by Chris Ayala
After a moment of hesitation, Marcel answered, "No. The Union needs me."
Mixed with the mucus from Marcel's nose, a red liquid began to exit. Gerard squinted his eyes. "Is that…that blood coming from your nose?"
Immediately wiping his nose with the side of his hand and looking, Marcel stared at red smear. It was definitely blood. "That's new."
CHAPTER TEN
Aurora
The setting was surreal. Royal had been offered one of the finest rooms beneath the Russian Prime Minister's mansion. Coming from sleeping on cold hard floors or stiff cots in the silo, she felt overwhelmed to almost the point of tears. The bed had four posts around it, a thick pillow top layer for comfort, warm blankets, and pillows with goose feathers. Royal slid her fingers across it. Next to the bed was a dresser; her entire backpack of clothes and essentials fit in the top drawer. She only wished she had more stuff to fill the drawers up. On top of the dresser was a bowl of candy. She took one bite of the chewy morsel and almost died from the delicious sweet taste.
There was a television, but she was afraid to turn it on. No doubt every station only reported about the Union, the chaos of Doomsday, or the worldwide death tolls still on the rise in the eight months since the world ended. None of it sounded appealing.
Royal plopped herself on the bed, not even taking a moment to remove her clothes and shoes. Suddenly her body felt heavy; her eyelids even heavier. She started to snore with her eyes open. So unladylike. Maybe skipping the shower tonight wouldn't be so bad.
What seemed like only a blink of her eyes was actually a passage in time. Because sitting on a bed bench in the room was Zharkova's assistant Anton. He wore headphones and moved his head to the best of his music. She could hear the booming rap tunes from even across the room.
Royal sat up. "Holy Toledo! Did I just fall asleep?"
Anton took his headphones off. "You have twenty-two minutes to get ready before the Prime Minister arrives."
Royal wiped dry saliva from the side of her face. So much for trying to impress the sexy Russian hunk. "I'm. Why are you in my room?"
"I am told to observe." He pronounced the O like a U.
"I am just so dog tired, I don't even care how creepy that sounds. How long was I out for?"
"Almost two hours."
Just two hours? It felt like two minutes. "Gimme just a few more minutes of sleep." Royal laid her head back down on the cool, plump pillow.
"I wouldn't upset the Prime Minister."
Royal waved him off and felt her eyelids become heavy again. "Wait. We are leaving? Where we going?" She looked to see Anton had placed his headphone back on and beat his hands to an invisible drum set.
Sleep stole her time again. And unfortunately it wasn't a gentle awakening.
Slap!
The sound hit her before the pain did. Royal awoke to a stinging pain along her leg. Before she could react, another smack hit her back along the spine.
Zharkova's voice shouted out. "All you Americans have such nerve! I tell you wake up early and you go back to sleep! Do you think you are some fairy tale princess? Yes, that's it. You believe you are Aurora, the Sleeping Beauty."
Royal would never compare herself to a Disney character. Maybe Cinderella before she put on that glass slipper. But definitely not a princess.
Slap!
This time Zharkova's cane hit Royal's arm hard. Half dazed and startled, she sat up quickly. The cane left a red welt on her forearm. "That one was quite a doozy! Please don't hit me. I'm tired. I need more sleep."
"Sleep?" Zharkova shouted as she struck again. Royal covered her face. "You Americans - all you want to do is sleep."
Snap!
"You slept during a civil war in Rwanda."
Snap!
"You slept while Somalians slaughtered children."
Snap!
"You slept while a madman formulated Al-Qaeda."
Snap!
"You slept while an Islamic terrorist group threw innocent people off of roofs."
Snap!
"You slept while an Iranian President planned an attack with nuclear weapons! You slept while Russian radicals got their hands on chemical weapons! You slept while Africa manufactured lethal locusts! You slept while those French assholes made an airborne flu virus to wipe out millions!"
Snap!
Snap!
Snap!
