by Chris Ayala
"What? Why?"
"No one wants to talk about it, but he can get inside your head, my man. Not like controlling minds, but influencing them. Just like what he does with fire."
Influencing minds didn't seem like such a stretch, since he'd seen Marcel controlling a tunnel of water with his hands. Magic existed and his son, of all people, conjured it. Nelson recalled his first born son's obsession with the stories of wizards, castles, and kings. Every night, before bed, he read Harry Potter to him, always wondering which side of magic Marcel was on. With that, Nelson took Antoine's advise seriously, feeling a chill scurry up his spine.
"Hey! I said let's go," the soldier behind the door shouted.
Knowing the routine, he pushed his hands through the open slot and felt a zip tie secure his wrists. After a minute, the door swung and the soldier grasped him by the collar.
Corridor after empty corridor, Nelson wondered how many other people were on this ship because every room seemed unoccupied. Besides Nelson and Antoine, he suspected no other prisoners, except that woman the captain tossed over the edge. They stopped at a steel door marked MESS HALL.
Straight ahead, past that entrance, was his son. Next to cell, through a peep hole in a concrete wall, was a stranger named Antoine. How did he trust the stranger more? He couldn't help but sense the peril he was in and if he had enough water in him, he might've pissed on his jeans. On one hand, he knew his son wouldn't lift a finger to hurt him. But on the other hand, would he try to convince his father to join the cause? Through that mysterious power he had over minds? Could Marcel force him to lead the nations, side by side, like the king and princes in his childhood books. With no other choice, he had to go with his gut. And his gut was saying the same thing Antoine demanded. Don't look in his eyes.
When the door opened, sitting at a table next to vending machines, Marcel leapt up and hugged his father before he even entered the room yet. Nelson couldn't remember the last time they had hugged. Perhaps at Victoria's funeral almost two years ago. Things had changed, but most notable was the coldness of Marcel's body. Could it be his son had died in that coma, like he had accepted over a year ago? Marcel pulled back and looked at him with wet cheeks. "Dad, I can't believe it's you. God, what happened to you?" He asked, inspecting the bruises and cuts.
The captain, legs propped on a table and leaning back on a chair, interrupted. "We caught him trying to steal the plane, Supreme Leader." He stood up, a toothpick dangling out of his lip. "After a heavy scuffle, we realized who he was."
Nelson kept his eyes on the captain. Trying to avoid Marcel's gaze turned out more difficult than he expected. Panic crushed his chest down. All his life, he was trained that politicians looked each other in the eyes, but that habit needed to be broken quickly. He glanced around the room. Near the vending machine, holding an open can of Coke, was Gerard.
Gerard? Why was here? Their eyes met, but his son-in-law gave no indication his true intention.
"Dad? Can you hear me? Is what the captain said true?"
Being in such a daze of stress, Nelson hadn't even heard Marcel ask the question the first time. He just kept staring at Gerard, waiting for help maybe. Even without locking eyes, Marcel could read Nelson's expressions. "We both came as soon as we heard the news. Can't believe you're alive. Dad? Are you okay?"
Just like that time Nelson arrived at the White House State Dinner without a speech prepared, he found himself unable to formulate words. What should he say to Marcel? He could take the route of his deceased son Brent, spout angry words and then kick, punch, and scream his way out this situation. Or maybe take the approach Janice would say, try to talk sense into Marcel about his actions causing massive deaths worldwide. If Victoria were here, she'd say to just hug Marcel and love calmed even the darkest of raging oceans.
"He seems in shock," Gerard assured Marcel.
"Yes," the captain affirmed, "This was why we threw him in the cell…to keep him from harming other crew members. As you can tell, he's mental. With all due respect, Supreme Leader."
Marcel swung around, "My father is not mental! He's the smartest man I've ever known! You should be bowing down to him."
"I apologize, Supreme Leader," the captain said, staring at Nelson with that look that showed utter disappointment.
"And he's not going back in a cell!" Marcel commanded. In all the years he'd raised his son, Nelson never heard such authority in his voice. As parents, they both taught him respect led to admiration, not oppression.
