Children of the Program

by Brad Cox

“That's why I brought the girls back. I wanted to fight his negativity by proving we could still grow. It wasn't to disrespect you! When I got home, all of these people were still up and carrying on. I blew a fuse. Can you go outside and apologize for me? I'll be out, in a bit.”

  “Of course. See you soon.” She leaned in to deeply kiss her fearless leader.

  “Oh, and stoke the fire. It's going to be a long night.”

  The trailer door slammed. In the calm, he opened the overheated laptop that had been hiding beneath their sleeping bag and scoured The Program website for revelations. He saw his name and home state had been added. “Heads will roll,” he hissed.

  chapter 19

  fool for harder times

  “Neco, you’ve always wanted a good story to tell,” Ash muttered to herself.

  She returned to her lush mansion in Aberdeen and fell into a sea of cardigan arms and loving support. Her rich parents had missed their little girl and the pride she brought to Scotland. Many of her original pieces had been sold to finance her Californian sabbatical, but she was eager to pick-up her lonely brushes and begin telling a new story — an enlightened story! The desert gave her a new perspective on the greatness of the universe and Neco gave her street cred; forever holding her hand, while she dipped her pristine toes into the turbulent wild side.

  She was armed to move hearts, determined to trump her virgin art pieces and thrilled to be far from the aid of a human canvas. Though her relationship with Neco was strained, she would always hold a special place in her heart for his wiles. They shared something they'd never forget, and no one would believe. Even if their lost time only sustained as a lovesick memory, it was their beautiful disease. She knew they'd drift, but was intent to keep him orbiting. Like bottled-up tidal waves, she still longed to encapsulate Neco, in a painting she'd call, 'Into the Art of Darkness.' “Why do our hearts always get trampled,” she whispered, awaiting an answer.

  +++

  “Hello. Grayson Miller, New York Times.”

  “It's Ash.”

  “Hey, how's Hollyweird?”

  “I'm back. It wasn't meant to be. I've been wanting to tell you!”

  “Is everything...” Grayson paused. “Is anything new?”

  “I plan to start painting again and was hoping I could use our site to share my works.”

  “That's why it's there. You can also send me a picture, if you want to update your profile.”

  “Perfect! What have you been up to, aside from tirelessly keeping track of our motions?”

  “I fell into it a digital editor position for a legendary paper,” clarified Grayson.

  “That's amazing.”

  “It's been an absolute dream come true. Lately, though, my real passion is The Program and the story that is unfolding before our starry eyes. I've been taking detailed notes about everyone's on-goings and will someday sit down and pen a book about it. Would you be open to doing a full interview, at some point? I'm asking everyone. I want to get a little of the juicy back story, to flesh it out.”

  “Absolutely. Please do!”

  “I've also done a lot of research on these indigo or special kids. I'm starting to wonder if they might be the direct descendants of The Program. Obviously, if that's the case, their parents are gone, and unavailable for comment, but it may give us some insight into what these kids' lives are like, their innate sense of responsibility, and what their able to recall; moreover, the power our mission can ultimately have on our degrading society. I'm not sure I love New York City, but it does serve as a glaring reminder of what we are. We’ve become a cesspool of instincts, habits and disenchantment. We’re an interconnected and amplified celebration of human devolution. Our world needs hope.”

  “Totally,” added Ash.

  “Our lives are too vast to ignore, and there are a lot of things I'm still having a difficult time understanding. For instance, did you hear that Rand is gay! How does that work? We have to follow The Council’s rather specific law. It requires us to procreate. I'm curious to see how it all plays out,” said Grayson.

  “Well, I'm not sure it does play out. I mean, can it?”

  “I'm a journalist. I'm programmed to never say never.”

  Beginning to hang-up, Ash remembered Elisa's anxious plight and thought it was best to warn him. “We might need to keep a ghost-eye on Magnus. Apparently, he's head over heels for our beloved California girl, Elisa, like, borderline stalker! She says he calls, leaves cryptic messages and simply will not take the hint that it's time to move on.”

