The Last Days_Conclude [Book 3 of 3]

by Chris Ayala

  He could hear laughter, then clapping, followed by the voices of children reciting lines. The Wizard of Oz. Willie already knew the dialogue of Dorothy disobeying her Aunt and Uncle's wishes.

  The stage had been setup the largest room of the missile silo. What probably used to be a computer room for rocket scientists had been transformed completely. Hundreds of chairs with hundreds of citizens all faced the small, yet adequate, wood stage. Not only had the chairs been filled, but even the floor. Sitting on the floors with blankets, no one even turned to see Willie as he entered the room and shut the door behind him. Having to stand since there didn't seem to be a place to sit, he crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.

  With the straight brown hair tied behind her, the star of the show had the cutest of cheeks. Willie wondered how much they had been pinched to make them so red. A flashlight, from a stagehand in the distance, shown on the little girl like a spotlight. The room quieted as the young angel began to sing "Over the Rainbow".

  So pure and serene, Willie wished he could record this girl's voice and play it to help him sleep at night. It sent a shiver up his spine. Would the Union Transmogrification Center be able to genetically replicate such a voice?

  Looking around, he noticed a few eyes glance back at him. Eyes that had squinted angrily at him were now excitedly wide open. A few people waved at him. He waved back.

  Willie closed his eyes and kept them shut as that gentle voice melted the hearts of everyone in this room. Maybe Pierre had been right. Maybe there was something more to what was seen. Maybe feelings, a natural component built into every human being, meant more. Willie experienced an energy in this room. A grateful energy. A joyful energy. A peaceful energy. More peaceful than any government could offer. And technology didn't craft it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Cured Salmon with Horseradish. Tex-Mex Deviled Eggs. Spanish Ham with Olives.

  Marcel suddenly realized this long table of tasty hors d'oeuvres didn't have any options for vegans. Of all these adoring fans, surely someone didn't prefer to savor animal by-products. How could he had been so blind to his loyal followers? How about his best friends, Joey and Joseph? Did they eat meat?

  The castle looked incredible from this view. Towers cast a shadow even in the cloudy sky. Sometimes he thought of that sun, hidden behind blackened clouds. His journey of the universe with Lucifer crept him closer to the ultimate light in the solar system. Then invisible rays led him toward the star, soft voices repeated Come into the light, his skin began to ignite, fire surrounded him, the place of peace seemed to be more the place of fear…

  Giggling passerby broke his concentration. Two girls grabbed a few of the snacks and smiled in his direction. Hundreds walked around, shopping the tents and meeting representatives of the new world government. Thankful for this opportunity to clarify all the misconceptions, Marcel's throat had nearly gone dry from all the questions he'd answered for the last three hours. He rubbed his hands together, not to keep warm in the chilled breezy air. But to wipe away the nervous sweat from his palms. His dad never got sweaty.

  The thought of the former President of the United States, his father and his role model, sat in a cell on a ship. Had the Light blinded him? Blinded him? Lied to him? Then began to yank him slowly into a fiery demise?

  Looking around again, he couldn't find his best friends Joseph and little brother Joey. They promised to be here. For the last two weeks, they stayed in the castle with him. Every night was a different board game, Marcel thrilled at the challenges. Joey didn't care for games, but loved movies. He almost seemed like a little brother to Marcel too. In the theater room, he brought in old reels of his favorite films. Both of them enjoyed edge-of-your-seat actions movies. Neither of his new friends even saw the Transformers films and munched on popcorn with wide eyes. Even classics like Forest Gump, Saving Private Ryan, and Titanic were new to the brothers. Joey loved Pulp Fiction the most. So did Brent.

  Another unexpected handshake and congratulations of the Union's success. Before Marcel even had a chance to see the face or even pose, a camera flashed and the fan shyly ran away with friends to the pavilion. They disappeared into the mass amount of casually dressed patrons. Nelson would've enjoyed this crowd of well-dressed, well-groomed, and well-educated people. Most of all, he would've enjoyed the attention Marcel got and deserved.

  "Can we take a picture with you too?" a tiny voice asked. He looked down to see brown curly hair combed over to the side. A boy, no older than six, tugged at the bowtie around his neck. "Mom says I can grow up to be like you someday. Be a leader and stuff. Can I?"

