by Brad Cox
“Excellent. How about Crystal?” Dez prodded.
“How about Michelle?” fired Max. The connection was instant.
“She's with Neco! He was a traitor. They escaped, just as I said,” said Dez.
“You are one of them,” he paused. “You're part of The Program, aren’t you?” asked Max.
Dez paused. Being exposed was a possibility he hadn't planned for. His unveiling would destroy the Cadence. His followers' fury would reveal the compound to authorities. Without recourse, he reached into his hat and pulled out the only card he had left to play.
“It's your word verse mine. You came to me, with nothing, and I told you a story. No one made you follow me. No one made you kill, steal or rape those innocent people. It's what your heart wanted — it's what you are! And, just like you, the very people you think you'll sway from the Cadence of the Sun have the freedom to decide. They will turn on you, Max. There are three sides to every story — three. With the mountains of guilt and crime on your bloody hands, there's only one side that will sell — mine. If you died tonight, who would be the wiser? Who? You don't want to join Grayson, do you? Look around, m'boy!” rallied Dez.
“We killed for you! We believed in you,” said Max.
“You did. Trust can certainly be a crutch, can't it? I didn't tell you to pick up the phone and assault my character, did I, Max? You were always a little too hot-headed for your own good. If I didn't know better, I'd think you wanted my job. My power. My respect. The guy you killed was a government terrorist,” said Dez.
“What are you talking about?” asked Max.
“It doesn't matter! You'll believe what you want to believe — you've proven that. M'boy, do you think the authorities are going to give a damn about your sudden change of heart, when we're shot down in flames. With the lies you've told and the bodies you've buried, you blitzkrieg my character? I dare you, Max. Try me. The truth is, we're torn from the same cloth. We're mirror images of one another, and we both want the same thing — more life,” said Dez.
“Who are you?” asked Max.
“Pleased to meet you, Max. Hope you guess my name.”
chapter 46
Vision of the black bird (Isis)
Dez’s tired bones rested upon a yellow and sticky New York City bench. He listened to the arrival and departure announcements, as subway cars seamlessly roared by. Commuters went about their busy days, without noticing his rotten shambles of a life. Covered in layers of camouflaged clothing, long underwear, and a fitting beard, a tired old man awaited death's sting. The world had all but forgotten him. Going against the flow, he rose from the bench, slowly crossed through the turn stop and ascended onto the Manhattan streets. Dust and ash asphyxiated his lungs – a strange chemical burned his nostrils. The buildings were vacant and obliterated, and the hallucinated bustle passed. No one was left. Looking into the cavernous hole, from which his corpse emerged, the lights faded to black. Everything was cinematic.
Looking for signs of life, the man walked through the city, but could only find the lazy smolders of post-apocalyptic debris. He returned to the subway station, unable to accept the train's pause. Smeared on the wall, a bloodstained message indicated the station had been closed for nearly a decade. He couldn't help but think, 'This was the world that I wanted — the world I created.' Even in the wreckage, he could feel the spirits of discontent haunting him.
Placating his illusion of power had left him longing for love and genuine respect. Spending his entire life underground had disconnected him from how the real world operated. In defense, his mind had filled in the blanks, while reality penned a far more damning account. Consumed by his transgressions, he was mystified by the extent of his madness. He could sense the universe was unified in vanquishing his reign, and wouldn't rest until his immediate bloodline was punished with plagues, poverty and pain. It was sobering. He was powerless and unable to wage war upon The Council's creation.
He was then hurled into the void, stripped, ridiculed and hung by the hanging corpses in the Hallway of Sorrows. He stared into the inferno. Bodies pried at his shackles, hoping to toss him into the pit of eternal justice. He thirsted for the absolution of the fire. Agonizing, his lives flashed before his watery eyes — just as they had in the gathering circle. He could still feel the flames of past judgment, and vividly recall the generations of fathers who had stolen his virginity. The darkness forced him to relive each appalling affair. Purging with pain, he was then forced to watch the destruction he had waged upon The Program. He knew the underworld was equally as horrifying as being forced to walk the barren city streets; vacancy, in the aftermath of a cowardice victory. His shortsightedness hadn't planned for tomorrow.