  “I had no idea!”

  “I figured it was a crush and maybe it is, but can you put a site tracker on our page?”

  “Sure!”

  “Maybe, we can track IP addresses, find anomalies and narrow down any possible offenders,” said Ash.

  “Consider it done.”

  Ash hung up, rejuvenated. Her creativity had been stifled by keeping her whereabouts under lock and key. Ready to focus on The Program and leave California behind, she entered her abandoned art studio; a world where longing brushes had been tapping against her old wooden pallet and awaiting notice. She began divinely painting the beautiful Painted Desert landscape, just as she recalled. In a fluid stroke, she defined the sandy volcanic ash floor and captured the radiant sunset; silhouettes of the participants, followed. The fiery sky lights were crowned with the descending blue bird. Grayson wasn't the only Programmer who wanted to tell their story. It just was a matter of capturing their hearts, so the world could believe!

  +++

  Shortly after Ash left Los Angeles, Neco returned to Baltimore. Affording Malibu wasn't feasible without their stage show and her financial backing. Crossing the threshold of his old suburban bedroom, he could feel the room's energy had made a wanted shift. It had been exorcised from head-to-toe and the graffiti walls were purified with flat; somewhere beneath the paint lurked the dark secrets of his youth. For Neco, going home was a second helping of culture shock and humility. Cascading through the windows, the sun cast a beam across his nervous body. In an instant, his anxieties snowballed into an oozing sphere of unforgettable and indigestible pain.

  Like a séance, he sought the muses, and allowed psychotherapy to sooth his detoxifying soul. His preoccupation with writing, recording and control became an unquenchable obsession; each note laid the foundation, while pain provided the lyrical breeding ground. Dark rhythms detoured his immediate focus, allowing him to departmentalize the world he had long turned his back on. Before his dusty bags hit the welcoming floor, he began working on an aggressive love-scorned album. The project allowed his imagination to run and spoke gravely about his personal quest for damnation. His amassing guilt cried for absolution, and dark themes provided a shelter from the outside world.

  His music brooded through lazy meters and played like an audio diary of his early years, imparting imagery from his lucid dreams, juxtaposed with the revelations he absorbed in the desert. Mock songs glamorizing suicide and primal screams gave it a sense of urgency. It instantly captured the ideation of the most sinister listener. The hopeless took notice and knighted him. Between writing and trying to get his footing in reality, he managed to stay in touch with the Children of the Program, hoping to someday muster the courage to offer Ash the apology she deserved.

  “Ben.”

  “Neco.”

  “I'm back in Maryland. I just wanted to give you a call and see how you were holding up. I'm sorry I was a little distant, last we spoke. I was in the midst of an orgy. I'm sure you can imagine how distracting that can be.”

  “Sadly, no, but I heard. I'm hoping Zane comes around. In the meantime, I'm working my ass off on the docks and trying t' forget about her,” said Ben.

  “Any word from Simon, Rand, Icarus, or anyone else?”

  “Simon flew out to New Mexico to meet-up with Dez and Rand is homeless!”

  “How did that even happen; I'm mean, with Dez. He left without saying a word.”

  “No clue!

/>   “I wonder how he even found him. I guess the better question is, 'Why?'” Ben and Neco debated the likelihood of Dez and Simon's pairing. “Just like The Program, life has a way of bringing people together, for better or worse; it's what makes the entire journey palatable and interesting enough to sustain, I guess. You said Rand is homeless?”

  “Yes.”

  +++

  Rand found solace in the underbelly of Kassel. Through a new friend, Isabella Hoel Schaffner, he found someone to spark a light in the darkness and to be a soundboard for his ailing mind. Isabella was a beautiful blonde runaway. She was willing to risk the brash realities of homelessness, if it meant never being touched by her father again. She tried to openly communicate with her pretentious mother, but she preferred to turn a blind eye to Isabella's reality. She didn't dare scorn their respected provider, nor the diamond studded life they'd grown accustomed.

