The Last Days_Conclude [Book 3 of 3]

by Chris Ayala

  Guilt ravaged Marcel's soul. He'd seen, first hand, the destruction of cities but never seen the destruction of souls. He said, "What if I told you, everyone has a fate? That there's only a select few that have no fate and can alter the future?"

  Sniffling, Joseph questioned, "Who told you that?"

  Answering that Lucifer told him this in the darkness of his coma and bargained to change the future for mankind didn't seem like an appropriate response. He was here to make friends, not enemies. So Marcel settled on a less dramatic response. "I read it somewhere in a magazine."

  "You saying it was her fate to die?"

  He shook his head, "No. But. It was your fate to live."

  Nodding, Joseph took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Thanks. You're a good guy."

  "Thanks. You too." Marcel smiled. "You guys should stay in the main castle. We have plenty of better beds to sleep in. Kitchen staff has got warm food."

  Grinning widely, Joseph said, "We'd appreciate that. After I win this game."

  "You're on." Marcel said, returning to the board. "You know something? I have a feeling we're going to be good friends, Joseph."

  "Me too, bud."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Nelson's face smacked against the cold concrete floor. It smelled like piss and flaked like dry blood. He spat out what must've been a tooth. On the bright side, that tooth had gone rotten since leaving the lavish lifestyle of a politician. He questioned his decisions to this point as he used both hands to hoist himself up slowly, bones popping like firecrackers. Something more than three billion people died on Doomsday. Money, status, and respect perished that day too.

  The Navy personnel stood at the doorway, three brute men with bloody knuckles. After three days of imaginable torture, Nelson accepted he wasn't getting beat for fun but for justice.

  Behind them, the captain crossed his arms. "He can't even get up. When's the last time you took a beating like that, Mr. President? I mean, that wasn't in the polls?" It wasn't a good joke, but didn't keep his guards from cackling. "And what you going tell the Supreme Leader about what happened here?"

  If the word torture was even muttered to Marcel, surely the entire crew would be hung for this. But the captain was smart for someone that lost most of his hair and still did a combover. That map was the captain's guarantee Nelson would keep his mouth shut about the beatings. Hellfire would surely be sprayed at the People of Bliss and their home. "I tell my son that I was robbed by survivors in the city. And the captain saved me."

  "That's right. Good old captain save ya."

  With the only one eye not bruised shut, Nelson scanned his surroundings. His closet at the White House was bigger. There wasn't even a toilet or a sink. In the corner of the cell, flies buzzed around a pile of old feces from whoever the team had wrongly imprisoned. It was true that he couldn't rise, only on all fours like the dog he was. For no reason, no particular reason he could decide on anyways, they had beaten and tortured him two days straight. Sleep was something he needed more than pain pills.

  "Did you hear the story about this guy? When he was in the military?" The captain chimed in, looking down from this height made him look gigantic. "They called him a war hero and I gave him a checkmark on the ballot. Then, the truth comes out. Ooh wee, was that a duzzy. Get this. During his campaign, it was all about his military background. It won him the election. Ain't going to lie, pretty damn smart, if you ask me." Nelson tried to crawl toward the wall, maybe use it to him climb to his feet, while the captain taunted him further. "Took like a year before the papers found out the dirt on him. Get this, he joins the Navy, barely passes even a damn swim test, then they this give this guy a Hornet. You kidding me? A Hornet? Don't ask me whose dick he sucked to get his hands on that. During training, this idiot gets lost with his trainer, maneuvers too close to the mountain, gets all freaked out, panics, and takes out the wing."

  In just one sentence, the captain explained a situation that was hours in Nelson's younger years. Hours that he tried not to think of. He stands up against the wall, leaning on it for support. His breath nearly out from just that short endeavor.

  The captain mimicked an explosion with his hands, puffing out his cheeks to make the sound. He continues, "They eject. Trainer and him were found six days later. But two different stories. I believe the one where he's a pussy. Trainer reportedly said his hand shakes on the controls. He said he pissed and shit his pants in the air. Said he ran from a black bear. A black bear, fellas. Practically can sneeze at a black bear and scare it away. If it wasn't for the trainer, neither of them would've survived. Paid him a lot of money to keep him quiet. But money don't last forever now, do it? Truth always resurfaces."

