Dire Means

by Geoffrey Neil

  “What’s wrong?” Morana’s face was distressed.

  “Is this a joke?” Mark said, pointing to the menu.

  “No. We did some research. We wanted to offer you what you like.”

  “It’s everything I like. Every food I’ve ever loved.” He picked up the menu again. It displayed a compilation of Mark’s favorite foods that would have been difficult for even Mark to list—grilled vegetable kabobs, vegetable lasagna, warm sourdough bread, tossed green salad with Thousand Island as the only dressing option. The menu’s dessert section showed chocolate malt and key lime pie with ginger graham cracker crust. The kicker—the one that couldn’t have been a coincidence—was Mark’s Macaroni Madness. Henry and Althea Bonfiglio had certainly not given out their recipe for Mark’s dish.

  “We thought you would like this,” Morana said.

  “You people are creeping me out. There’s stuff on here that I had forgotten I love. What else do you know about me?”

  Morana curled her hair behind her ear and swung her legs from the stool like a little girl. “Mark, information management is our profession. We’ve used our resources to obtain information about you that allows us to accommodate you comfortably. You are a VIP. Papa explained that heroes rarely feel worthy of the praise that follows their acts, but I wish you could feel it—because you deserve any special treatment we can offer you.”

  Mark nodded. The secret trip, the treatment, the gun, and now all of his favorite foods printed on a menu by strangers all began to creep him out and he was eager to leave this place. “I would prefer to just get to my meeting with Pop. I’m not hungry.”

  “Is there something wrong with our selection? Did we miss something? The chefs will prepare anything you want—”

  “No, no. Please. Let’s just go meet Pop.”

  After navigating a series of hallways they rounded a corner to a dead end. Morana placed her hand over the console of a red door that stood out among the white ones. It clicked open. She held up her hand signaling Mark to wait. She peered into the room. “Okay,” she said, and then pushed the door open for Mark.

  He stepped through the doorway onto thick, dark red carpet. It was a large room with the features of both an office and lounge.

  Mark heard the fire crackling from a stone fireplace in the corner, but stepping closer, he saw that the fireplace had no real logs in it. A large flat-panel monitor in the mouth of the fireplace produced perfect footage and audio of a hearty fire, licking a perfect stack of logs. Off to one, side three rows of cushioned, bleacher-style seats lined a wall. The office was dim with small spotlights creating focal points on artifacts encased in glass cabinets spaced evenly on the wall. A series of ceiling-mounted lamps shone down on several large portraits. A photo showed the first Trail Bladers Data Destruction office with an old Trail Bladers van parked in front. On the far wall hung a full-length painting of a homeless man sitting on a curb, smiling, his hand held up to take a shiny coin from a young boy offering it.

  Behind a desk sat a man wearing a black suit, red tie, and dark sunglasses. He had a thin frame and a trimmed half-inch white beard.

  “Mark, I’d like you to meet Pop,” Morana said.

  “Greetings, Mark,” Pop said, reclining in his chair. Mark studied his face, trying to confirm whether this was truly the “Al” he had rescued at the Promenade. The light in the room was too dim to be sure. Pop smiled and said, “Mark, you have my gratitude for both risking your life for me and agreeing to share a slice of your life with us today.”

  “You’re welcome…” Mark said, still searching for recognition. Morana stepped outside, and began to pull the door closed to give them some privacy.

  “Morana, stay,” Pop said, still smiling at Mark.

  “Yes, Papa,” she answered, stepping back inside. The door clicked behind her followed by the heavy clunk of an electronic deadbolt.

  Pop walked around his desk, but stood at a distance—not close enough to oblige a handshake. “My name is Al. My friends call me Pop,” he said.

  “Good to meet you,” Mark said warily.

  “I had hoped it would be.”

  Mark studied Pop’s face. The asymmetric smile, Pop’s height and voice all fit as Mark’s memory of his rooftop rescue strengthened.

  Noticing Mark’s curiosity, Pop lifted his sunglasses to his forehead. “Forgive my shades,” he said.

  Mark immediately saw the eyes of the man on the roof. However, something was different. Under Pop’s left eye was an almost healed black and purple bruise.

