by Chris Ayala
As she entered the library, the librarian, an older gentleman with reading glasses that clung to the edge of that stout nose, gave a polite wave to her. Since chosen to organize the library, the librarian had seemed to be so alive with a constant smile and adorable old man dimples. Beforehand, all he had done was gripe about his life as an author and the terrible decision by his publishing company to stop printing copies of his books. Now all his stories were lost in the digital desert that only the Union had managed to salvage.
Just like any library, rows were categorized by subject. Janice found the health section almost immediately. About five books could be found in the Anatomy section, but she only needed one. Inside the drastically heavy paperback were illustrations of the human body. Janice tried to zero in on where the pain in her gut could be coming from. And of course…why. Maybe she was pregnant again? That couldn't be possible since Adam barely touched her, yet alone sexually. Ever since Brent's murder he had been more distracted than she had been.
Placing the book back on the shelf, she felt frustrated. If only WebMD.com or MayoClinic.com existed in this room. What she would give for a patch of the illegal substance Lust. It brought her away from the physical, and mental pain, that life constantly plagued her with. But playing in illegal drugs was about as ridiculous as playing with Silly String. Sure it could be fun while it lasted, but left you in a total mess.
After walking a few aisles, Janice saw a face she thought would never step foot in a library. Nelson, her adopted father, had his nose stuck in a book at a table. Next to him was a pile of maybe a dozen books. "Hey, Daddy," she said.
Looking up, Nelson gave a genuine grin. It was the third grin she'd seen today, but couldn't muster up one of her own. "Pumpkin. How you feeling?"
"Great," she lied and sat down across the table. Janice grabbed one of the books. "What are you reading? Aviation?" Maybe this was the root of Nelson's visible merriment. Before she joined the Celest family, he'd flown over a decade in the US Navy. The first time they took a ride in Air Force One, he couldn't stop talking about the technology behind the plane that had been flying presidents since 1953.
"Yes. Look at this plane, sweetie. It's called the Raptor F-43, created by joint efforts of Northrop and Lockhead Martin." He turned the book he read around to face her. She slid in closer, but none of it made sense. Not to a woman who barely knew anything about jets. The illustration might've been mistaken for something in a science fiction novel. Colored black except for a gray trim, the jet seemed extraterrestrial. "You see that coating? It's not actually paint, but a cloth coating. It absorbs light to make it nearly invisible. The gray lighting helps the navigator see. Oh! And it runs on zero emissions and no electricity. All of its power is drawn from the air. Get this…electrodes around the plane ionize the air; it harnesses the negative electrons and converts it to plasma energy."
Many questions crowded Janice's mouth, but she decided on just one. "Why are you researching this jet?"
He held up a finger and dug through his pile of books before settling on the thickest one. Nelson flipped through a few pages and showed Janice. It was a photograph of a Navy vessel called the USS Mitchell. "It's there," Nelson explained. "The jet. I did some research. The aircraft is one of three worldwide. According to the prison records we have here, the pilot had been arrested under treason accusations and the plane decommissioned on the USS Mitchell. Right now, the ship is docked at Port Authority near Long Island. Do you understand?" Not at all and her expression must've said it for her because he continued. "Look. Do you remember Adam's vision of the future?"
Only recently she had learned of her boyfriend (or whatever she referred to him as) and his ability to foresee the coming future. Just months ago, she had witnessed People of Bliss go into such a deep concentration that they glowed internally with a white light, so the notion that Adam had a supernatural ability seemed not all that far-fetched. "You mean his premonition of the final war?"
"Yes! In it, he saw me. He saw me flying…" he pointed to the jet's illustration, "…this aircraft. Don't you understand? I just found my purpose."
Janice wondered what that must feel like. Lately, even being a new mother didn't fill that void in everyone's mind. That empty void of purpose. "So you're suggesting traveling nearly 40 miles in hopes of going onto a heavily guarded United States warship and taking one of their planes? That's more preposterous than some of the fictionalized books in this room."
