by Chris Ayala
"So what's Bruno's future?" Bruno said, licking the plate. Royal hadn't even finished her first bite.
Adam's head hung low in thought. "I'm not sure. The only one I can recall is Victor."
Stopping his spoon, mid-sip, Victor stared. Adam grinned and looked into the madman's eyes. He told the story like they were sitting next to a campfire roasting marshmallows and telling ghost stories. "Victor, in your future, we are in a stampede toward the Union Castle. Thousands of us! All ready to kill and maim. There's Union Keepers, blocking our way and ready to fire on us. Then you come up to the front of our ravenous mob. You're wearing a mechanical suit with these two large tanks of propane and a hose in each hand." While Adam continued his story, Victor's hand began to quiver and the soup dribbled onto the table. "Then you ignite a flame in each of these tubes. The propane spurts out and creates this massive plume of fire. You burn the Union Keepers, blow up their vans, cause explosions everywhere…"
Victor made a low vocal squeal that sounded like a mixture of an orgasm, an inhale after a deep swim, and a stroke. He dropped the spoon without moving at all. Royal down and saw a wet spot form on Victor's crotch. She sighed, "Oh dear God, he just peed his pants."
The pyromanic whispered, "Me?…Burn?…Everything?"
Adam again gave that devilish smile. "Yes. All of you are a part of this revolution."
After a full minute, Victor still hadn't moved. Perhaps he had a stroke. Royal could see not only the desire in Pierre and Victor, but also Bruno after he happily ordered another stack of pancakes. However this team would accomplished it, they were all ready to fight. The only question remained…was she?
A little sunlight came into her window that next morning. At least the star in the center of the solar system still existed, even though its warmth had been masked by the ugliest of clouds.
The group had stayed in a room that must've been intended for the Kremlin's housecleaning staff. Couches would've been more comfortable than these bunk beds. Royal had slept below Adam's bed, hearing him give a slight snore. It brought her peace listening to her friend snore rather than complain about the brick wall they've reached with the rebellion. At nearly three o'clock in the morning, Adam woke her up to tell her their movement was as disorganized as the Million Man March in Washington DC; a good cause without a clear purpose.
A bang on the door woke up the team. Anton's voice came from behind the closed door, "Everyone come!" He exclaimed in a strange sense of excitement. "I made waffles!" A man with the stature of a quarterback but the heart of a chef was every girl's fantasy. While Royal sat up thrilled, the others woke with annoyed groans.
Faces brightened up at breakfast. Anton had no problems serving endless waffles to the black hole in Bruno's stomach. Royal found herself not having much of an appetite, as Miss Zharkova sat across the dining table from her. For whatever reason, the old woman kept staring uncomfortably at Royal and not saying much of anything.
Adam tried his best to sound like a leader, at times, but failed miserably. "So, I just wanna say that…like…we appreciate food and…um…shelter and stuff. But there's a plane taking us out of her and back home. Better get a cab and…um…you know, fly away and stuff. Thanks."
Zharkova spoke so loud that Adam's words just sounded like mumbles. "I've given thought to this war. Leave Anton an email address for correspondence. When you have a solid plan to storm the Union castle and get past their securities, contact me." Looking directly at Royal, she added, "I could gather enough forces here, if I had help."
The last words didn't seem to mean anything to anyone as they gathered their bags and headed for the kitchen area. But Royal felt bothered. Why did Zharkova look directly at her when she mentioned the need for help? Barely making eye contact at all since the night before, she was surprised the Russian woman even remembered Royal existed.
Anton prepared their chemical suits, that had been washed free of the cornstarch. In the kitchen, the others got dressed while not saying a word to her. Though she was sure it wasn't their faults, Royal felt disregarded. Charles Declan ignored his daughter all her life. She had been tolerant of it, but not okay with it. Being the illegitimate child of a politician could mean doom for his campaign. Especially a poor child in a poor town in a poor state. She thought about what it meant to have a "say". Her father never gave her a chance to give have a say on their situation. Perhaps if he had, matters would've been different. Maybe Charles Declan might have enjoyed Royal's company. The last time she saw her dad alive was six years ago. Secret Service drove him out in five vehicles, which not only was the most amount of cars to visit her farm but also seemed redundant. He didn't have much to talk about. The usual questions like how's school or what do you want to be when you grow up were pointless for a woman nearly thirty years old. After a home-cooked dinner of catfish chowder, honey fried chicken, buttered corn on the cob, and black bean chopped salad, Secretary Declan made an excuse to leave. As the vehicles sped away in a trail of dust, Royal wished she had given her say. Daddy, why don't you come visit more often? Daddy, why are you ashamed of me? Daddy, I need help with the farm Mom left us.
