The Last Days_Conclude [Book 3 of 3]

by Chris Ayala

  "Yes, Supreme Leader," he said and placed the barrel of the weapon to his temple.

  "What does that feel like?" Marcel asked, knowing the man would answer truthfully since the darkness cleared his thoughts.

  "Terrifying," the man answered.

  "Imagine what that's like for a world leader. Constantly knowing, at any moment, someone is ready to fire a gun at you. Like, any day, you could be dead by a radicalized patron." Not until this utter silence did Marcel actually hear the crowd inside the stadium. It roared excitingly, chanting and waiting impatiently for Marcel's late appearance. "Do you hear that, my friend? That's love. Love for me. Love for the Union. Love for the future." He smiled at the protester, "How about you join us? Hand the gun to the general, then throw that sign in the dumpster and go inside. Be a part of that love. Tell everyone in there that you met the Messiah."

  The protester nodded, handed the gun over, and turned to stumble into the stadium.

  Vanderbilt took a breath. "We have nothing to fear anymore, do we?"

  "Not exactly. We do have one thing to be afraid of. And I'm going to change that tonight." Marcel entered the stadium.

  It didn't matter what he said. He could call Jews a curse to this society, African-Americans deserved no special rights, and same sex marriage should be illegal. Not that Marcel believed any of those things, but he could say them and the crowd would still roar.

  He looked to the TelePrompTer for his bullet-point notes. Four colossal sized screens above him televised his face to the thousands on his left, right, straight, and behind. No world leader could amass this crowd, maybe because for the first time, not only did he feel safe from the opposition, but so did his supporters. The stadium could fill 21,834 people. Marcel assumed there was way more since people sat outside the stadium to listen to his speech too.

  "And no longer," he paused for dramatic effect, something his dad taught him, "will people go hungry or live on the streets. We have established centers where you can find jobs, food, and shelter." Another pause. "At no cost to you."

  The crowd cheered so loud, he couldn't hear his own heart racing. This is what it must've been like for his father, President of the United States, as his adorning fans followed him to every state for campaign rallies. In the hour since he entered the stage, a couple dozen individuals attempted to run to the stage, not to try harm against him, but the opposite. They just wanted to touch the Supreme Leader and thank him personally. As much as he objected to the security, they refused to allow the worshipers to approach him.

  "This is not your typical government, with long spirals of red tape and regulations, making you wait and wait. And wait. You know why they made you wait? Because you all meant nothing to those world leaders. They only told you what you wanted to hear so you can re-elect them. But not in the Union. The Union cares…for…you."

  Chants continued, signs were held up, cheers blasted the stadium. He knew they couldn't, but wished the People of Bliss could hear it.

  "The age of politics is over. Now is the time to do what is right. Clean energy will save our planet, no more fossil fuels. Transit systems will take you anywhere you need to go, with little energy consumption. And I promise, folks, we are working diligently to solve the air quality and get things back to normal." Marcel listened to the applause with a sense of guilt. The last part of that bullet-point was a lie, they weren't solving the air quality issues because it was way beyond the means of scientists still. And beyond the funds available. But hope, as an archangel once told him, was the most powerful entity in the universe. It could change everything. He swallowed hard, "No more being kept in the dark." The dark. It had such a different meaning to him, besides some cliche statement.

  As the applause continued, Marcel looked to his left and right. More vast than the television screens above him, six Union flags with the emblem of a dolphin hung from each corner of the stadium. Sections had been roped off for his personnel. Gerard's seat was empty. All his staff had their loving partners, suited and dressed for the moment. They looked so proud. Someone's wife wore a lovely purple gown with a bodice that hugged the woman's curve. Purple is Janice's favorite color. He pictured his father in this standing ovation, with that proud half-smile.

