by Chris Ayala
Looking down, Janice noticed her finger twirling a bit of her long golden hair. She let go immediately. Adam's arms crossed.
"O-negative." One of the nurses-in-training said.
"That's right," the nurse said, rubbing the child's back triumphantly.
"What a minute," Janice interrupted. "He's o-negative blood? Like Colin?"
The teacher nodded and checked over the paperwork, "Everything else came out good. Just a few vaccines we will administer and then you're free to go."
While the pupils dug through cabinets to prepare for more needles, Gerard studied Janice's face. She did this when something complicated was ahead of her, eyes reading an invisible formula on an invisible chalkboard. Something was bothering her and she couldn't solve it. Her eyes met with Adam's in this silent conversation. "Who's Colin?" Gerard asked.
"Oh," Janice responded, "The baby."
"Oh," Gerard mimicked, picturing the baby in his head for the first time in months it felt like, though he honestly had no idea what he would look like. "So. It's a boy, huh?"
Stumped by that invisible equation, Janice looked down. "Yes."
As he suspected on several occasions, his wife had doubts on who the father was. Gerard didn't need a tracker to know Janice snuck out many nights to party and escape the confinement of a perfect life. It hurt. But that was the thing about Janice, she liked experiences. Learning experiences was how humanity evolved, she would say. In a time when pregnancy became a rarity, so did monogamy. He let it go, as he always did. But now, he wondered if she was positive of the baby's father. That would explain the look of doubt that both her and Adam shared. Did she suspect the dweeb could be the baby's father?
After eight vaccinations, Gerard felt like his arm had punched but it didn't hurt nearly as much as his heart. Janice hadn't been faithful, and worse, the baby's father was still unknown.
They travelled to the next room where Janice stood outside the doorway. As a detective, he supervised many criminals being admitted into jail and knew the routine. A man, maybe known as a giant in medieval days, asked him to remove his clothing. His name was Bruno and spoke in third person. Bruno's fist was bigger than both of Gerard's fists put together so he listened to every word. Only fifteen or so minutes later, the brute had checked every pocket of his jeans, underneath the pads in his shoes, and any other hiding spot on his clothing. Criminals had become clever over the years of sneaking contraband into jails, so Gerard was impressed the giant knew where to inspect. The strip search procedure made him understand why his arrestees were so uncomfortable afterwards. When all was complete, Gerard walked out of the room to a sly smile from Janice.
"Was he polite?" She asked.
"You mean ask me out to dinner? No, that was the least he could've done after."
As nervous as those two rooms made him, Gerard felt bubbles in his stomach grumble at the third room. Interrogations were easy for him, being the cop. But how about being under the spotlight?
Expecting a room with concrete walls with only one aluminum table and two aluminum chairs, Gerard was pleasantly surprised to enter a quaint room with flowers at one corner, cabinets at another, and two leather seats like Grandpa had.
The interviewer, with a child assistant in his late teens, were standing at the doorway. An older woman with tied back gray hair and thick glasses greeted him with a handshake. "Hello, Gerard, please come in." She walked in high heels with ease and dressed like a realtor. "You like tea?"
"No," Janice answered for him. "He hates it. I'll make the coffee."
The assistant wasn't used to someone invading his drink counter, but Janice never asked permission. She opened an overhead cabinet and grabbed coffee grounds, a scoop, and filter. Making him proud she remembered, Janice poured six scoops of pure black coffee grounds into the filter and started the coffeemaker. The assistant, confused what to do next, awaited instruction.
"Would you have a seat?" The interviewer asked, hinting the boy to lead Gerard to the chair like he couldn't find it on his own.
The situation felt like a meeting with a psychologist, which he'd only experienced once after his father drank himself to death. Perhaps the interviewer was a therapist at one point, because she used the monotone polite voice that they all used. "Hello, Gerard. My name is Dr. Richards."
"Hey." He said, folding his hands in his lap. Police work taught him that flailing hands can often be misinterpreted and needed to stay in one spot.