  “After you left, Officer Reynolds found a private moment to thank me for the national P.R. I gave him.”

  “I’m sorry that happened to you,” Mark said, leaning in for a better look.

  “It is good to see you again,” Pop said, letting his sunglasses slide back down to his nose. “Please, sit.” He opened his hand toward the middle of three chairs facing his desk.

  Mark sat and Morana sat beside him. Pop shifted his upper body left and right rather than turn his head from side to side—the way Mark remembered him doing. On the roof, Mark had thought it was Al’s concern about dislodging the rope that caused him to keep his head still. In reality, it seemed Pop always moved that way.

  “You are the man I rescued at the Third Street Promenade last week?” Mark asked, trying to do away with residual suspicion.

  Pop raised his right hand. “Guilty as charged. Our makeup department is excellent.” Pop reached to his desk and grabbed a phone. He put it to his ear and said, “Teddy, please,” and then hung it up too soon to have confirmed an answer.

  “You have all of this?” Mark swept his finger around the room. “What kind of a sick joke was that on the roof?”

  Through a small speaker mounted beside the door, an electronic voice said, “Teddy.” Pop removed a PDA from his pocket and tapped the screen with his finger. The door clicked open and Teddy peered in.

  “Teddy, sit,” Pop said, not looking at him.

  “Yes, Papa. Thank you, Papa,” Teddy said as he took the other seat beside Mark.

  Pop cleared his throat. “Yes, Mark, back to your question,” he said. “I am about to show you that what I did was no joke. First, are you comfortable? Can we get you anything? Food? Drink? A massage? Anything?”

  Mark shifted in his chair. “No…I’m not comfortable,” Mark said.

  Until that moment, Morana and Teddy’s eyes remained on Pop. At Mark’s announcement, they both straightened and turned their attention to Mark. Morana’s brow furrowed as though she might cry. Teddy cleared his throat and adjusted himself in his chair.

  “Oh?” Pop said. “Tell me what will make you comfortable and you shall have it.”

  Mark extended his hand and began to count on his fingers. “I need to know where I am, why all of your people are treating me like some sort of king, and what sort of consultation you actually want from me. Getting those answers will do wonders for my comfort.” Mark sat back in his chair and crossed his arms.

  “Well,” Pop said, looking first to Morana and then to Teddy. “It’s time.”

  Morana jumped up and hurried out the door. Pop sat forward in his chair and waited for the door to click behind her. He folded his hands in front of him. “Your first question: where are you? You are over thirty feet below ground, encased in a state-of-the-art, ten-thousand-square-foot bunker unlike any in the world. Above our heads are steel-reinforced, thirty-inch concrete slabs supporting eight hundred metric tons of earth. Access from the surface to our facility is via a motion-sensing biometric entry system connected to the steel-gated driveway of a building that appears above ground as a modest Trail Bladers Subterranean Data Destruction garage and office. Security is our foremost priority and as you can see, we rarely have any surprise visitors.”

  “What city are we in?” Mark pressed.

  “We are underneath one of our facilities in the San Fernando Valley. My answer must remain vague for reasons you’ll soon know.”

  Mark was silent.
Pop’s answer hadn’t satisfied him.

  “Your second question: why were you greeted like royalty here? Let me say it this way.” Pop stroked his short beard. “We are a family here at Trail Bladers. My people have developed a tremendous esteem for me.” Teddy nodded. “In our Trail Bladers’ company meetings I’ve expressed my dismay at our world’s lack of heroes. I want heroes at our company and—”

  The electronic voice interrupted again, saying “Morana.” Pop reached into his pocket and the door clicked open. A group of people dressed in red and black Trail Blader uniforms marched in single file. They filed in along the three even rows of carpeted bleachers. They remained standing, facing Pop. A couple switched positions with their neighbors to obtain a preferred seat.

  “Sit,” Pop said. They obeyed in unison.

  Morana returned to her seat beside Mark. The Trail Bladers, some seeing Mark for the first time, whispered to one another and smiled at him.

  Pop stood up. All conversation and movement in the bleachers stopped. He walked around his desk and stood in front of the bleacher seats, reviewing his Trail Bladers like a military general.