  The last time the public saw President Nelson Celest was the State of the Union address where he condemned religious provisions to the Union agreement. Would Marcel receive that same reaction with the next bullet-point on the TelePrompTer? That same awkward, gapping mouth stare? The next part of his speech, the final subject, was going to cause a stir, either a bad one or good one. He could chicken out, leave after a brief farewell, but if President Nelson Celest had the courage to speak the truth than he could. Marcel swallowed hard and cleared his throat, praying the crowd wouldn't turn on him and start exiting the rally. "There's always been a sort of danger, lingering in our society. For over a thousand years. Their origin is believed to began with Chinese fire lances, the first official use of gunpowder in weaponry. Bred from war and violence, guns have became the most lethal invention in humanity, killing more than all diseases combined." He stopped speaking, awaiting people to leave at the word guns. But no one did. "I hate that saying: guns don't kill people, people kill people. Wrong. Guns do kill people. How? By giving them an opportunity." Surely, objecting fans would've left by now but the crowd stayed. Stay away from sensitive subjects, his father told him five years before Nelson challenged the rights of religions organizations. Marcel took a breath. "Opportunity. I want to stress the importance of that word. When I was in college, my roommate started experimenting with heroin. Most mornings, I'd find him passed out on the toilet or in the shower with cold water spraying his clothed body. We used to live across the hall from a drug dealer. I made sure to stay clear, but some of us are stronger than others. Before he died of an extreme heroin overdose, I asked him a simple question: why did you do it in the first place? His simple answer was: because the opportunity was there." Silence and nods from the crowd made him convinced the fans were listening. "What is the purpose of heroin but to ruin lives, even end them? Makes you wonder what is the purpose of guns? It's to ruin lives and end them." Before he continued, Marcel reminded himself that what he was about to say could obliterate his goals for the Union. If this crowd didn't like what he was about to say, he could expand the network for the People of Bliss, rather than shrink it. But this was the only way to reduce the threat posed by the opposition. "From this moment on, the Union will ban the use and purchase of civilian handguns and assault weapons."

  He looked down with his eyes closed, expecting the crude shock his father received after he said that if religions want to act like businesses then they would be treated like business. That crowd didn't even have the time to boo the President, they just left the chambers without another word. Marcel looked up.

  The crowd yelled and clapped, cheering in agreement. He let go of the breath he'd been holding.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The story behind Chuck had been different depending on who told the tale. He didn't speak, Adam had been forewarned. Some said he vowed silence to avoid persecution. Some said he refused to talk to people because he was racist. Some said he wasn't racist, he just hated everybody. Whatever the reason, Chuck didn't talk. And this would make Adam's mission here intense. The only thing he hated more than silence was uncomfortable silence.

  He entered Chuck's room. Three posters were taped on the walls, all rock bands Adam didn't know well. Metallica's lead singer held a golden guitar and eyed Adam as he walked in, like he was the room's bodyguard. Chuck sat in one of those rolling stools that doctors liked to use, useful if blood squirts out and it needs to be dodged.

  His arms, neck, and even a quarter of his face was masked in tattoos. As expected, Chuck said nothing. Maybe he was deaf. Adam made sure to speak slowly and directly into Chuck's eyes, just in case he was. "I hear you're the person I need to talk to." Clearing his throat, he immediately regretted using the word talk. "I don't have a design
, but eh…" Not sure what the next step was of this process, Adam lifted out his hand to deliver a manila envelope. The same envelope Gerard handed him outside the sewer system. It had been weeks and now it was time for Adam to get over this fear.

  Chuck's burley gray eyebrows crunched up and he grabbed the envelope. His thick neck tilted as he looked at the papers inside. Adam glanced at the sketches Chuck had drawn, scattered and taped to the walls. With black pencils and no color, the drawings varied from simple tattoos like a heart to more complex ones like faces. "I like to draw too. Just not good at this stuff."

  Using the word stuff made Chuck's lip curl up. Adam cleared his throat again as the artist sifted through the papers in the envelope. He clarified, "They are names of victims. Victims of the Union Keepers, since Marcel Celest turned his militia into Judge Dredds." Chuck's mouth frowned and he gave a blank face. "Judge Dredd? It's a, um, comic book…silly movie…I am the law…you know, never mind."

