The Last Days_Conclude [Book 3 of 3]

by Chris Ayala

  Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Lester continued, "You would be a good candidate. I could put in a referral for you."

  "Me?" Willie said, poking himself in the chest that used to be rock hard at a younger age but became a flappy at an older age.

  "Sure! Why not? We could fix that balding spot. I mean, what are you 42? 43? And you're already balding that bad? We could remove the fat around your waist. Straighten those teeth too. Even fix that acne scarring on your neck." Lester put food in his mouth so the next words came out muffled, "Fix your sexuality." He awkwardly put more food in his mouth.

  "Uh. What did you say, boss?"

  "Your sexuality. I mean, come on! You glanced at my crotch the moment I walked in the door. Look. I'm not saying you have to give up having sex with men. Hell, I've had a few steamy nights with the same sex myself, if you know what I mean. But we can fix your genes so that you're bisexual. So that you're at least reproducing."

  Willie swallowed back vomit. The world around him felt different, like a veil had just been pulled away to reveal darkness. It all felt so fake, like Lester's perfect bony cheeks. Everything had been structured; rebuilt to suit the needs of the Union. He could think of nothing else to say. "I have to go. It's been a long day."

  "Oh, okay, buddy. Well, here's my card. Call me when you're ready to see someone better in that mirror." Lester said sliding the card across the table with ketchup-stained fingers.

  Willie took it, trying to be polite, and stood up to leave.

  "One more thing," Lester said, "Stop by the Union Institute to get that chip rebooted, would you?" He smiled. "It was nice meeting someone from the same neighborhood. Don't be mad at me. Friends are supposed to be honest with each other. Isn't that how it works?"

  Without another word, Willie rushed out the front door.

  This was all like that World Series game in 2016, everything going so right until the end. Willie stared out the window, as the taxi sped along the freeway. He was talking hockey again, but Willie kept his mouth shut and just watched the city pass by; Lester's words still repeating in his head.

  In his days, the digital land had a wall around it. Net neutrality, data caps, speed limits, government regulations; all these kept barriers up. But Doomsday and the rise of the Union knocked those barriers down like buckets of hay. Science could accomplish anything, even beautifying a man like Lester. Spying would be broadened and no one would defy that, because Marcel Celest was adored and respected.

  But Project Syncope could stop that. An apocalyptic device to end the apocalypse. In theory, anyways. That's why Lester was so interested in it. For now, the device would stay put. Especially since Willie was the only one with the capability of activating the machine. But should the resistance know about it? Willie wasn't too sure.

  "Hey, you listening?"

  "Yeah," Willie lied, "Say, where we headed? This is different."

  "Uptown. That's what the dashboard says. Union Institute?"

  They were supposed to be going home. Lester must have changed their destination. Being that this was Willie's regular cab driver, he didn't feel uneasy about being truthful. "They want to implant a new chip in me. The old one don't work."

  "What's the big deal?"

  "It was fake."

  The cab driver bit his lip and could only say, "Oh."

  "They find it, I'm in a heap of trouble, know what I'm saying?"

  "Yeah. Yeah, I got you," the driver exhaled, "But the vehicle is self driving. Mostly. I can't take you home without them knowing. I gotta stay on route."

  Willie looked out the window again. Scar from baseball still discolored the bottom of his chin, tummy that Connor used to fall asleep on, the tattoo of his grandmother, and baldness that reminded him of his father. These were memories implanted on his body, physical memories, and Willie wasn't prepared to erase them like an old hard drive. Why? Aging was the best part of living. Memories meant everything. Memories that he could tell others. Something familiar blossomed in him. "Can you pull over?"

  "That I can do."

  The smart car pulled along the edge of the road. A female voice and flashing touchscreen asked if there was an emergency. After pressing a series of menu options, the driver chose Bathroom Break. "Make it a number two." He joked.

