by Chris Ayala
"Are you listening?" the CEO snapped.
"Yep," Gerard lied again.
The capitalist loosened up his tie. "Why do they bother? I mean, it's so stupid. The Union doesn't want to release a government bailout, so what are we supposed to do? Huh? We have to withhold cash withdrawals or our business bankrupts." He tossed his hundred dollar tie onto the thousand dollar coffee table like a dirty handkerchief. "Jesus, it's stuffy in here. We can't even afford to run the generator. No air conditioning, no electricity, and all those dumb people outside…the Supreme Leader owes us big." He unbuttoned the top three snaps of his shirt and a bushel of gray hair popped out. "Think about it…what's the point of protesting? Does it honestly change anything? I mean, how many people occupied Wall Street, marched against police brutality, stormed the White House for black rights…did any of it make a difference? It's stupid!" After a moment of huffed breaths, he asked, "Are you listening?"
"Yep," Gerard lied again.
His eyes tried to focus on the crowd, like he had any chance of seeing familiar faces. But instead of facades, he caught a glimpse of something strange. Over his shoulder, the CEO stared down at what caught Gerard's attention. "Did you order drones?"
"No," Gerard whispered in confusion. He squinted to make sure he was seeing the same thing. Sure enough, dozens of armored drones flew ten feet above the protesters. Each was equipped with two automatic side arms and thick aluminum plating. Protesters threw whatever in their disposal at the drones. Shoes, rocks, fruits, none of it could persuade the drones to leave. Automated voices spoke to crowd. They sounded like mumbles from here. Gerard pressed his ear against the glass. "What are the machines saying?"
A robotic voice from behind them entered the room. "They are saying…You have fifteen more minutes to disperse before being fired on."
Gerard turned, knowing only one person who could have an artificial voice coming from a device around his neck. The Union General Vanderbilt closed the door behind him and sat in Gerard's perfectly shaped butt print on the couch. In charge of the Union's army, the general constantly walked and talked like he was in charge of much more. "I knew it! You are a robot!" Gerard mocked him.
Securing the device necklace around his neck, Vanderbilt tried to smile when he wanted to frown. "I'm slightly hurt you didn't have time to visit me in the hospital."
"I heard Brent Celest broke that vocal chord of yours. You're lucky to survive in the grips of a terrorist. I was going to visit, but…you know…Security Czar work is tough, watching dipshits all day." The CEO was too busy filing down his recently manicured nails to notice Gerard's insult to him. "Did it hurt? Replacing your throat with an electronic voice box. I'm so sorry, Vandi-boo. I would've visited, but my watch was off," Gerard said sounding like a parent apologizing to a child. He stared at the bald-headed war veteran with broad shoulders. If only one of these funny nicknames would anger Vanderbilt enough that the general would try to attack Gerard. Then he would snap that device in his thick neck and finish the job Brent started. It would be a joy to watch the general's face turn from pale to blue as he gasped for air.
"But," Vanderbilt said partaking in a bowl of peanuts on the coffee table, "rumor has it that you were seen at Brent Celest's grave." He paused waiting for a shocked reaction from Gerard, but after a moment of unaltered stares he continued, "My colleagues question your loyalty to the Union."
Ready as always with a witty response, Gerard said sarcastically, "I was there hoping to see some of the People of Bliss. You are still looking to capture them, correct?"
"No, actually. We've captured plenty of them." the general dropped the bowl of peanuts on the glass table, maybe too loud because it caught the attention of the CEO. "But as you can see, I've eaten a dozen of these peanuts and the bowl still looks full, doesn't it? It's a waste of resources to imprison them. The Union is taking a different stance on the rebellion, remember?"
Marcel's speech suddenly sparked in Gerard's mind. With any means necessary, the opposition had to stop. Martial Law had been subtly commanded. How would a nut-bag like Vanderbilt interpret those instructions? As if there wasn't enough dead bodies on the streets; anyone who defied a Union Keeper would receive a bullet to the head now. "Wait a minute. Those drones…that's just a scare tactic, right? You don't plan on shooting down a bunch of innocent protesters."
