by Chris Ayala
In an effort to break the silence in this already quiet white room, Gerard said, "Guess quitting cigarettes did you no good. Wow. It almost looks like…" He turned his head side-to-side, staring at the x-ray pictures as though it was an expensive abstract painting and trying to figure out what people saw in it. "Looks like a monster."
Marcel snorted, but then took a broader look at the x-ray. Two spots, not infected by cancerous cells, did insinuate slit eyes. If he stared long enough, he could almost see jagged teeth. "Yeah. Yeah, it does." But he read about this before. Often an object couldn't be seen until it's implied, sort of like the way some people would see Jesus Christ in toasted bread. It was nothing more than an illusion.
Wasn't it?
"Should we tell the Press?"
"No," Marcel said, without thinking. "This is a way to show weakness. I don't trust the Press." Gerard didn't seem to agree or disagree, he just nodded. "I don't trust anyone," Marcel whispered, "except you. I can…trust you. Right?"
They stared at each other a long time, the faint light from the display colored half his face gray. It reminded him of Brent, for a moment, battling between the black and whites of the world. Then finally, Gerard answered, "No."
After seeing a vast tumor in his lungs, nothing should shock Marcel at this point, but he was. "No?"
"You shouldn't trust anyone, Marcel. I don't. Look at my wife. I trusted her and now she's ran away to be with those hippy rebels. The less you trust, the less you'll be let down."
Sensing Gerard was just being humble, he nodded. Marcel stared at the black spot on his lungs. But perhaps his brother-in-law was right. He had trusted Lucifer and had been let down.
Lost. Somewhere, like a forest at night. Unsure of the direction. Unsure of the location. Unsure of the will to live. Marcel swallowed another glass of the whiskey. It burned. He never enjoyed the taste of alcohol, the dizziness of alcohol, and the loss of self. But loss of self was exactly what he needed. To flow on a river out of his congested mind, that swam with questions. Questions only one person could answer. And that person wasn't a person at all. Lucifer. A creature created by the dark energy of the universe. All that power and yet it still relied on deceit. It had lived perhaps millions of years. Marcel had been only this planet for 38 years, so of course Lucifer knew more. Before he found out cancer began digging a coffin for him, Marcel trusted the dark lord's words. But now…
He drank what was left in the glass and flung it at the painting of George Washington on the wall, wishing his cancer would melt away like the vibrant colors on that masterpiece. No one knew much about the awful things the first President of the United States had done. Because everyone only focused on the good in people and their image. Lucifer formed an image of sincerity, professionalism, and determination. His exact words were "I want to save the world". But did he? If so, why wouldn't he appear more often? Why would he curse the leader of the world with cancer?
Marcel paced the dining room, circling around the wooden table that could fit sixteen people but yet no one but him ate here almost every night. The curtains swayed even though the windows stayed closed; Wind enjoyed Marcel's dismay, as always.
The issue with questions wasn't the act of asking them, but hearing the answers. Because only one of two things can happen with an answer; it's either an answer you wanted to hear…or an answer you don't. Most likely, especially from Lucifer, it wouldn't be a favorable answer.
"I wouldn't say that," Lucifer said, appearing out of nowhere as usual. He sat in a chair at the head of the table. A place usually occupied by Marcel himself.
Another lie. The agreement had been that Lucifer wouldn't be in Marcel's head, reading his thoughts or making decisions. "You're in my mind…"
"Actually, the opposing factor has bound us. You are in my effervescence, my locality, my…energy. I strive to not perceive your thoughts; leaving you 'free will' as they call it."
More convoluted talk. Just like biblical lingo, Lucifer's words could be taken in several interpretations. What did it all mean? "Speak clearly," Marcel spat, "Tell me why you are here? What do you want?"
"Did we not speak of this manner beforehand? As we traveled amongst the stars and planets? Earth, as it is named, needs to be preserved. And I appointed you because it is within your competence to do so."
Absolutely, Marcel knew he had the capability to bring the dream of world peace to a reality. But the answer didn't bring him peace. Lucifer had a plan, but didn't seem too concerned with sharing it. "Why didn't you tell me there was a price to pay?"
