Children of the Program

by Brad Cox

  “A young woman and an older man came knocking. They were looking for you, and had your picture. We told them we kicked you out and that you were taking your chances on the street. I just assumed it was a couple of those nut jobs you've been associating with. I'm sorry,” said Mr. Backer.

  “Did they say who they were or what they wanted?”

  “They just left this card.” He reached into his back pocket and unearthed it from his wallet.

  “Listen to me, if they return, do not change your stance or story. We are all in grave danger!”

  After a lion's share of brew and the aftermath of a never ending hiatus, the two men retreated to their home. The world somehow continued to spin, during their parted time, just as it would when their weary heads rested on down pillows. Though childbearing, the Backer’s were still more comfortable with Rand and Isabella bunking in separate rooms. Rand had the best night's sleep he'd had in over a year.

  “I love you, Rand,” she whispered to herself.

  As the weeks pressed on, Rand, Isabella and his parents grew closer. The days marked by their ignorance-inspired incompatibility had passed. The Backer home symphoniously prepared for their son's coming arrival. Though overjoyed, Rand's body battled a constant state of exhaustion. He attributed his weakness to the psychological impact of his wayward days. On All Saints' Day, the moment sprung with an unexpected splash.

  “Rand, he's here! We've got to go,” said Isabella.

  “Mom, I need you to drive Isabella to the hospital. Dad and I will catch a cab.”

  Their car was too modest for their lot, but the hospital was close. Rushing from the bustling home, Isabella eased into the reclining passenger's seat. The cold snowy air whirled with cinematic tension, as Mrs. Backer attempted to start the stubborn vehicle. Sputtering a few exhaust coughs, the Volkswagen's dependable engine turned. They plowed toward the Krankenhaus.

  “Son, if you want to grab a quick shower, I will call our ride. We have 15 minutes,” offered Mr. Backer.

  “Perfect! Thanks, Dad.”

  Those were the last words Rand ever spoke.

  After shutting off the running shower, exhausting the walls of his home and pleading for Rand's reciprocating voice, his panicked father motored toward the hospital. He expected to find him bedside. Rushing through the lobby with flush cheeks, Mr. Backer looked up Isabella's room and bulldozed through the staff. His level of disbelief overwhelmed his ability to reason.

  “Where is Rand?” asked Mrs. Backer.

  “I don't know. He went to take a shower and never emerged,” said Mr. Backer.

  “Do you think he got scared and scampered off?” asked Mrs. Backer.

  “I do. But, I thought he'd have come to his senses, by now, and would have already arrived.”

  Their anxiety was interrupted by the vision of a gorgeous child resting upon Isabella's chest. His piercing indigo eyes caught Mr. Backer's heart. Rand's disappearance was suddenly an afterthought. In the presence of such beauty, his excuse would fall upon deaf ears. Isabella was resign to Rand’s abdication. She focused on nursing their infant and tending to the Biblical birth pains she'd endured for heaven's promise.

  chapter 37

  the road

  Polishing off five bottles of celebratory champagne, he sat ogling his tired computer screens, reading and scrolling through horrifying reports of innocent children who'd been targeted and their tread upon innocent families. For hours, Michelle and I waited, dissolving into the background. As much as I wanted to take the corkscrew and stab Dez through the forehead, prudence suggested the alcohol would run its course and do my bidding. Michelle and I had plenty of time to imagine being lost in the shadows of a post-apocalyptic world, left battling the wandering ghosts — robbed of enlightenment.

  “It's time we made our move,” I whispered. “If he awakes, distract him with sex.”

  “Easy for you to say,” said Michelle.

  Our deliverance rested with fate. Tension mounted as Michelle reached for the tightly fastened key ring, clasped to his waistline. The tiny hands of my watch strangled time. Dez fidgeted, but his floating mind, drowning in spirits, was consumed by a nightmare. His incoherent somniloquy was reassuring. Unhooking freedom, we tiptoed from the underground and emerged into tomorrow. We were graced.