By the time Zharkova's tantrum was over, Royal shook in terror underneath her blanket. Blood began to soak the white, comfortable sheet. She pulled the blanket away to see the Russian Prime Minister grasping her cane with those bony fingers like she was about peel husks off a corn cob.
With teary eyes, Royal met the icy gaze of Zharkova. The Prime Minister muttered, "That's right, Princess Aurora. You bleed and you cry. And then you go back to sleep."
Not another word was said as the world leader turned around and walked out the door. Royal took a series a timid breaths before the situation settled into her mind. The words struck her harder than that cane had. Though it wasn't easy to admit, the crazy woman made a valid point. Could Royal just turn back around and fall back asleep in this pillow of feathers? Let the world crumble around her while she dreamt of a better one? Or could she stand up, grab her backpack, and follow the wench to their unknown destination?
After a deep breath, Royal stood and snatched her backpack. Then headed out the door.
Inscriptions of the Georgia Guidestones
1. Maintain humanity under 500,000,000 in perpetual balance with nature.
2. Guide reproduction wisely -- improving fitness and diversity.
3. Unite humanity with a living new language.
4. Rule passion -- faith -- tradition -- and all things with tempered reason.
5. Protect people and nations with fair laws and just courts.
6. Let all nations rule internally resolving external disputes in a world court.
7. Avoid petty laws and useless officials.
8. Balance personal rights with social duties.
9. Prize truth -- beauty -- love -- seeking harmony with the infinite.
10. Be not a cancer on the earth -- leave room for nature.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Pause.
The frame froze on Marcel, standing on the podium poised and confident. That timid kid in High School that Gerard used to stand up for, now stood up for himself. Students would whisper behind his back. He's too quiet. His dad's a Senator. He'll never be anything. Gerard restarted the video on his computer screen. The crowd's cheer could've knocked the planet out of orbit. What changed? But when he paused the video at one minute and fifty-five seconds, the answer was seen.
His eyes.
Marcel's eyes were black as coal. Even blacker…if that was even possible. Gerard minimized the video window and opened the file explorer on his PC. If the Union Tech Czar, Lester, ever found out Gerard had hacked his private server there would be hell to pay. Lester happened to be an online gamer and online gamers became obsessed with their mystical worlds. "Azeroth" had been the most obvious of passwords, named after the fantasy land in World of Warcraft. Lester couldn't have made it more obvious. So in a way, Gerard was teaching them a lesson about internet security.
Thousands of videos from YouTube had been stored on the Union's servers, until Lester and his team decided what could be released to the public. Censorship at its finest. But who was going to stop them?
Gerard found more videos of Marcel, pausing at exact moments when the Supreme Leader's eyes went black. What did it mean? It all changed after that coma. Changed him in even deeper ways then simply discovering his brother Brent placed him in that state. Gerard deduced from several videos that the black eyes always happened during speeches, when Marcel wanted something. Something normal people would object to. Or at least one person would object to. But no one ever walked away from his speeches without doubt. Union Keepers walked away like zombies when he ordered them use their own judgments and bypass any laws. Even in Nazi Ge
rmany, someone would surely feel doubt about Hitler's actions. So how was Marcel performing a stronger feat than that of the Master Speaker? And better yet, how was Marcel capable of controlling the weather? Did both phenomenon's have a link?
Persuasion.
He sank back in his office chair and crossed his arms. Not sure why, but certain of how, Gerard took a deep breath. Marcel had harnessed something beyond simple mind control. This power could turn the elements to his will.
The office door swung open. Gerard quickly closed the file explorer on the PC with one swift click.
General Vanderbilt, robotic voicebox and all, walked into the office as though he owned it. "What the hell?" Gerard objected. "Don't you knock?"
"What were you doing?"
"Watching porn before Tech Czar takes that away too." Gerard offered to swing the monitor around. "Want to watch how far this woman can split?"
Just as expected, Vanderbilt shook his head and took a seat. "Since you keep ignoring my emails to watch…disgusting pornography…I figured I'd stop by."