  Since his battered body could barely stand, the thought of Nelson punching the disrespectful captain in the face didn't seem plausible. So he had to take the internal beating, just like he took the external one.

  The captain shook his head, then whispered, "So disappointed. That's not the President I voted for." He motioned for the guards to lock up. Nelson watched helplessly as the door slid closed and clanked shut. He wiped his watered eyes. Watery from either the broken nose or broken mind.

  "Is it true?" A voice said from somewhere.

  Nelson looked around, searching from the male voice.

  "Right here," it said.

  Through a hole, not even big enough to fit a hand into, he could see some motions. Someone in the next cell said again, "Is it true?"

  If he was going to spend an untold amount of time in this cell, at least he better make friends. "Which part? That I'm the President or that I wasn't a war hero?" Both felt good to say. He was the President of the United States and he wasn't a hero.

  "Either." The man's voice said. "Or both?"

  Nelson continued to peek through the hole. It wasn't the best of views, but he could get a good look at his new neighbor. In a dirty naval uniform, a young black cadet sat in the corner. His brown wide eyes stared back. He must've been in his twenties, with broad shoulders and a thick stature for a starved prisoner. Nelson slid down the side of the wall and rested some more. "Both are true, kid."

  Expecting to hear another rant about how awful a President he turned out to be, Nelson was pleasantly surprised to be answered with silence. Maybe his neighbor didn't have much to say.

  The vessel surged and moved suddenly. This was all a familiar feeling, but Nelson still asked, "We're moving?"

  "Going mid-Atlantic for a while."

  Any hope of being found or rescued drifted away like this boat. He could hear the engine whir, they must've been only two stories above it. Without a window, he couldn't enjoy the breathtaking view of the ocean waves and passing land, something he found joy in. In better circumstance anyways. What now? His daughter was right. He should've stayed at the silo. One poor decision after another had Nelson no closer to his true destiny. Or even understanding what his destiny was at all.

  "Why you in here?" The cadet asked.

  "Funny. I was just asking myself the same question."

  Pipes rumbled overhead for a moment. Toilets were being flushed somewhere. Nelson had slept in some dire and disgusting areas, but this was going to be tough one. Besides that pile of feces was a small slope and drain to be used for the bathroom. No sink meant no brushing the teeth in the morning or washing his face. Smells still lingered in this room from past occupants. Like body odor.

  "You ever seen Star Wars?"

  That movie was reaching it's 65th anniversary, neither of these men were born when it released. Impressed by anyone with admiration for older films, Nelson smiled, "Yep. One of my favorites."

  "Me too. I always wondered about them storm troopers. You know? Like…how you going to admire and protect a crazy ass motherfucker like Darth Vader. I mean, the asshole kills his own people. His own damn people, man. And they just go around, marching like it's no big deal. Why?"

  "Why what?"

  "Why they so…loyal and shit?"

  Comparing Darth Va
der to his son Marcel didn't sit well in Nelson's stomach. But it deserved some thought. Throughout history, people obsess over those with higher stature. Especially those with magic. Were the People of Bliss any different with Sirius Dawson? They followed her every word like mosquitos to bare skin. "We just bond to people we admire. I used to have a following. There's nothing like that roar of the crowd. I never slept the night before a campaign rally. Too jittery with excitement. Now," Nelson shrugged, "they all love Marcel."

  "Supreme Leader," the cadet corrected him. "He doesn't like being called Marcel. He says it's disrespectful."

  Nelson touched the side of his bruised face. The captain was right handed, so the punches just kept flying into his left cheek. Marcel had been beaten like this. Beaten so badly that he became almost unrecognizable. It had been the last time he'd seen his son, in a hospital bed comatose with tubes helping him breath. So convinced that Marcel wouldn't survive that incident, he already accepted his son's death. Now that he was alive, it still took so much to accept. Marcel wasn't the same. And neither was Nelson. "I'll call him what I please."