  Stars illuminated the forgotten New Mexican sky. The air was cool, crisp and welcoming. Our sanity seemed to rest just beyond the untouchable line on the horizon. Tickling my senses, I could feel the grass tufts beneath my nervous boots brushing away the pins and needles of our long sit. Gleeful words danced from my flapping tongue, stirring an audience of yipping coyotes.

  The sandy floor we trampled no longer wreaked of survivalism and madness. We hitchhiked west, distancing ourselves from the vacant and suspect van. A young driver, willingly escorted us toward the Pacific. He was charting a familiar course, from Indiana, to the perverted promised land of rock stardom. Conscious of our anonymity, little revelation passed between our adrenaline pumping hearts. Surfing through the static for proof of western civilization, our lack of discourse left our driver's nerves on end.

  I appeased his need to fill the dead air, by rattling off canned answers. Making a significant leap of faith, Michelle remained stewing in mounting questions. Flutters of her fear danced about the cabin. After a short nap, in an abandoned Winslow, Arizona truck stop, we arrived in Barstow, California. With sunburned forearms and glassy eyes, we emerged from the vehicle and reconnected with God and country. Our new cowboy friend stopped and filled the belly of his beast. Sitting dehydrated on the lip of the truck's bed, sipping a Coke, Michelle licked the end of a rolled joint that she had plucked from behind Dez's greasy ear. She sparked, inhaled and released a sigh of grateful confusion, before breaking her long silence.

  “Where is Crystal?” she asked.

  “It's a long story, but she's out to save the world, if you can believe it,” I said.

  “I wasn't about to die in the compound, but what are you talking about?” asked Michelle.

  The gas pump clicked, before I could respond.

  “We really should hit the old dusty trail,” interrupted Billy, our driver.

  “I think we'll find our way home from here, Kid,” I joked. “It's only another 2 hours.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “I am. We have a lot to talk about. Here are a few dollars for your troubles.”

  “No problem. Thanks for the company!”

  “You could have chopped us up into bits and left us in the desert. So, thank you,” I said.

  The driver laughed, tipped his Stetson and road off into a desert heat haze. I spent hours bridging the gap in Michelle's taxed mind. Though sounding as nonsensical as Dez's drivel, my explanations, like the rushing waters of a broken damn, had a cleansing virtue. Despite his influence, I was granted an unexplainable peace, knowing she was no longer a threat and I would soon corner her trust. Idling in the gas station parking lot, we ran dangerously low on the fumes of sanity. It was time to reunite with The Programmers.

  +++

  Screaming out curses, Dez awoke. He was drunk and disoriented. For a moment, his hungover pride refused to accept accountability for avoidable missteps. Though disillusioned, he refused to believe his key ring was no longer attached to his belt loop. He purged enough rage, to rattle the tormented souls of the underworld. For the first time in recent memory, he was alone, with no one strung-out or tied to the end of his short leash. The foregone conclusion of his erratic and poorly executed revolution forced him to the surface, intent on seeking retribution against the cult members he'd trusted most. After a final red-eyed glance into the surveillance cameras, he exited the compound, headed west and stormed the club where it once began.

  “Where are they, Gus?” He beelined past the cum-stained pool tables, toward the back office.

  “Where are who?” asked Gus.

  Dez grabbed him by the collar and violently forced his pumpkin-shaped head into an oak desk. Blo
od sprung like a fountain and splattered across the office floor. With mocking remorse, Dez reached for a beverage napkin and handed it to him. “Clean yourself up!” Sex-deprived and hungry patrons ignored the ruckus, continuing to imbibe lust from a topless tap. “These people don't care about you. I did. Let's try this, again, where are Crystal and Michelle?”

  “I haven't seen them. Crystal did call, asking for Michelle. I have her number jotted down.”

  “Give it to me.” Dez reached for a piece of the greasy receipt tape tacked on a bulletin board, reading 'Crystal.' Arrogantly patting him on the damp cheek, he analyzed the merits of the scribbled message, stuffed it into his back pocket and readjusted Gus's once-slicked hairline. “That wasn't so hard, was it?” he asked, kicking the saloon doors and exiting the vagrant's club. “I'll be back,” he yelled from the dusty parking lot. His cold words echoed through Gus's shaken psyche.