He was then showed the world's beauty. He longed to dip his toes in the ocean and chase the seagulls. He longed to fall in love and know the eternal joy of raising a child. He longed to live, be forgotten and start anew. Allowed to awaken, his mind quickly recoiled back to the unforgettable plague of memories lurking within — they dashed out hope. He was just another human tragedy. In death, there was life, and in life there was death. He was nothing more than another proud soul, left to anguish in a self-generated cycle of earthbound hell.
“You are out of time,” cawed Isis. “You will taste the fire. You will live with a regret so deep that you'll never truly love again. You will not be held responsible for your actions, by us — you will hold yourself in contempt. Should this child die, the stench of your arrogance will poison the very wombs your rebellious seed tries to harvest.” It then pecked out Dez’s eyes.
“You will not recall my words. The intentions of your heart must be heard by The Council.”
“How can I stop this?” asked Dez.
“Listen to the silent voice buried deep within you. Break the cycle, and set yourself free.”
Dez awoke shaking. He could remember the vision, but not understand its meaning. Struggling, he pulled himself from a dirty bunker mattress, and walked toward the control room. Looking at the screens, he saw a raven leering into the property's surveillance camera. It pecked at the tiny monocle of glass — his child was coming!
chapter 47
Firefight
The arid New Mexican sun beckoned for Dez's attention. Adjusting his property camera, to ward off the pesky raven, he watched light waves refract off the desert plains and questioned whether a mirage was playing tricks on his mind. Kicking up dust, his paranoia was justified by the trace sounds of a creeping authority. Dropping a container of freshly brewed coffee, he anxiously shuttered through various camera feeds and assessed the unfolding situation from all angles. The lights in the bunker flickered and the ceiling shook from the movement overhead. Cracks in the bunker allowed tiny spurts of dirt to fall.
His smooth rhetoric and blackmail had failed — Max had betrayed him. The roar of aggressive police helicopters awoke the blood thirsty paparazzi. In moments, a swarm of patrol cars and journalists arrived and circled the lot. Every outlet was chomping at the bit to televise the final hours of an identified terrorist head and give the world a firsthand look at the compound the Cadence of the Sun called home. Vultures circled, awaiting the perfect moment to tear the pride from his bones. Disheartened, Dez walked toward an arsenal locker and pulled out a rusty old shotgun. Swallowing his fear, his shaky hands loaded his exit strategy. In a last stand of arrogance, he prepared to send a final salute out to his war.
“Ring around the rosy, pocket full of posies. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down,” he mumbled. Flashbacks passed before his calloused eyes. His only regret was leaving the Cadence of the Sun at the mercy of Max's interpretation. With his final hours numbered, he accepted defeat — “If the cops don't finish this, Crystal will.”
“This is the police. We have you surrounded,” bellowed a distant bullhorn.
“Come out with your hands up,” he mocked, under his breath.
Dez was determined to die a martyr. Cocking the shotgun and holstering his pistol, he prepared to climb the la
dder of defeat and reveal himself to the world. As if cued by psychosis, the Godfather theme whistled through his dizzy head. Though he was betrayed, he refused to be robbed of his final blaze of glory. With a halfhearted shove, his weakened shoulder pushed open the shelter's hatch. His exasperated limbs turned gravity into a weapon, and pulled him back into the bunker.
+++
Settling into the Covenant House, Crystal awoke. “Oh my god!” Her heart raced and the birth pains began. Screaming for help, nurses flocked to her bedside. With cold rags and concern, they patted her forehead and adjusted her bed to an upward position. They fanned her with pamphlets, and encouraged her to breathe and relax. “This is it.” Her cry echoed through the home's walls.
“From what you've told us, you can't be more than 28-32 weeks pregnant. If you have this child, tonight, it will have a much lower rate of survival. We've got to try and calm the oceans, darling. Just breathe and try to focus on the beautiful stars out that window. Count them for me,” said Andrea Stevens, a staff nurse.
