Children of the Program

by Brad Cox

  “New York City!” cawed Petey, from the kitchen. “You're so pretty!”

  “That's it,” thought Joe. “That's it!”

  +++

  Going through the motions of his new life, Grayson tied his noose, grabbed a tumbler and headed into the office. The copy room was manic with Cadence of the Sun and NYC crime headlines. Assessing his timetable, he prioritized his assignments. Shuffling through litters of desk copy, he was interrupted by an origami pterodactyl flier.

  “Are you planning to go to the Met Gala, tomorrow?” asked a flirty voice. It was Jessica Fisher, an accomplished and well respected editor. “I hear Princess Diana will be there! It seems like it's going to be a pretty big who's who. Being that you don't dare find the time to socialize with the underlings, a little hobnobbing might do your spirit good. I'm half-tempted to start stalking you myself – I want to know what you do in your free time. Maybe I'll write my own piece called, 'What Makes Grayson Miller Tick?'” said Jessica.

  “If I have time and I'm asked,” quipped Grayson. “I can't be distracted with finding an outfit.”

  “You don't have an outfit, nor a date,” she joked, adjusting his tie. “I think we can arrange it, no?”

  “Do I need to contact HR? It almost sounds like you're asking me out?” snarked Grayson.

  “Please. I am asking you to stop being a square and to consider spending your evening with a woman! I'm sure there's a suit jacket lying around this pigsty. You don't want to miss an opportunity to relish in the posh pretension that is the Metropolitan Museum of Art, do you? You wouldn't want to jeopardize your counter-cultural integrity, by denying me this honor. So, you're going. If attire is your only concern, you'll look ravishing in one of my gowns. What could be more hip than gender bending before the princess?” poked Jessica.

  “Gray, line one!” chimed a secretary.

  “I'm sorry to bother. He's been here,” said an emphatic voice.

  “Who?”

  “Dez flipped my house upside down,” warned Joe. He's heading your way. You've got to warn Crystal!”

  Grayson disconnected, as if rattled by the thunder of god. “I've got to go! When is the Gala?” he asked.

  “Tonight — Eight. Everything OK?” asked Jessica.

  “I'm fine. If Silverstein asks, I'm following up on a lead for my feature story. I'll call, later.”

  Grayson swung on his Members Only jacket and left in a flurry. He arrived back at his home to find Crystal. She was still comfortably resting in his extra-large Weezer T-shirt. Her peace confused his racing heart. She wrestled with the idea of acknowledging his anxious presence, but was no match for her lazy eyes.

  “We've got to get you out of here. We can't stay!” alarmed Grayson.

  Despite her best attempts to avoid reality, his insistence woke the baby within.

  “What's wrong?” Crystal asked.

  “It's Dez. He knows you're here. Joe's home was destroyed.”

  “Petey!”

  chapter 45

  the masquerade

  “We made it!” exhaled Neco.

  Neco and Michelle shuttled into New York City and set up a base camp in a Brooklyn pizza shop.

  “It seems, everyone has 1,000 intentions, these days,” said Neco, catching his wind. He was anxious to see Grayson and Crystal. “This whole spiritual war has been going on since the dawn of mankind. There are Program descendants walking amongst us. The inspired ones continue to brighten our world, while the damned seethe and thirst for man's destruction.”

  “Everybody wants to rule the rule!” said Michelle.

  “Rule or ruin? Dez is a byproduct. Like a spider, he spins his unsuspecting victims into a web of lies, by tickling their curiosity and fanning the flames of their adolescent cries for rebellion — all while providing a roof, an identity and a peer group. He strips away accountability, and sells it as freedom. It's a sexy idea, but no one stood a chance. They're all pawns in a very dangerous game,” sputtered Neco.

  “I'll never forget the day Crystal and I met him. I knew he'd laced our drinks, but was too vacant to care,” said Michelle.

