by Chris Ayala
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
"Aurora!"
Royal gave a long drawn out groan as she awakened from whatever little sleep she'd actually gotten. Since her time aiding and caring for this malicious Russian woman, Royal barely slept. It took her nearly three hours just to fall asleep and then in less time than that - Zharkova would be screaming her name.
"Aurora! I know you can hear me!"
Maybe if she stabbed herself in the ears with pencils, she wouldn't be able to hear her. Then Royal could get a decent night of sleep. Her back had gotten even stiffer than this rock hard bed. The only comforting item in this shaky boat was the pillow. Made from goose feathers, it felt like what Royal would imagine God's shoulder to feel like. Just when the pillow put her into a deep slumber, she'd hear the sound of -
"Aurora! Now!"
Royal took a deep breath and opened her eyes. According to her Swatch watch, it was time to get up and start breakfast. And Zharkova got even more cranky without her maple syrup and waffles. That woman was so frightening that even the Wicked Witch of the West's sister would climb back underneath the house. "Yes, ma'am. I'll start breakfast."
When she sat up, her eyes felt stuck together and the left cheek felt crusted with saliva. With all her willpower, she stood and went to the kitchen. Living on a boat sounded more exciting than it actually was. For instance, cooking. The plates would sway to the side, butter didn't melt in the right places, and silverware never stayed organized in the drawers. She opened the cabinet to find an empty bottle of maple syrup. Great. What would Zharkova say to this predicament? Stupid Girl, walk six miles to the maple trees and extract some!
"We're out of maple syrup," Royal said to the wretched woman's closed door.
"Come here! Now!"
Another deep breath prepared her. She cleaned Zharkova's room daily and made sure to get rid of anything sharp that could be flung at Royal. But what's the worse the weakened world leader could do? She walked to bedroom door and knocked slightly. The usual locked door swung open when the boat swayed. Lying in her bed, Zharkova barely moved to fling something at Royal. Weak wasn't a strong enough description of the prime minister. Frail, fragile, fatigued. Darker circles than Royal's hung underneath the eyeballs. Pale as a Precious Moments doll, Zharkova barely looked human anymore. Death drew a blanket to keep her warm. Even Royal's mother didn't lose that amount of weight on the chemotherapy; Zharkova looked like a Halloween house prop.
The IV cord was wrapped in her hand. She rolled it gently between her fingers. Whatever it meant, Royal's mother used to do the same thing. Zharkova whispered, "I've tried and tried. I just can't do it."
Royal walked slowly as though it would prolong what little lifetime Zharkova had. "What do you mean, ma'am?"
Without answering, the ill woman looked up with dried lips. "Take a seat."
From the corner of the room, Royal grabbed a stool and sat. The boat's rocking seemed to slow.
"Closer. I want you to smell the death on my breath."
Royal scooted up and sat inches from Zharkova's bed. The IV tube dripped its last drops. "Is there something I can –"
"So courteous. Even to a woman like me." She stared at the IV drip until the last drop fell. "Take this tube. Unplug it. Then from that end…blow as hard as you can."
It took Royal a full minute to understand what was being asked. Blowing air into an IV tube? Why? Then she remembered an episode of Chicago Hope. A large air bubble in the tube would stop the blood flow to the heart. Zharkova may have asked too much, but this even seemed out of her league. "I can do no such thing, ma'am."
"After all I've done to you? Please. You wake up every day looking aggravated. Why? Because you want to murder me and throw my body into the ocean. Why so scared of killing? You've already killed an innocent animal and my faithful assistant. Accident or no accident, you caused their demises. And they didn't deserve it. I do."
With a shaky hand, Royal shook her head even faster. "No."
Zharkova scoffed then laughed. She took a deep breath and sighed. "Fine. It seems there's too much light in you. We'll have to fix that now, won't we? Close your eyes."
"Why?"
"Because I want you to enter darkness." Zharkova hissed. "Now, close them."
Whatever that meant, Royal felt hesitant. But arguments with the Russian Prime Minister could never be won. Royal shut her eyes slowly.
