantha Jane Bartlett had indeed died, her life at a sudden end. Yet the phoenix rose from the ashes to swoop down upon an unsuspecting man.
She would have the last word.
***
Joe drove around the bend and watched as a lady in black turned away from the graves and returned to the waiting limo. Something didn’t sit right with him. Strange. Was this a friend of Sam’s from New York come to pay her respects, or an old co-worker unable to make the funeral?
As the limo pulled away Joe parked his car and stepped out. He’d only take a moment of the city’s time. In this heat the flowers would shrivel up in a matter of hours, but that didn’t stop him from offering the token. He should’ve kept in touch more. Then he’d gone and pissed her off when he had blown off her idea about that guy in the photos at the accident scene. Somewhere, somehow he’d missed something, and it ate at his gut. Now he missed her.
As he placed the small bouquet of red roses near the headstone, Joe stiffened. His brain awoke with a start. He stared after the limousine as it turned from the cemetery back toward K-96. Then it clicked. She hadn’t been there to visit Samantha’s grave.
The lady in black had stood gazing over Mr. and Mrs. Bartlett’s graves.
Chapter 17 - A New Beginning
The sleek, high-speed underground train came to a halt and opened upon a plush underworld. If this was hell, Samantha decided her stay wouldn’t be too bad. No glaring white walls like she’d been subjected to in the hospital setting beneath Wichita. This was first rate elegance in a most uncommon backdrop.
An enormous cavern vaulted up like a giant, ancient magma bubble as they entered what Shades called their commons. Strategic ambient lighting provided a view of the vast chamber. The floor and walls at the lower levels were tiled with elaborate and colorful motifs like the work from an Aztec or Incan temple, while furniture resembled something more of an oriental nature in deep red, orange, and hushed amber tones. A narrow river skirted the tiled floor near the far wall, its rush cutting deep into the hard basalt stone and echoing throughout the cavern.
Dr. Marcus remained silent as he led her through a labyrinth of smaller rooms and carved hallways until turning onto a corridor ending in a waterfall. In fascination, Samantha watched as the waterfall parted to reveal enormous carved oak doors while a stone ledge rose from the pool below to connect the walkway. Before they even reached the doors, her earlobe buzzed and Debrille’s voice echoed inside her head.
“You may enter.”
She felt like a wireless radio receiver.
The double doors opened upon a paneled entry hall with a six-tiered chandelier chattering overhead. Similar oak doors to the right swept open as Debrille made his grand appearance like a king greeting his subjects.
“Ah, my dear. So good to see you again.”
Debrille strolled up and embraced Samantha as if she were a long lost relative. The move turned her stomach.
“So where are we now?” Samantha asked. “An hour doesn’t get one very far from the heart of Wichita.”
Debrille seated himself in a curved leg chair like something from a medieval movie set. The guy obviously thought himself royalty surrounded with this set-up. He flipped open a scrolled table drawer, then lit and puffed on a stogie.
“Those things will kill you eventually,” offered Samantha.
Debrille stared hard at her out of those beady eyes and drew long on the cigar before lazily blowing smoke at her.
“We are in my chambers, my own little workshop if you will, deep beneath the Chesapeake Bay.”
Geography had never been Samantha’s strong point. “Near the Gulf? That train traveled faster than I thought.”
Debrille raised an eyebrow and turned his gaze upon Marcus. “You are going to have your work cut out for you with this one.”
Little Hitler man had a way of making her feel like an imbecile every time he ope
ned his mouth. Marcus seldom spoke but when required monosyllabic, which probably suited Debrille just fine since he had enough hot air for both. Even after knowing them only a few weeks, Samantha wished the doctor would grow a set of balls and stand up to their ringleader.
Debrille turned his attention back to Samantha. “The Chesapeake is fed by the Potomac which runs through the greater Alexandria, Arlington, and Washington D.C. areas.”
Samantha felt as if her heart dropped into her stomach. He was close. Too close. “D.C.? You mean we are in D.C.?
“More or less, my dear.” He smiled and drew again on his stogie. “Now, onto more important matters.” Debrille’s tone changed to that of a drill sergeant. “You must understand that from now on, Samantha Bartlett no longer exists. You are part of the Elite. You are ours. The microchip implanted in your earlobe will allow us to track your whereabouts at any given time via satellite.”