  Willie stepped outside, the chilly air making him rustle in his jacket. Since the sun could barely be seen through tainted clouds, he had learned to judge the sun's location by the level of bitter cold. It definitely disappeared over the horizon somewhere. He wished he could see it. No one else drove by, the roads empty as usual. Sometimes he missed traffic. Facing the forest, Willie contemplated something. The burnt tree branches were shaped like the veins of lungs, wobbling slightly with the wind. Earth breathed. Its voice sang through the music of birds. It cried from the sky. His boy taught him all this. Camping trips were his thing, but eventually Willie grew fond of it because the fascination of a little boy. "This is near Scotland Run park. I know where I am. Where I gotta go."

  "Go? You mean walk?" The driver questioned through the open passenger window. "Where?" He paused. "To them? They out there?"

  Around the metropolitan areas, the People of Bliss faded into rumors after the death of Sirius Dawson. News outlets reported the movement died. Willie knew the truth. They were all alive and well, ready to fight a war at Marcel Celest's door. A war that Willie needed to be a part of. "Yeah, man. I'm going to them."

  "How? You ain't got no GPS."

  True, but Willie had knowledge of the area. "You know, boss, we didn't always have GPS. I know my way around."

  "Okay, well, what about water? Food?"

  "Forest has it. Hell, I know how to make a water container out of birch bark. Make a knife from rock. Hunt. I don't need anything."

  Again, hesitant, the driver looked out into the dense forest more afraid than Willie. He'd watched too many horror movies. "But…but…" the cabbie frowned, "Who else am I supposed to talk to about the Phillies?"

  Suddenly feeling sorry for the man he rode with everyday after work and still neglected to ask his name, Willie offered. "Come with me."

  Disagreeing with the government always caused this reluctant step forward than a skittish step back. Being a fighter took more than brawn, it took an internal confidence the way that Willie was confident about his trek through the forest and dangerous roads for forty miles. The cabbie leaned back in his seat. "It's too late for me." Willie's prison mate, a New Yorker serving life, said that phrase too. Were the prisons so different? A steel prison versus a digital one? The cab driver extended his hand out and Willie shook it, suddenly realizing there was no turning back. He was leaving the Union's home to go to the silo's home. And as the cab drove away in a trail of dust, Willie couldn't help but sense relief.

  Technology is suppose to replace the meaningless jobs not the meaningful.

  -Victoria Celest

  First Lady of the United States

  2033-2038

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Depression had sunk into Nelson's mind again, telling him thoughts. Why bother? Learning how to fly a jet that was out of his reach did seem pointless. The only way he could escape this cell was if he could walk through solid walls, a feat even his miraculous son Marcel couldn't do. This same solidarity cursed him to the confines of the Oval Office after his wife's death, wanting nothing more than to be left alone. Now, he wanted nothing more than companionship and family.

  Antoine did his best to keep them entertained over the past week, but their three decades apart. The more they spoke, the more different they appeared. Music, movies, politics - the only thing they shared in common was flying. Training on the jet progressed repeatedly. Having little visual interaction except through a finger-sized hole, Nelson often got bored like listening to self-help tapes. Those things never helped him.

  One morning, he'd been awoken to Antoine silently speaking to himself. It wasn't the first time he heard the whispered conversation, but the first time he heard i
t so clearly. His cell neighbor's amplified voice seemed to be asking that his family stay safe in these hard times. Though they've spent night and day together, Nelson realized he knew so little about Antoine besides his expertise with piloting. His wife used to say, when you can't get out of your head - get into someone else's. "What is that? Praying?" Nelson scoffed.

  "Oh right. Last thing I remember hearing about your presidency was you got something against God."

  Denouncing religious freedoms in the Union agreement wouldn't exactly be the pivotal moment in his presidency, but at least it was something. "Let me ask you something. How long have you been in that cell?"

  "Sixty-three days, four hours and sixteen minutes."

  "And have you prayed every single one of those days?"

  "Hmph," Antoine mumbled. He finished his prayer with a murmured amen. "I get what you're going with that. Why hasn't He found the key, opened up this door, and let me out yet?"

  "Maybe you can read minds better than my son."