"This morning, at breakfast, I was ridiculed by the People of Bliss again. And you know what? I deserved it. My entire presidency, I got nothing accomplished. This is my opportunity to accomplish something."
Janice sighed, "What is this sudden rush to fight? We finally banded the family together. Why can't we just raise the baby and be a Celest family again?"
"This is war," he said firmly. She noticed Nelson's tone, a reflection of Brent. It was filled with anger not directed at a certain person but a certain idealism.
Brushing her hair aside, Janice demanded, "But why does it have to be?"
Nelson closed the book and placed his elbows on the table, "Last week, Marcel gave Union Keepers the power to be execute innocent people. Hundreds have died already. That's the start of a war. Period. Marcel isn't my enemy. But the Union is."
"He is the Union. What are you going to do if it all comes down to the decision to end him? Are you really going to kill your own son?"
Immediately realizing how delicate that question seemed, Janice decided to retract. Not only did she not want to hear the answer, Nelson probably didn't want to give it. Janice's side stung again. Trying not to show the pain, she gently sat back. Talking sense into her father, a stubborn Republican Senator and eventually the President of the United States, wouldn't be an easy task. But she'd have to talk sense into him before his life ended too. "Daddy, can you contemplate what you are saying? You could get recognized by any fascist during that journey, Union Keeper, or just anyone wanting to collect on some sort of bounty for you. You could die. We just lost Brent and now you want to risk your life too? After all we did to come together?"
"I have to," Nelson shrugged.
"Before you…" She was about to say left office but that wouldn't be accurate since Doomsday annihilated his job and government before his term ended. "…right after your last State of the Union address, your Gallop poll approval rating plummeted to below 10%. Sure that had mostly to do because of your attack on religious rights, but even prior to that – let's face it, Daddy, people just didn't appreciate you. Vanity named you 'President Celest the Pest'. Wall Street Journal said the electoral system must be rigged to vote in such a 'incompetent leader'. NewsWeek called you 'a worse choice than Donald Trump'. And now, you want to sacrifice your life for them?"
He sat back and slumped into his chair. Combing his hair back with one hand, Nelson took a deep breath. "When your mother was pregnant with Marcel, many moons ago, she had this insane appetite." He smiled at the memory, "Like clockwork, four in the morning she'd nudge me to go pickup whatever 'the baby craved'. Sometimes pickles and ice cream or peanut butter and whip cream. To be fair to me, she'd ride along. Dead tired, I still enjoyed those moments with her. We lived twenty-some miles from the closest grocery stores. Arkansas got icy cold during the winters. I made sure to always drive below the speed limit. But some had no fear of black ice." His smile faded and he spoke so softly Janice had to struggle to hear over the generator next door roaring. "One night, a pickup truck slid. You're supposed to veer toward the skid, but no one remembers all those driver safety videos in the middle of crisis like that. That night the highway turned into a carnival game of bumper cars. It happened in matter of seconds. Four cars got hit, one car got turned over, and another car slammed into the guardrail." Nelson squeezed his eyes closed then relaxed them. Whatever he saw that day, Janice rest assured it was horrific enough for his attempt at erasing the memory. "I pulled aside immediately without even a bit of hesitation. Your mother, eight months pregnant, was out
of the car faster than I was. She wobbled to help people out of their vehicles while I rushed to stop the traffic before the situation became worse. I'd say in maybe less than thirty seconds, more and more people rushed to the rescue. Three onlookers were on the phone with 911, five of us were pulling people out of the wreckage…Hell, one of the cars was on fire and two guys rushed to yank the driver out. By the time the police arrived, everyone had been pulled out to safety." He took another deep breath. "I learned something valuable that day. Something so valuable that I decided to run for office. That below all these nasty layers of bad attitudes, conflicted opinions, and unwarranted rages…there is actually good in people." He teared up with the word good. "Something so powerful, an energy that we create and connect to, existed that day. And everyday since. We just don't harness it. Don't even realize its existence. And it's worth sacrificing everything."
She recognized this power he spoke of; it existed in her baby's eyes. It existed in everyone, at same point. But in times like these, that power was often overlooked or pushed aside. "You believe there's good in Marcel too?"