  “This is a high day for Trail Bladers,” Pop announced.

  “Yes, Papa!” the entire group shouted in unison. Mark suppressed his surprise.

  Pop paced, tapping the tips of his fingers against his chin. “You’ve all seen Mr. Mark Denny in heroic action, and he has finally come to meet us.”

  The Trail Bladers broke into hearty applause. A few of them rose to their feet, leading the rest to join in a standing ovation. Pop turned and applauded with Morana who had risen to her feet.

  Mark felt every eye in the room study him. The discomfort was familiar from the press conference.

  Pop continued. “We’ve seen the video a hundred times. Mark, selflessly risking his life for me—while enduring public humiliation, proved himself worthy of our loyalty.” Pop strolled along the front row of Trail Bladers, examining their faces. Satisfied with their attention, he said, “Mark is an honored guest who has earned our highest regard. I want each of you to give him anything he asks for. I want his wishes fulfilled before he expends the energy to make them known. Have I made myself abundantly clear?”

  All the employees answered, “Yes, Papa.”

  “Return,” Pop said, flopping his hand toward the door. The employees stood and filed out. They smiled at Mark and some reached to shake his hand as they walked past him. Mark recognized Nanette. She mimed a clap and pointed to Mark as she exited with the others.

  Mark was alone again with Pop, Teddy and Morana. Pop flipped a switch on the wall and the lights went out. He flipped another switch to illuminate a lamp hanging above his desk. Its light spread on the desk, but left the edges of the room in darkness. The room went from art gallery to a stage.

  “Six days ago you risked your life to save mine,” Pop said, “and my employees would have thought you heroic for risking your life for any unfortunate human being. But the fact that you saved me has fanned the flames of their esteem for you a hundred-fold. Do you understand that?”

  Mark managed a nod.

  Morana’s shoulders relaxed with relief and Teddy swallowed.

  “Good,” Pop said. “Now, your third question: what sort of consultation do I want from you?” Teddy sat forward in his chair. Morana uncrossed her long legs and exhaled. Mark sensed their sudden anxiety and a new nervousness swept over him. Teddy rubbed his hands together nervously.

  Pop swiveled in his chair, reached back, and pressed a switch on the wall. A flat screen slid down from the ceiling. Video footage appeared and a title that read, “Part One” appeared. Mark recognized it. Pop paused the video and swiveled back to his audience. He focused on Mark.

  “I’m not going to patronize you by easing you into what might be—cold water for you, Mark. I believe that you are strong enough to handle the shock of a chilly plunge.”

  Morana and Teddy’s eyes locked on Pop with hopeful expressions.

  “Mark, have you followed the news coverage of the missing people from Santa Monica?”

  Mark nodded. His heart pounded as he anticipated Pop’s next statement.

  “We have them,” Pop said.

  “My God,” Mark said, his fingers dug into the arms of his chair. He breathed heavily as adrenaline flooded his system.

  “Please don’t be afraid,” Morana said. She touched his shoulder. He pulled away, his eyes fixed on Pop.

  Pop stood and pumped his open hands toward Mark to calm him. “You must understand that we will do you no harm,” he said.

  Teddy nodded to confirm Pop’s announcement.

  “Oh my God…” Mark repeated. He attempted to moisten his lips, but his dry tongue failed.

  Morana’s face was sympathetic. She stood and looked to Pop, who put his fingers to his lips and shook his head.

  After giving Mark a few moments to collect himself, Pop continued. “Your reaction is understandable, but—”

  “My God,” Mark said again. It was all he could say. He wondered if he was experiencing the same process of abduction as the other victims. He stood and said, “I really want to leave right now.”

  “If you’d listen for a minute, you’d understand!” Teddy hollered.

  “OUT!” Pop screamed at Teddy, who shuddered and threw his arm up in defense. Pop leaned toward Teddy and said, “Now!” Teddy stood, nearly tripping over himself to get to the door, all the while apologizing to Mark and begging Pop’s forgiveness. Pop only pointed at the door, his sunglasses failed to conceal his rage.

  Teddy’s begging echoed from the hallway as the door closed. Mark was tempted to run out, but he knew an escape attempt through the maze of hallways in this biometrically-controlled bunker was ridiculous.