  Isabella wore a thick wool pea coat, large black framed glasses, brown leather work boots, faded loose-fitting jeans and a bedazzled crop top. Her hair was matted with unwashed dreadlocks, but her smile could send a fleet to war. Rand found her beautiful, and she found his sexuality painfully trustworthy. She tragically loved him, but did her best to try and help him find love, shelter and peace. The tight-knit homeless community had a way of looking out for one other. They knew the safest places to set-up camp, the warmest places to hide and the quickest ways to score a meal or a bottle of forget-it-all!

  “I want something to love — someone who adores me,” said Isabella.

  “I do,” Rand responded.

  “Not you, Rand! That would be selfish, no? As soon as I find you someone to prance around these streets with, you'll owe me in spades,” said Isabella.

  “Anything.”

  “We'll see! We're just a bunch of fools for harder times, aren't we?”

  “I don't think we're fools. How does one find themselves, if they're willing to give-up on who they are? Those people live to appease the ones who mock their very existence. Are they behind an agenda and the cold comfort of complacency?” asked Rand.

  “I don't know.”

  “They are the fools; just mindless sheep, marching like ants under a magnifying glass. They know they are going in the wrong direction, but none of them bother to move or question their leader. They are terrified by what might lurk just outside of the lines. Entrapped by life, these lemmings march toward the same awful fate, are willing to be set ablaze by their stubbornness and are eager to watch one another die a tragedy. We're not the fools, Izzy.” Isabella and Rand cuddled against the walls of the Neue Galerie art gallery. The air was tolerable and the moon was bright and longing for their gaze.

  “It's beautiful,” whispered Isabella.

  “It would wink, if it could.” They knew the most beautiful moments were found, bathing in the good vibrations, lost in the presence of the present. They basked in the radiance of truth, enhanced by the confidence of an unshakable trust. “My father doesn't have a life. He died a long time ago. How many souls does life steal, before they ever knock on heaven's door?” asked Rand.

  “At least he wanted what was best for you.”

  He'd lasso her the moon, and wrangle it in, if it would give her that one thing she craved — love. But, life had its limitations. It seemed nothing could fill her emotional void, nor the modern day travesty of Rand being stuck in The Program without an exit sign.

  chapter 20

  revolver

  Dez grabbed his shiny old silver revolver, spun the noisy chamber, dramatically clicked it into place, stuffed it into the front of his dirty denim and exited his temple on wheels. His eyes were lazy and enlarged, like glowing saucers, and his slithering tongue was sharpened for urgent deception. He'd prepared a crazed message for his followers and planned to stoke the inferno of his aggression, intent to asphyxiate the angels with his might. He was ready to launch his crazed war upon humanity! The revolution was mere footsteps from being unveiled. A Napoleon complex, a toyed-with ego and Black Velvet whiskey created the catalyst for building a foundation on blind anarchy.

  “Tonight, we'll rebuild our fallen world, again,” Dez said. The fire glimmered in a sea of hypnotized eyes. “We'll start a new order. The world laughs at us. It laughs at you! We have to rise up and make these minions aware of what our government is doing to our species. Our voices can no longer be silenced by the rhetoric of the elite, nor the posh arrogance of non-believers. They walk like sheep to the slaughter, hoping to someday graze upon the White House lawns; a home built upon propagandized freedom and digested as an American Dream! The unwitting self-impose their slavery,” he continued. “We must awaken them.”

  “What do you want us to do?” asked Crystal. Excited, she locked arms with her longtime partner in crime, Michelle. For a moment, she looked around, recalling the first day they'd nervously stepped upon Dez's lot. She couldn't believe how their lives had changed over the passing months. Their days of stripping had been replaced with building an army.

  “I think I speak for the congregation, when I say, you have our full support,” offered Michelle's boyfriend, Max. He was a 19-year-old bald-headed bar-back, who had run away and filled his mind with the optic distortions of broken women tempting soulless men. Thirsty for approval, and aching for the support of a non-abusive family, he was easily compromised. His cracked compass was fixed in a southerly direction. Typically dressed in army fatigues, he was prepared to punish the world for his parents' wrongdoings. His sculpted muscles were intended to thwart the advances of mild-mannered pedestrians or the niceties of mindless conversation. Max was a rock. His mass was a respected symbol to the others and a wall Dez could rest behind.

