by Chris Ayala
"Naw, it's fine." Willie grasped his wine and drank a few gulps. "I'm talking about what your plan is. I keep hearing Adam and Gerard arguing about it. They just keep calling it the plan. Remember Harry Potter? It's like when the kept calling the bad guy…oh what did they call him?" He asked, snapping his fingers in the air.
"The-one-who-shall-not-be-named," Janice said.
"Yeah! That. It's sorta like they were afraid of saying it. So you gonna tell me? What gives? You got a plan to stop Marcel Celest?"
Janice sipped the rest of her wine and stared at the glass. "I'd rather talk about how bad this one is for my body right now."
"It won't kill yeah."
"You're right. It won't."
Willie shook his head. "I'm sorry. About the…you know. But Adam says we are going into town tomorrow, grabbing some meds. Then you'll be like 'Infection? What infection?'. Forget about it!"
"You talk a lot when you're nervous," she smirked. "Don't worry. I know you aren't here to keep me company or clean out my bedpan."
After emptying is glass of wine, he poured another for the both of them. "I feel bad, you know. But Adam told me I can't let you leave." He eyed his glass like it was magic and could show the past. "I let Sirius Dawson go. She wasn't supposed to leave either. We went to the lake. Keepers showed up. She told me to run. I did. Now she's dead."
Chewing slowly on some cheese, surprised that the food stayed down in her stomach, Janice said, "I have to stop Marcel. I need your help escaping."
As though he was prepared for her plea, Willie immediately shook his head no. "I can't. I can't."
"I know what needs to be done."
"If you leave, I'll never see you again. You'll die there. Just like Sirius. Just like Brent. The Union is cursed. Trust me."
Janice stood, feeling good to stretch her legs but feeling awful to stretch that infection growing in her abdomen. She opened up the drawer in the side of the room, searching through the limit clothing. Jeans or slacks. Blouse or t-shirt. Jacket or coat. "I do trust you, Willie. I trusted you would do the right thing. I trusted you to follow orders. I trusted you to not allow yourself to make the same mistake twice. The problem is…you shouldn't have trusted me."
She turned to see Willie leaning forward, eyes drooping. In his hand, the glass of wine tipped over and splashed to the ground. "Aw shit. You didn't?"
"I drugged your drink," she said, leaning Willie's weak body backwards and placing a pillow under his head. "Marcel has to be stopped. I had no choice." Her voice became high-pitched, holding back a tear. "I'm a horrible person."
Willie interjected, voice mellow and distant. "Naw. You're the best. Just like Sirius. So damn smart." He whispered, eyes closing. "I'm gonna miss the hell out of you, you know that?"
Janice kissed him on the cheek and combed his thinning hair with her hand, as he began to snore. "I'm going to miss you too."
It took her only a few minutes to get dressed, choosing something more incognito like Gerard's baseball cap, light slacks, and a simple t-shirt. She wiped more Aspercreme on the infection, which seemed good enough to numb the pain for a few hours. And she guzzled what was left in the wine bottle to numb the regret.
In Willie's front pocket was a key with a rabbit's foot keychain. It was her lucky day, the key belonged to the ATV vehicle outside.
After unlocking the door, Janice made her way into the quiet hallway and closed the door behind her. Even more risky than the decision she just made to leave was to visit Colin. She accepted the fact she may never say goodbyes to her father, Adam, or Gerard…but not saying farewell to her child felt inhumane. The only other crib in the facility was in the nursery downstairs; a nursery built with faith that more children could be born someday without the aide of the government population control department. Her miracle, so far, seemed to be the only one. And what a miracle he was.
Being the middle of the night, the amount of traffickers remained small. A teenage boy experimenting with a teenage girl in the shower room were too busy to notice Janice pass by the door. She climbed down the stairs sluggishly, because her legs weighed a hundred pounds and she strived to remain invisible in this place of thousands.
Painted with pink and blue flowers, it was obvious which door led to the nursery. She peeked in. Amongst six cribs, Colin slept in the center. He never moved when he slept. On a few occasions, Janice had been sure he had died. Children had all sorts of complications, before the Department of Proper Procreation fixed genes. Perinatal asphyxia or SIDS ended the lives of many infants. But Colin showed no signs of dying. He was a fighter.
As she hovered his crib, she could only wish it was possible to bring him. From the side pocket of her pants, she pulled out the pedal from the lilac in her room. Barely thriving and colorful, Janice placed the lilac next to Colin's head. "I'm going to be honest with you," she whimpered, "I use to loathe the idea of being pregnant. Having to be that woman everyone would stop to help up the stairs, or step out of the elevator to give room, or smile at inside the grocery store. Then having to deal with the back pain, the breast pain, and the constant internal nagging. Not being able to sleep on my stomach. When I was young, I saw babies and thought how disgusting. Babies poo everywhere and droll constantly and sneeze globs of mucus. How on earth would any woman want to be a mother?" Janice grinned. "I loved every minute. I just had to stop by and thank you. Thank you for giving me meaning." She reached down and kissed his forehead, then pulled up his blanket. He got warm easily. "Mommy loves you. I hope one day you'll understand why I'm doing what I have to do. Your future means more to me than mine."