Launching his email application, Gerard could see the folder he set for the general's emails named "Robot Douchebag". He opened it and glanced through the most recent one. Double clicking opened up a series of JPEG picture files. A perfect female, with a perfect bod and perfect teeth, modeled a futuristic suit behind an all-white background. Without the white background, the clothing would've disappeared. Gerard recognized this type of fabric; it had the ability to make the wearer practically invisible in dark settings by absorbing light around it. In fact, Brent Celest wore it the night he attacked Marcel. "What is this?"
"Schematics for a new suit for Union Keepers. Since the Supreme Leader doesn't believe in separating our armed forces from your…" Vanderbilt trailed on, looking for a word. "…security guards? We have to come to agreements between our departments."
Gerard scoffed. Calling his group of well-trained personnel "security guards" was like calling female wrestlers just simple Girl Scouts. He scanned the pictures and diagrams for the new suit. Attached to various parts of the body were black mechanical devices. It took him a moment to see the knives protruding them. "Retractable blades in the arms? In the wrists? Even in the feet? Jesus, is it a new uniform for Union Keepers or the kitchen staff?"
"Don't make fun. We've spent hundreds of hours coming up with this plan. Our military isn't safe. The uprising has taken a turn for the worse."
Vanderbilt reminded Gerard of one of those conspiracy freaks with a tin foil hat to avoid government mind control. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "What are you talking about, Vandy? There hasn't been any protests since you mowed down that group outside the bank headquarters." The memory of peoples' screams had been the alarm clock in his head every morning.
Smug and confident, Vanderbilt smirked. "You have no idea." He stood and walked around Gerard's tiny office with his hands cupped behind him. Gerard had so little things on the wall. Since his home had been crushed by a Baltimore nuke, he couldn't salvage much. A few pictures of his wife Janice, their wedding day, and a picture of the White House he bought on sale at Sam's Club. Vanderbilt, like others who came into his office, stared at the photo for a while. Currently, the Presidential Mansion looked nothing like the picture with bright green grass and pure white paint; instead it looked like a building abandoned by its country. Which in a way…it was. The Union was the future. With his back still to him, Vanderbilt said, "Vicious acts, like those of our military, should've angered more of the rebels. Not less. They're hiding. Recruiting. Building up. And our actions aren't bringing them out."
The phone rang. Gerard took this opportunity to get rid of the general. "Alright, well. I'm busy. So you need an answer? No. The uniform sucks; no matter how sexy the model is. It's prone to bullets, which our opponents still have, remember?"
Vanderbilt nodded, "That's right. They are still somewhat armed. But maybe not forever." With that vague hint of a more restricted future for citizens, Vanderbilt left the office.
Alone now, Gerard picked up the phone. It still bothered him. What did the general mean by the citizens wouldn't be armed much longer? "Yeah?" Gerard answered.
A polite professional male voice spoke. "Mr. Security Czar, we have instructions to contact you immediately before allowing Adam Durham back into the country."
Gerard sat up immediately, knocking the keyboard off his desk. He frantically picked it up. "You have Mr. Durham in custody?"
"Not exactly. He's awaiting your approval at the airport –"
"Let him in."
After a short silence on the line, the airport security officer asked, "Are you certain, Sir? There's quite a record on this individual. Adam Durham is linked to both Servo Clementia and protest efforts –"
Again, Gerard interrupted anxiously. "I said, let him in." No one was more planned and ready. He expected Adam's return and this phone call. He also knew that Adam would head next to the underground colony known as the People of Bliss.
"Yes, Sir," the airport officer said then hung up.
Gerard needed this good news. Adam had returned from his trek and he was essential to the next part of his plan.
It was time for a face-to-face meeting with the fugitive Adam Durham.
