The Last Days_Conclude [Book 3 of 3]

by Chris Ayala

  "Happy?"

  "Oh yes. But. Is it enough? Trying to concentrate on a single mass of land in the far distance when you've been thrown into an irate, blackened ocean? Have you heard of Cherophobia? Is this human condition where the subject avoids moments of happiness, out of either fear of the consequences of it or fear of the credibility of it."

  Nodding his head, Willie said, "I know what you mean." He spun a wedding ring on his left hand. "I can't keep my mind off him. Don't know how to be happy sometimes."

  Janice watched the people glowing and said, "I don't know how any of them can be happy sometimes." Before she could muster another tear, another useless tear that usually soaked her pillow every morning, Janice gave a polite nod goodbye to Willie and walked back towards the silo.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Having the crap beat out of her, for the first time ever, Royal was unsure how long it took for a swollen cheek to recede. She had placed a bag of peas on it every night since Zharkova's girls taught her a lesson in that subway car. The swelling still reminded her how horrifying and humiliating the situation was. Anton never asked questions, though Royal wished he would so she could state how awful his mother could be.

  Not far from the entrance to Moscow's busiest subway station, she sat at a round table. Anton had done an excellent job of preparing a nice dining experience. In the center was a red rose that Royal assumed had to be fake since flowers didn't grow in toxic fumes. The table cloth had a peculiar pattern of chickens with a white background. He set out a series of plates as his headphones boomed the music of some rapper she didn't recognize. All this seemed like a moment of celebration. But celebration of what? Certainly not of the situation. Outside, humid air kept the chemicals at a dangerous level. Royal's broken nose still bled from time-to-time. And Zharkova was still coughing and alive. There didn't seem to be much to celebrate.

  The cranky old troll hadn't said much since she sat, besides that Royal looked like shit. She avoided the mirror for this reason. A week after the brutal beating in the subway car, the only scar that had disappeared was the black eye.

  Anton mouthed the lyrics to his song as he brought over a large silver plate with three soup bowls on it. Royal's stomach grumbled. Finally, a decent meal. Then she saw the sloppy mess in the bowl, as Anton set it down before her. Royal stared at the plate for a long moment, trying to make sense of what she could. The meal was some type of soup…but not. It was like Jell-O. Leafs, black pepper corns, and something that seemed like dog food had been mixed together into this solid gelatin. Before Royal could ask if this was actual food, Zharkova was nearly done devouring the bowl.

  Using a spoon, Royal poked it. Zharkova's hand slammed the table so hard that she nearly fell out of her seat. Without saying a word, Royal interrupted Zharkova's stern face and curled upper lip. Eat it!

  Maybe it would be like that Olivye salad they had last week; it tasted a lot better than it looked. After the first bite of the meat gelatin meal, Royal became immediately surprised. The meal actually tasted much worse than it looked. Anton sat down, tossed his elbows on the table, and began to munch on the dish. Again, Zharkova's hand slammed the table. But this time - the angry facade was directed toward Anton.

  The wanna-be gangster immediately sat up and turned into a wanna-be butler. He removed his elbows faster than he removed his headphones. With his hands in his lap, he awaited a silent instruction from Zharkova. After a brief nod from his mother figure, he stiffly grabbed his fork and took tiny bites of the grub.

  Even with a busted nose, Royal still had some sense of taste. She didn't know if she could eat this. Starving didn't seem all that bad. But Zharkova's quick glance gave no indication that the decision was Royal's. Reluctantly, she took another bite of her food.

  Thirty minutes past, maybe more, of complete silence besides the clank of a fork hitting the plate or Royal's stomach giving a rebellious groan. Finally, after the last bite, Zharkova spoke. She said something in Russian. Anton's reaction made Royal wish she spoke the native language. He seemed torn between concern and obedience. "Now," Zharkova whispered.

  Anton nodded and walked away. The Russian leader faced Royal. "Alright, Aurora, follow me."

  "Where we gonna go?"

  "To watch television."