Vanderbilt watched him with wide eyes like an owl. He scoffed, "Innocent?"
For someone so confident in his own words, even Gerard found himself caught off guard. Innocent wasn't the right word to use. The general's suspicious eyes gazed into his and left Gerard with no choice but to act rigid.
After a moment of chewing some leftover peanut in his teeth, Vanderbilt swallowed hard and then spoke, "I wonder how the Supreme Leader would feel about his best friend showing sympathy to those savages outside?"
This time, Gerard swallowed hard.
Vanderbilt looked at his watch, "Seven more minutes. I sure hope those protesters listen."
"It's in English, what if they don't -"
"If," Vanderbilt interrupted, "you read your memos, you'd know English is now the official language worldwide. The smart watches can interrupt for those still learning. Too bad these rebels didn't visit the Union Institute to receive the tech. As well as a new job and home, so they wouldn't be wasting their breath outside a banking company."
"You mean, it's not just a ploy? They are going to be shot?" The CEO said, turning to watch out the window, hands wrapped together like it was Christmas and he had to chose which present to open first. Gerard didn't look out the window. Instead he chose to watch Vanderbilt and lock eyes. What did it look like to stare into a madman? A madman that murdered Sirius Dawson, the previous leader of the People of Bliss. He literally damaged her mind so much, that she perished. What did he do to her?
"So English is the main language now? Good," the CEO said gleefully. "Finally I can talk to these damn Mexicans and tell them to keep the windows clean. It's all smudgy."
"That's right," Vanderbilt smirked, "The Union makes sense and will finally give us peace. And I'm sure the Supreme Leader was absolutely clear when he said to protect the Union's interests by any means necessary." He glanced down at his watch. "Five minutes." The CEO stood as stiff as a lightpole while Gerard and Vanderbilt continued their terminal stare.
Five minutes was plenty of time for Gerard to think. Could he somehow save those people down there? Maybe get Marcel on the phone and –
Gunfire ignited the air outside. Screams were louder than the bullets. The CEO gasped, "My God!" Gerard kept his eyes secured to Vanderbilt. The general gave no sign of regret. He had lied. Drones with high-ammunition artillery plowed the protesters down as though their lives didn't matter. As though murder was as easy as changing the sheets in a hotel room. Marcel wouldn't have approved of this…would he?
As quickly as the sound of mayhem began…it ended. Vanderbilt smirked and said sarcastically, "Oops…my watch was off." He got up and zipped up his coat. Without another word, the general exited the room.
Clenching his fist was all Gerard could do to keep from exploding in rage. Fury had been Brent's outlet; composure was Gerard's. Being patient got him further than being impatient. One day, Vanderbilt would pay. There were children down there. Women. Grandfathers. People crying out to be heard were crying out in slow death.
"My God," the CEO said again. "I mean, who's supposed to clean up that mess of dead bodies?"
CHAPTER SIX
History repeats itself. For whatever reason. Nelson couldn't explain it, but knew it to be true. His adopted daughter Janice gave a convoluted explanation about how history followed a spiral. A spiral that would eventually collapse upon itself.
The smell of eggs, bacon, sausage, and oatmeal filled his nostrils as he made his way down to the cafeteria. Holding an empty coffee cup in his hand, he couldn't help but notice the staircase down formed a spiral. A spiral of rebels and their families lined up. Nelson wondered how it would be, in th
is moment, if his family had made it here. His wife Victoria would've had everyone's food order prepared (Let's make it easy on the hardworking cafeteria staff). The older of two brothers, Marcel, would've been iffy about what was in the oatmeal (Why do they add so much? Oatmeal is fine on its own.) The young of two brothers, Brent, would've complained about the line (What's taking so long?). And his sweetheart daughter Janice, persuaded by Victoria to adopt, would've questioned the necessity of eating breakfast (Earlier human civilizations survived on several small meals, so what's the necessity of three large meals?)