  Pop walked around his desk and sat on its front edge only two feet from Mark. He took off his sunglasses.

  “What do you want from me?” Mark asked, his voice trembling.

  “Shhh.” Pop raised a finger. “I want you to listen carefully, Mark.”

  “Are you going to kill me?” Mark frantically studied Morana and Pop.

  Morana kept quiet. She nibbled her lip and offered Mark a useless wink of consolation.

  “No,” Pop said. “You are safer now than you’ve ever been in your life. Now I’m going to give you a moment to collect yourself.”

  Morana leaned forward, placed her hand on Mark’s leg, and said, “You are the opposite of our fodder. We will not harm you.”

  Mark gulped and sat back in his chair, trying to relax his posture, but his face betrayed his fear.

  “Where are they—the missing people?”

  “Fodder. They are fodder. They are nothing but fodder,” Pop said. “Watch this footage. Soon all your questions will be answered.”

  He pulled out his PDA and tapped its screen. The movie Mark had watched on the DVD Pop had left for him began playing. But unlike his copy of the DVD, the audio of the cameraperson was not muted. Mark once more watched the man, now identified by the news as Keith Mendalsen, curse and attack the cameraperson.

  Morana played with her hair and Pop twirled a pen on his desk without watching the footage. From time to time they checked on Mark to assess his reaction. At the end of the clip, Pop tapped his PDA and the movie screen slid back up.

  A beeping sound came from Pop’s computer. He held his PDA up high, a foot from his face and widened his eyes as if straining to see something on the small screen. Another beep sounded and he returned it to his pocket.

  “How does this fodder’s behavior make you feel, Mark?” Pop asked, now turning a mug on his desk.

  “Terrible,” Mark said, still unsure of his safety and hoping to give the right answer.

  “Mark, I will soon end homelessness in Santa Monica, and then, in rapid succession, Los Angeles and the nation. My mission gives unprecedented aid to our brothers and sisters who are cast aside by fodder.”

  Pop leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head in relaxed confi
dence. “You are still afraid right now. Afraid because you find yourself in a secured subterranean nest with a group of people whose esteem for you, you don’t understand.”

  “Yes, I am afraid! You are killing people!” Mark rebutted.

  Pop smiled as if to forgive Mark’s naivety. “The fodder selected themselves by allowing a degradation of their moral code—I don’t expect you to understand yet, but you will.”

  Pop stood and paced as he continued. “You wonder how we obtained the fodder. You wonder how we plucked our low-hanging fruit from the bountiful Santa Monica fodder-tree. You wonder how we execute our mission.” The corners of Pop’s mouth widened when he said the word “execute.” “And although I promised you that you have nothing to fear, you still worry that I may change my mind before the end of our visit and execute you—if you displease me.” Pop paused and smiled at Mark.

  Mark paled and a hundred needles prickled up his spine.

  Pop walked to the far side of his office, fading into the darkness. Mark glanced at Morana, not attempting to hide the fear in his face. She put her finger to her lips.

  Mark heard a drawer open in the darkness where Pop had disappeared. There was fumbling and then it closed again. Pop returned to Mark. In one hand, he displayed a black Smith & Wesson 9mm handgun and in the other was a clip with shiny bullets lined up like a row of copper teeth. Pop loaded the clip, shoving it hard with the butt of his hand. It locked. “I’m going to do something unusual,” he said, holding the gun sideways for Mark to see. He kept his eyes on Mark as he flipped the safety off. “Your fear prevents you from concentrating on my message, and that’s a problem,” Pop said.

  “I can concentrate—I’m okay.” Mark’s throat clamped and his voice cracked.

  Pop took the gun by the barrel and thrust the grip toward Mark. “Be careful with this. She’s loaded and her trigger’s easier than you’ll expect.”

  Mark’s heart pounded hard and his legs tightened. He held up a hand and said, “I don’t want—”

  “Take it! Please,” Pop insisted. He waved the handle and Morana nodded, urging Mark to comply. He took the gun and the tension in her face melted. Mark lowered the gun, keeping it pointed at the floor.