  Royal's forehead crunched into what must've looked like a question mark over her head. Watch TV? Zharkova gave no further details, she sat up and used her cane to walk away. Royal followed.

  They walked through a series of spiral stairs past a door that said something in Russian. But the emblem of straight metal bars translated it for her. It was some kind of holding cell. The room had an enormous television set attached to the wall. Royal noticed the room had several speakers attached around the cell. In the center of the room was a single chair. The far corner had a toilet and sink.

  "Sit down, Aurora."

  The only other choice would've been to run out of this room. Whatever the woman had planned couldn't have been good. Royal weighed out her options. If she ran, the air outside was so dense with green gases that it would make her choke to death by the time she made it out of this Godforsaken Hell. Even with a cane, somehow Zharkova would catch up to her and probably beat her dead body with the cane. That was no way to go. Being gullible was an option too. Maybe this was just a simple television and Royal could watch some old episodes of Full House.

  Reluctantly, she sat on the chair and faced the television. Anton appeared at the door with a remote control and blue mop bucket. He said something in Russian, probably about the blue mop bucket because Zharkova snatched it and threw it next to Royal. Thankfully, it was empty and not full of nasty mop water.

  Zharkova used the remote control and turned on the television. "You've only experienced a pimple on the face of evil. Americans and their goddamn censorship haven't seen the real side of war. I'm about to show you the true face of evil."

  The surround speakers popped as a video started. With the remote control still in her hand, Zharkova walked to the door. "And try to aim in the goddamn bucket, Aurora, or I will make you clean it up."

  "There's a toilet. I don't need a bucket –"

  "It's not for your piss and shit, stupid girl!" Zharkova grabbed a set of keys from a worried Anton. "It's for your vomit."

  Zharkova slammed the door closed and locked it.

  At first, the video started with just a series of war images. Nothing that couldn't be shown to a class of sixth graders. Black and white pictures of World War II. American soldiers prepared for battle. The famous photo of a man standing in front of a tank in

  ***

  If this was Zharkova's shot at scaring Royal, she might as well just turned on the History Channel. Was this the Russian leader's way of showing violence? Royal scoffed. She knew the true face of violence by watching every episode of 'Walker: Texas Ranger'.

  Then the blood started to appear. First on a soldier's uniform, right around the knee where he had been shot. The next image showed a dead body lying on the ground in a jungle with a Vietnamese uniform. Then the photos became more modern by showcasing the brutal actions of American soldiers in what so many called the most devastating war. The Vietnam War brought out the worst in both sides, because no one could understand the point in fighting. It drove men mad. Soldiers took pictures with severed heads on stakes. The image made the meat gelatin delight rumble in her stomach.

  The video went black for several minutes. Royal snorted at the bucket. She made it through the graphic images with ease. But then a video started. A man sat on a chair, which eerily like the one Royal sat on at that moment. The man had been stripped naked besides a blind fold around his eyes. Mucus and tears ran down his chin. There were several slashes across his skin; some scabbed and others looked fresh. Perhaps caning or whipping, whatever the case may be…no man deserved this. Royal covered her mouth with one hand. His whimpers came crystal clear through the surround sound system. She felt in the middle of the action. What fear this man must've felt.r />
  A lamp hung above the victim and glistened the amount of sweat on his poor body. Looking at how thin the man was, he would've surely devoured that meat gelatin without any remorse.

  Two middle eastern men entered the video's frame, armed with AR-15 rifles and bandanas to conceal their faces. Whatever they were saying into the camera, Royal couldn't translate but the sheer rage in each syllable made it clear they weren't happy. She prayed they would just put a bullet through this man's head and end his suffering quickly. But instead, one of the armed men tied a rope around the victim's torso and tightened him to the chair. "No! Please! No!" the victim screamed. It was an American. Before Royal could figure out what was happening, the other middle eastern man pulled out a machete and swung it into the back of the victim's neck. Royal cried out and covered her mouth with both hands. The victim's neck didn't sever completely. He was still alive and screaming at the top of his throat! She'd never heard a cry like that. The machete came down again and cut only a few more inches. Beheading wasn't a quick, clean cut. It took several swings before a human's head released from the rest of the body. Thump after thump, the victim continued to plead for mercy. Finally the machete made it to the throat. The victim began to choke on his blood, but kept crying out.

