by Chris Ayala
But how was he going to get it? The military side of him begged for a uniformed plan, in case the occupants of the boat wanted to protect the only aircraft available to them. The frustrated, tired, bitter side of him begged to just run in and steal it quickly. He'd never been a thief, so he wasn't certain if planned executions worked less times than impetuous ones. On the other hand, if anyone was on this boat, surely there weren't many. Nelson was positive he could nab the plane before anyone noticed.
He dropped his backpack behind a pair of bushes, figuring clunky baggage with pots and supplies wouldn't be very incognito. After removing his shoes, exposing his holed socks, he hustled up the plank connected to the boat, careful not to rush too much or slide down the icy surface into the frigid sea. Feeling his old age, Nelson's back was too sore to be sneaking about in a huddled position. He used his ears to listen, perched next to a stack of crates next. If there were people onboard, they must've been in the quarters, expecting no visitors in the wasteland of a city.
He snuck through past more crates, filled with arsenal and food, until the jet came into view. Gawking at now, Nelson felt angst that he wouldn't know how to fly the thing. Very little was explained in the books he managed to find about it. Staring at it, he couldn't even figure out how to open the hatch. He walked slowly to it, rubbing his hand against the surface. It had been washed recently; the waxy exterior reflected his tired old face and beard. After climbing the ladder, he found himself still questioning how to even open the hatch door and climb in. He removed his glove and felt for buttons, since he could find none he tried tapping on certain sections like it was an iPad. The jet, according to his research, used no electronic equipment, but instead charged up with solar cells and used fusion technology to operate. This was becoming more overwhelming than the stack of paperwork in the Oval Office on his first day.
Something moved in the glass reflection. Before Nelson could even turn, someone grabbed his ankle and yanked him. Falling six feet face down broke his nose immediately. Navy standard Bates brand boots with steel toes began kicking him. There was more than one attacker, he tried to get up but was battered back to the ground. His only choice now was to plead. "Please! Don't! I didn't mean it!"
All the kicks stopped simultaneously.
"No way. I know that voice," one of the attackers said, kicking Nelson backwards so they could see his face, bleeding and beaten. "Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle."
With one swollen eye already, Nelson could only focus slowly. Four men, in naval uniforms, stood above him cackling. Another man didn't laugh. He seemed more skeptical, crossing his arms and staring at Nelson. "Naw, guys, I don't think it's him."
"That's him, all right," another voice said, joining the group. Wearing a very different uniform, white with a shoulder covered in strips and awards, the captain approached. "You don't recognize that pretty face since it ain't dolled up with powder and clean, slick back hair. That, my friends, is the god-dang President of the United States."
The captain bent down, chewing on a toothpick manically. He was older, probably older than Nelson, with a pointed nose and permanent sour look on his face, like he kept losing at slots no matter how much he pulled the handle. From his back pocket, he pulls out a dirty handkerchief and licks it, then smears the wet cloth over Nelson's face. This was the first moment he wished he brought a weapon, even a knife could've had a chance of escape. "He look like shit don't he? Stinks too. When's the last time you took a shower, Mr. President?"
The men laughed, even though it wasn't much of a jab to be laughing about.
Nelson muttered, "Please. I made a mistake. I –"
The captain interrupted, "Maybe if he done a better job he wouldn't be in this little predicament huh? We wouldn't be in this little predicament. You know…the whole missile apocalypse thing." He wipe his own nose with the handkerchief and put it away. "When I turned 18, I voted for Barack Obama to be President. Now, I know what you all are thinking. Me? Vote for a nigger?" His crew snickered. "But I had to do it. My high school sweetheart was one of them stupid ass liberals. Oh, you know, all about rights for faggots and Muslims and shit. I said okay, I'll do it. Man, did that chump disappoint me. Ever since then, every damn president has disappointed me. You know what you all lack?" The captain grasped Nelson's testicles, making him screech. "Balls, my friend. Where's the President I voted for? This is it? Some wussy in that comfy little Oval Office while the rest of us fought and died for our country." He released the testicles, leaving Nelson to grasp them praying the pain would go away.