"Adam and Janice have both briefed me on your situation, but you must understand even though we are a loving group of people…we are also a skeptical group of people. This isn't like signing up for a gym membership or applying for a home loan. We aren't money, we are after something else."
He felt like this is the same speech Marcel gave him before joining the Union. "What? Loyalty?"
"No, Gerard. We want to know what you want."
Janice handed him the cup of coffee, black. He took a sip and thought it wasn't so bad. "Okay."
She pulled up a clipboard with scribbled notes. "I'm going to be asking a series of hypothetical questions. Answer quickly, because we want honest answers."
"Okay." He said slowly, realizing that the boys outside preparing to bat away gas canisters or the blind man guarding the doorway weren't the craziest situations he'd been through today.
Slowing putting on a pair of reading glasses, Dr. Richards asked, "If you could sell your soul to the devil, what would you sell it for?"
An appropriate question considering that he was sure Marcel did exactly that. But now Gerard had to imagine what he could have, if anything was possible. "I've been a detective, security guard, and police officer. I'd sell my soul for a world where people like me weren't needed."
Blank and emotionless, Dr. Richards glanced down at her clipboard again. "You've been diagnosed with a memory disorder. Would you rather forget who you were or who everyone else was?"
That was easy. He answered quickly, "Forget who I was."
"If you were given the power to abolish one of your fears, which one would it be?"
Nothing worse than being asked such a question in front of a wife of twenty years. Even worse, in front of a snot-nosed college hunk named Adam that stole her away. Gerard took a little longer to reflect on this. Honesty was always the best policy, Janice would appreciate it. "My fear of not being accepted."
She turned to the next page, writing notes. Without looking up, she asked, "You are stranded on an island from a plane crash with no source of food. Would you eat the dead bodies in the plane?"
Considering he left the riches of the Union to join the slums of the rebellion, Gerard wouldn't be surprised to find a buffet of dead bodies. "Yes, because life takes sacrifices to endure."
The interviewer's assistant made a grossed out face. Gerard shrugged. Dr. Richards remained unfazed. "Would you rather put an end to world wars or world hunger?"
Since his stomach hadn't stopped growling the entire flight here, the answer was obvious. "World hunger, so we would have the energy to fight wars." Adam nodded, liking that answer.
"You're God for a day and given the ability to remove one worldwide emotion, what would that emotion be?"
He glanced up at Janice, just noticing she'd been staring at him with those sullen eyes. For some reason, he pictured her in that white breathtaking dress on their wedding day with her eyes filled with admiration. After all they'd been through, he may never see that again. "Regret."
Janice looked down at the floor and closed her eyes.
"Do you believe in God?"
Gerard sighed. What a cliche question. Falling asleep during church and Sunday school, he already made his decision a long time ago how he felt about an entity that could control everything. But if Nelson, a President who publicly denounced religion, could be accepted into this movement…so could he. So he opted to be honest. "Nope. And if I ever met the guy, I'd sock him in the face for putting us through this."
Dr. Richards remained expression
less while Adam shook his head. She placed the clipboard on her lap and sat down. "So, what made you decide to come here today?"
Besides the fact if he'd return to the Union Marcel would surely slice his throat, Gerard was at a lost on how to answer this supposed final question. This would be the deciding factor for his acceptance. It was like being interviewed for a reputable college, sure they knew you…but they didn't really know you. He could say many things to make himself out to be an asset to the rebellion, but something struck him at that moment. Janice had a secret. So it seemed like everyone did nowadays. It was hard not to. And Gerard held the longest secret of them all. He could lie now, welcome himself as a hero to this new home and deceive them as he deceived Marcel with that new home. But somehow he felt enough of it. No more false or altered stories.
She repeated, "Can you tell us what led you here?"