  “Unless she's on the move, she's in Texas,” Gus shouted. “She seemed a bit shocked when I asked her what she was doing there,” he nervously continued, hoping to win Dez’s trust and quash any future attacks.

  In an attempt to triangulate Crystal's location, to a town or city, Dez returned to the bunker and launched an investigation. He rallied the Texan Cadence, while monitoring traffic anomalies to his site. Noticing a flux of hits, he mapped her coordinates with pushpins, delivered his initiatives and seethed. He was determined to slay their coming child.

  +++

  After our brief stay in Barstow, Michelle and I felt our way to Los Angeles, California. The smoldering hot summer air burned off our distressed energies. We bunked in a bungalow with friends. Allowing a few restless nights to pass, and our lagging souls to departmentalize the recent changes, we reconnected with The Programmers.

  “We're out,” I said.

  “I'm so happy you're alive. I heard from Crystal. She thought you might be in trouble or dead,” said Grayson, in elation. “She's coming to New York City. I can't believe you did it! This is going to be one hell of a story. If your clever strategy comes to fruition, its surrealism wreaks of fiction.”

  “We're not out of the woods, yet! He's going to hunt us down, like hapless dogs. His reach is international. The man has a god complex, and has amassed enough followers to warrant his megalomania. Being so close to Elisa's execution is troubling enough. I'm paranoid to even walk the streets of L.A. It's only been 48 hours, but our faces are probably plastered all over the Cadence website,” I said.

  “If it helps you rest, they're not,” said Grayson.

  chapter 38

  remember?

  The warm sun wrapped its life-giving arms around Maria. Black birds would perch upon her tattered sill and marvel. They enjoyed watching the Crystalline children, chirping sweet songs, while digesting their early morning catch. Sipping on a coffee, she stared toward the dawn and could feel Icarus touch her face through the rays. Though the outside air was blustery, her bedroom was engulfed in warmth. She envisioned herself resting beneath heaven's tiny microscope, while it cooked off the stress of her trying circumstances. Startled, her perfect morning was interrupted by the familiar voices of her spiritual roommates and a wooden breakfast tray.

  “We have reason to believe the Cadence knows you're here,” said Zane in a comforting, but concerned tone. “We found their calling card in our mailbox. Your name was on it,” she paused, allowing Maria to swallow the news. “I don't know how they found you, but we can't risk staying here.”

  “We'll need to leave tonight,” added Ben.

  The whites of their eyes revealed the purity of their intentions and sincerity of their plight. Catatonic, Maria gazed around the room. She was puzzled by the complexities of her irreversible odds. She knew they'd been cautious in preparing their move, determined to avoid pitfalls. Recalling their abrupt departure, her mind cycled and backpedaled through memories. Combing through the catacombs of Icarus's last days on earth, she wept.

  “How did they find us?” Maria cried. Though accusatory, her frustration warranted her theatrics. “We cleaned the house and didn't leave a trace. We scrubbed our computers, threw away our belongings, and abstained from telling our families and friends. Have they been here, before?” she asked.

  “We had been contacted, but passed over. Could you have been followed?” asked Ben.

  “There must be another way they found me so quickly,” said Maria.

  “It's inconsequential. We have to leave, tonight,” said Zane.

  Maria sat up in her bed and brushed the whispers of madness from of her tangled black hair. Ben and Zane gave her the privacy she needed. Without a moment of debate, motherly instincts mobilized her from the comforts of fluffy sheets. Her swollen feet crushed the splintered floor, as she charged the shower. The water temperature seethed and the pipes squealed. Prepared to be baptized by the coming fire, she rinsed away her insecurities with scalding water. It beat against her back like the whips of the underworld. Her teeth gleamed, with a crazed and refreshed ferocity. She knew it was kill or be killed. She was intent to emerge a superhero.