"He was trying to steal the jet," one of the men stated.
"Well, no shit, Sherlock." The captain answered, removing his cap to pat off the dirty snow. His bleach white uniform was already becoming stained outside. "Let's get inside."
Two of the men grasped each side of Nelson. One of them said, "We report it to the Supreme Leader?"
At first, Nelson didn't understand until he remembered the radio referring to Marcel as the Supreme Leader. His son…the leader of the world? Still didn't settle right in his head.
"Of course we do, dipshit. We wanna get on the Supreme Leader's good side, don't we?"
This day had turned into a whirlwind of unexpected events. First, the ship was manned. Second, the jet would be more complicated to operate than expect. Third, he'd been captured by lunatic naval personnel. And worse of all, Marcel was going to be notified.
"What's he got on him?"
The crew searched his pockets. Not until one of the men grabbed the map from his back pocket did Nelson realize his fatal mistake. "No," he shouted, "that's mine!"
Snatching it from the crew member, the captain opened up the map. He read it for a moment, then smiled. He bent down to Nelson's level, his breath smelled like bacon. "Well, what do you know. You drew a route here. But I wonder…" the captain turned the map around. A big red X, Nelson had drawn, indicated the location of where he started. The missile silo. He tapped his finger on it. "…Now, I'd bet my right hand this is that secret location for the People of Bliss."
All sorts of lies came to Nelson's head. He could say it was a watering hole, where his vehicle broke down, or even his personal camping area. But that was the power of the captain's intimidation, the wide eyeballs and deep breath. Lying wouldn't work, the captain could see through it. Nelson chose to say nothing, feeling his hands shaking.
The captain spat out his toothpick and it hit Nelson's cheek. "Yeah, you're one of them. I can tell. You all are a bunch of pussies or else you would've won this war by now. Now, I ain't got nothing against a rebellion. I love war, to be frank. I'm gonna hold onto this for a while. Call it my 'collateral'. And I love collateral. Gives you a sense of power, know what I'm saying?" He stood up, pulling out another toothpick from his pocket and biting on it. "But, it'll take a while before word gets the Union's leader that we found his father. Until then, he's a prisoner. And you all know what we do with prisoners, right? We are going to have some fun."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
If you want to build a ship, don't drum up the men to gather wood, divide the work and give orders. Instead, teach them to yearn for the vast and endless seas. - Antoine de Saint-Exupery.
Marcel based that quote on how he wanted operations to be conducted at the castle job site. Hundreds of men and some women had done extensive work rebuilding the castle's foundation and structure. In exchange, the food and lodging the crew surpassed their expectations.
He made an effort, once a week, to join the construction. Being a leader was more respectful than being a conqueror. Marcel knew little about tools, but learned every chance he got. According to the contractors, another couple months and the project would be complete. Besides furnishings and the scaffolding alongside the castle, not much could set it apart from a construction site.
Outside the vast courtyard, he took a moment to observe the land while hammers clanked together the wall surrounding the perimeter, something he objected to, but Gerard insisted on. As much as Marcel
couldn't accept it, their were opposers that would be willing to climb that wall to strangle his throat. Standing over twenty feet, the metal wall would be impenetrable. It was like adding WI-FI to a Buddhist temple, sure it was necessary but it also stole the soul of the structure away. The magnificent castle overshadowed in comparison to the White House. In fact, eighteen White Houses could fit inside the land, he actually had done the calculations. Maybe its alluring landscape could be enough to persuade his family to return. Just maybe.
He wished he didn't have to fear opposition; that he could just chat with commoners. Truth be told, besides what the News channels said of him, praise as always, he didn't know what common folk thought of his endeavors. Were they afraid of the rumors spread, but not confirmed, that he can control weather and minds? Were they appreciative of what the Union offered them? Were they satisfied that Union Keepers upheld martial law?
Lost in his thoughts again, imagining the night that a helicopter with his father and sister hovered over him atop the castle - a bloodied knife in his hand next to the corpse of his brother, he never noticed the rain pouring down until a Union Keeper covered him with a coat. "It's coming down hard. Should we go inside?"