Staring with those crystal blue eyes at him, the devil seemed to fit his title of the master of evil. For being in the embodiment of a nine year old boy in a prim suit and red tie, he looked quite terrifying. It wasn't until this moment Marcel realized that Lucifer never blinked. He had read once that psychopaths didn't blink much either. It was a predator's way of studying its prey. "You must refer to the cancer? Do you even fathom the agreement we made? Does a man with a lifejacket and umbrella jump into the Atlantic with the expectations of an elementary journey?"
Another vague response. "I'm going to die, goddamnit! Cancer is eating me alive!"
After a slight grin, Lucifer snorted, "You are not dying, Marcel. You are living. Becoming one with the dark energy. You are experiencing what's beyond this realm. Understanding the elements. Seeing the shades of the Gray mist. And dancing with Death."
Beyond the point of subtle aggravation, Marcel picked up a chair and flung it across the room. "So what's that mean? I don't want to die! Not until…" He stopped and thought to himself what to say next. So many people on this planet wouldn't hesitate to find a reason to live, but Marcel just had. After a deep breath, he muttered, "Not until world peace is a reality. Not until my mother's vision comes true. I can't die. I don't want to."
"Then do not die."
Feeling exhausted from the act of throwing a chair, Marcel's lungs gasped for air a few times before he could speak again. "How? How do I cure this?"
"Maybe it is time to stop holding your breath as you sink into the quick sand. Breath it. Breath death. Breath your future. Breath the elements. Breath…," Lucifer paused, "…me.
Someone knocked on the door and opened it at the same time. Marcel turned to see his brother-in-law standing at the entrance. Usually quick and on-point, Gerard seemed thrown aback. He just stood for a moment and then finally said, "I need to talk to you."
"What is it?"
He noticed the broken chair on the floor, but chose to ignore it. "Just got a call that they found your dad."
Since hearing the news of cancer, Marcel needed to hear something positive. And this was it. The elusive thought danced in his head. "Dad? He's alive?" He could even hear the giddiness in his voice. The last time he saw his father hadn't been well. Nelson stared at him with disappointment. Marcel hated that look. "He's in good health?"
Gerard shrugged. "I'm not sure. I only heard he was captured on a ship. I'm getting together some detail and we'll be flying out soon. Better get ready."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
If Royal saw this, she'd ask why Adam was in cahoots with an enemy. He could hear her southern accent, see her sour face, and feel her scorn. Even all the way from Russia. Becoming allies with someone who only a year ago threw him in prison couldn't make this situation stranger. Neither side seemed to trust the other. Gerard kept his distance, close enough to hear but not close enough to shake hands.
A mosquito bit him again, but he didn't move to swat the damn thing away. Who knew if Gerard was armed. With his feet sinking into the marsh and the duck tape on his sneakers beginning to loosen as swamp water seeped in, Adam knew he'd better get out of this situation quick. If Janice wasn't wondering where he had gone to, surely some member of the silo would grow suspicious. They may not have known about this place. "You got it?"
"Do you?" Gerard spat out, ready with the retort.
Next to a pipe, large enough to ride a bike through, sewage pumped out of the
silo and close to Adam's feet. He was covered in the gunk. Not his proudest moment, but secrecy was a must. If Gerard hadn't shown up for their weekly rendezvous in a Union uniform, black with blue trimming and several honorary pins secured to his shoulder, maybe Adam could've played it off as a recruit to the People of Bliss. Being caught right now would surely mean the end to both their goals.
From his back pocket, Gerard yanked out a Manila envelope, keeping their eyes fixed. Sneezing in this dense fog could mean a bullet in his chest by his new still-reluctant ally. He tossed the envelope and Adam looked inside. Five pages of documents was more than he anticipated. After glancing through the names listed, recognizing a few of them, Adam said, "You probably wondering what I need this for."
"Not really," Gerard shrugged. "I need my drive."
From his front pocket, Adam produced a small USB drive. He threw it too high, not nearly as swift and precise as Gerard's throw, but he caught it anyway. "I need more time to deliver the rest of the ledger."
As he expected, the husband of the woman he slept next to every night didn't seem pleased. His lip curled. "You promised."