Samantha interrupted. “Yeah, I know. The good doctor here already instructed me in that function.”
Debrille’s eyes bored like daggers into hers. “And you will never interrupt me again.”
Samantha rolled her eyes and muttered, “Sorry.”
With a sniff Debrille resumed his rant. “Let me put this another way.” His voice grew cold. “We own your hide, my dear, and you will do exactly as instructed. No questions. No attitudes. You are expendable, and if you get out of line at anytime, the good doctor here will dispose of you faster than you can say you’re sorry.”
Like a bear with all four paws in a trap, reality snapped over her mind and sank deep into flesh. They had her. They controlled her. Escape – impossible. Marcus returned her stare with icy blue eyes.
They owned her.
Debrille stood and stamped out the smoking cancer stick. “Marcus will run you through all courses of your training for the next eight months. Your mind and body will be fine-tuned to perfection, and if he is not satisfied in that time your training will be terminated.
“As will you.”
Chapter 18 - Hard Bodies
President Warner delivered his stump speech beneath the New Mexico State Seal outside the State Capitol building in Santa Fe, or the ‘Roundhouse’ as referred to by the local populace. Governor James Newman, his cohort since their crazy Harvard days, flanked his left while the First Bitch draped his right shoulder, most likely with that pasty and adoring smile about to crack her plaster-like veneer.
Warner had lived for the moment in college, thinking those days were the best life had to offer, while James Newman had always looked ahead to a rosy future for them both in politics and with women. Though at one time he’d had a multitude of sins to bury, marriage and a mild heart attack had calmed the steamy liaisons for Newman and driven him from D.C. back to his home state. He’d even refused to come back when Warner offered him the position of Secretary of State. Even so, they never missed an opportunity to relive the old days and live vicariously through Warner’s indiscretions.
The wind dusted fine sand granules over the Bradford pear trees lining the center of the sidewalk. The Indian summer of October left the trees practically panting for water. The crowd of thousands probably felt that way also. Pity the poor Secret Service agents in their stifling black suits.
Warner continued addressing the adoring crowd. “Just as your motto states, Crescit Eundo – grows as it goes, Governor Newman has followed just that in his first term, growing the New Mexico economy, growing jobs, growing benefits for your families, growing school funding for your children. I’ve also led the charge at the Federal level, doubling the benefit to New Mexico’s residents. Governor Newman would like to continue that growth with your vote for a second term. He has my full faith and support.”
Applause stopped him momentarily as he soaked up the praise and scanned the crowd. It never hurt to put a plug in for his Presidency when he stumped for others either. The fervor in his voice rose a couple of notches.
“As I stand here before your beautiful Capitol building, first dedicated in 1966, I am reminded of its design after the sun symbol of the Zia Pueblo Indians. The symbol is comprised of a circle from which four points radiate. The Zia believe that in the brotherhood of man, we all have four obligations, those being of a strong body, clear mind, pure spirit, and a devotion to the welfare of the people. This is personified in the man to my left who I am proud to call my friend, a man who serves at the will of the people of New Mexico. A man who is willing and able to serve yet another term with your vote. Together, you and Governor Newman will continue to make New Mexico one of the brightest points in the United States of America. Thank you, and God bless.”
Thunderous applause swallowed up Newman’s brief comment as they embraced then lifted their hands together in victory for the photographers. Newman’s re-election was in the bag.
Stumping for his friends gave Warner renewed energy and purpose. It was too easy to get lost in the shuffle of cutthroat D.C. politics, where little of worth ever got accomplished. But in the heart of America, progress remained measurable. Sometimes he missed his days as Kansas’ governor, but the Presidency was the shining echelon of every serious politician’s ambitions. The Presidential perks and entourage were nothing to discount, but rolling up one’s sleeves and staying up all night to haggle over state matters had lit a fire in his soul that had excited him more than staying up all night to quell the fire in his trousers. However, in D.C. important legislation moved slower than a snail and frustrated the life out of him.