  Chuck rolled his chair to the other side of the room and placed the papers on the table to inspect them more with reading glasses. A neon sign hung on the wall over the table. It read: CHUCK AND BUCK'S TATTOO. Adam recalled the rumors he heard about this other name on the wall. Buck was Chuck's brother. One rumor told a story that Chuck turned his brother in to get freedom. Another rumor said Chuck ate his brother when food was scarce. And the last rumor he heard was Buck joined the Union Keepers. Whatever story was true, Buck definitely wasn't helping his brother run a tattoo shop anymore.

  From a cabinet filled with tattoo supplies, Chuck pulled out a small whiteboard and pen. He scrawled something on it then held it up.

  Lay down.

  Adam took a deep breath. Of all the time he'd taken on this, he came up with nothing. No idea of a design. Yet, Chuck took only a few minutes. It worried him that the tattoo artist didn't ask where he wanted it on his body. Adam removed his shirt, looking at his bony chest peak up and down. Breathe.

  About to lay on the table, Chuck held up his hand. He erased the whiteboard with a cloth and wrote on it.

  All off.

  Being that the list was over two thousand names, he felt silly for not realizing this could cover his entire body. Having second thoughts again, Adam took a step back. Obviously not being his first time dealing with a hesitant customer, Chuck leaned back against the wall and waited.

  Adam asked, "Gonna need the whole body, huh?"

  Chuck erased the whiteboard and wrote.

  Yep.

  Realizing he was about to ask another mundane question, Adam whispered, "This going to hurt?"

  Chuck erased and scribbled.

  Yep.

  A little perplexed as to why Chuck would clean his board just to write the same thing, Adam decided to ask a more important question. "Got clean needles?"

  After clearing the board and scribbling, Adam was certain that the whiteboard would say yep again. Chuck held up the board.

  Nope.

  "Shit," Adam sighed as his shoulders fell. Trepidation swelled up in the back of his throat. It was like seeing red and blue lights in the rear view mirror and having a backpack full of weed. He pictured if Brent were there, in this tight four sided concrete room. Probably asking him why he decided to do this in the first place. There were several ways to be reminded of what the Union, and Marcel Celest, had done to the country. To the world. Why a tattoo?

  "Got anything that can calm my nerves? Opiates? Painkillers? Sedatives?"

  Chuck answered on the board.

  All the above.

  Maybe all the above would be needed. Adam and Janice vowed together to never touch another illegal substance, since much of their time together seemed hazy. But sacrifices had to be made. Adam's heart thumped like a jack hammer, he needed relief. Sometimes small talk helped. He nervously chuckled, "So what's the deal with you? Why don't you talk? Cat got your tongue?"

  After a quick erase and rewrite, Chuck showed the board.

  No. They do.

  Suddenly, Adam's heart slowed its selfish panic. His anxiety settled like sand at the bottom of a calm sea. He felt his chest stop the useless heaving. Something devastating slapped him and woke him up. He stared into Chuck's eyes. "They took it?" Adam said under his breath.

  Slowly, Chuck nodded.

  Even as he spoke, Adam could hear the difference in his voice. Not squeaky or squeamish, it held an authoritative tone. "Why did the Keepers take your tongue?"

  Talk too much.

  Good answer. It gave Adam solace that others fought back as much as he did. That sacrifices were made. More of a sacrifice than any person, including himself, could make on this tattoo table. "They cut your brother's tongue too?"

  No. His throat.

  Chuck slid one of the pieces of paper from the envelope and held it up, pointing to a name on the list: BUCK RICHARDSON.

  For moments like this, moments Adam felt like crying, he'd close his eyes and count to ten. Brent taught him that technique used to control rage. But that's where his tears flowed from. Rage of all that the Union had done. And if Brent were here, asking why Adam was doing this tattoo in the first place, he'd answer back that he needed to experience more than reminders. He needed to experience pain.

