by Joe Schwartz
There was a time in Karen’s life when she would have turned around, running to find the building’s exit. She remembered those people meditating, how serene they seemed to be. If she had to do this, she reasoned, then they did too.
“I do,” Karen said.
“Fair thee well, traveler,” Disciple Danielle said and was gone, presumably back the way they had come, possibly watching her from a distance. Either way, Karen was alone, barely able to see behind her, and absolute darkness in front of her.
She took a deep breath before she walked forward. The sound of her breath escaping her body masked the pounding inside her chest. A cold sweat chilled her brow and back.
With her arms held out before her, she walked. It was a genuine surprise to her senses that what she had presumed to be a wall directly in front of her was a curtain. A heavy, velvet material that divided as she passed through it. The instant privacy consumed all her senses. She could not see any longer and her hands, though they reached out, felt nothing. Her feet though were still on the same level ground as when she entered. A small comfort to be sure but reaffirming enough.
On the cusp of becoming an emotional wreck she walked in shuffling, tiny baby steps. The deprivation to her senses was taking a toll. She was sure if she called out for help, she would be rescued, but at what cost? If she overcame, then maybe, finally, her life would have a rejuvenated meaning, something beyond meaningless physical or emotional pleasures. A life of which she was in control and not at its’ mercy.
A tiny dot of light caught her attention. In a charge, she hurried toward it, and fell skinning the palms of her hands. Karen disregarded the pain, stood up, calmed down and started again. Her gait now was a determined, slow stride. She concentrated on the light, wanting it more than anything she ever had before. It occurred to her that this might be insanity, like the illusion of an oasis in the desert. Madness be damned, she thought. It was the only hope she had and she clung to it.
The hole was tiny, but in the darkness, even the slightest light is brilliant. Karen peered through the small opening. Unable to see clearly, she leaned her head as close to the puncture as possible. Karen lost her balance and fell forward, splitting a pair of drapes identical to the ones she had entered through. Determined not to sustain another scraping to her already raw palms, she regained her poise.
Karen was in awe. She had come out into a beautiful Zen garden complete with fountains, burning incents, bouquets of hanging flowers, koi ponds, and a small bridge leading to a chair engraved with the sun and moon headrest. The beauty and serenity was her fantasy come true.
***
In the following weeks and months, Karen thrust herself into all things relevant to the GCP. She read dozens of books on meditation, enlightenment, and the origin of the soul. The subject she found most fascinating though was transcendental meditation. This idea of traveling outside of your body to explore distant places, able to go back and forth in time was astounding. Unlike drugs, there were no residual effects, and it became better each time she experimented with it.
Then, of course, was the tenet to shed worldly possessions. Karen gladly gave away her TV, DVD player, and most of her furniture. With permission from the Jury, she was allowed to retain her bed and car. The hardest thing to give up was her precious laptop. It had been a lifeline for so long it was like turning her back on a close friend.
At work, her concentration faltered to dangerously low levels. She could no longer ignore what she was doing. Writing letters for ball-buster corporate attorneys threatening frivolous lawsuits, that if perused, would destroy their lesser opponents. Memorandums thick as small books outlining the acquisition and dissemination of corporations that would leave hundreds unemployed. Debt collection manuals that instructed operators on how to properly design re-affirmation agreements to restore discharged balances with usury rates certain to repeal any assistance issued by the bankruptcy court.
Is this what she had been doing with a decade of her life? In a futile attempt to keep her newfound serenity, she asked for re-assignment to anywhere else in the company. Upper management issued a quick, thoughtless denial followed in kind by a written reprimand. She was warned that if she continued with such reckless behavior, her termination would be imminent.
Karen took her problem before the Elder Tribunal. They concurred that she had achieved a significant state of enlightenment, and her place was strictly among her own kind. If she so wanted, they would foster her matriculation to discipleship, if in exchange she would renounce all her worldly ties. Without hesitation, Karen agreed.
In a matter of twenty-four hours, Karen sold her car, abandoned her one bedroom studio apartment, and moved with nothing but the clothes on her back into the GCP campus. She had thought about calling work, to inform them of her decision, but decided that it would only continue to support the negative energy they manufactured. It was best to make it a clean break, free of any encumbrances, to have no barriers by which her enlightenment could be swayed.
Alone that evening in her assigned room, an indistinguishable cell from the rest of the community, Karen found peace. She had no worries. Everything from this point on would be provided, as she needed it.
***
Karen received her rank as Disciple one year to the day she entered the private cooperative. Without the distractions of the outside world her ability to excel had no limitations.
With rank came privilege, and she was granted access to a manual typewriter. She wrote several documents cataloguing her transcendental travels that were eventually compiled into a two-volume work upon the recommendation of her master. It was a great honor, much more than Karen could have ever hoped for in her past life. Here, she was a rare flower allowed to bloom and reveal her beauty. She could have gone on living this way into infinity.
Asleep, her master woke her.
“Disciple Karen,” he said loudly, “you need to rise immediately.”