Nelson answered with a brief, "He's dangerous." After closing the books, he announced, "I'm going to my room to pack up supplies. I'll be leaving first thing in the morning. Alone. I can make it to the ship by Friday. Once I'm there, I'll have to steal the jet. Not sure how, but…it's worth it."
Already set on his path, Janice knew he wouldn't change his mind. That stubbornness was a reflection of Marcel. Perhaps Nelson could be right in implying that he was dangerous. Especially after murdering their brother Brent, Marcel Celest could be capable of anything. But after all she had done to bring this family together, the Celests were separating again and Janice felt helpless. As though somehow Nelson had the power to see the future like Adam, she asked, "Will we see each other again?"
He ended the conversation with a simple sigh and kiss on her cheek, "Yes, pumpkin. Promise."
CHAPTER SEVEN
On Doomsday, January 7th, citizens did all they could to scramble away from the Kremlin where several chemical weapons exploded. Millions died. And yet, Royal found herself in a situation where she was heading directly in the center of the Kremlin. Gas masks did little to protect the rest of her body. The bright green gas that lingered in the air stung any skin not covered by clothing.
Anton, the friendly taxi driver that turned into a terrorist villain, lingered behind. Every once in a while, he poked one of them with that gun to remind the group who was in charge. The duck tape around her wrists stayed intact the entire trip here. She tried to questioned Anton of where they were going; he answered by turning up the music in his headphones. Not much else had been said
"I thought you were trained, dagnabit? You know, by them Servo Clementia people?" she asked Adam in the cab, during their drive through the ghettos of Moscow.
"Actually," Adam had answered, sarcastically as he could under his breath, "Brent trained me."
"So," Royal had whispered even more sarcastically, "These are very bad people. Get us out of here."
After a long pause, Adam shook his head. "If he wanted us dead, he would've done it already. It's because he's not in charge. I wanna meet who is."
Whoever was in charge, he chose a peculiar spot to have his evil lair. Royal imagined this person as an old silver haired man with goons surrounding him. He would be muscular and tall, like all the Russian men around here. Maybe a cigar would dangle out of his mouth and he would talk with a hoarse manly voice.
Normally, the Kremlin would be engulfed with armed guards. If they were any, Royal couldn't see them through the green haze. She wondered if Anton had gotten them lost a few times, because she past that same trash can twice already. Besides their little group of hostages, no one else seemed to be around. The last news she heard was everyone in the city had perished on Doomsday.
"There!" Anton screamed and pointed, trying to sound demanding but sounding thrilled to finally find it.
Before them, a door had been marked in Russian. If her hands were tied behind her back, this would've been the joyous moment Royal yanked out her language books to translate. After he opened the door and waved them with the chamber of gun, no translation was needed. The kitchen area seemed the typical silver appliances, silver pots, silver utensils, and silver cabinets. Everything had a layer of dust that would've made her panicked mother scrub the entire kitchen down with good old-fashioned baking soda.
"Line up against wall," Anton barked. With that gas mask on, it was like taking instructions from an angry elephant. Everyone listened, except Victor who always seemed drugged or confused. Maybe both. Adam shoved him against the wall.
From a cabinet, Anton pulled out a hand-sized yellow box with scribbly letters handwritten on it. Before she could be nosy and ask what it was, he popped open the box and poured the contents on himself. He coated himself in the white powder, covering his mask, neck, torso and arms. By the time he coated his legs, more of the powder ended up on the floor than his body. He inspected every part of his body, squinting through the coated gas mask. A slight nod and his jittery demeanor began to calm.
"Everyone turn. I'm cutting your restraints. Run out of here and you'll die in the green fog trying to find your way out," he said.
The group listened and turned. Royal felt Anton slice the duck tape and her hands finally free. She rubbed her wrists; through her mask she could see the red markings around them. Her nails were a pale green color. Had the outside chemical penetrated her skin? As though he could read her mind, she heard Anton say, "It's only deadly when inhaled."