"Sixteen months ago, nuclear weapons hit over 90 cities in this country. I remembered finding Janice underneath rubble, in our basement completely wasted on booze. I squeezed her so tight and never wanted to let go." He didn't need to glance at Janice to hear her take a deep breath of disdainful, yet fond remembrance. "That night, she told me in a medical tent she just learned about her pregnancy. I knew then, looking around at the havoc the Supreme…I mean, Marcel…could've stopped. He could've stopped it," he said reassuringly. "Something had to change. As if a gift, low and behold, I run into Brent Celest. If anyone could stop Marcel, it was him. I told Brent where to find Marcel, but ultimately he failed at defeating him. It bothered me, someone trained to assassin anyone couldn't take down the almighty Marcel Celest. The only other choice was to gain his trust and betray him. Somehow take out the Union from the inside. I tried to keep this cover, a person interested in joining the czars of the Union. Marcel bought into it. Janice didn't. Unfortunately, it led to me having to make the toughest decision to date…I had to let go of my wife."
Janice stood up, arms crossed, to face a painting on the wall. With eyes still awaiting the end of his story, Gerard continued. "Shortly afterwards, an idea sparked in my head, ironically given to me by the Tech Czar, Lester. He said that in order to create a war, both sides had to know where their followers were. I gave the idea of chip implants."
What kept most of these people from getting food or holding jobs was now revealed to be Gerard's doing. Dr. Richards nodded, "Go on, please."
"Well, needless to say, I'm not good enough with computers. I tried to infiltrate their systems and track users of the chips, but fell short. So I turned to the only man smart enough to create a virus that could control the Union's database and give us access to chip locations of both sides of this conflict."
Adam bobbed his head to some invisible, silent triumphant music in his head. He didn't mind taking the credit and would probably remind everyone daily of his virus that saved the day.
Gerard finished what felt like an interrogation, because it practically was. "I'd been forced to play this role of a Union supporter, until the time was right that I would become a Union defector." He stared off, watching the clipboard. "And I've seen some shit, let me tell you. One time, in Chicago, Union Keepers got so fed up with protestors that they tied a bunch of them to these posts and poured wet cement up to their knees. Once the cement dried, they untied them, but of course…they couldn't move. 'Let's see if you guys really can stand your ground', one of them said. They drove a tank," Gerard had to stop to bite his shaky lip. He didn't cry, his father taught him it was for pussies. But holding tears back now took all his effort. After a brief throat clearing, Gerard said, "They drove the tank over the protestors. A few got away by breaking their legs." Though the story, one of many grotesque stories, didn't end there, he decided to stop. His point had been made.
Trying to read the face of the interviewer, he could only see mixtures of disgust, confusion, and admiration. She put her clipboard in a drawer, then said, "Welcome to the People of Bliss."
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The limousine rattled and swayed as it climbed through the familiar debris of most road in the United States. Consensus on how devastating the nuclear weapons were to the United States varied from winds exceeding 300 miles per hour, 500 miles per hour, some experts even saying a thousand miles per hour. However much it was, Marcel never seen wind that could curl up the concrete layer of the road like a shape of a hurricane.
"Are we afraid, Supreme Leader?" General Vanderbilt whispered, staring out the window.
Marcel always thought the same issue when he saw destruction of this magnitude, as he was safe, cozy, and drinking wine in a limousine while others chased rats for dinner. But no doubt, Gerard's deceit made him question loyalty more. Even Vanderbilt could turn sides on Marcel. Anyone could. He turned and faced his bald-headed commander. "Should we be?"
His deep breaths stained the window in a slow succession. "I believe you when you say the soul of Brent Celest still haunts you. Sirius Dawson's voice awakes me every morning. She caught me, when I was torturing…she caught me shaking. And laughed."
"Why were you shaking?"
"The same reason I am now." He held his hand jiggled as he lifted it.
The limousine approached the stadium. As in the last six rallies, thousands of protestors had awaited aside. A two months ago, Marcel's vehicle almost got turned over by all those angry bodies trying to push their ways in and strangle Marcel's throats. Against all objections, he decided on another rally. His supporters, and loyalists to the Union, needed guidance and news. News from his own mouth. He needed to remind his fans that he loved them.