"Listen to my voice, Aurora. I have made you wax my floors all night, because I like seeing your knees red and scabbed. You've spent hours cleaning quarters I don't even use. I cackled inside when you wiped the shit off my bed pan; I missed on purpose."
Royal could smell the feces. Her breaths began to slow.
Zharkova continued, "I've made you kill animals to eat when there's plenty of meats stored in a freezer below. You've got bruises still from where I watched you get beaten to a pulp. I enjoyed every minute. Because you are the stereotypical arrogant American. I watched planes hit the World Trade Center and giggled. I watched nuclear missiles ignite your landmarks and I laughed. Because you all deserve death."
Her fist tight, Royal pictured an amused Zharkova munching on popcorn as the best country in the world got obliterated on television.
"In my eighteen years of leadership, I've worked with intelligence agencies to gather Muslims and have them gassed in chambers. Just because I don't like them. I don't trust them. We would cover up the rumors about what we were doing. Muslims missing? That's strange! Russia knows nothing about it. While secretly, they were gathered underground naked and cuffed to each other. Women. Men. Children. No matter. I had my vengeance on the radicals and their suicide bombings. Right before we gassed them, we would tell them that they'd be free in just a few hours. I like to give hope and crush it. Do you know the sound a child makes when its throat swells up? Do you know the sound a child makes when it throat swells up after hours of hope? It so much sweeter."
Royal ground her teeth so hard, her jaw began to throb in pain.
"Now, open your eyes and stare into mine." Zharkova whispered.
When Royal opened them, she felt different. She didn't know the saying "so angry you saw red" was literal. Everything she saw seemed a tone of red. She felt like swimming in a humid, sticky steam room. And so confident. Like the world belonged to her and no one else. As the ruler of this world, Royal could decided who lived and who died. She decided the fate of the female monster dying in this bed. Why not slay this dragon? Make her world a better place? Isn't that what life is? The stronger crushing the weaker?
Zharkova smiled. "There it is. Finally. No longer the damsel Aurora, but the powerful sorceress Maleficent. Keep staring into my eyes. I can see the difference. The dark quicksand has swallowed you whole. You are…at this moment…Secretary Charles Declan's daughter. Capable of anything necessary. Now, grab that IV tube."
Slowly, Royal took the IV tube.
"Unplug it."
She unsnapped the tube.
Zharkova's bottom lip trembled. But it didn't change her fate. "Now, Maleficent. Blow into it. Blow as hard as you can."
Royal took a deep breath, then put the tube up to her lips. Without a second thought, she blew into it. A large air bubble travelled down the tube like a train about to roll over a tied-up damsel in distress. Zharkova smiled. "Very good. One last thing." The air bubble was inches from the prime minister's vein. "Don't be like me. Learn to climb out of that dark quicksand."
The air bubble reached Zharkova's vein and Royal continued to blow into the tube. Her eyes locked onto the witch's gaze.
Then Zharkova's lurched and screamed in pain. Royal kept blowing. Spasms overtook her body, sending the world leader's body into convulsions on each side of the bed. Zharkova's teeth were clenched as she groaned through them. Royal stopped blowing so she could watch. Watch Death remove the blanket and carry away its new recruit.
The convulsions stopped as sudden as they had started. Zharkova's eyes were wide and glazed like a donut. Her lungs gave out a lon
g sturdy breath, but never rose back up for another breath.
Royal stood up slowly. The world around her still seemed like a daze. With her back straight, she walked to her room on the other side of the boat. The pillow on the bed looked so comfy. Royal laid down.
Then she fell asleep instantly.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Was this what world leaders felt at all times? Fear of being assassinated? Fear of deceit? Fear of loneliness? But Marcel Celest shouldn't be afraid of anything. Especially humans. Humanity lied beneath him in a grave; Marcel decided the tombstone and the flowers because he was a step above this so-called existence. But yet, it all felt like swimming with cement shoes on. He swallowed another shot of the imported Scottish whiskey. Years ago, alcohol used to burn as it dripped down the back of his throat. Now, it seemed to soothe a burn.