  Marcel got on his knee while the child's excited mother held tightly to a camera. He wondered what Janice was doing now. Was their child as precious as this boy? Was it even their child? He whispered, "Of course you can. With the Union, you can be anyone you want to be."

  Those words gave the kid a bigger grin than if he had told him they were going to Disneyland. The child posed next to him and Marcel gave a grin to the camera. After a quick flash, the boy ran away and grabbed his mother's hand, then used his other hand to wave to Marcel.

  Nothing could ruin this moment of honor. Not the image of Janice's petrified face at Brent's dead body. Not Nelson's poor performance at pretending to be "in shock". Not the abundance of protests against the Union.

  Nothing.

  He circled the table of scrumptious snacks. Then a familiar face stood at the end of the table. "Joey!" Marcel called out and waved.

  Seeming to not hear him, Joey continued to stare at the table of foods. Strange thing was that the teenager never picked up any of it. He just stared. Something was wrong. Marcel could sense darkness, but couldn't decipher it.

  He approached and patted Joey on the back. "Hey, buddy, everything okay?"

  Not turning around, Joey mumbled, "Hey."

  "We got lots of food. Stop by later, I brought another one you might like. Ever seen Man of Steel?"

  "No."

  "You like superhero movies?"

  "Yeah."

  These one words answers were making Marcel even more nervous. He patted his friend on the shoulder. "What's the matter?"

  With his head down, Joey turned and said nothing. In his right hand, he grasped a plate of uneaten chocolate java cakes, red velvet squares, and lemon cupcakes. His other hand held something in his pocket.

  Dressed in a suit and tie with his hair slicked to the left, Joey stared at the concrete pavement of the pavilion. The plate of snacks shook as he spoke. "Joseph says I don't need to talk to you. Joseph says stand near the table. Joseph says I need to just hold a plate so I don't look suspicious."

  "Suspicious?" Marcel asked. He thought of what could possibly be suspicious. It did seem odd that his older brother Joseph was nowhere to be seen when the two seemed tied at the hip. It also seemed peculiar that Joey's coat was way too bulky, even in this weather.

  Joey whispered, "Joseph says the Union is up to no good. Joseph says Mr. Declan didn't finish the job. Joseph says we have to."

  Mr. Declan? "Charles Declan? The maniac that shot up innocent people and blew up the nation's capital?" Marcel squinted, knowing that had to be the reference. "Charles Declan? The leader of the terrorist group Servo Clementia?" He gulped. "Were…are you…followers?"

  Joey nodded, shamefully.

  Slowly, Marcel used the tip of his finger to pull Joey's trench coat back a little. A device clung around his body like a weight belt. Connected to pounds of explosive C4, a clock timer circled around to midnight. Joey's entire body was covered in the gray clay. His last words came out a faint confident whisper, "Joseph says we doing the right thing."

  Wind burst and wrapped a bubble around Marcel microseconds before the clock ended. The C4 activated. An explosion melted away any existence of his friend Joey. Not even an ash. Fire circle around him and devoured the hundreds of followers that had came to support the Union. And support him. Screams of joy had turned to screams of terror. Laughter turned to w
ails. Flames dissolve all the voices around him. He watched in horror, in his protective bubble, helpless to what was happening. It occurred so fast that his brain couldn't contemplate what to do.

  Every settled as fast as it had detonated. He felt something he hadn't felt all day. Alone. His people…dead. His servants…dead. His admirers…dead. The bubble created by the wind element faded away and flakes of ash touched his face. With a shaky finger, he wiped a smudge of ashes from his face then looked at his blackened finger. This was all that was left.

  Marcel took a step back, but hadn't realized the shock made his legs not work. He fell backwards onto the pavement. Black dust flew up. Rushing to stand up, Marcel hastily wiped away all the ash on him. People. It was all that was left of these people. He circled around. Through the mucky air, he couldn't see any sign of life. A few fires still burned. Trees burned slowly, but nothing else survived.