Somehow Adam had managed to remain calm on the outside, while the others physically showed their angst. Victor was on his third attempt at fidgeting the knob to see if the door would finally open; lucky for them, there was no combustible products around for him to create a fire. Pierre paced the floor like he had nowhere to sit, when there were plenty of seats in the confinement room. Bruno used the sleeve of his sweater to wipe sweat from his forehead. Airport Security had kept them in this room for six hours now. The conference room with a mahogany round table didn't seem like much of a jail, but sure felt like one. Bruno had already eaten the fruit in the glass bowl at the center of the table. Adam watched with bewilderment and amusement as the six and a half foot man began to munch on the glass bowl. No blood poured from his mouth; something that would happen to practically anyone else that chewed glass. It was like his teeth were made of diamonds.
"Doesn't that hurt?" Adam asked.
Bruno shrugged. "Bruno is freak. That's what children call Bruno."
Adam couldn't argue the downfall of being different. Deep in his head, he often wondered why life chose him to be this way. The precognition he had a few days ago still lingered in his head like that failed calculus test. He should've been more prepared, but his panic seized him up again. Only bits and pieces of the future had been noted. He struggled, even at this dire moment of being held against their will at an international airport, to remember the entire precognition. Marcel had been there. A monster came out from his skin. A black monster. The only way to destroy darkness is with light. What did that mean? Why, if all the important glimpses of the future, did he recall this one? What significance would this be for the upcoming war? Were they supposed to storm the hill with flashlights in their hands? And that monster climbing out of Marcel. What was it?
He stayed calm, because that's what Brent Celest would've done. His idol, confidant, and best friend. Even though Marcel had brutally murdered Brent, he couldn't help but sense sympathy for the "Supreme Leader" in the precognition. Whatever Marcel Celest did, to keep all that darkness in himself, it would eventually kill him.
"I still don't understand. If our passports are utterly fool-proof, why are we here?" Pierre asked no one in particular. "It's…how you say?…suspicious."
That it was. Without any Customs issues, just weeks prior,Adam expected the same returning to the United States. But Airport Security felt differently. Random Screening. That's what they called it. But four men in a room with a locked door seemed beyond simple screening.
What would Brent do?
A decade of hardcore training taught Brent Celest how to snap three necks and disarm two men in less than eight seconds. On the other hand, Adam's lack of discipline in fight training meant the same c
ould be done in eight minutes. Eight minutes that could quadruple the size of armed Airport Security. Adam's shoulders sank as he slumped backwards into the admittedly comfy chair. Opposites attracted. That old saying. Adam and Brent were opposites and that's why their friendship worked. For every angry rant Brent gave, Adam would instill realism into the situation. While for every pitiful idea Adam would have, Brent would remind him to tough it up. But violence couldn't remove them from this situation, only faith.
The door opened.
Instead of five men with semi-automatic weapons ready to fire, a nerdy suited man stood at the door with a clipboard. As if holding people against their will was routine, the man said, "You have been cleared to enter the United States. Please remember not to leave any baggage and exit out the left door." And like that, he left.
An applause or cheer should've been apt for this situation, but instead the group just sat there. Like Adam, the others might've been worried what awaited them outside that door. Courageous, like Brent, he decided to be the first to walk out the door. No guns awaited them. No cautious eyes. No sneers. Nobody cared. After clearing his throat, Adam said, "See. Told you guys I'd get you out of this."
"But, you didn't do anything," Pierre retorted.
"Let's go." Adam commanded.
In College, Adam had this old clunker of a car. Certainly after a nuclear weapon with the capability of untold amounts of wind probably carried that car from the University of Baltimore to somewhere in the next state. But what Adam would do to have that Nissan Altima right at this moment. His legs burned from walking. Taxi drivers asked too many questions and this group of odd men didn't seem appeasing to those willing to pickup hitchhikers. The group kept quiet for most of the trek, stopping when Adam said it was time to rest and waking up when it was time to beat the afternoon showers. Victor loved the night stops and opportunity to build a campfire. Food had been scarce, since Adam hadn't anticipated feeding three more mouths including Bruno's endless appetite; his canned food supply could only last so long. They relied on hunting squirrels for the last days of their walk; without Royal's impeccable aim…hunting had been difficult.