A knock on his office door made him spin his chair. Unfortunately, when the chair stopped spinning his head didn't. Being a drunk could be difficult at times. Marcel waited a moment for the spinning sensation to stop before he answered the door. "Come in."
The double doors to his office swung open with a strong thud. Centuries ago when those castle doors would open, a king's council would enter with silk robes and steel armor to discuss finances across the kingdoms. Today, a puny man with a brown suit entered with thick horn-rimmed glasses and a mustache that made him look much older. As if the Financial Czar's last name Goldman didn't stereotype himself enough, the long-term accountant wore a Yam-aka and tightened his tie maybe too tight. He sat at the end of the table. Without even a polite greeting, the Financial Czar opened his briefcase and got down to business.
"We have a lot to talk about. So let's get down to business. The Union dollar." Goldman said nothing for a moment, maybe expecting a reaction out of Marcel. "We've spoken over and over again about this. Yet, I don't think you understand it."
"Have you ever heard the verse: Money is the root of all evil? Maybe it is. How significant is it really?" Marcel poured himself another glass of whiskey. "For instance, did cavemen use credit cards? Did the neanderthals apply for business loans? When did it become so…important?"
The Financial Czar didn't answer and just stared at Marcel. "How much have you had to drink…You know what, not my business. I'm here because you hired me to implement a worldwide currency –"
"Want something to drink? I hate drinking alone. Makes me feel like an alcoholic. It doesn't have to be whiskey. How about just some coffee? You must be sleepy from the trip here, right?"
Goldman nodded. "Sure, I'll have some coffee."
"Let me guess, no cream or sugar right?"
Goldman nodded again. "Just black. Thanks."
Marcel stood and went to a temporary kitchen in the side of the room. One small refrigerator, coffee maker, and a hot stove was all he needed. He poured a glass of the searing liquid into a cup and placed it gently in front of Goldman.
"This currency is becoming a problem, Marcel –"
"Supreme Leader."
"Sorry, Supreme Leader. I applaud the idea of forbidding income tax, but to counter-balance that…sales taxes have increased upwards of 30%. And that's still putting us into deeper debt. We are going to have to begin an income tax –"
"Absolutely not."
"Then how do we shrink the world's debt numbers? The money has to come from somewhere."
When Marcel first established the idea of worldwide union, he promised himself to focus on simplicity. And adding more taxes just didn't fall under the category of simplicity. He thought about this for a moment, enjoying this wavy rollercoaster in his drunken head.
"Sir?"
"Alright, Czar Goldman, I have the solution. Use the stock market."
"The…stock market?" the accountant said inquisitively. "I don't understand."
"Well, the New York Stock Exchange was nuked on Doomsday. The NASDAQ went broke. China's market fell apart. Why not just simply get rid of the stock markets?"
After staring for maybe too long, Goldman said, "How much have you had to drink, Sir?"
Marcel raised a finger up. "That's the plan. We pull the funds from stock markets, trade at –"
"Have you lost your mind? You are talking about pulling from retirement funds, stocks, businesses and essentially peoples' futures? No, that's insane."
"The Peoples' future is with the Union," Marcel drew out the words on an imaginary marquee in front of him. "That's what we will advertise it as. There's trillions in the stock market."
Taking one deep breath, Goldman asked calmly, "Supreme Leader, can I ask you one question? Are you crazy?"
Marcel leaned back in his chair and thought about this for a second. It was a simple question and deserved a simple answer. "No. But everyone else is. Now, Czar Goldman, can I ask you one question?" The financial advisor didn't answer. Marcel sat up and put his elbows on the table. The steam from Goldman's coffee grew magically, only a few inches but enough for the czar to notice. He froze, his mind screaming to run but his body unable to move. "There's been rumors I'm capable of magic. I can not only influence the elements around you, but influence your mind also. Place your hand on the table." Goldman's glasses slid to the bottom of his nose as sweat formed. "I said, place your hand on the table." The steam wave grew more and circled around the accountant in his chair. Goldman slowly placed his hand down on the table. The steam wave rose high than fell onto the accountant's hand steadily. It may have not have been hurtful at first, but the increasing heat as more steam fell made Goldman flinch. "My question to you is this…Why is no one afraid of me?"