  Antoine turned on his sink and sipped some of the water. "You ever been so thirsty that drinking water gives a sorta sense of satisfaction? Ever been sick and enjoyed that feeling when the recovery begins? How about taking a bite of sweet red velvet cake after an amazing meal? It all feels good, right? I think that's God. It's a feeling. We all share it. Even me and you."

  Though there wasn't much to look at except endless water, Nelson took this moment to peep out the open slit above the sink that served as a window. "My wife used to love the ocean. We'd go out, just the two of us, on a boat and do nothing. Those were the best days of my life. Now? Well now, she's buried in a cemetery. There's a God? I don't believe that horse shit. If there was a God, he wouldn't have let her die. Do you understand? I'll never see her again."

  "You sure you won't see her again?"

  Facing sideways so his nose could fit through the opening, he smelled the ocean air. Much cleaner than the air on land. "I'm sure I won't."

  Talking about this didn't make him feel better. If he had sheets, he would've concocted a way to hang himself. Anywhere was better than here. Even death. But he knew, because the moment had crossed his mind before. "A week after my wife died and the media lost interest, so did the world, I swallowed a handful of Somas. Even before it made it's way to my stomach, I chickened out and hurriedly grabbed a glass of water and added salt. I guzzled the salt water and vomited instantaneously. Never been sure what caused me retract my attempt at suicide. It wasn't my family, my children hated me after Victoria died. It wasn't my loyalty to the country. Or my minuscule fan base. I…just…couldn't do it."

  "Maybe something else stopped you."

  Nelson rolled his eyes and paced around the cell, forcing himself to do this pathetic exercise every day to avoid atrophy to his legs. Besides, he enjoyed walking. Since Doomsday forced most of them to walk miles, he found it not only good for his body, but good for his mind too. "So what do you think? You blame me for Doomsday too? That my stance against religion sparked an apocalypse?"

  "We both know damn well that many reasons sparked the war, but Marcel Celest let it happen. So he could push his Union agenda. Of course, NAN never mentions that theory. They put the blame entirely on you."

  Nelson stopped to squint his eyes. "NAN?"

  "What? Have you been living under a rock, my man?"

  Considering that the missile silo entrance was hidden behind a rock, Nelson could affirm that statement but decided not to. "Never heard of it."

  "NAN. North American News. Press is now per continent and is supposedly unbiased."

  Nelson bent down to do push-ups. He hadn't done them in the ages, but the confines of these walls were driving him insane. After only three push-ups, he collapsed onto the ground. Half his face still resting on the cold floor, he asked, "When was the last time you spoke to them?"

  "Seventy-eight days, two hours and thirty-three minutes."

  Getting off the floor, he realized he should've cherished time when it was on his side.

  "Promised them I'd be home by now," Antoine added. "Military families are trained to be patient, but this… damn captain won't even let me send an email to let them know I'm even alive."

  Footsteps echoed outside in the walkway. It was much too early for that slop they called dinner. The tension from Antoine could be felt even through the four-inch thick steel walls. "If they are coming for you," Antoine whispered, "Act you like it."

  "What?" Nelson said, his imagination going in several directions. "What's happening?"

  The footsteps stopped in front of Nelson's door. Antoine said again, "Act you like it. It turns them off."

  He wobbled back as the crew unlocked the door with a key, and grasped onto the sink. They rammed their way into his cell. Nelson couldn't get a single punch before they knocked him to the floor. Trying to bite at an ear, or head butting, had no effect. The guards locked their arms around his arms, but it did little to keep him from struggling. Not until one of them bashed Nelson in the back of a head with the barrel of a rifle did he finally cease fighting.

  Dazed, he went from moments of being dragged on the walkway to being dragged upstairs. Muffled words from the crew made no sense. With no idea what cruelty he was about to endure, Nelson thought about praying. Even at a time like this, maybe it could give comfort.

  His face smashed onto another floor. Cold air chilled his face and body immediately. Wind swashed his clothes about. Since being in that cell, he'd wanted more than to be outside. But now outdoors, he found himself more terrified than that cell. Stumbling to get up, he couldn't get a sense of his surroundings. He was certainly on deck. But why? His vision cleared slightly when he shook his head.