Nodding, he followed the guard towards the limousine. Water, still bitter at times, liked to remind him on clear days that the element could only be persuaded not commanded. An umbrella over his head and guards to lead him away, Marcel looked at his outfit. Those Corthay leather shoes, suit from Neiman Marcus, and Brunello Cucinelli coat combined cost more than this limousine. He felt like some New York City successful entrepreneur, not the leader of a poverty-stricken country. If he wanted to become one of them, he had to be one of them.
Stopping in front of the limousine, he scanned the courtyard as he listened to the rain pelt the umbrella like the element was throwing rocks. Nestled in front of the castle's left side entrance was a cottage, brick-layered walls and two stories tall. Out the windows of the structure, he could see a face staring out the weather with a candle. "Isn't that the crew break area?"
"Yes. But most of the crew is gone for the day."
Judging by the candlelights of the German-styled cottage, most of the crew wasn't gone. "I'd like to go there." Unlike the weather elements, he didn't have to reason with his guards, they did his bidding. Marcel travelled back up the hill, over the steps, and towards the cottage. Puddles swallowed his shoes and the dark rain smelled like sulfur. By the time he made it to the door of the cottage, the umbrella only kept his hair from getting wet.
Wiping his shoes on the mat marked THE NEIGHBORS HAVE BETTER STUFF, he entered the warm cottage. Solar energy did little to run the heaters, since the sun barely made an appearance so a fireplace kept the space comfy. Expecting a dozen men and women, griping about their job and smoking cigarettes, Marcel was pleasantly surprised to see only two men in the room. Well, one more a boy than a man. He looked old enough to drive, but not old enough to be any good at it. "Wow, the Supreme Leader. Welcome, Mr. Celest! Want me to find you a towel?" The young man said, annunciating the last word of each sentence too enthusiastically.
Stopping himself from bossing the crew around, Marcel politely asked, "I can grab it.". Heading for the bathroom, he was already hit by the stench of urine. At the back of the den area, the restroom was smaller than his closet. After using a white washcloth to wipe his face, he looked at the towel to see it had turned gray. Gray as the cosmos he visited on his mystical trek with Lucifer. The rainwater was spoiled and he remained unsure how to fix an environment plagued by the destructive apocalypse. He threw the towel in the mop pail that was being used as a trash can, making a mental note to see the building planners about a more apt crew area.
Awaiting outside his door, the youngster Joey held a cup of a steaming liquid in his hand. He held it out. "Do you like hot cocoa, Mr. Celest? I made it the way Mom did. Marshmallows, peppermints, and crushed chocolate chips. And whisk the milk first, she used to say."
Marcel took a sip and it was the best hit chocolate he'd ever tasted, sweet and tangy and subtle. "It's great," he said softly, feeling the warmth in his lungs and wishing it could cure the cancer in them. "Where is she now?"
Joey looked to the other man in the room. Hands still covered in dust and his white shirt plastered with mortar powder mix, the man eyed Joey. Besides the premature loss of hair, he looked about the same age as Marcel. He didn't say anything, settled in his chair by the fire with a board game on a small table in front of him. Finally, Joey turned back to Marcel. "Our house was in the middle of Detroit."
Detroit was one of the first dozen cities hit by simultaneous nuclear missiles. "Oh," was all Marcel could say. A day didn't pass, when he was being bogged by work, that he wondered if he should've just made the call, stop the world leaders from their childish war games, and save billions. But the choice given to him by Lucifer was clear, a world without the Union or a world with it. "You guys weren't with her?"
"We were working on a house, outside of Detroit. I still remember, driving back, the radio talking about some city blasts. We didn't need the radio to see Detroit had been flattened."
Marcel shook his head. "I wasn't aware radio stations had broadcast an emergency. It all happened so quickly."
"Better than the warning the government gave us," the brother said, speaking for the first time and never looking up from his board game.
"Again," Marcel defended himself, even though he didn't need to, "it all happened so quickly."