  “While working undercover, I helped him administer strong doses of LSD to the trafficked newcomers. It killed me. All I could think was, 'How does an adolescent brain recover from this?' I say, 'adolescent,' but let's be honest, no one was completely innocent. Good, bad or indifferent, that's how the game is played. He's not the first. Where do you think the Hitlers, Stalins or Amin Dadas come from? They may not have all been Programmers, but they were inspired by the same spirit of megalomania. Pride is how the devil fooled the world and how we all found ourselves in checkmate,” said Neco.

  “It couldn't be more obvious, in this city. Look at these neon temples and the zombie class,” said Michelle.

  “We're not the first arrogant generation to believe the world centers around us and who believe it will end on our watch. Dez has a tried and true platform. Considering his success rate, it's feasible to think his messianic complex will sprout wings, if Crystal doesn't have his child,” pondered Neco, aloud.

  “Speaking of the devil, we should probably knock on a few doors and find Grayson,” deduced Michelle.

  “Right.”

  “There's a payphone just outside the door,” said Michelle, thumbing Neco a quarter.

  “I'm glad you called, Neco. I hit the panic button about an hour ago!” gruffed Grayson.

  “What's going on, Grayson?” asked Neco.

  “Long story short, I have a Gala to attend, and it's tonight. Joe, Crystal's driver, transporter or whatever you want to call him, called. Dez is tracking us. He's either here or on his way. My colleague offered us her place, for the night, but you'll need to seek a hospice or place to hide, until she can safely crown. Do you remember where our Program story is?” asked Grayson.

  “Under the floorboards in the kitchen,” said Neco.

  “Perfect. We'll be better off keeping a distance and laying low for the next few days,” closed Grayson.

  Scribbling down Jessica Fisher's information, Neco hung up the phone and returned to the table. He couldn't shake the sense of foreboding that lingered in the damp air. “We need to find a shelter. The wolves have arrived.”

  “Don't you think 'wolves' is a little dramatic for a passing shower?” joked Michelle.

  “Dez is tracking Crystal, which also means Grayson. He found them — us!” said Neco.

  “She's got to be getting close to having his baby!” reminded Michelle.

  With exhausted hearts, they left the pizza parlor. They soldiered across the Brooklyn Bridge to the New York City Public Library, and researched facilities able to harbor and protect a pregnant homeless woman; a damsel disenfranchised by circumstance. Though the traffic and crowds were impenetrably deafening, it couldn't silence the paranoid and strained voices in Neco’s head; even the gargoyles seemed to stand watch — screams were the unnamed song of the city's streets.

  “Neco, how about this? It's called the Covenant House. It's on 41st. We can drop her off. She can check in with an alias. The site says they don't discriminate, nor care about the circumstances surrounding their arrivals. Once she's in their custody, we should head back to Baltimore, and become invisible,” said Michelle.

  “Perfect! The less time we need to spend in this rotten city, the better,” reassured Neco.

  “Does it feel like Dez is watching our every move?” asked Michelle.

  “Always!”

  +++

  Grayson escorted Crystal to the subway station. They headed toward Greeley Square on 34th street. “I've made arrangements for you to stay with a close friend of mine — Jessica Fisher. Neco and Michelle are on their way. We'll figure the rest out, tomorrow,” Grayson said, hugging Crystal. Watching crowds of people pass them by, his attempts to make sure they hadn't been followed seemed futile. “You look flush, are you going to be all right?”

  “Yeah, I'm fine. Have fun, Gray.” Crystal kissed him on the cheek and followed her
directions toward 28th street. Grayson walked nervously toward 1000 5th avenue, questioning his reason for leaving her side.

  The Met Gala's stage was set for a masquerade. The guests adorned an undeniable mystique; masks were optional. Sequin dresses and harlequin hearts waltzed about the room, all hoping to be noticed by somebody as somebody. Their staunch attempts to keep the royal blood far from the grimy world living just beyond the museum's magnificent walls, provided an appetizer of adjectives for the swarming journalists. They wined, danced and used art history as excuse to flaunt their money and excuse adultery; an evening filled with enough sin and pretension to asphyxiate heaven's angels with the inferno's stoked smoke.