Instantly awake, she put on her shoes. A true disciple never questioned their master. She was curious though as to why she was so urgently needed.
She stood to face him as he placed both his hands on her shoulders, his joy undeniable. “The Great Ones have called your name. You have been chosen to carry out the Supreme Commission.”
Karen understood in full what this meant and pretended to be as happy as her master did. She presumed for her lone disobedience, praying that the thing should not come to pass in her tenure, the universe had singled her out.
***
While the coordinated efforts of “Operation Blackwater” where underway nationwide, Karen trained twelve hours a day for her role in the effort. It was boot camp like drills of physical training, nutritional supplication, small arms instruction, thermodynamics, and self-defense tactics.
The Fifty, as they were referred to, had but one opportunity to accomplish their mission. Each person would not be told the location of their target until returned to their individual communities. It would insure against the possibility of even the slightest information leak.
Karen, in spite of her personal reservations, embraced the program. She did well in all areas, but found a particular intuitiveness for explosives. Rapid decomposition and development of high pressures were akin to her theories on OBE’s (out-of-body-experiences) and she believed proof of the transcendental argument. If she had more time, she could write down what she now understood and convince the Elder Tribunal to avoid this irrevocable solution. Then again, who was she to question their wisdom? If the time was now, then what choice did she have?
***
The community had taken on a transformation in Karen’s absence. She hardly recognized the inner dwelling she had called home.
There was no more library filled with sacred GCP texts. No more meditation garden. The daily ritual seeking oneness with the universe seemed a forgotten ideology. It had become a world of the barest necessities. Hundreds of folding beds littered the Great Hall. Bare bulbs burned incessantly and people, many of
which Karen had never seen before, aimlessly wandered. The plain hot meals of oats, rice, and vegetables had all been replaced with surplus food that needed no heat or water.
Karen found it hard to accept. This place for so long had been her sanctuary, a refuge that could not be disturbed. Now it was nothing more than a weigh station that the world would discover soon enough. It saddened her yet renewed her determination to her mission.
***
The newsroom was in a state of flux. People hurried in every direction to answer phones and review the incoming data for even the slightest new information. It was Columbine, Timothy McVey, and Jonestown rolled into one. All other coverage had been suspended. The station dedicated itself to around-the-clock coverage as had every other cable news station. Nobody wanted to be caught doing a filler piece on erectile dysfunction, as another major piece of the story became public knowledge. Until this thing was settled, they would be caught in that continuous loop repeating the story over and over again as the screen filled with horrifying pictures of the dead, the dying, and the destruction God’s Chosen People had extracted on this earth.
A man behind a camera pointed to a well-dressed newscaster at a desk. The newscaster had had the good taste to allow his beard to grow in slightly to show empathy with the audience. In his dressing room, he had liked the handsome appeal he felt the dark stubble lent.
“And in five, four, three, two…”
“Good morning nation. I’m Hugh Engle and as this crisis grips our republic, more information continues to come to light in what is being called the largest, most well organized terrorist action ever constructed.
“We go now live to Berry White in Crestwood, St. Louis, with the latest at what is considered to be this nefarious organization’s headquarters.”
“Thanks, Hugh,” Barry said.
Assured by his cameraman they were clear, Hugh pulled out his cell phone to call his agent. They both have been waiting for an opportunity like this to sell him to one of the major networks.
“The bodies were discovered shortly after four a.m. by the ATF serving a no-knock search warrant. After using a tank to crush in the front doors, agents swarmed the building, but found no resistance. However, inside they did find hundreds dead, victims of a mass suicide. At this point, autopsies are being performed on the multitude of corpses, trying to verify the cause of death. We don’t have an exact body count at this moment, but it is estimated to be in the hundreds. Tractor-trailers and buses have been converted to transport the massive fatalities. We have been told some of the dead did die from self-inflicted injuries, but authorities refused to elaborate.
“The cult known as God’s Chosen People is being held responsible for a death toll estimated in the thousands and damages in the millions. A doomsday cult who believed themselves personally responsible for initiating the biblical prophesies according to the last chapter of the bible better known as Revelation. It is by this action they had hoped to break open what is considered the first seal, bringing forth judgment upon the wicked in preparation toward the Second Coming of Christ.
“In an unprecedented action Christian, Jewish, and Muslim leaders have asked that peace be observed amongst their various factions. The whole world grieves in stunned and saddened silence at the atrocity committed here in St. Louis and the various cities around the world.”
Berry’s face disappears and is replaced by his voice alone. It narrates over stock footage that has rolled non-stop as filler in-between the live feeds. The dumb luck to have gotten stuck at Lambert Airport when the story broke was now pure gold. If he hadn’t missed his connecting flight while he gambled at the Casino Queen, he would have been in the air and shit out of luck. All things considered, it had to be the best three grand he ever lost.
###
Family Business
Mark stood admiring himself in the mirror. The fog from the shower still outlined the glass, providing a frame to his self-portrait. His hair was still thick and luxurious, black as it had been when he was a young man. A belly, large as a mature pumpkin, stuck out from his mid-section. Despite smoking two packs of menthol cigarettes a day, his teeth were still a phosphorus white.