Once downstairs, Nelson immediately filled up his cup with black coffee and made his way to the buffet with a paper plate and plastic fork. When was the last time he shared breakfast with his son? Not including their scavenging through abandoned supermarkets and opening canned goods with their teeth. No. An actual breakfast. He thought about this as he waited in line at the cafeteria. One by one, each person would get a glop of oatmeal dropped into the bowl on their trays. Not exactly an actual breakfast, but Brent loved oatmeal and would've enjoyed this.
This morning, he hadn't bothered to dress and wore just a robe. Almost the exact same robe he used to wear around the Oval Office in his final days as President. If only Fox News had seen him slumming like a hippie on the last days of Woodstock.
"Nelson? Hello? You there?"
So used to being called Mr. President, Mr. Celest, or Dad ¬– he didn't even react to his first name. "Huh?"
"Bring your plate up, Nelson." The man behind the food counter beckoned. It was like being in the Air Force Mess Hall again. Everyone so impatient.
He couldn't help but feel a little offended by the food server's lack of respect. Nelson slid his tray over, his sandals clicking against the back of his feet. When his wife had died, Nelson wore sandals for nearly three days in the Oval Office. After Brent's death, it's been three months. Half his family was gone. All that remained was his alcoholic daughter Janice and his autocrat son Marcel. The attempt of giving up everything to save the family had failed.
A glob of raw and barely scrambled eggs hit his plate. Startled, like he just been woken up, Nelson looked up from his plate that he'd been dreamily staring into. An Hispanic man, older than Nelson in years and by the look of those eyes…by experience too, gawked at him behind the counter. "I voted for you," the man said spitefully. "Not the first time, but the second time. You know why?"
"Papa, please," a younger light skin girl next to him sighed.
Who Nelson could only assume was the father ignored the girl's subtle anguish and continued. "Because you promised change. That's all you people, you fancy rich people, always say. That same word. Change. What change? This?" the man said waving his spoon around the silo's cafeteria. "The country mourned when the First Lady died. I get it. But you let the country fall apart. You're supposed to be stronger than us, that's why we voted for you."
Nelson looked around, but no one seemed to be stepping forward to defend his presidency. Even his throat tightened up not allowing a single syllable escape. Frankly, he deserved this verbal attack.
The man pointed his spoon viciously. "You attacked their religions and they attacked us for it."
Partly true, but true nonetheless. Nelson could feel the insides of him cave where his heart barely beat. This devastating moment would forever be impeded in his mind, because everyone stared with those similar disappointed eyes. He stepped out of line slowly. Behind him, whispers grew. Such words as useless, liar, and typical could be heard. Other words he dared not focus on. Standing next to the trash can, he suddenly didn't feel hungry anymore and tossed the practically raw eggs into the receptacle.
History had once again repeated itself. Instead of stepping forward and protecting the goodwill of Americans, he stepped back and wallowed in self pity. The last time his melancholy actions cost the country its lives, economy, and more than the ridiculous religions he politically attacked. Was he doomed to lead this country down an even deeper crater of destruction because of his apathy?
An idea formulated in his head. The only way to regain trust was to show the people why they voted for his leadership in the first place…because he had been willing to sacrifice everything.
In her decade and a half of schooling, not including the dull years before college and trying to fit in, Janice Celest had extensive knowledge. She solved the Sellmejer Equation easily, understood (the only one in her class to) Gauss's Law for Magnetism, and breezed through Newton's Laws of Motion. All these accomplishments and Janice found herself confused at the notion of wrapping a cloth diaper around her newborn.
Yet here she sat, knees up to her head, butt on the cold cement ground, hands wrapped around herself, and completely dumbfounded. Being forced to use cloth diapers and the even worse task of cleaning them had been daunting. Shopping for typical baby diapers would even be more daunting, considering the strict guidelines from most grocery stores nowadays asking for digital chips to make purchases. So Janice had no choice but to get the hang of tying and wrapping these difficult cloths.