  As the clock wound down, drunken party-goers staggered from the halls and took limo rides to costume-inspired sex parties, hosted by New York's finest penthouse suites. Consuming the last spoils of the evening, thirsty journalists compared notes. The streets were consumed by the Gala's scattered company.

  Still overwrought by the coming threat, Grayson tried to drink away his woes. When the final whiskey and ginger was poured, he grabbed his spiral notebook and exited. Alone and inebriated, he stumbled toward to the subway station. Though sedated, his antennas couldn't help but notice the well-dressed wolves trailing behind. Blaming the congestion, he dismissed their presence as paranoia, until they boarded his train.

  Blocks away, Crystal and Jessica bonded over stories of heartbreak and familial issues. Startled, Crystal saw a large pigeon perched just outside of Jessica’s apartment window. She was speechless. Recalling the vision, she realized the handsome man, resting at the bottom of the grave, was Grayson. Fluttering her hand, as if smothering, she gasped.

  “Grayson's in trouble!” insisted Crystal.

  “What do you mean? He'll be in trouble if he didn't have a good time. I can't believe I missed the opportunity to meet the Princess Diana and have a possible nightcap with the Grayson Miller! This whole night's been a disaster,” pouted Jessica.

  “I had a dream, that...” said Crystal.

  “Sweetheart, it was just a dream,” she interrupted.

  +++

  Struggling to maintain his balance, Grayson surveyed the subway car for exits, trying to avoid eye contact with the suspicious characters. Approaching, they bobbed and weaved through the thick crowd. The car made frequent stops. He considered making a run for it, but couldn't risk getting lost in the downtrodden parts of New York City. The stress, whiskey and trains movement made his vision veer. Struggling to maintain, he passed out — cold. When he awoke, he was tied to a wobbly chair at the end of a dock. The legs of the metal chair kissed the ledge — one spry move would leave him swimming in the East River and writhing with the souls in the Hallway of Sorrows. His bow tie, taped into his mouth, thwarted his pleas. A stuffed nose left him convinced he'd smother.

  “He's awake,” said Max. He ripped the duct tape from Grayson's groaning mouth. “Before we push you into a mafia-grave, we thought we might just ask you a few questions. Sound good?” Max offered, teasing the legs of the chair with his Giorgio Armani shoes.

  “Are you one of the Cadence cowards? The Sun's worthless derelicts?” asked Grayson.

  Max unloaded a deadly blow to his face. The others took turns beating him, while blood squirted from his nose. Grayson squirmed, but was empowered by their hits. He knew they couldn't kill him — permanently.

  “Now, where were we? Let me ask you again, where is she?” asked Max.

  “I confess, your mother is handcuffed to my bed frame. Are you asking for the key?” Grayson taunted, hoping they'd push him into the blackened river. He knew he'd be murdered, no matter how he responded. “Where's your fearless leader? You know, the coward who created this bullshit cult that you lemmings have chosen to follow. Did it ever occur to you, he might be crazy?”

  “I've heard enough from this disrespectful punk!” said one of Max’s cronies.

  Max turned Grayson's head and forced him to look at the dark waters below. “We will find her. When we do, we will kill her! I'm sure a minor investigation of your apartment will unearth everything we need. Who knows, maybe we'll even dig up information about your family, friends and coworkers. Don't think that your death exonerates you from your poor decision-making. Where is she?” Max ferociously screamed, pounding his face like a speed bag.

  “If I die, you'll never find her.” Grayson's mind was dizzy, his eyes were swollen — he watched blood drip from his busted gums. His shirt was a serial killer's prize. “You're going to kill me, either way. I know this will sound a bit like a cliché, but will you humor me with a last cigarette?”

  Without hesitation, Max reached into his pocket, put a cigarette to Grayson's mouth and fired it up.

  “Just listen to me — if you still want to kill me, after what I'm about to say, kill me. You have nothing to lose,” Grayson said, yielding for a rebuttal. Without a word, he continued. “The man you are following is one of us. We are part of a group called The Program. We were sent to populate this planet with special children. We are not aliens. Our children are not government engineered hybrids. They are the divine property of The Council of the Lords. They've been integrating, since the beginning.”