  Then the head fell off and landed in his lap. Blood spewed in every direction. Even hitting the lamp above.

  Another video clip began to play. A woman was being stoned in the middle of a town square. Each stone thrown ripped off skin and tissue. Blood soaked her clothes until they turned red. By the end of the movie, the poor woman looked like a chunk of wet ground beef.

  The next video showed a homeless man sleeping. Kids giggled quietly as they sprayed lighter fluid all over him. The homeless man mumbled to be left alone. Too drunk to stand up, he tried to kick the kids away. Suddenly, one of the brats threw a Molotov cocktail. The homeless man ignited immediately and hollered in pain. Royal felt a tear roll down her eye. The kids' giggles grew louder and they filmed this murder triumphantly.

  Screams echoed through each of the speakers around the room. It seemed to have gotten louder. Royal covered her wet eyes, but the noises seemed worse. Every sinister cackle and every traumatic wail traveled through her ear drums clearly. Royal closed her eyes and covered her ears. It only sounded muffled; not nearly enough.

  Panicked, Royal grabbed the chair and tossed it at the television set. There was a tough glass blocking it; the chair didn't leave a dent. She ran to the speakers and tried to rip them out, but they were bolted to the wall. The sounds of children screamed through the speakers. Whatever was happening on the screen, she didn't want to know. Royal dashed to the door. Until now, she hadn't noticed a door handle was missing. Using her fingernails she tried desperately to open the door. Even cracking one of her nails was no use.

  "Please! Anton! Please! Open the door! I got the message! Please!" Royal kicked at the door. "I get it! Alright! This is war! I get it! Open the door!"

  On the television, a woman chased a youngster with a bat. He was no older than five, maybe six years old. He kept crying out, "Mommy! Please don't! Please!" Royal watched in horror as the woman smashed the youngster's head until the brain became exposed.

  Royal hurried to the bucket and vomited her dinner.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Even though blisters reminded Willie of all the miles he had walked, he continued on. Leaving the Union and its incredible benefits for a dangerous trek to the missile silo and its non-existent benefits seemed stupid. Last night, sleeping under a tree to hide from the torrential downpour, he had thought about going back to a delicious meal from his refrigerator or comfy mattress to sleep on. But whatever compelled him away kept his feet forward on the long path.

  The missile silo's entrance had been hidden so well, that often the residents of the colony would circle miles without seeing it. Thankfully, Adam came up with a clever plan so that unwelcome visitors (such as the drones that periodically scanned for any signs of the rebellious People of Bliss in the woods) couldn't find them. Paint would be too obvious and so would any insignia, so he opted to use an optical illusion. Three trees, which branches had been cut to create the illusion, needed to line up a certain way to create the look of a real big tree. The left tree had its right branches cut, the right tree had no right branches, and the center tree had no branches.

  With squinty eyes, Willie finally saw the three trees and aligned them. Dead center of this was the missile silo's entrance. Hidden under a blanket of leaves was the circular doorway and lock. He twisted it and opened the door. After a short climb down a ladder, usually he'd be greeted by an older man with a cane in one hand and a pistol in the other. Rumor said the guard had great aim. But Willie didn't find the man in this first room before entering the establishment. Instead, someone entirely different sat the chair next to the door.

  The younger man, maybe in his early 30s, scanned the air. His crystal blue eyes reflected from even the dim lights overhead.

  Willie swallowed and said, "How's it going, boss? I know you?"

  Instead of just looking directly at him, the new guard seemed to be looking everywhere else. He smelled the air a few times. "I'm Pierre," he answered in the thickest of accents. Whatever the mystery man was from, Willie didn't care because he loved accents. He felt the sweat build up under his collar even though the room was cold enough to chill ice cream.