Joey bobbed his head to some invisible music, "Okay! Well, want something to eat? I'm gonna make myself some cereal, if you want some."
Knowing now that the boy lost his family, except for his seemingly bitter sibling, made Marcel sympathize. He remembered what it was like, a mother dying then suddenly feeling the need please everyone except himself. "I'm good."
Joey scurried off, leaving Marcel to move closer to the fire and get warmth. "I'm Joseph, by the way." The brother said, holding his hand out to shake. The polite gesture of a handshake made the room less awkward. Marcel shook hands, skipping the tradition of introducing himself. He was, perhaps, the most well-known man in the world. "You play?" Joseph pointed to the board game.
Scrabble was his favorite game. "Me and my brother spent many nights fighting over this game," Marcel said, smiling.
"Good. Because my little brother learned all his vocabulary from Twitter. I need a challenge."
Marcel pulled up a chair and sat across from the scruffy man. Joseph shuffled the chips in the bag, while Marcel attempted to break the ice. "So. Joey and Joseph?"
"Yeah, parents weren't very original, huh?"
"That's okay, my parents named me and my brother after some players in a tennis match." Marcel said, rearranging the tiles on his rack searching for a word. He laid the tile letters on the board to spell S-A-P-I-D.
Squinting out of one eye, Joseph said, "That a word?"
"Brent used to say the same thing." Marcel laughed, realizing it was the first time that week he'd found anything amusing.
Flipping through the pages of a tiny dictionary in the box of the board game, Joseph stopped and read. "Pleasant or interesting. As in a conversation. Hmph. Well, I'll be goddamn." After writing the score down, he thought for a minute, moving around his letters.
"Well, I'm gonna head to bed," Joey interrupted, an empty cereal bowl in his hand.
"Bed?" Marcel asked, "You guys sleep here?"
"We aren't registered yet," Joey said from the bathroom where he washed his bowl in the sink, "It ain't so bad. There's a TV in the break room, I fall asleep to old episodes of South Park. Love that show. Beats sleeping in the truck. Anyways. Good night, Mr. Marcel!" He said, exiting a door, leaving Marcel feeling more guilt that the two brothers were essentially homeless.
Alone now with Joseph, Marcel realized he was never good at this. His family was his only friends. Making new ones always seemed like a complicated task. In sixth grade, he tried to get a group of friends to come over to the hous
e and play his new XBox One he'd gotten for Christmas. He stumbled and toppled over his words that most of the kids had no idea what he was asking. Eventually, that night, he played the system alone. Seeing his anguish and embarrassment, the next day his mother invited neighborhood children over to play. He loved her so much that day.
Joseph added some letters to the table. H-A-M-M-E-R. Then added up his score. "You got some catching up to do."
"I see," Marcel smirked, flipping tiles around. And indeed, he had met his match. Fifteen minutes later, Joseph had used words like mag, grip, and then magazine. Marcel's weak words were no match, door, often, and people. He stared at the host of choices on the board and on his rack. After flipping around some letters, Marcel accidentally stumbled on the word M-U-R-D-E-R. He swallowed hard, envisioning his brother's hot blood sticking to his hands. "I got nothing," he stated quickly, "I'll swap." His shaky hand placed tiles down and grabbed more from the bag. After a moment, he said, "You're turn." But Joseph didn't move. Marcel glanced up to see the man staring at the far right wall. There was nothing there but tacky wallpaper and a clock. This must've been how ridiculous Marcel looked, peering at the ghost of his brother when others saw could only see the wall. "You okay, Joseph?"
He blinked several times before looking down at the board. "I get that sometimes."
"Get what?"
Joseph curled his fingers together as he rested his elbows on his knees. "You know, sometimes when you mix mortar, you can shovel it around and around for several minutes…and it just never seems right. It can be too clumpy. And you can keep working at it, but it still won't end up…smooth." He paused, as his eyes began to water. "I get lost in thoughts of Mom." With his calloused hand, he wiped his wet face. "What do I do? I can't…concentrate."