Baby Colin seemed constantly agitated with her. She never promised him she'd be good at the mothering thing. It wasn't like she had Google to ask questions to. Instead of the internet, Janice had to rely on two things: instinct and the experience of others. His cries turned to wails. He hated laying on the bumpy mattress as much as she did. There would be these longs periods were Baby Colin would lie still and not make a sound, almost like he was planning something like Gerard. Or maybe admiring her like Marcel. Or maybe trying to find something to make Janice laugh, like Adam. Whoever the father was, she found herself analyzing every movement and noise out of the infant.
A knock on the door. She already knew who it was. Adam would've just barged in; her father Nelson never stepped out of his room so it wasn't him. "Come in, Matley."
Matley entered, her dreadlocks so decorated with colored rubberbands and ties that she looked ready for Christmas. "Hello, deary, sorry I'm late."
"Don't apologize. I appreciate taking…" Janice trailed off, trying to think of a better phrase to use than taking my shift. "…Giving me some time off."
"Oh, I'm more than happy to," Matley said already playing with the baby's feet. Her thick Creole accent sounded creepy in this dark room. "I remember needing my own time alone when I first became a mother."
Slightly older than Janice, but more experienced in several ways, made her feel inadequate. She watched Matley wrap the diaper with ease and calm Colin in seconds. No college degree could accomplish what she did. Perhaps being a mother took more work than Janice imagined.
Standing up, Janice felt that odd sensation again. A pain tightened just in the pit of her stomach. Often this aliment would come and go, but at this moment it lingered. Matley must've noticed her wince. "Something wrong, child?"
Known as the silo's botanist and medicine doctor (some even called her a shaman) Matley might be helpful. Janice asked, "Anything in that…garden…of yours that could help abdominal pain?"
"The plants will always provide. I could concoct a mixture. I make a paste of Asafetida, add two drops of the clove oil –"
"I mean something stronger," Janice interrupted. "Like opiates?"
She immediately saw the awkwardness in Matley's shoulders. "I hear you have a past, child. Perhaps a past that shouldn't be –"
Janice knew her own past well, the nights of drunken stupor and cloudy highs, but didn't need a lecture. She plead, "Please? Something has been wrong with me. Ever since the baby was born. Something…wrong."
Matley nodded. "Okay, I see what I can come with."
Remembering that she was no longer the President's daughter and in the position to order people around, Janice added. "Thank you. I appreciate it."
"I be happy to help."
Noticing a band-aid covering a vital vein in Matley's forearm, Janice commented, "Are you diabetic?"
"Oh, no, child. I was teaching some of the boys how to draw blood in the hospital wing.
We got together some of them chemicals and found out our blood types. Quite fun."
Instead of playing video games, children were playing with needles in a hospital. Times had definitely change. But this activity peaked Janice's interest. "Wait a minute. You can figure out blood type? Can you -" She paused trying to search for a way to ask the question. Blood types are a definitive way of narrowing down possibilities of who Baby Colin's dad was.
"You mean…get the baby's blood type? I could. But why? I thought your man Adam be the boy's father."
Janice decided not to answer. Moments like this, she felt dirty. Why had she gone on such a mean streak of drinking, partying, and playing with men she barely knew? That was maybe what defined "evil"…how it felt afterwards. Matley nodded and gently said, "I found out for you soon."
"Thank you. I appreciate it."
With that, Janice left the room for her motherhood break.
What could be causing this pain? Surely, the pain of giving birth should have subsided by now. It had been ten weeks since little Colin was born. Janice chose not to recall the anguish that caused her. But wounds are supposed to heal in time. In theory anyways. Still reeling from the wounds of an adopted mother killed in a horrific car crash, a failed marriage to Gerard, her biological parents' death at a time when she finally found them, and the murder of her own brother…it all seemed that the scars were worse than the cuts.
Not in the mood to chat, Janice walked the darker corridors towards the silo's library hoping to avoid passersby. The library had been such a marvel. Built as a gift to the newborn Colin by the People of Bliss, the thought almost brought another tear to her eye. Gatherers had gone through great lengths to find hardcover books, almost nonexistence since ebooks surfaced, to stock those shelves.