Finally someone noticed Royal just standing at the door of the kitchen and not suiting up. Adam scowled, "Royal. Hurry up. Let's go."
"Would you stop bossing me around! I've had it!" she snapped. There it was again. That impulse. Adam didn't expect and neither did she.
Men always reacted with the same avoidance when a women snapped, Bruno, Pierre, and Victor huddled in a corner of the room to evade the irritated female dragon. But Adam, trying to be brave, approached her. Near the door where they had a bit of privacy, he mumbled something that sounded like sorry.
Royal brushed hair out of her face and found a tear trickling down the right side of her cheek. "Look, I get it. You trying to handle this the way Brent would, all tough and brutal. So maybe I gots to handle this the way Sirius would, calm and organized. She'd find followers."
Adam checked his watch, which seemed weird since that always seemed to be Royal's job. "We got to get going, we're going to miss the flight."
"Why am I supposed to be just a 'tag-a-long' to everyone? When do I get a say?" Royal wiped the tear away. "How about someone stay and work with Miss Zharkova? She gonna need help." Hoping she'd never regret these words, she said, "How about I stay?"
Adam put his hands in his pockets and strained, like opening a can of peas. For someone that treated her so harshly the last few weeks, he seemed very concerned to part ways. After biting his lip, he whispered, "I want a weekly update…no, I want a daily update. Email only. Secured. Got it?"
"Yeah," Royal said feeling the panic in the back of her throat. Was she really about to do this? Be an aide to that demon in a muumuu?
Adam asked, "What's the date we decided last night to strike?"
"August fourteenth. I got it, Adam. We'll be ready. What about you?"
He bit his lip and decided not to answer, because there was still the problem of weaponry. The castle and the Union Keepers would surely be armed better than a bunch of homeless men and women. He admitted, "Goddamnit, why am I so scared?" After a deep breath, Adam exhaled slowly.
"Don't use the lord's name in vain," Royal whispered.
Since they had never said goodbye before, she didn't know what to do next. Adam reached for a hug at the same time she reached out to shake hands. When Royal went in for a hug, Adam put out his hand to shake. They agreed on the handshake, firm and confident. "Bye, Adam."
"Bye, Royal."
As he walked away to put on his suit, Bruno stepped walked up to her. Typical men, saying women were nosy when they had been listening the whole time. "Bruno going to miss Royal. Can Bruno get hug goodbye?"
After a small smirk, she hugged his belly since her hands couldn't completely get around him. He gave her a warm embrace. Someone patted her shoulder. Pierre was there to say, "Good luck, Mademoiselle."
The last of the group, Victor, sat in a seat doodling on a notepad. Before
she could ask what he was doing, Pierre answered. "He's been trying to draw schematics for the suit Adam spoke about last night."
"Oh," Royal nodded.
She watched as the team got dressed and walked out the door. Even through the green scum covering the window, she watched as they walked toward the cab and placed their bags into the truck. She watched as the cab eventually drove away. And just like that…Royal was on her own.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Cab drivers didn't usually talk so much, but this one had plenty to say. Admittedly, Willie felt pleasure in speaking to another Philly native. After the hour long drive, he had caught up on all the recent sports news since being locked away in the missile silo with the People of Bliss. To his disappointment and expectancy, both the NFL and the MBA skipped this season to mourn the overwhelming global catastrophes while soccer continued its season around the world to empty stadiums. Though never a fan of the brutal antics of hockey, the cab driver seemed opposite. NHL prepped for a new season of what they called "the apocalypse in the rink". Using the billions of deaths worldwide to backpack an advertising slogan left a bad taste in Willie's mouth. For whatever reason, the tag lines worked and NHL filled the stadiums.