He dressed in his normal uniform. A filthy white t-shirt, long-sleeved plaid shirt with a pack of cigarettes in the left-hand pocket, and blue jeans seized tight by an unseen belt. The exposed bottom flesh of his stomach, bulbous and hairy, stuck out like a fat lip. Equally, his blue jeans could not fully cover his ass crack.
Rosarita called from downstairs, “Mark, you’re going to be late for work.”
He ignored her as he huffed and puffed to put on his socks. He caught his breath from the effort in between drags of a cigarette. The black Nikes he wore were kept laced and tied to avoid further strain. Finished with his third cigarette since his shower, he slipped into them like house shoes.
In the full length-dressing mirror, he approved his appearance. As he drew a small, plastic comb through his thick mane, he could still see the young man. The cocky, twenty-something fellow that feared nothing and who had been reckless for the thrill. That young man still lived somewhere deep inside him, protecting him from old age.
A cell phone, not much bigger than his Zippo, vibrated and scooted across the dresser. He knew who it was without having to look at the caller ID.
“I’ll be right down,” Mark said. There was no need to waste time with pleasantries. Besides, the person on the other end probably wasn’t listening anyway.
From his underwear drawer, Mark removed a banded stack of one hundred-dollar bills. He split the cash in half and placed the folded money equally into his front jean pockets. On the off chance Rose might call he decided to take the cell phone.
The truck waited faithfully at the curb. Mark could see Kevin impatient behind the wheel. He consciously slowed. In their work, eagerness was a hazard that could be discerned as nervousness. The people they were going to visit interpreted such ticks as highly suspicious.
The hinges on the truck’s metal door groaned desperate for grease. Mark closed the door with a slam and adjusted the springs until they felt comfortable under his ass cheeks.
He lit a cigarette, slightly out of breath, as he changed the radio station from alternative to classic rock. He always did that. Made any environment his. Whether he had permission to or not.
Relaxed, his arm resting on the sill of the open window, Mark was now ready.
Kevin looked at him. He often had to remind himself why in the hell he was doing this. Then he remembered Mark’s beautiful daughter. The more excuses he could make to be close to the father, the closer he could be to the daughter. He was ashamed he had masturbated so often to her image and gone as far as to steal her soiled panties to charge his fantasies. The lust he felt was overwhelming, all consuming, debilitating, and wonderful.
“You’re early,” Mark said.
“Always,” Kevin said.
The automatic transmission clunked into drive and the truck lurched forward. Kevin intentionally goosed the accelerator to hear the tires screech. The futility of having to stop fifty feet later never discouraged him. They connected with the highway and drove ten miles-an-hour above the speed limit. Kevin’s truck, by no means a sleek racing vehicle, smoothly passed the lunchtime commuters with the immunity afforded to people unaccountable to a company time clock.
Neither man had been legally employed for several years. To them, the idea was preposterous. Legitimate work was for suckers who didn’t know any better.
Kevin drove the streets with care after they exited the highway. This was middle-class country. The over-vigilant county police, unlike the city brothers in blue, needed little encouragement. Despite his arrogant attitude toward all authority, Kevin made certain to make full and complete stops, use his turn signals, and never exceed the posted speed limits that changed with every street.
The house was identical to all the others in the subdivision. Perfect square lawns without as much a dandelion to mar the landscape. Eve
ry home a mini-tribute to the new wealth spurred by the Internet dot com boom.
Kevin drove the truck slowly into the stain-free driveway. Mark lifted his arm in what might have been viewed as warm salutation to a man on the porch. The man, a sentry, returned the salute and pressed a remote control to open the garage door.
Another man stood inside, a virtual twin of the porch soldier, directing them to advance with hand signals. They sternly obeyed his crisp arm movements, reminiscent of a military police officer, and stopped when ordered by his double closed fists. Kevin and Mark waited until the door shut behind them before stepping out.
The garage’s new darkness was strange from the all-engulfing sunshine outside. They both needed a moment to adapt to the nocturnal conditions. Brief as it was, the man who spoke only with his hands, seemed impatient for them to follow.
Inside the house, country music played softly through invisible speakers. It wasn’t the upbeat new stuff that was, save the singing style, modern pop music. This was the stuff of whiskey-bottle fueled regret that begged the listener to share the singer’s pain.
Buzz sat behind a great oak desk, answering e-mail, looking like a work-from-home yuppie. If not for his stark bald cranium, his sleeveless undershirt deliberately worn to display his tattoos, and the Nazi flag on the wall, he was as suburban as his neighbor’s Volvo.
“Que pasa, amigo?” Kevin asked making use of the first-year high school Spanish.
“Nothing much, Holmes,” Buzz said looking up from his computer. The litany of people who had stood in front of his desk no longer surprised him. These two, who looked as if they couldn’t afford to pay the rent, were no different from those who wore suits or leather jackets. He treated everyone with an unmitigated fairness. As long as they had the cash, he had the time. Buzz would suffer no fools.