That continued to be his problem. Frustration always led to boredom – and boredom led to the bedroom’s lustful passions. His dalliances were becoming too careless. He needed to take a break before the media caught wind of more than just dangling rumors.
After shamelessly pandering to the crowd for another twenty minutes, Warner and Newman stepped back into the Capitol and crossed over a tiled version of the State Seal, the Secret Service detail following at a watchful distance. No doubt the wife was somewhere in the mix. She always did take care of herself best.
Newman thumped Warner on the back. “Can’t thank you enough for the speech, Fred. You always were the best blowhard at Harvard. Sure you two can’t stay for dinner with me and the missus, that is if she’s feeling up to it?”
Warner massaged his temple. “Wish I could, Jim, but duty calls me back to D.C. You remember, the city where everyone talks and does nothing?”
“Still that bad?”
“Gets worse every damn day. Sometimes I wonder why I even bothered running for a second term. Loyalty to the party and all that drivel, I suppose.” Warner smiled. “But the perks can be quite enjoyable.”
Newman laughed. “You’re nothing but a hormone driven teenager, man.”
A shot rang out – two – then ten. Bullets flew from every direction while agents tackled Warner as if he were the quarterback in the Super Bowl. Guns blazed with return fire. Bodies fell with a sickening thump from the second floor balcony. The firefight seemed to last for an eternity, though later he discovered it had been less than a minute.
The assassins were there one moment and gone the next, with no comrades left behind. When the shooting stopped, the Secret Service agents whisked him and the First Lady to the waiting limousines. But not before Warner saw the strafed body of James Newman, laying in a pool of red with blood oozing from his mouth and eyes staring lifelessly.
Dead.
***
Three months passed in a blur of sleepless fog, the nightmare of residency nothing compared to her new daily grind. Marcus poured into her brain until it became mush.
“Samantha Bartlett is dead. Samantha Bartlett is dead.”
“Then who the hell am I supposed to be?” Samantha retorted as she wiped sweat from her face.
His eyes again turned to ice. “A machine. Only a machine, which I will mold and shape, but not if you just sit there. Lift!”
The weight machine fed into the ceiling with something like fiber optic cords, thin and clear but pliable.
The monstrosity took up half of the sweaty smelly gym, its smooth hiss like a rhythmic metronome. Samantha’s arms ached and her legs felt like noodles every time she left the apparatus. Then it was off to the park.
The Elite had built an incredible underground park, arrayed with trees, flowers, creeks, and even the occasional chirp of birds – an oasis in the midst of hell, replete with another waterfall. Paths crisscrossed and meandered around the ten acre complex, which Marcus utilized to the full extent.
“Pick up the pace, Miss Second-in-State, or I’ll give you five extra laps and no dinner before bed,” Marcus called as he pranced ahead in his black biker shorts that showed off his rippling gluteus.
Too bad his shorts didn’t come with a red-button remote for squeeze here in the front. Yeah, she’d give anything to hear his voice climb twelve octaves, the masochistic creep.
Samantha’s lungs burned. “Just give me the bed,” she wheezed, “and I’ll gladly skip dinner.”
Marcus pulled up short. “Oh I’m sorry, did I say bed? Tonight you are pulling an all-nighter with the history books again.”
That did it. Samantha threw down her sweatshirt and let fly. “Listen, I’ve just about had it with you and your sadistic all-nighters. For three months I’ve worked my ass off doing everything you’ve asked without complaint, but I’ve had it up to here with the lack of sleep thing. Every minute of every day I feel like a zombie. Residency was nothing compared to this.”
With one fluid motion Marcus straightened his arm while Samantha stared down the barrel of a gun muzzle. His voice was calm, controlled.
Emotionless. “Suck it up and give me five more. Otherwise, I’ll be happy to let you sleep – eternally.”
The room fell silent save for the cheerful bird chirps. Samantha had faced down a couple of whacked druggies in the emergency rooms before, but strange how the yelling and itchy trigger fingers hadn’t frightened her like the calm demeanor Marcus displayed. Debrille had threatened it, and Marcus obviously had no problem carrying it out. Slowly she knelt, picked up her sweatshirt, and tied it back around her waist while swallowing the fear.