The sun attempted again to puncture through the opaque clouds. Instead of an array of beautiful colors at sunset, Willie was left with just a boring, barely visible dot disappearing behind a hill then the sky grew from a pallet of dull grays to pure black. Will the sun ever shine again?
Since nuclear weapons blasted all major cities making them dangerous habitats, the cab driver took the long way around Philadelphia to Willie's new home in Brookhaven. They past familiar exits. He tried his best to peer at what remained of the first capital in the United States…Philadelphia. The airport had four upside-down planes in the runway and at least a dozen with charred remains. What must've the airport been like on Doomsday? Panicked screams or quick deaths, as the nukes threw airplanes around as frisbees. Initial estimates of the wind blast from the nuclear weapons had been in the 350 mph range, but scientists said numbers far exceeded that in windy areas.
The drive took less than an hour, which had been practically unheard of before Doomsday. Traffic meant hours of standstill on the I-476. Cars had been left abandoned with news of nuclear strikes happening around the country. Sadly, most people didn't make it out of the 98 cities struck that day. No matter how fast they ran. Besides, where was there to run? Especially when no one had any idea what city was next. It all made 9/11 seem second nature. If only Willie had gotten the call of a possible nuclear strike, maybe his family would still be with him.
Almost twenty miles outside of the strike zone, Brookhaven didn't seem much better. Most of it he didn't recognize because the town had been practically flattened. Driving through demolished houses and crumbled businesses of his hometown gave Willie little hope this condo from the Union would be ideal. He just prayed for a fresh meal and bed. Since his plan had been to deceive the Union, it felt someone distracting that he was taking a free cab to his free home. Sort of like enjoying your stay in the White House, when you're intention is to the assassinate the President.
At the end of the 2016, Willie spent about a year in prison. Whatever this home from the Union was going to be, it couldn't be worse than a cell. He had accidentally, still understanding his control over electricity, murdered a home owner. Being an electrician seemed the perfect way to hone in on his skills, but his simple wiring project turned into a nightmare and the house caught fire. The home owner never made it out. Willie got sentenced three years for manslaughter and was out in thirteen months. A grueling thirteen months. That cell had a permanent stench of what smelled like rotted feces and cheese, brown water to brush your teeth, and paper-thin blankets to cover yourself in the cold. He just prayed his assigned home had hot water.
They entered a white gate that opened automatically. The cab driver kept talking. Unsure of where the conversation had gone, Willie just continued to nod. Once inside the community, he felt a guilty sense of comfort. Trees with gold colored mulch were on both ends of the cobble-stoned street. Nicely trimmed green bushes meant the landscaping team cared about their jobs, much like the cab driver cared about his and how Willie already felt about his new position at the warehouse. They drove for only a quarter of mile before the condominium could be seen. Lit up like a tree on Christmas morning, Willie smiled at the thought of adequate electricity in his new home. The missile silo had a generator that died on a weekly basis.
He was dropped off at the cul-de-sac in front of the condos. Five buildings surrounded the enormous circle drive. His complex, letter A, had been painted a gentle brown color with aluminum siding and glassed balconies. After staring for too long, Willie said farewell to the driver and finally grabbed his heavy backpack. He walked through a steel gate to look for condo number 184. Lucky for him, it was the first door on the left. He'd never been good with directions; his husband did all the navigating.
Coming from a boy who had an iPhone at eight years old, a tablet at eleven, and laptop at thirteen - Willie Cooper would call himself a "tech geek". But standing before the door to his condo, he couldn't figure out how to open this electronic contraption. There was no keypad or even a door knob. Besides the metal plate with the condo number, nothing else could be seen.
He turned to see the driver, outside of the gate, hanging out the car window and making large waving movements with his arm. They had already said goodbye, so why was he waving? A little awkward. Willie gave a slight wave back.
"Wave!" The driver exclaimed.
More awkward. Willie gave a bigger wave.
"No, silly!" He shouted. "Wave to the door!"
Extremely awkward. Wave to a door? Willie turned and faced the door. Using the hand implanted with the chip, he waved at the inanimate door.