Gerard interrupted the brief quarrel between the captain of a ship and the leader of the world. "Marcel, let me offer a suggestion. Maybe keep your father here? There's food. Plenty of light. A bathroom. A phone. I'm sure the captain can provide a cot and pillows. And they can lock the door to keep the crew safe."
As soon as Marcel turned to Nelson, he looked to the floor avoiding the eyes. "But I want Dad to come back with us. Wouldn't you like that? Dad?"
"I'm not so sure about that," Gerard insisted. "It's an over eight hour fly back to land. A very uncomfortable ride back. Nelson needs medical attention. We can bring that here. Let him get some rest, that'll be the first thing a doctor suggest. Rest outside of a cell, of course." His son-in-law locked eyes with Nelson, still holding that Coke can tightly. "You need rest. Don't you?"
Sensing Gerard taking control of this awkward situation, Nelson nodded. "Rest." He whispered.
"Make sure he's taken care of," Marcel snapped at the captain. "I want him looking healthy when I return tomorrow. And cut these damn handcuffs. He's the President of the United States, for crying out loud!"
The captain walked up, as Marcel and Gerard stepped away. He stared Nelson down, saying under his breath, "Not the President I voted for." With one swipe, he yanked up a knife and cut the zip tie.
Having to play the role of a man in shock, Nelson stared down to the ground and sat slowly at a chair. Marcel came up, kneeling down to hug him. For a moment, Nelson wanted to hug back. He also wanted to cry, remembering how close their relationship was and, yet, how far it was. But instead, he did nothing. "I know you hate me, Dad. Brent was an accident. I didn't mean to kill him. I don't expect you to forgive me. I just…hope you will."
With those last words, Marcel turned and hurried out the door. Gerard patted Nelson on the shoulder and placed the Coke can in front of him, "Stay hydrated." Then he followed the guards out the door. The captain, being the last one to leave, said aloud in the most fake of tones, "I will make sure our prisoner will be treated like a guest." He slammed the door closed and locked it.
Gasping for air, Nelson released all the stress he just held in. His leg shook and head pulsed for several minutes, until the sound of choppers overhead began to leave. After a minute, his breathing returned to normal. He saw the Coke can. Stay hydrated. Why did Gerard say that? The statement seemed so out of place; a bottle of water would've made more sense. Slowly, he reached up and grabbed the soda.
Something jingled inside.
Nelson turned the can upside down. Some liquid spewed out, coating the plastic table. But something else dropped out. A gray small box, the size of a lighter. Hands wet from spilled drink, Nelson opened the box.
It was a lock pick.
Locks were very easy to pick…with steady hands. Nelson found his hands shaking so uncontrollably, especially when a noise that sounded remotely like footsteps could be heard.
Since abandoning him at the Mess Hall, no crew member, even the captain, hadn't bothered to check on him. Maybe it was laziness or bitterness. Either way, Nelson had been given plenty of time to refresh his memory of how to use a lock pick.
Every old-fashioned tumbler lock had five hanging pins, upper and lower. One portion of the kit had a hanging hook to hold the lower, while the other part of the kit would test each upper pin for the right combination. He recalled the hours of practice him and Gerard had that winter in the mountains when Nelson accidentally locked his keys in the cabin. Whatever caused Gerard to handover a way f
or Nelson to escape, either pity or another plan altogether, wasn't important at the moment. He just needed to get that jet and off this ship.
Over an hour of missteps and retries, Nelson finally popped the door open. He waited and listened before making his escape into the hallway. Freedom seemed much more frightening when it wasn't your right to be. At every corner, he expected a soldier to jump out and grab him. Judging by that captain's insanity, he'd surely be thrown off the boat into his abyssal graveyard.
After a few miscalculations in the direction and walkway, Nelson found himself near the cells. He decided the moment he got that lock pick in his hand, that he'd get Antoine out of here too.
Next to his cell door, Nelson whispered. "Antoine? Can you hear me?"
The sounds of rustling and crawling then Antoine's voice whispered through the door. "My man, is that you?"
Now that he had some practice, Nelson immediately started working on the lock. This door had more pins, but confidence ensured him that it could be done; confidence he hadn't felt in weeks. "I'm going to find a way for you to get out of here. Can the jet fit us both?"