"Please, Marcel –"
"Supreme Leader. It's disrespectful to use my first name."
Stuttering, Goldman pled, "Supreme Leader, I was out of line. Please. This hurts." The steam from the coffee made the accountant's hand turn red and begin to blister.
"That hurts? Wounds like that can heal. Try taking on some mental wounds. Now, answer my question. Why is no one afraid of me?"
"I don't know."
"You do know the answer. I can feel it. Just answer me. Seems only fair since I answered your question honestly."
The accountant stared at his hand. His glasses slid off his face as sweat dripped off his nose onto his pants. "It's because you're too soft."
Marcel raised his hands triumphantly. The steam flew away into the air. Goldman clenched his shaky hand. "Finally! An honest answer around here. Yes, Czar Goldman, I've been worried about that too. I've…been…too…soft. The day after nuclear missiles destroyed my once-happy country, I told myself that I would need to use fear. Perhaps I do." Their eyes met for almost a minute before Marcel said, "Is our meeting done now?"
"Yes, Supreme Leader," Goldman spat out; his bottom lip quivering. "I'll work on deconstructing the stock markets right away."
Marcel smiled and took a sip of his whiskey.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Waking up from going abruptly unconscious isn't like waking up from a terrible night of booze. Janice couldn't remember who she was or the words being repeated to her.
"Janice?"
"Janice? You okay?"
"Janice?"
The bitter cold struck her first, so she pulled up the wool blanket that gave little warmth. Who's Janice? Oh, right. The adopted child of the famous political family that covered Time magazine; the orphan who strived to be the best and bottled up the worse. A perfect life with a perfect husband and perfect father that somehow imagined herself imperfectly.
"Janice?" The male voice said.
Just then she realized not only was her memory hazy but so was her vision. Blinking several times, she tried to make sense of the world. It wasn't the orphanage with that one teenage boy who kept sneaking into her bed to touch her breasts. No. She was an adult now. Though this place did have that familiar stench of sweat and unbrushed teeth.
"Janice? Baby?"
Baby? The baby. She sat up. Her infant. "Where's Colin?" She demanded.
"He's fine." The man said
, grasping her hand. Steel surrounded his finger. A ring. Their ring. She helped him pick it out. Her husband came into view. He looked worried. He never looked worried. "Honey? You took a nasty fall. Don't stand up or move, okay?"
No muscle in her body would've allowed it anyways. Everything hurt. She remembered the fall, but not the actual fall, just the moment beforehand. The moment she felt truly content. And, once again, her troubles put a stop to it. "What happened? How long have I been out?"
Faces began to take shape. Adam shared that same timid look like they just broke the family vase and mother was on the way home. Someone else was in the room. The doctor, the only one with survival training in this facility, stood over her. Both men looked to the physician for words to say. "Hello, sweetheart. I'm the facility doctor. You fainted and have been suffering sporadic comatose states for eight days due to an infection that spread to your central nervous system and spinal cord. I just need to verify you haven't suffered long term memory loss. Can you tell me your full name and date of birth?"
A bad taste made her stomach uneasy. "Janice Nancy Celest. March 31st, 1998."
The doctor's raised eyebrows turned to Gerard. He nodded in confirmation.
"How about short term memory? Can you tell me where you are?"
"A missile silo rehoused for a rebellion called the People of Bliss."
"Good! Janice, do you remember me? Dr. Harper? I helped remove your clip so that you could bear your child."
"I remember," she said. In fact, Janice did remember everything now up to this point. Though she wished she could remove the egregious ones like sleeping with other men, chugging vodka like Gatorade, and swallowing illegal pills like candy. Whatever kept the room so mum went beyond just her simple tumble. Something serious was about to be uttered from the doctor's mouth, it could be the only explanation for the distressed faces. "It's okay. I know what you are going to say. I've been sensing it for weeks."