  The captain sat on a barrel, cutting an apple with a sharp blade. "If you're thinking of running…good luck."

  Nelson swung around to see endless ocean in every direction. Under other circumstances, the view would've been quite breath-taking. "What do you want?"

  Before he could open his mouth, the captain was rudely interrupted to the sounds of screaming. He rolled his eyes and chewed the first slice of apple. Assuming the high pitched and panicked screams were a woman, Nelson was surprised to see them coming from a man. The man, naked below the waist and wearing only his crew uniform shirt, ran up the stairs. "She shat on me!"

  Crew members, scattered around the deck, pointed and laughed as the pant-less man grabbed a garden hose outside and washed his genital area that was covered in brown liquid. "She fucking shat on me! Jesus Christ, what if she got AIDS."

  "That's not how you get AIDS, fuck-tard," the captain said sarcastically.

  Three more crew members exited the door the half-naked man just exited, holding a prisoner tightly. A prisoner Nelson hadn't recognized. Old enough to have children, but not grand-children, this woman didn't bother to fight back like Nelson did. Blood stained her panties down to her ankles. Fresh blood.

  Without even hesitating, the humiliated man punched the woman in the face like a boxer. Even from their distance, Nelson could hear her jaw crack. "Fucking cunt!"

  Feeling helpless, Nelson thought of lunging forward to protect this innocent woman, but the half dozen men on this deck would surely insure he lost that battle. So he stood, shoulders sagged and swaying with the boat.

  The captain smirked. "Caught her a whiles back. Three ports ago. She snuck in, like you. Except she wasn't trying to steal multimillion dollar equipment. Oh no. She was trying to steal food." He cut off a large chunk of apple and swallowed it after two bites. "I'm gonna tell you two stories, Mr. President." He stood up and inadvertently Nelson squabbled down to his knees. "Jessica was this fine girl, born in a Bible-thumping town outside of Jackson, Mississippi. In Middle School, she wrote letters to the Armed Forces overseas. In High School, she worked a second job and gave all her money to charity. She went on to college to become a nurse, you know because she loved helping people. Fell in love with a patient, an army vet who lost both legs in the war. Jessica asked him to marry her,
if you can believe that….women never ask first, right? But she did because she's a strong woman. A kind woman."

  He chucked what was left of the apple in the ocean, right past the railing. "The second story ain't so happy, now. We got a girl named Margie. In Middle School, she flunked twice and got put behind with the retard class. In ninth grade, Margie was giving BJs to the boys under the bleachers right before cheerleading practice. Sometimes even teachers. Not long after, she got knocked up by the quarterback. When the bastard cheated on her, Margie keyed his truck and busted the tires. Literally her only reason for having that baby was to collect welfare checks from the good ole' U.S. of A. She got hooked on smack and almost burned the trailer down when she tried to cook her on meth, with the baby in the crib on the other side of the room. One night, if it wasn't for her nosy neighbors, the baby would've died. It kept crying and crying that night. You know why? She forgot to feed it and passed out thanks to a good taste of the Brown Betty."

  He bent down to Nelson's level, licking the end of his knife. "Which story you think is true about our lovely, shit-smelling whore here?"

  Not sure where this was going, he decided he didn't want to play anymore. But watching the captain's wild eyes and the sharpness of that blade in his hand, Nelson knew he had to give some type of answer. "I don't know."

  A smile streaked across the captain's face. "Well, I'll be… That's right, Mr. President. The answer is…you don't know." He stood up briskly, walking toward the woman. She gave a slight sob as he grabbed her arm. Showing his strength, he hoisted her up like a bride on her wedding day.

  Then the captain strolled over and slung the woman over the railing into the ocean.

  "NO!" Nelson screamed. Crew immediately grabbed Nelson and held him down as he lunged for the captain.

  Eyes as round as snow globes, the captain stared. "Would you have reacted like that if I told you that she wasn't the kind, loving nurse, but the neglectful, druggy girl? Or maybe it was the other way around? But what's matter, right? She could've lied about her story."