Strangely, Antoine didn't answer immediately. "Are you going to use that jet to defeat the Union?"
"Just answer the question."
"Answer mine."
Something was keeping his cell neighbor from answering. Did Antoine want to stay here? Did he feel there was no purpose outside of this cell? "Yes," Nelson assured him, "With that jet, I'm going to blow the hell out of the castle's army."
After a moment, Antoine answered, "Yeah, there's two seats in the jet. But you gotta fly. My hands….remember?"
"Yep," Nelson answered dishonestly since he actually had forgotten the captain mangled Antoine's hands. If he was going to fly a supersonic high-powered vehicle, breaking a lock seemed minute.
A few minutes later, the lock hinge loosened and the door opened slowly. Nelson stood back. Peeping through a tiny hole in the wall didn't give him the entire clarity of Antoine as this lit hallway did. The young man stepped out, wrinkled face and darkened eyelids. His hair, uncombed for quite some time, was shaped like the corner of the room. He stepped into the hallway and took a breath, as though it was different than the air inside his cell. Maybe it was.
"Thank you," Antoine said, rubbing his face with pasty hands and long fingernails.
"How long have you been here, Antoine?" Nelson demanded.
"I lied. I don't like people feeling sorry for me."
"How long?"
"102 days, six hours and…" he looked at his watch, "thirteen minutes."
Looking at the scabs and torn clothes over his body, Nelson asked, "How many times have they," he stopped himself from saying rape or tortured. "…have they hurt you?"
After a quick snort, Antoine said. "I lost count."
With determination he hadn't felt since the Presidential primaries, Nelson said, "I'm getting you out of here. Got it?"
Antoine nodded slowly. "Follow me. I know the quickest way."
Ducking, Nelson followed Antoine's lead hastily. Every so often, a troop of armed men would pass. He had to hand it to Antoine, the man not only knew the ship flawlessly, he also knew the times people would wander. Breakfast called a large group to the mess hall, but it also left a few wanderers sipping on coffee. They hid, sometimes for thirty or more minutes, waiting for just the moment to dash to another hiding spot. His heart would sound like a car riding over a series of speed bumps anytime someone would pass by. A shadow more frightening than Marcel's hovered over them as they sheltered themselves. At least his son's shadow had no intention of killing him upon sight. The shadow moved along.
Realizing he'd been holding his breath, Nelson took a breath of fresh air. The jet was within grasp. If only he had hid correctly, then he wouldn't have been in this situation. But this was no time to beat himself up. Another officer passed by while Antoine held Nelson back from moving. The officer wore a similar outfit like the captain, the Union's new wardrobe for the military. Black seemed to be the fashionable choice of Marcel, because everyone seemed to wear it. Or at least some form of dark colors. Another thing that was so strange about his son's behavior. When he was a boy, his coloring books were filled with vibrant colors. Marcel died in that coma and some parasite had taken over his body. It was the only explanation. He had to accept it.
"Okay," Antoine whispered, the first words he'd said since they made their way to the deck. "I'll remove the chocks. You climb in the front seat."
"And then you climb in the back seat."
"Right."
That seemed to be the easy part of the plan. They've been practicing the procedures for take-off and operations for the jet. Simulation flights prepared pilots for this. As much as Nelson wished it was, in fact he wished all this was, he had to be responsible for flying the plane. He took this moment to look down at Antoine's hand. Knuckles swollen, and fingers missing, the cadet had been put through Hell by the captain. At least Nelson's scars would heal.
"Alright," Antoine said, "Follow close."
Both hunched over and ran quickly across the open deck. Last time Nelson was this close to the jet, he couldn't figure out how to open the hatch. Thanks to his training, the button seemed so obvious. He popped it and the glass slid ajar. Antoine removed the chocks before Nelson even had a chance to climb in the front seat.
He sat down and it felt strange at first, the seat propped up for Antoine's smaller stature. Touchscreen buttons lit up. Automatically, the seat adjusted itself. Nelson stared at the dashboard, overwhelmed by all the options. It was like all the training for over two weeks went out the window. Antoine said, "You can do this."