"I know, I know." Adam held his hands up, like trying to calm an unsettled horse. "But hear me out, there's a lot of people here. And I have to get them locater chips in their palms. Not an easy task. I've been lying to them all, saying its a vaccine for the new flu. If we don't do this in an organized fashion, then the plan falls apart."
Gerard stayed silent for so long that Adam wasn't sure if the conversation ended. "Does she have one?"
Knowing instantly who the she was the referred to, Adam answered, "We haven't speaking much lately. I injected the chip in her hand when she fell asleep. It's a quick prick. She's usually such a light sleeper, I thought she would've woken up."
"I know she's a light sleeper. She's my wife. I know she rubs Vicks Vapor Rub on her chest, because the smell puts her to sleep. I know she likes to cuddle under a comforter, even when its warm inside. I know she never snores, regardless of how rough her day was. No matter how many nights you stoop her. Or hold her hand. Or hold that body. I still love her. I'm still her husband. You got that?"
He'd been in more than a few fights in his life, but Adam faced perhaps one of the toughest fighters in his life, therefore one of the scariest. If urine hadn't been exiting the pipe behind him, Adam would've questioned if he just pissed himself. Gerard repeated, in a lower voice. "You got that?"
Was he asking him to part ways with Janice? Or was he just reaffirming that Janice still wore his ring and he wore hers? Unsure what exactly the threat was, he knew it was a threat irregardless. Adam answered, "Yeah. Yeah, I got it." His socks started to get wet. He was due for a very, very long shower after this. "Can I go now?"
"How many more drives you got for me?"
"Just one. Promise."
"You better," Gerard scowled as he turned to leave.
Adam could've turned to leave too, but instead watched as Gerard climbed on a motorcycle and took off into the darkest of nights. What had he gotten himself into?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
-Taken to subway station.
-Zharkova: "For you to learn how to win, you must first learn how to lose."
-Tough Russian women surround her in subway tram.
-Zharkova speaks russian to tough women. "I told them you are an American that thinks you are the best country in the world. And that Mother Russia is nothing but a bunch of cocksucking communists."
-Tough women beat Royal until she blacks out.
Nine months ago, this subway station must've been bustling with tourists. Royal would have to use her imagination nowadays. Not a single visitor ever entered these premises. As they on a bench across from the tracks, Royal pondered if she should ask Zharkova how many Russians died on Doomsday. But surely the witch's head would turn backward and breath fire.
Zharkova tapped her shoe impatiently. They were Alfani footwear. Seems the devil doesn't wear Prada. "Finally," she whispered.
What they were doing here or what was about to happen remained a mystery to Royal. All she knew was it took almost an hour of awkward silence. A slight breeze entered the station and the sound of whistling could be heard through the tunnel. A train was coming! Royal had never rode an actual underground subway train before. Maybe they were leaving and escaping this station full of piss, feces, and death smells.
As soon as the excitement hit her, it turned into caution. Why was there a train here? Royal had lived underground for almost two weeks and a train had never passed before.
It pulled up with only one car connected. She'd seen these vehicles on television and movies, but they didn't look anything like this. Graffiti painted the vehicle with purple and pink Russian lettering. It looked old and rusted.
Still not explaining anything, Zharkova walked up to the car and the doors opened. The lights were off inside. With one hand on her cane and the other holding the door open, Zharkova's eyebrows raised. "Are you stupid, Aurora? Go inside goddamnit."
"Please don't use the Lord's name in vain."
"Goddamnit! Now!"
After a deep breath and long exhale, Royal stepped into the subway car. The lights may have been off but enough could be seen. It looked just like what she imagined: seats made of torn felt, steel bars to grasp onto that had more germs than a toilet seat, and leftover trash tossed to the ground. What she hadn't imagined: the vehicle wasn't unoccupied.
Four women stared at her. One had a shaved head with eye drop tattoo and wore a white tank top. Another had a pink mohawk. Long fingernails drummed impatiently against the third girl's crossed arms. The last girl had gold teeth and brass knuckles. All the girls had crunched eyebrows and bitter frowns.