They all turned back around when finally free.
Stepping over the mess of powder on the floor, Anton took out five more of the yellow boxes and put them on the counter. "Make sure, you cover every bit. All it takes is a small vial to start the bloody coughs." Without a warning, he tossed one box toward each of the prisoners; Royal had been the only one to catch it. Adam picked his up off the floor and popped it open. He poured the white powder on himself.
"Okay," Royal said, "I guess I'll be the one to ask…what in sam hill is this?"
"Cornstarch. It sticks to the green chemical and makes it a solid – so can't be inhaled."
While everyone caked themselves in cornstarch, Anton sprayed something out of an aerosol can. "This is hairspray. Very sticky."
After a few minutes of waiting, Anton slowly pulled off his mask and took a deep breath. Seeing that he didn't fall over in a coughing death, the others figured it was safe to do the same. Royal waited until after Adam pulled his mask off before doing the same. Besides the stench of cornstarch and hairspray, nothing else smelled peculiar.
"Let's go. Time to meet leader." Anton said, opening a side door. His head almost hit the top of the door.
Through a long hallway, they were led to a large dining room. Candles lit up the room causing sparkles from the enormous chandelier. At first, Royal thought the subtle whirring sound was a circulating fan, but no fan could be found. It must've taken the others a moment for their eyes to adjust to the darkness too, because everyone stood at the doorway for almost a minute. The noise began to shift from curiosity to creepiness. It almost sounded like a monster snoring in the corner of the room.
A candle wobbled as a shadow past by it. Royal grasped Adam's arm, only to feel humiliated when the shadow began to take shape. It was a cat. The blackest cat she'd ever seen. Licking its paw, the animal purred.
That was the noise! But it wasn't just the pleasant purr of the cat…it came from several of them. Royal quickly let of Adam's arm. Pierre whispered, "There's gotta be twenty of them."
"Sixteen. Where did you learn to count?" a voice grumbled.
Sitting at the head of the table, a frail woman pet an even more frail cat. She had silver hair pulled back into a bun. Wrinkles aligned every inch of her face and neck. Her bony fingers had unpainted fingernails that were gray and filthy. Was this the evil leader Royal imagined? Instead of being surrounded by goons, cats surrounded th
e mistress. Instead of being muscular and tall, she was skinny and short. Instead of a hoarse manly voice, she spoke every word bitterly like a nun with disobedient students.
"Why are you people here? Where's my food?"
Anton stepped out from behind them. Was he more scared than them? "These are the targets of Servo Clementia. We –"
"Would you all just sit down! It hurts my neck to look up at all of you."
Royal said, "But, Ma'am, we're covered in corn –"
"Shush! Sit down!"
If the group had been on edge this entire kidnapping, they physically hadn't seemed this frightened until now. Adam pulled out a chair and sat, covering it with cornstarch powder. Seeing that the flaky old woman hadn't stabbed him with a fork yet, the others followed suit and sat. Anton stood, as though he knew he hadn't been invited to a seat.
"I asked you to bring me Rassolnik and you brought me five homeless people?"
"Actually, Madame," Pierre whispered, "He kidnapped us. Quiet vigorously, might I add."
"Kidnapped?" the old woman said as though she didn't understand what the word meant. "With what? That stupid air gun? You idiots fell for that?" she yanked the gun from Anton's belt loop and tapped it on the table. Instead of solid metal clanks, it made the sound of hollow plastic. "My son can't even fire a gun. He's…what is that English word…Vegan. So that means I have to eat like a fucking deer!" She turned to Anton. "Get out and find me some Rassolnik! And don't forget to salt it. Now!" She barked something in Russian and Anton rushed out of the dining room.
Having no idea what to say next, Royal let Adam do the talking. She nudged him as a reminder that he deemed himself the leader of the rebellion.
"Um," Adam spoke, "Who are you?"
"Anna Zharkova. What the hell is an American doing in the Kremlin? If I was still Prime Minister, I'd have you all hanged for looking goddamn stupid! My son listens to all your rap music and it's your fault."