Four armored vehicles ahead of them climbed the hill while the limo ceased to a halt. Per protocol, they awaited until their escorts scanned the perimeter and mapped a route; per the protocol that Gerard implemented. Marcel's hand clasped tightly and his heart raced. Never before had he felt so deceived, even when he discovered that his own brother was part of a terrorist organization and tried to assassinated him. At least Brent didn't fake the love, like Gerard did. Did anyone truly love him?
One of the armed men, wearing a helmet and thick bulletproof gear walked up to their limousine. Vanderbilt stepped out and spoke to the officer before returning to sitting next to Marcel. "Well, I have excellent news, Supreme Leader. Looks like they are finally more scared of us."
"What do you mean? How many protesters are outside the stadium?"
With an enormous smile, he answered. "One."
One? Did he mean one thousand? "One person?"
Vanderbilt nodded affirmatively. "We will escort the man out and –"
"No," Marcel held up his hand, "I want to meet him?"
"But, we haven't searched him or –"
"I want to meet him." Marcel said as he stepped out of the limousine, signaling the conversation was over.
Soldiers swarmed around him, even his father never received this much protection as the President. He walked up a lime-stoned road, past the perimeter fence, and gatehouse; all the while surrounded by armed men with guns pointed ready to fire at the slightest sight of danger. After passing through the parking lot of junk vehicles and busses, Marcel could see the lone man outside the door to the massive stadium. Wearing one of those massively bulky signs that secured around his neck and covered nearly his entire body, the protestor seemed in a half drunken state as he swayed trying to pace back and forth. On the other end of the parking lot was the entrance where his supporters waited in line to enter the already-full venue; the idiot was on the wrong side of the building protesting.
"Sir, I suggest we –" Vanderbilt never finished his objection, knowing it was futile.
Marcel's presence made the drunk pause, as he approached. Skipping the formality of a greeting, he asked the protester, "Can I ask you something?"
His politeness always shocked his opposition. Marcel didn't hate them, just wanted to educate them. The man reminded him of his father with fuzzy, stressful gray hair extended out of his head and face. And just his dad, they a shared a common blindness
to the truth; the truth that Marcel wasn't the enemy. The protester, yellow teeth and stank breath, answered, "Okay."
"How long have you had that sign?"Around his body, written in faded red marker were the words JESUS IS COMING SOON. "In fact, how long have we all seen that sign? The second coming? I mean…there is billions of people on this planet. How do you know it didn't happen already?"
Taken aback and unsure how to answer, the protester's eyes darted around.
Marcel continued, giving a shrug, "Maybe the Messiah already came and went again, but just didn't get any media coverage. What would you need as verification anyways? Even Jesus himself was called a liar for stating he was the son of God. How many have said those exact words? What would you, personally, need to see in order to verify the Messiah returned?"
"I…I…don't know." The old man said.
Marcel nodded. "Exactly. How would you even know? Maybe…just maybe…I am the Messiah?"
The protester reached for his pocket, but made the mistake of staring into the Supreme Leader's eyes. Souls locked together by darkness, Marcel's mind traveled through the protester's convoluted thoughts, leaving the old man in a gaze. Drunken minds were the easiest to hypnotize.
Marcel whispered, "What do you have in your back pocket?"
"I have a Beretta 92FS semi-automatic pistol." The drunk answered in the same monotone.
"You planned on shooting me?"
"Yes, Supreme Leader."
After controlling so many minds, the guilt practically vanished. Men like this needed to be freed from their ire. "I'm going to need you to remove that gun and hand it over."
General Vanderbilt must've heard the word gun and approached the two. From behind Marcel, he asked, "Is he –" Like everyone else who saw the rumors were true of Marcel's mind control ability, he didn't know what to call it.
"Yes, he's under my command."
The protester yanked out his gun slowly and tried to hand it to Marcel. "Not me. I hate guns. Hand it to my general here." Practically an automated mannequin, the man listened and Vanderbilt went to grab for the gun, but Marcel interrupted. "Wait." They both stood still, his hypnotized puppet and naive puppet, awaiting instructions. "Sir, I want you to put that gun to your head."