  After peeling off the dead skin and emerging from the glass enclosed cocoon, her first foot dramatically crossed the shower threshold and touched the cottage floor. She could hear the trumpets sound in her mind. She reached for her cape, dried off and proceeded to comfort her screaming infants in the bedroom. “They're not going to take you!” she said, leaning over the crib. The babies were comforted by her presence, but continued to wail. After caking on Zane's black eyeliner, she grabbed the children from the crib and entered the living room where Ben and Zane waited. They were debating exit strategy, unaware of her entrance.

  “We shouldn't wait, we should go, now,” whispered Ben.

  Slowly cocking their heads they were amazed by the appearance of a living Santa Muerte. Out of respect, they both rose to address her and lassoed her with arms. They couldn't help but laugh at her metamorphosis, nor believe that a splash of holy water could magnify her beauty, and empower her to scatter the cobwebs of mental debris like ants.

  “Do you have any weapons? There are going to be a lot of them,” said Maria.

  “There's a revolver in the top drawer of the bedroom dresser! It's loaded, be careful,” said Ben.

  “How do you know there will be a lot of them?” echoed Zane, from her bedroom.

  “Icarus was given a vision. In the dream, the children were slaughtered by mob rule,” said Maria.

  “Jesus,” said Zane.

  “No, not even he could save us!” exclaimed Maria.

  “If it was a vision, is it predetermined or can we alter the outcome?” asked Zane.

  “I have no idea, but we're going to die trying. You have nothing to lose — I have everything,” said Maria.

  Demanding full attention, the phone rang, stifling the room's adrenaline-induced moment. Frozen by the possibility of who might await on the other line, they stalled to answer. As a second ring rattled their bones, Maria lowered the babies into the crib and reached for the nearby cord. On bended knee, she pulled the device from its wall mount and held it to her quivering earlobe. She already knew.

  “I see you're awake, Maria. I presume you know who this is?” asked a male voice.

  Shaking and crying for The Council's mercy, Maria rolled over and pushed herself into the corner of the wall. Her new-found strength was quickly exhumed by the reality of their situation. Faint noises were returned through the receiver. Her words were replaced by heavy breathing, wheezing and gags.

  “We've been watching! If you leave the home, you're dead.” The disguised voice cut the line.

  “What did they say?” asked Ben.

  “They said, 'If we leave, we're dead,'” cried Maria.

  Ben somberly seated himself at a nearby table and Zane knelt, comforting Maria. No one uttered a word. Blank stares did the talking. Hoping to part the clouds of the coming storm, their fogging minds were desperate for a bright idea. Flashes of terror paralyzed them. External noises faded to the
furthest parts of their conscious minds. The clock's movement was amplified by the silence. They were trapped like rats, mere feet from the doorway.

  “It was a receipt,” offered Maria. “There were airline receipts in the apartment trashcan. That's how they knew I was here. When your phone rang, time stood still. Every moment of our last days in Greece became vivid. I remembered crumbling the papers and tossing them into the wastebasket. I didn't actually think they'd come and route through our trash. Shortsighted, I know.”

  “Don't blame yourself, Maria! They were following us, too,” said Zane.

  A rapt at the door disrupted their sentimental dialog.

  “Nobody move,” said Ben, prepping the firearm. “Be as still as church mice.” He slowly reached for the door. The phone rang. In an anxious fury, he answered. “What do you want from us, you son of a bitch,” he fired. His voice was hoarse and hand perspired, while settling the metal doorknob. “We've got infant children in here.”

  “You're not going to shoot the mailman, are you?” said the sinister voice.

  Peering through the tiny peephole, Benjamin watched a jovial mailman skipping from the archway. Cautiously opening the door, he surveyed the premises, and noticed a package resting inches from his combat boots. He nudged the box into the panicked room and quickly locked the door.

  “What does it say?” ask Zane.

  “It doesn't say anything,” said Ben.

  “Please, be careful,” said Maria.

  Fearful of what lurked within, Ben left the ominous package at rest, while the tired sun set. With the long day slowly passing, Ben, Zane and Maria knew their eyes would soon shutter, and feared what evils awaited in the still of the night. Maria distracted her mind with maternal responsibilities, while Ben and Zane debated their options.