“This baby will have to take its chances. It means the world to me and you!” proclaimed Crystal.
“You're talking crazy, girl. I ain't raising no one else's baby. Just try and be still,” Andrea said.
“What’s crazy?” asked Crystal.
“Get her some meds,” Andrea instructed a fellow colleague. “Now, do you think you can keep this feeling at bay for a couple of hours? At least until the sleep deprived doctor arrives? You'll want him awake, I promise.”
“You don't know how hard I'm trying. I was in a deep sleep,” she paused, breathing quickly, “When suddenly I saw a burst of bright light. My eyes flung open like a possessed madwoman. It's like, I've been awake for hours. I can't explain it, but something in my body is dying to get out — now! How does it have the strength to control me like this?” asked Crystal.
“Nature doesn't pay us no mind, my dear,” said the nurse. “It never has. Life doesn't participate in the realm of reason — maybe, rhymes. Think of all those chaotic, fortunate or even horrifying events that had to happen for you to be lying here today. I know you've had a journey or you wouldn't be at The Covenant. If life was supposed to make sense, honey, it would.” The nurse turned, filled a plastic cup with water and handed Crystal an aspirin. “I'll be back in a moment. Scream if you need me — I know you will,” she smiled.
Crystal had never felt so alone. Though her isolation had the power to save an entire generation of mankind, she wanted to share her beautiful moment. From a small crack in the room's window, a cool gust blew through her feathering hair. She wanted to believe the Council of the Lords were stroking her head with sympathy. Softly, she prayed for Neco and Michelle's travels, hoping they'd meet again.
“He's got to survive,” Crystal whispered.
+++
Dez's failed exit reminded him to baptize the premises with fire. He torched the rooms, before making his way back to the tunnel exit. His weathered eyes stung, as the smoke followed him through empty hallways. With one last heroic charge, he climbed the bunker staircase and threw open the steel doors; careful to stay out of view. A dust storm cascaded before the awaiting sun. Mere feet separated him from the saints in blue. Ceremoniously lighting a final cigarette, he carefully laid his shotgun in the stairwell and ascended with his right hand in view.
“Put both hands where we can see them.”
“You can't kill me!”
Dez was surrounded. He was reminded of the gathering circle; now, center stage. Camera men swarmed like bees and law enforcement receivers buzzed. Slowly moving towards Dez, agents and officers were intent to take him alive. The thick atmosphere remained tense as he lethargically spit his cigarette. His lips parted, as smoke rings rose and haloed his head. Struck by awe and silence, no one moved.
“I have enough explosives buried on this lot to kill us all. I wouldn't suggest making another goddamned move,” said Dez, calmly, revealing a tiny television remote, taped to the palm of his left hand. “You thought you had it all figured out, coming here, didn't you? The truth is, even in my death, the Cadence will continue. I will return. It exists, because people want us to exist — people just like you and me!” His fingers baited the remote.
The officers scrambled. “Don't move!”
+++
“Breathe!” Crystal’s pain intensified, causing her consciousness to waver. Resting in a pool of blood and sweat, her body quaked with thunderous waves of contractions. Hoping to alert the mother within, an on-call doctor flashed his medical flashlight into her dilating eyes. Delirious, Crystal struggled to focus. Grabbing the handlebars, she tensed her sore muscles, pushed and gasped with a mother's fury.
“That's good, that's good. Andrea, prop her legs,” said the doctor.
“I've got you,” said Andrea, grabbing Crystal's hand. “No matter what happens, you'll be OK!”
An unspoken dialog, surrounding the child's chances of survival, lingered in the room. Andrea's wishful eyes locked with the doctor. She prayed his degrees could trump Crystal's cruel odds. Lights flickered, as a passing storm pounded through the region. With a flash, the lights faded to black. In the dark, the television turned on and dramatically played the National Anthem. The spirited room begged their attention, as a warbling hum cut through the silence.
+++
“What do you want?” asked an officer, holding a megaphone.