  Claw marks could be seen on each of the walls. Escape didn't seem feasible. Countless men had tried and failed. His only hope of survival was Marcel. Surely, a big reward awaited the captain for bringing the Celest family together. But at this point, could the family ever be together? The idea of eating breakfast every morning with the Supreme Leader seemed more raunch than that smell arising from the pipe.

  Almost like the cadet read his mind, he asked, "You don't like your son?"

  Being a father had sets of challenges, but no dad could ever go as far as to dislike a child. "I still love him. But I guess…I'm not sure I agree with his actions. I just don't know how I feel."

  "Listen to you. You're just like Luke."

  "Who?"

  "Luke Skywalker, man. Still believing there's good when you know their ain't. Well, I mean, I guess there eventually was. But took a lot of lives to get that far."

  Nelson nodded. "Yeah, kid. I guess so." He rested his left cheek against the cold wall, the coolness relieved his pain and he could almost hear the whooshing of the ocean. "What's your name?"

  "Antoine."

  "Why are you here, Antoine?"

  After a short chuckle, the cadet answered, "For trying to leave."

  Nelson shared that chuckle. Things obviously hadn't worked out for Antoine. "You tried to leave on port?"

  "Naw, man. When we was out at sea."

  "I don't understand. On one of the rescue boats?"

  "No, I was trying to steal the jet."

  He sat up a little too quickly and felt his head spin. "You can fly the jet?" Nelson peeped through the hole in the wall.

  Antoine sighed. He held his hands up for Nelson to see. Wrapped in bandages, the captain must've made sure the cadet would never fly again. "Could," he corrected Nelson.

  "Hammer?"

  "Worse. Bible."

  Confused, he clarified, "They broke your hands with a Bible?"

  Antoine crossed his arms, hiding his hands in his armpits. "My grandma gave me that Bible. It's heavy as hell, but I still carried it in my duffel bag. It's cracked in half now. They probably threw it overboard. The captain likes to send messages, if you know what I mean."

  Hope fluttered away faster than it had arrived. The only pilot of the jet was incapacitated. "I read a manual on it," he answered. "I tried to fly it, but couldn't figure out how to get in."

  Antoine's grin was riddled with yellow teeth. "You crazy. A manual. Pfft. Going to take more than that to fly it. But, man, when it's in the air…it is a work of art. No electricity. Not even battery. Runs on fusion."

  This all couldn't be a coincidence. Sure, Nelson had made bad mistakes but ultimately it led him to the man who knew that plane. Together, they had a chance of figuring this out. Adam foresaw that jet would fly in the final war. Perhaps destiny just dealt a card and the game was about to start. "Antoine. Can you teach me everything you know about flying that thing?"

  "Why?"

  "Because I'm going to get us out of here."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  "We got less than an hour," Willie shouted firm and yet professional. "Where's my propane?"

  His eyes followed the red dot on the computer tablet. The system had estimated a four-hour arrival time. It obviously didn't account for the lack of traffic nowadays. Now all six of his docks were occupied with fully-loaded trailers.

  A young kid heaved a large aluminum tank towards the dead forklift. Age didn't seem to define work eligibility anymore. Old enough to carry big equipment without any help but young enough to look intimidated by the grown-ups, Willie guessed his age between thirteen and fifteen. With ease, the forklift driver and his apprentice secured the new propane tank. The forklift started up instantly. Before he knew it, Willie watched his team continue unloading the trucks.

  Everyone worked in such unison that it made his position of supervisor seem obsolete. Smiles crossed everyone's faces instead of frowns. Being his first day on the job, Willie had felt nervous but his workers fit together like the pieces of a Tetris game. Perhaps the Union was on to something; genes did determine the right career for them all.