Nelson nodded. He looked out to see Antoine out in the tarmac. The cadet reached inside with his hand and pressed one of the buttons, then climbed off. The hatch began to slide closed. Just then, Nelson realized there was no other seat besides his.
Panicked, he stared into the cadet's brown eyes. "Where's the other seat? There's no other seat!"
"I know," Antoine smirked, "I lied."
The glass slide closed and locked. Nelson screamed out, "No! We can both fit!" Antoine never had the intention of coming. He stepped back. The jet's engine whirred to life. Nelson's fidgety hands couldn't remember the controls for takeoff. Rising up, the jet's wheels retracted. "Damnit, Antoine! You're coming with me!"
"Save our nation!" Antoine called out. Then saluted.
Blood spouted out his chest. Then another bullet penetrated his neck. Then his arm and stomach. Behind him, guns fired continuously and Antoine's body collapsed to the ground. Nelson's lips quivered. In the distance, walking toward the ascending jet, the captain held a semi-automatic weapon. Its barrel still smoking. In his other hand, he put a walkie-talkie to his mouth.
From the dashboard, the captain's voice came through a speaker. "Now, Mr. President, we are going to need that jet back. Don't kid yourself. You don't know how to fly that thing. You're not a hero, remember? So stop pretending."
The jet ascended higher in the sky. Up there, Antoine's dead body disappeared to the size of an ant. But that didn't make the memory disappear. Soldiers didn't murder other soldiers. This new Union military wasn't the military at all. The true sense of protecting the nation died along with Antoine. He stopped, midway, and floated in the air.
"Oh, I get it now," the captain snarled over the speaker, "You mad because we shot that kid? Let me ask you something. What if I told you that cadet murdered the pilot and tried to steal that plane? Would that change your mind? Huh?"
Could it be true? Antoine? But they were all just words. Words could be manipulated. They were all just words. Victoria repeatedly told him actions spoke louder than words. Antoine sacrificed himself to save Nelson and get this jet in the hands of the rebellion, while the captain and the crew murdered, raped, and disemboweled prisoners.
Calmly, Nelson pressed a few buttons on the control pad…and aimed at the bottom hull of the boat. Without hesitation, he fired four missiles.
Over the speaker, the captain whispered wildly, "Now, there's the President I voted for."
The missiles hit the hull and exploded. Fire, so hot he could feel it inside the jet, covered the center of the boat. He made sure to hit it perfectly. His aim flawless. Nelson watched as the structure cracked down the middle like striking a log of wood with an axe. Frightened passengers jumped out, only to be consumed by the fire. Whether they did it on purpose or by accident, it didn't matter. Nelson wanted every single one of these soldiers dead, because they were no longer soldiers. Patriotism was consumed by the Union, the same way the fire consumed this vessel. Pretty soon, he'd like to see the castle, a vast symbolism of the Union, drown too. Drown for not teaching its followers to swim. Swim in the ocean of dignity.
Surprisingly, the boat took longer than expected to sink. The two halves separated and drifted apart. Nelson thought about turning away and flying off, but he didn't. He watched. Watched as smoke choked the lives out of survivors. Oil leaked out the bottom of the hull, spreading the fire. Bruises on his face felt the heat and it soothed their pain. Memories of what Nelson experienced here wouldn't heal completely. But that was alright. Scars toughened the skin around them.
Sometimes a lifeboat would try to slip away, with battered and tearful officers. Too late for tears. Calmly, he'd float the plane that direction and use the side Gatling guns to fire at the lifeboats. No naval military would be allowed to live this day. No humanity would survive. Not without his permission. And Antoine was the only humanity left on that ship. He kept firing until the water around the survivors turned dark red.
It took almost two hours for the damaged ship to be swallowed by the Atlantic. Nelson remained emotionless every minute. Personnel with life jackets would try to swim away. With no chance of actually making it to shore, Nelson thought about leaving them be. But instead he sprayed down bullets on them, then watched their yellow life jackets get stained red. He imagined the captain had died immediately. Too bad. It made him smile, picturing the captain choking on his goddamn toothpick as his one precious boat crumble in two.