  After counting to ten, Adam's throat didn't feel swollen and his body remained calm. As Adam locked eyes on the artist, he wondered if those swollen yet sunken eyes were how his looked. Every morning, he stand in front of a mirror for ten minutes before he'd start to brush or shave. Reflections lied, he learned that in his Psych class in college. Brains tended to interrupt only the good in a reflection, not the bad. No wonder everyone would ask him if was okay, dozens of times a day, it seemed. Truth be told, he wasn't. No better than Chuck. External pain could heal, while internal pain never really did. It wasn't just Brent, but all those he lost to the maniacal idea of a unionized government and those that would do anything to protect it.

  Chuck scratched out his whiteboard and held it up.

  Still need drugs?

  Adam answered firmly through glistening eyes, "No."

  Chuck's nod affirmed he understood. Words could only say so much. Perhaps that's why their silence seemed so deafening. He barely knew the tattoo artist, but trusted him with everything. Adam began to undress.

  Mixtures of red and black spiraled down, winding down with the clear liquid into the drain. Adam watched it, knees on the shower floor. His body ached, covered in names tattooed with dark ink. Names that curved, twisted, and circled all over his skin in maniacal beautiful designs.

  For over an hour, alone in the shower room, he'd sat in this prayer position below a spray of water. The hot water had already come and gone, leaving him with the frigid leftovers. Adam stared at his arms. Cody Anderson. Herald Bushner. Loretta Matters. Kimberly Evans. All these names didn't mean much on paper, but meant everything on his skin. Their souls were with him now. He could never forget. And he never wanted to.

  Visions of battered bodies flashed in his head. Piles of dead bodies instead of graves. Some were even children. Raped by Union Keepers, stoned by Marcel Celest's followers, most of these people suffered more than he had. Or ever will. Michael Peters. Danna Collins. James Fernandez. Hung on streets to remind rebels how powerful the Union was. The Union was the only option. Rebellion meant death. But so many fought back. Shelly Asher. Madeline Illner. George Turner.

  Remnants of the black ink washed off like tears. Blood traveled in droplets from his scars into the floor. He looked at his palms now, asking them for relief. Any type of relief. Wash away his sadness. Adam buried his face into his palms and sobbed loudly. The sound of rushing water drowned out his cries. It was the only place he could. No one could see him like this. Leaders don't show fear. They don't show anguish. They don't show doubt. This was the only place where he could release all that down a spiraling drain.

  The biggest mistake that can be made is not learning from your mistakes.

  -Victoria Celest

  First Lady of the United States


  2033-2038

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  After all the abuse of mankind, trees thrived. Royal looked up and wondered how tall they were. At a young age, her mother told her trees reached out to the beautiful lights of heaven. What Royal would do to see a decent sunrise or sunset. Just to see the sun for even a peak would be satisfactory. But Russia seemed darker than the United States.

  Anton must've read her mind because he glanced upwards from his guitar. "Who's idea was it to use goddamn seeds to stop global warming? Now they'll be up there forever." With that deep accent and pearly white teeth, Anton seemed the kind of man ready to capture James Bond not save the world.

  "Don't use the Lord's name in vain," she replied. "Just play me another song."

  Sneaking out in the middle of the night from Zharkova to play campfire songs sounded like something from a teenage romance movie. But here they were, sitting across from each other and soaking in the warmth of the flames. Anton could play the guitar like a rock star. He had said his mother loathed the instrument so he had done many midnight rendezvous when she fell asleep; gin and vodka knocked her out for several hours. Listening to the sounds of car alarms would've been more pleasurable than Zharkova's aggravated comments.

  She watched Anton with admiration more than infatuation. In Sunday School, Royal remembered the stories of Jesus Christ. How he hung around the lepers and the whores. How his teachings were so different than the rest of them. How he stunk and bathed in filthy water. Yet, one thing life taught her was that it's the "weird" ones that make a difference. For example, Anton was a peace-loving, Earth-giving, barefoot hippy. Yet he made her life easier.