“What do I want? That's what you're missing. I don't want anything. I just want to be heard,” said Dez.
“We hear you loud and clear!”
Reaching for his pocket, rifles clicked and clattered in tandem.
“Keep your hands up,” urged the officer.
In a defining final moment, Dez lifted his shirt, reached for his waistband and allowed his symphonic tragedy to end. He had nothing left to say. His perfect stage had been set. The hounds of justice were unleashed, as a fury of shell casing danced across the desert floor. Dust clouds, from the frantic helicopters created a hurricane of excitement. Dez fell.
Crystal gasped, made a final push and delivered her child to an unsuspecting world. Sighs of relief brought closure to her exhaustive labor. Her child was quickly cleaned and taken to a neonatal intensive care unit on January 7th.
“He's arrived!” screamed Andrea, hugging Crystal. “Now, we pray!”
“He's got my mother's indigo eyes,” cried Crystal.
As the dust settled, FBI units cautiously moved toward Dez's fallen body. Police reports and news stories determined that Dez had fallen into the compound and been vanquished by flames and explosives.
His body was never recovered.
chapter 48
Letters to the lords
“A New York Times reporter's body was found and pulled from the East River. Now, back to the standoff unfolding in New Mexico.” The television rattled and hummed. Patrons gathered in the lobby to catch a glimpse of the breaking news.
Michelle and I watched the reports unfold from the Old Town Pub in New York City. Visceral feelings bubbled to a head, as Dez's stalemate cast a long shadow over the entire city's rhythm. Barflies imbibed the drama and were mindful to keep their glasses full — fearful of losing their coveted view. As time slowed, we noticed a crowd forming on the streets; like big-eyed children, people wrestled to peak through the smudged glass and catch a glimpse. They were drawn, like mosquitoes to an ultraviolet light.
“If anyone realized our connection to the unfolding headlines, we'd be mobbed,” I whispered to Michelle. Hearing the devastating news of Grayson's death meant unearthing his archived interviews and story, before returning to dock in Baltimore's industrial harbor. It also meant rolling the dice and risking a run-in with the Cadence, one last time. The day’s events brought Michelle and me closer. Stewing in my suds, I couldn't imagine a life without her. Knowing the cult's ideology would mutate and continue to spread conspiracy theories and hate into the world, meant we needed each other. As the sun tucked behind the earth, we stumbled onto the gloss
y streets of surrealism.
“Where does he live, again?” asked Michelle.
“It doesn't matter, darling! Let's just walk.”
We walked for a couple hours, contemplating the odds. We had a lifetime, or more, to come to terms with Dez's final moments. Elated, I shouted, “'I have to write a song about it!” Like a chorus, my words echoed through the alleys. Aside from gathering Grayson's extensive notes and for once, there wasn't a next step. Our lives, consumed by adrenaline and anxiety, simply stopped. Luckily, the rest of humanity was moving quickly enough to keep the earth turning.
“I wonder if life has finally caught up to us and will spin us into its cocoon of purposeless years?” I asked.
“Only if we're lucky, Neco.”
“It's strange. The future looks bland, but maybe that's OK.”
Unknown to Michelle, we had circled Grayson's residence a dozen times. With a tired heart, I stopped her on the complex steps and kissed her — deeply. My racing heart pulsed on the tip of my quivering lips. My eyes were lost in the moment, as my soul dissolved into the emotional black hole I'd tried to swallow at the bar. The moon made silhouettes of us.
Turning the door handle with caution, we slipped into Grayson's modest apartment complex and let flickering wall lamps guide our steps. Grayson's presence oozed from the hipster paintings on his otherwise barren walls.
“He said it was under the floorboards,” I motioned, scouring the ground for an entry point. Moving a tiny shag rug, resting in front of the sink, Michelle found a hook. Lifting a heavy wood panel, I removed the large covering. It was roughly 2.25' x 3.75'. The aura in the room made it feel like we were opening the Ark of the Covenant. A tiny wind rushed from beneath the floor as I nervously reached into the void. Inside was a rectangular flash drive containing the contents of our lives.