  How could he do such a thing? Joey. One of the kindest, shiest men he'd ever met couldn't have done this alone. No. Men like Joey were blinded. Blinded by the Light. And his light was his brother.

  "Joseph," Marcel whispered to himself. There's no way a scandalous liar like Joseph would leave such a task up to his brother. That meant he must've been in a stone's throw length.

  Marcel walked toward the bridge, thinking of the boy. The boy with a dream of the future. Where was his ashes? The Light had stolen them. Again, a rebellious attack on him had ended the lives of innocent people. Marcel's hand clenched as he walked. Then he heard the screams of people. The panicked voices were coming from across the bridge. His walk hurried to a sprint. Sure enough, on the bridge's entrance to the pavilion, people had escaped the explosion.

  Then the sounds of sharp gun shots echoed. He was too late. In the distance, he saw a few Union Keepers on the ground with bullet wounds in their heads. In front of their lifeless bodies, Marcel began to slow his dash because he found who had exchanged the gunfire.

  Joseph, holding his bleeding side and very much alive, scurried to one side of the bridge. He pointed his gun at Marcel and fired without even a hesitation.

  But Marcel didn't feel a bullet hit any part of his body. He stopped and waited, expecting his body to go weak. Nothing happened. Slowly, he looked down. A bullet spun in mid-air, inches from his chest. Joseph fired more ammo. Each bullet stopped an inch before its fatal entrance into Marcel.

  The air had ceased the trajectory of the bullet. He realized almost immediately. Wind. Just the way the element bubbled him from the explosion, it had also stopped the fatal shots. The bullets fell and clanked on the ground.

  He heard more clicks. Joseph continued pulling the trigger on his gun, but the chamber was empty. This man, that only days before, seemed on a path to becoming Marcel's friend had transitioned into Marcel's enemy. Marcel demanded, "How could you?"

  Joseph didn't answer. Instead, he unstrapped the device around his waist and began to try to clumsily pry the clock off. The story unfolded before Marcel's eyes, apparently his bomb hadn't gone off. Joseph tried desperately to fix it by rewiring the clock.

  "There were children there!" Marcel shouted. "Children!"

  Blood pooled out of from Joseph from his wounds. His bloody, shaking hands began to connect the clock back to the device.

  "No," Marcel shook his head. His pupils widened and he grasped the darkness in Joseph's eyes. Going limp, the deceiver gave up on repairing his failed bomb. Then he faced Marcel like in the presence of a god. Which he sort of was.

  To the right of him, Marcel saw a slight fire from the explosion still burning a wooden table. He smirked. "Open your mouth."

  Joseph shook his head, sweat poured out of him more than blood.

  "I said 'open your mouth'!" Marcel screamed. His power clenched onto Joseph's soul, hypnotizing him.

  Widening his mouth, a tear trickled down his cheek, knowing his fate. From the nearby inferno, a blaze rose like a snake. It slithered toward Joseph's trembling body. Then the igneous apparition motioned towards the liar's throat. Joseph began to cry out, mouth wide but unable to fight Marcel's grasp of his physical skills. The snake swam down Joseph's throat. His body convulsed and muffled cries for help became muffled as he burned from the inside. Flames exited out his chest.

  Marcel had never intended to murder Brent, so this felt different. This felt…relieving. That man, who could've someday been Marcel's best friend, had planned this attack from the beginning and brought his innocent brother into this devious plan. Unlike Brent, Joseph deserved death. In fact, Marcel did a favor for the future of the Union. He watched as Joseph's body burned and his ashes mixed into the air with his victims.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  It had been eight years since Willie had been awoken by a baby's cry. After adopting Antoine, him and his husband questioned their abilities to be parents. No matter what, their boy wouldn't stop crying at night. Trying different techniques eventually worked though; they found a way to be at peace and be parents. Willie turned over in his floor mattress to the side where his husband used to sleep. It sometimes helped him fall back asleep.

  He thought it was one of those strange dreams where the sounds seem so real, but in fact...it wasn't. There was a baby crying. Being a father for eight years created this sense of heroism in him; that he could sweep in and save the infant from his pain.