"Hello, Mr. Cooper," a polite mechanical female voice said from a speaker above the hinge. The door unlocked. Willie pushed and the door opened. "Sick!" He giggled; quickly realizing he hadn't smiled in weeks. It felt good.
This time he turned and gave a genuine wave to the cab driver who drove off. Willie entered his new home and closed the door behind him. Lights came on automatically and an ice cool breeze hit his face from the vent above. With no air conditioning in the missile silo, the smell of freon gave him relief.
He looked around and dropped his bag, not because he'd been lugging it all day and it had gotten too heavy…but because of his surprise. Expecting a puny worn-out condo from the Union, Willie had been overwhelmingly surprised. If this was the low end of the Union's residence chain, what was the high end? Already furnished, the living room had a two-piece sectional made from soft microfiber and a plush ottoman. "This is fucking nuts," Willie said to himself, grabbing his shabby hair on both sides. He dashed, then leapt onto the couch. It bounced back like landing on a plush mattress. Willie smiled again as he body melted into the sofa. As much as he wanted to see the inside of his eyelids, he wanted to see the rest of the place even more.
The kitchen had a washer and dryer, which at first seemed very odd. Both machines were a single appliance; he'd seen something like that on the DIY Network. But when he thought about it, the kitchen had been built efficiently. Scarce electricity meant the Union needed to conserve all utilities. China must've had some influence, since their tight, yet roomy living styles could be pointed out everywhere around him. Connected to the washer/dryer combo was the dishwasher, to save on water flow. The refrigerator had been filled with fruits, vegetables, and frozen foods. All the food looked more delicious than the pots of beef stew made at the missile silo's cafeteria practically daily. Willie shoveled down a bowl of chicken and rice before the microwave even finished heating it, not feeling full but satisfied.
Being so blindsided by this incredible home, he didn't notice there wasn't a bedroom. Instead, in the living room, a wall-mounted bed retracted with the push of a button. Willie watched the murphy bed recline. Unlike the couch, he took his time and didn't leap on thi
s furniture. Carefully, he sat and let his body soak into the mattress; the nights of back pain from the cot at the missile silo melted like the cushion. Using the remote control, he turned on the television. Very few channels actually worked. The dark days of the apocalypse certainly didn't leave a lot to watch. He settled on a comic book movie, remembering the nights he would settle in with his husband and adopted boy. They loved the Marvel films, but Willie was more a DC fan. Tobey Maguire swung in his Spiderman suit through the buildings in Manhattan. Buildings that were no longer there. Why did they keep rebooting this movie? Tobey Maguire had been a great superhero actor. He watched the scenes of beautiful Manhattan. Or what it used to look like. Brightly lit billboards no longer cornered Time Square, instead the leftover nuclear missile sat impeded in the center. Wouldn't it be nice if they could reboot the city?
He must've fallen asleep, because he opened his eyes and the room was dimmer. The movie changed. Dorothy had her eyes closed and repeated, "There's no place like home." Her bright ruby slippers clicked together. She was right, there was no place like home. And the Union just gave Willie a superb one. But it still felt empty. His home, before Doomsday began, had a loving partner and an energetic nine-year old boy. This home had neither.
On the other side of the living room, an office table connected snugly into the corner. Willie got up and sat in the computer chair. The laptop on the desk was nothing to get excited about, a plastic casing and thirteen inch screen housed a probably weak processor and storage. But it get on the internet.
The internet.
Willie hadn't surfed the worldwide web in over a year. He opened the laptop and after a few clicks, his browser opened a new window. Unlike the typical Google, Bing, or Yahoo homepage, this browser opened a page called The Union Search Engine. Anytime he'd type a different homepage like Google or Bing, he'd be met with the same message flashing: Internet Searches have been Merged into One Convenient Website. Boring, more like it. The Union Search Engine, or USE as they cleverly named it, compiled lists into simple text. Searches had been drastically reduced into one page. Willie typed Facebook into the search bar. Another friendly worked message informed him all social media websites had been consolidated into one. Ever since joining the Union, Willie noticed how much the word "one" was used.