  “I've heard enough!” whispered Max.

  “That's the problem, you're only hearing what justifies your means. Dez was one of the original 12. Since its genesis, he's been hunting us down. The Children of the Program website — my website — just made it easier for him. The Cadence is responsible for killing Juno, Benjamin, Zane and Simon. You tried to kill Ash, but failed,” furthered Grayson.

  “How do you know all of this?” Max asked, perplexed.

  “Because I'm living it. I've been writing our story since we met in the Painted Desert. These children you killed will haunt you in the inferno. There's no recourse for your actions. Your war has disrupted the entire universe. If you stop now, you may have a chance at salvaging a little grace,” offered Grayson.

  “You're a fraud! This is all just clever rhetoric, pieced together by a very attentive writer,” said Max.

  “Am I? Go to the Children of the Program website. The password is the same — all one word! We'll see who is deceiving who, when the dust settles. I don't want to die, but you can't kill me. That's the beauty in all this, for Dez. He wants to rule the world. He doesn't care about you. When you die, you'll burn with the souls of the underworld. He doesn't die. He'll fall to earth for lifetimes to come. He's nearly succeeded. You have the power to stop him!” announced Grayson.

  Turning to pace, Max ran his token black gloves through his black raven hair and fumbled with Grayson's words. His bloodthirsty henchman were unimpressed and thirsty for a sacrifice. Far from earshot, Max connected the dots and contemplated the value of Grayson's life and the merits of his plea.

  “Why would I dedicate a website and attract awareness to a conspiracy that I'm involved in,” asked Grayson.

  “Maybe you're clever,” said Max.

  “I've never been accused of that, and I've tired. Have you asked Dez about Michelle?” asked Grayson.

  “What did you say?” Furious, Max’s eye sockets filled with lightening.

  “Dez? Michelle?” asked Grayson.

  “How do you know about her? How?” asked Max.

  “She joined us.”

  In a rage, and forced to stomach the depths of his malice, Grayson was pushed. Max felt betrayed, ashamed and angered by a reality he could no longer justify. A part of him believed Grayson, but couldn't allow his truth to dock in the harbors of his parting mind. Being used and disrespected by Dez was only eclipsed by knowing his girlfriend had joined the opposition to their revolution; forcing him off the scales of justice, in favor of blind anarchy — he was a revolutionary turned renegade.

  No longer able to make heads of tails, Max was prepared to hunt Michelle to the ends of the earth. Dez had him addicted to adrenaline. Though he was unable to shake the sense of control and power the dark side allotted his ego, he refused to b
e brainwashed by a sociopath. In slow motion, with backs arched, Max's clan climbed through a chain link fence.

  He would punish the world – everyone would pay!

  +++

  After a hard fought drive, Dez returned to the compound, fired up the underground, took inventory of his dwindling Program family and resumed his ministry. He was elated to know his top agent, Max, had carried the inferno to New York City, while the international Cadence of the Sun sects continued to dominate news headlines. His relative anonymity made him more of a villain than a murderer, which attracted the misdirected youth and inspired copycat killings.

  “Another child has been killed, and another family grieves, as the Cadence cult continues to target — what they call — 'alien children.' With so many cells, a lot of the details and operators of this so-called 'revolution,' remain a mystery. Their only calling card is this Japanese symbol. They call themselves the Cadence of the Sun,” said a television anchor, scrambling through the static. “As one police officer said, 'It's hard to handcuff a belief system.'”

  “Who's next, what's what?” Though elated, his mind shuttered to maintain functionality. Hunched over, Dez shuffled and paced below the dirt. He clinched his revolver, but knew he couldn't put a hole in Father Time. One bullet ensured he'd force himself back to the Hallway of Sorrows. Even in death, he'd delight in how he had devastated The Council's plan. Scrubbed from the Book of Records, he'd be exonerated of accountability. “Two to go,” he barked, before answering the phone.

  “It's Max!”

  “M'boy, have you found Grayson and Crystal?” asked Dez.

  “We followed Grayson to a work event and dumped him in the East River,” said Max.