  Regardless, running a warehouse had its difficulties. Even though the computer system chose how to store and organize pallets on the shelves, sometimes the paperwork was wrong and the freight came in bigger quantities than expected. Incoming cargo had been mostly recovered goods from abandoned businesses after Doomsday. Today, Willie had seen a range of simple items like mulch, sod, lumber, and water supplies. Other shipments weren't so simple. Nuclear waste had been salvaged from the manufacturing plants with nowhere to put them. Some of the guys joked that touching the barrels could make you grow an extra arm; Willie didn't find that amusing. Who knew what kind of toxic mixtures Doomsday created as 400 mile-per-hour winds devastated cities and killed countless. Out of curiosity, he checked the tablet. The interface could've been handled by a four year old; it was so easy to use. Three menus displayed: INVENTORY, ARRIVALS, and DEPARTURES. He tapped on arrivals to see only one icon of a truck; at the beginning of his shift he'd seen eight here. Instead of feeling relieved that his work day was coming to end, he felt discontent. In just six hours of work (the norm now, not the eight hour anymore), he discovered this to be his favorite occupation.

  Odd. Clicking on the truck's shipment did nothing. So far, this system had been flawless. Double tapping it didn't seem to solve the problem either. All that happened was a red letter X popped up over the truck icon. The Human Resources manager Rick must've saw the confusion because he looked up to see the stout balding man looking down at him. "It's Classified."

  Willie looked down at the tablet as though it would somehow clarify the situation. "Classified? What do you mean?"

  "It means we don't talk about it," Rick said under his teeth. Under the Union's command, it had kept the management teams very minimal. Human Resources not only hired the teams of people, they trained them in each position. All morning, Rick explained everything in true detail. But seemed to be alluding this time.

  Looking around, Willie noticed a surge of Union Keepers surrounding the area. It had not only made him nervous when one had patrolled them the rest of the day, but now at least seven wandered and questioned. The last time he'd been this close to the Union's guards had been Sirius Dawson's arrest. The moment he woke up in the middle of the night dreading another dream of the voice of the People of Bliss. Her running. Union Keepers surrounding them. She cowered behind him. She told him to run. Abandon her. Let her get arrested. He hesitated. He listened. And ran.

  "Roach coach!" someone exclaimed routinely. It jumped Willie out of his remorseful thought.

  Rick signaled to Willie to check his watch, by tapping on his own. "Your first paycheck should be there now."

  "My check already?"

  "The Union pays daily. Use your palm chip to buy something to eat." He either was chipper about the money every day o
r the incoming hot enchiladas.

  Willie scrolled his digital wristwatch. His mind froze. "300 bucks!" he spat out. If he had been drinking anything, the liquid would've spurted out his nose. For one day of work, he got paid 300 dollars? Even owning his own company, he never brought home that type of weekly income.

  The food truck pulled up and blocked one of the docks. Dozens of workers flocked to it like seagulls around a basket of leftover French fries. Willie patted his gut wondering if he'd been eating too much lately. The puffed stomach wobbled back, but also grumbled hungrily. Wiping off excess ash from outside, the driver cleaned the glass casing over the lunch specials. Since the truck was arriving any minute, Willie decided on something quick and light. He ordered the ham and cheese grilled sandwich. It reminded him of the first meal he had after the nuclear crisis. From a flipped over garbage truck, Willie had felt blessed to find an eatable sandwich. It had been his only meal in three days.

  "85 please," the food truck vendor politely asked, wiping black soot off the glass doors.

  "85 cents?" Willie exclaimed already unwrapping the plastic wrapping from the sandwich.

  A few of the guys around the truck were kind enough not to laugh, but the rest burst into a snorted laughter. The vendor said, "Nice try."

  It took Willie almost a minute to realize that the vendor meant 85 dollars. For a measly sandwich? Suddenly that garbage truck's food didn't seem so disgusting.

  One of the men said, "Heard their raising sales tax again."

  Another guy almost spat out his food, "No way."

  The vendor replied, "What do I care? All my housing is paid for. I'm just saving up for a vacation next year. Flights are starting to open up again."

  Being so sure that the Union's benefits had been a blessing, Willie began to feel uneasy. Almost hundred dollars to eat lunch seemed as far-fetched as Michael Jordan returning to basketball. Yet no one seemed phased by this as they used their palm chips to buy lunch. Was the Union so skilled at making people smile with excellent employment and lavish livings that they became…blind?