  “We start small and send a message,” said Dez. “The prankster we picked up from the airport is a traitor. He brought the beast out of me. I apologize for the way I reacted. I had hoped he'd bring mysticism and enlightenment to our circle, but instead he came with an Israeli agenda. His people are backed by the United States. If we risk bringing him in, we'll surely find ourselves in bed with the devil himself!”

  “So do we need to send a message to Simon?” asked Max.

  “There are others who know this man, but wouldn't dare seek the authorities. They know he's here. Going to the authorities would only publicize their agenda. They'd never risk it, never!” His intensity and madness grew with each coarse word. “We will send a crushing message,” said Dez.

  “Who are they?” asked Max.

  “They are the aliens sent to pervert the seeds of our DNA. They are watching us, right now,” proclaimed Dez.

  “I thought you said he was one of us?” asked Michelle.

  “Beware, I sent you out as sheep amongst the wolves,” quoted Dez.

  The group was wide-eyed, drinking from his fountain of insanity. They no longer respected the compass of conscience, nor worried about the consequence of law. In the truest sense, they'd found salvation in abandoning reality. They made their own laws and had deteriorated to rebels without cause. They simply wanted the association of a peer group and to reinforce one another's palate for destruction and vindication from sin. Reduced to animals, they were no longer capable of leading themselves. The battle ax constellation of Yue shined bright. This was Dez's world.

  “Get Simon and bring him here. Leave him unharmed,” screamed Dez.

  “Do you want him blindfolded?” asked Max.

  “Of course, scare him and keep him from recognizing our faces. He'll know who it is, but we shouldn't give him the benefit of a second look! There's no sense risking everyone's identity or compromising our whereabouts,” furthered Dez.

  Max quickly rounded up a group of intoxicated campers, loaded the hot-boxed van and set-off into the crisp desert evening. They charted a course down the old familiar dirt driveway and into the great wide open. When the dust settled, the twinkle in Dez's eyes gleamed with psychosis. The waves had been set into motions and would soon crash upon unsuspecting shores. Their worlds would never be the same.


  Like a union of fallen angels, Dez and Crystal deeply kissed before the raging fire of Hades. She was fully committed to his mania and willing to go down in flames, if it meant securing her place at the devil's table and being crowned as the undisputed queen of the damned. To think, she once tramped stages in lonely afternoon dive bars, but soon would rule the underworld with her New Mexican prince. The passion and power of the moment overtook his reason. He tore off his dirty white T-shirt and allowed her to claw his dead skin. The remaining cult members sat mesmerized and aroused. Though he'd been conscious to avoid the risk of bringing a child into the fallen world, he longed for a union with her trembling and insecure body. He was exhilarated with power.

  +++

  Max and his road gang of demons arrived to their destination and warmed the cool air of a still morning. The squeaky van doors opened and slammed closed as the crew descended upon Simon's first level motel room. Intent to bring their leader his beloved Israeli prize, they hovered and circled like turkey vultures in pursuit of a walking corpse. Subtly knocking on the weighted door, Michelle prepared to fawn for entry. They didn't want the draw attention of neighboring rooms with aggressive theatrics, before exhuming their prey. The others stood withdrawn from his immediate curtain view. Groggy, Simon answered. He was confused by her untimely presence and understandably annoyed.

  “It is a little early, isn't it? He said you'd be here at 11 — not three in the godforsaken morning,” quipped Simon.

  Michelle quickly covered his mouth with her soft lips and placed Dez's revolver to his temple. He was forced into the tiny studio room. Tripping over his duffel bags, Simon was pounced upon by three grown bandits, armed with only a dirty brown pillow case. Covered with doo-rags and aviator sunglasses, they grunted and bandaged his limp limbs with duct tape, making an unnecessary spectacle of his unresisting demeanor.