  "Willie…William…Cooper. That's me," Willie said correcting himself. Pierre seemed too humble and proper to use a name such as "Willie".

  "Hello, William," the stranger said with a smile that made Willie melt. "By now, I would've sensed some danger from you and taken you down. But I almost feel you are worthy to enter. How did you hear about the People of Bliss?"

  "Oh, I'm actually already with the group."

  "Strange. I don't remember letting anyone exit today."

  "I left…a while ago, boss. Just coming back now."

  With a cocked head, Pierre seemed to be using his ears to place Willie's position. "Why did you leave in the first place?"

  To sound mysterious, because all men loved mysterious, Willie muttered, "I was on a mission for Adam."

  Smirking now, Pierre stood up. In his right hand, he used a device that dog trainers used. The clicking noise echoed in the small room. Pierre's ear moved about and then he began to walk toward Willie.

  "You can't see me?" Only after he said it, did Willie realize how rude and ignorant the question had been. "Oh, you're blind. Sorry. I just –"

  Pierre wore a tight black turtle neck and even tighter blue jeans, leaving little to Willie's extensive imagination. No Union department had created this perfect human being, nature did all the research. With a hint of hairy chest through his shirt and long thick mustache, Pierre looked like a human version of a weasel.

  "Wondering why they'd put a blind man to watch the door?" Pierre said, finishing the sentence. "Because I can see much better than most people here. You know why?"

  Pierre stepped closer, now only a foot or so in front of Willie. The sweat grew profusely, dripping off the tip of his nose. Willie hadn't been this close to such an attractive man since Adam sleptwalk into his room and cuddled next to him. "No," he squeaked.

  "Because it's not only about seeing, but about feeling too."

  Without asking, Pierre lifted his hands and touched the sides of Willie's cheeks. The fingers were callused yet so gentle. Just like his husband's hands. Pierre ran his fingers along the wrinkles on his cheeks, pimples on his forehead, and receding hairline on his head. Willie really wished he'd gotten that plastic surgery now and morphed himself into the Union's definition of a perfect man.

  "Hmph," Pierre giggled, "you've got dimples."

  After a brief heart flutter, Willie could finally speak. "You too."

  Pierre nodded, "Come inside. They are doing a play in the auditorium. You should see it."

  "Sure," Willie squeaked again. "I mean, sounds fun. See you…around?"

  "That
would be nice," Pierre said, turning to the large wheel that opened a metal door to the missile silo. He turned it with ease and the entrance opened with a clank. "See you around, William."

  He didn't realize until it was time to walk that his knees had been nervously locked. Willie walked slowly and entered the missile silo.

  "Goddamnit, where have you been?" Adam said breathlessly when he saw Willie at his doorway.

  Greeted with a hug, he suddenly felt less rigid. Willie had been thinking about what to say the entire walk here. Should he admit the truth, that the Union nearly sucked him into their technology black hole? Or should he lie and say testing the farce chip had been more time-consuming than they planned? Without having to make up an excuse, Adam immediately changed the subject of the month long delay and looked at Willie's palm. "Did the chip work?"

  "Yep. Worked like a charm."

  Ecstatic, Adam threw his fists in the air like he was Tom Cruise talking about his perfect life. "This is awesome! Best news I've heard all day. We need more people chipped."

  Whatever strategy Adam had planned for this final war, the chip seemed to be the key. But how? Instead of asking, Willie just absorbed the gratitude for his role in it. He wondered if the rest of the people here would be so welcoming. After Sirius Dawson's death, many accusing eyes had pinned the blame on him of letting Union Keepers kidnap her in the first place.

  Adam returned to his computer desk and manically typed at the laptop.

  "Hey, boss, there's a play going on? Mind if I go watch it then we can go through the details?"

  "Hmm? Yeah sure," Adam answered without turning around. The moment reminded Willie how he looked slouched in front of a laptop for hours.

  Once he dropped off his supplies back in his room and changed out of sweaty clothes, Willie made his way down the hall to the spiral of stairs. No one seemed to be around. The stage play had drawn in the People of Bliss like a dry sponge.