  Standing up, his back cracked and knees popped like firecrackers. Getting old sucked. He read somewhere that life began at 40. Too bad the body didn't agree. It was chilly again. Damn heaters must be down again. Wearing his A-Shirt (or his man used to say "wife-beater" shirt) and striped boxers wouldn't keep him warm as he ventured to where the baby cried. Out of bed now, he immediately covered himself in a heavy hoodie sweater and gym pants.

  Across the hall, the babies crying was evidently coming from behind Janice Celest's door. Still catching up on all the missile silo gossip, he hadn't heard the President's daughter had a baby. Now that the fatigue began to wear away and Willie realized the miracle that had woken him up. Population Control departments decided parents and where children were born. But somehow, she'd became pregnant on her own and had a child. Curiosity overshadowed his need to be father superhero. He knocked softly before realizing the baby's cries were louder, then he knocked louder.

  "I'm working on it!" she shouted from the other side.

  Coming from Jersey, attitude like that was met with Willie's crude mouth. But this time he decided to be polite. "I can help."

  It didn't take long before the top lock snapped open and the door swung just a few inches. She didn't even look to see who was at the door, instead she walked away and left Willie opening the door the rest of the way. Janice, much more thinner and sickly than he'd ever seen in those New York Times photos, slumped into a rocking chair. Frustrated and visibly stressed, she crossed her arms to warm up in that ugly pink robe. "He won't stop. I'm sorry. I'm trying."

  "Don't apologize. No big." Willie turned to the baby's crib. Wrapped in several blankets was what he remembered made life so precious. Big blue eyes squinted as the boy cried even louder at the sign of a stranger. So angry, the infant's hands clenched together more than his eyes as it wailed into the empty room. "He's beautiful."

  Janice's face smirked on one side. "Usually." She sipped on a cup of steaming hot tea. "I'm a terrible mother if I can't figure out what's wrong with my baby."

  Vividly remembering his own self-loathing moments as a father, Willie replied, "No. You're not." He had an immediate idea. "I'll be back. I bet I know what's wrong."

  After a minute digging through his still unpacked satchel in his room, he returned with a set of pricey headphones. He had borrowed them from the warehouse and didn't have any intentions of bringing them back now. Janice stared strangely at him. "Ear muffs?"

  "These puppies will block out any noise. Used them in the warehouse to shut up those forklifts."

  Reluctant, Janice stared at the yellow clunky ear muffs. "They resemble headphones the workers use on airport ru
nways."

  "Yes, exactly." Willie said, realizing how different they were. A politician's daughter had flown countless time while him, a janitor's son, had only flown twice in his life. But this made him respect her more. She went from riches to rags and yet prevailed.

  "I don't follow," Janice said. "You want me to drown out the sound of my baby?"

  He nodded. "Yeah. Get this. My ex was into all this body-science mumbo-jumbo. He said that we're going to stress out when we hear a baby cry. But if you can relax, then so can the infant. Put them on. I'm going to hand you...what's his name?"

  "Colin."

  "Colin. Okay. Great name. Anyways, relax for a minute and hold him. Sing a song. You like Green Day? My son loved Green Day. Know the song 'Good Riddance'?"

  She didn't answer, just nodded. "But I can't sing."

  "Good! Then you won't hear it either. You see? Win, win!"

  After a long moment, she shrugged. "Okay." Janice placed the headphones on and Willie quickly, yet gently, lifted the baby from the crib. It was a cold night, but maybe the number of blankets might've been extreme. He kept only three layers of cloths wrapped around the precious child. Slowly, he put Colin into Janice's lap. Her motherly instinct immediately grasped the baby correctly and she held him.

  Willie mimed, knowing that Janice wouldn't be able to hear past the top-notch ear muffs, for her to close her eyes. If she hadn't started singing, Willie would've thought she fell asleep by how peaceful she seemed with shut eyes. The lyrics flowed out of her mouth rehearsed like a stage performance. For someone who said she lacked in vocal talent, Janice sang like that woman vowing for attention at a church choir. Memories resurfaced of his husband Connor and his attempts at singing. His voice may have been so bad that even the American Idol judges would've walked out of the room, but baby Antoine loved it. Trying not to tear up in front of someone he barely knew didn't work out well. Willie wiped a droplet from his eye.