At the door way, Zharkova didn't enter the subway car but just held the sliding door open. "I told them you are a cold-hearted American that thinks Russians deserved this chemical war. That you piss on every dead Russian you walk past."
Astonished, Royal's eyes widened. "Why?"
"Because, Aurora, in order for you to learn how to win a fight…you must learn how to lose one." Zharkova said as she stepped back and the door slid closed.
Royal tried to open the door with her fingers, but could barely get it to budge. Zharkova rolled her eyes behind the glass then snorted.
Behind her, the girl with brass knuckles tapped them against the metal pole as a way to get Royal's attention. She turned slowly to her inevitable attackers. "Look, I ain't like that. I didn't say none of those things."
"They don't speak English, stupid girl," Zharkova said behind the door.
Trying to use body language to convey some sort of mistake, Royal looked more like a drunken mime. The girl with long fingernails charged up to her. Before Royal could even cover her face, the first slap hit her so hard there were stars in front. Then brass knuckles struck her in the cheek. Royal fell to the ground, pleading. "Please! Please!"
Three or four of the girls started kicking. They had steel-toe boots on. Royal kept screaming, "Please!" Her screams became gargled by blood coming from her mouth. Long fingernails slapped several times leaving scars across Royal's face. The pink mohawk girl must've been envious of all that brunette hair on Royal's head, because she grabbed it with big twist. An uppercut crunched Royal's chin a few more times then the mohawk girl threw her into a metal pole.
Royal felt dizzy. Everything spun like she'd been rolling down a hill in a barrel. She was chewing on something, but it definitely wasn't gum or candy; Royal spat it out. It was her molar tooth. "Please! Leave me alone! I didn't do anything."
A few more punches to the face and Royal began to say the Lord's prayer. She was going to die.
Then the beating stopped as sudden as it started. The door slid open and Zharkova came in. Panic made Royal's heart jump. An evil dictator that planned this attack must've had a way to end it. Maybe a gun. Maybe a bat. Maybe a bucket of acid. Then she'd giggle as her Aurora hollered in agony. Staring up at Zharkova, Royal tried to hurry away usi
ng only her elbows to scurry backwards. "Please leave me alone! Please!"
"Silly girl, crawling away like some crab. A crab facing a shark. You've got claws that could rip my skin, gouge out my eyeballs, and teeth powerful enough to make me bleed…and yet you run away in fear? You don't want to kill me. All you want is to scurry away?" Zharkova giggled. "Can you feel that fear? The wrath of a predator casting its shadow upon you. I've felt it. As an Iraqi soldier stood above my beaten body with a knife in my kneecap, bloody right hand, and a gun in my left hand. Guess who shot first? I did. Do you think he gave me the opportunity to scurry away backwards?"
After a brief exchange in Russian language, the four girls left the subway car. Royal stared at Russia's Prime Minister until her breathing returned to normal. Though her body was screaming in pain, the woman had a point. Royal could be dead. In a fight such as the fight to be against Marcel Celest, surely she wouldn't be given the choice to get up and walk away.
She fought the urge to ask for a doctor or an emergency clinic. Instead, Royal stumbled to her feet. Being only able to see out of one eye meant she had one hell of a bruise forming.
After a short snort, Zharkova said, "Well. At least you stood up. Maybe there's hope for you. Come with me. Shower then start dinner."
CHAPTER TWENTY
The warehouse had an intricate labyrinth of storage, mainly because the facility stored what was leftover from cleanups of major cities. Mostly items that couldn't be identified or thought to be useless to the future of the Union. Willie, with tablet in hand, inspected the shelves high enough to create quite a catastrophe if they ever toppled over. He found something thinking like this, ever since Doomsday. Imagining the worse case scenario.
With his thumbprint, a lift activated and elevated him to fifth row of storage. Thankfully, Willie never had much of a fear of heights because this would be the moment to be terrified. On a wobbly lift, fifty feet in the air and tethered via a harness, he stopped at the B3 cubical area. He removed his harness, an annoyance to him not only because they crunched his manhood but because they were an essentially useless safety rule. What if the whole lift fell over? Would he really want to be harnessed to a falling lift?