Wet-faced from tears and hands shaking, Janice took a step back. It was better to leave now. Leave all this behind. And go to Marcel.
Besides the crawl through the sewer exit Gerard told her about, the journey hadn't been as difficult as she anticipated. Finding where the ATV was hidden took awhile, but she found it buried in bushes. Janice had never driven a four-wheeler before and found it more daunting than convenient. Perhaps, she should've just walked to the road.
Starting the vehicle was easy enough, but it was manual shift so it stalled constantly. Not sure exactly where the road was, Janice kept going straight, driving along what seemed like tracks on the ground. Expecting to feel guilt, she felt nothing but determination. Was this what Brent experienced, traveling toward the castle he knew he wouldn't leave? Just like her? If only her brother could've stopped Marcel's blind endeavor of domination. Then so many lives could've been saved. It was up to her to end further deaths. If her plan worked, that is.
Riding in the dark had its fair share of obstacles. Hills seemed to appear out of nowhere, giving her no time to swerve. On three occasions, she contemplated abandoning the ATV in the ditch. But, as if the vehicle heard her, its wheels would turn and get enough traction to back out. After an hour of proceeding the forest, she saw a deer and stopping. With brown short hair and spots of white dots, the doe looked at her, more still than a statue. Victoria bought a painting, for her office in the West Wing, that hung above the desk. It was a painting of a deer.
Unsure how to react, the deer didn't move. Neither did Janice. If it was there to stop her, it made no attempt. If it was there to aide her, it made no attempt for that either. She was an observer. "Hey, Mom," Janice said. In most circumstances, it would be silly to assume spirits inhabited animals. In most circumstances… "I have to stop Marcel. In this world, or the next."
The deer looked away, then walked the other direction. She watched, expecting the animal to poof away into some magical dust or something. But drifted away into the dark woods. "I'll see you soon, Mom."
Janice drove on for about an hour, stopping twice to apply more ointment to her wound. Just a little longer and it would all be over. Finally, street light could be seen. A road approached. Willie's description wasn't wrong, the road was dull and empty. She sat at the edge of the street, not sure if the whole thumbs-up or showing-leg thing still existed because no car ever stopped. Six o
r so cars had past before she decided to force someone to stop. Janice parked the ATV in the center of the road, hoping it wouldn't cause an accident because a dead motorist did her no good.
Before long, a truck pulled up and stopped, throwing his hands up in frustration. She trudged up to the driver's window, his angry face melted at the sight of her. "Oh, Jesus Christ. Are you okay, miss?"
"You have a radio, right?"
"Yeah. Yeah. You need an ambulance?"
Janice shook her head. "No. I need you to call the police, or whatever their called nowadays. And tell them you have Janice Celest. She needs to be arrested for crimes against the state."
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Governing the world had several advantages and disadvantages. Making decisions to create peace and harmony were simple. Making decisions on how to decorate the castle were not. Marcel regretted his demands to structure the Union's home. Oftentimes so mundane, he wished the staff just knew his taste in architecture. His office looked it had been constructed six days ago and not six months ago. Boxes blocked one corner, making him have to squeeze by to reach the bathroom. His desk had finally been finished. Marcel packed away file folders and neatly stacked pencils of different colors in the drawers before another knock interrupted his progress.
"Yes?" Marcel said sarcastically.
Two men, carrying what looked like a large fish secured to a wooden plank. Before he could ask, one of them answered. "It's a koi. From the people of Japan."
The first gift he'd been grateful, the second gift he'd been honored, the third gift he'd been pleased, the fourth gift…
"Just put it somewhere, I don't care."
The phone rang, he specifically asked the secretary to hold all calls. How was he supposed to unpack when the damn phone won't stop?
"Anywhere?"
"Yeah surprise me," Marcel shrugged. This went against every moral his mother taught him. Gifts were from the heart. So why didn't any of it matter?
He lifted the phone and hung it up without answering while the two stammered to find a place in the office to hang an ugly fish. The phone started ringing again. He lifted and hung up. Without even a second passing, it rang again. This time he walked away and tried to distract himself by emptying another box of paper files. Why did he ever resort to printing everything?
The phone continued to ring. He rubbed the temples of his forehead, watching the two men place the statue in quite possibly the worse place. Hammering and hammering, they at first hung the koi too high, then too low. For whatever reason, the secretary hadn't given up calling him and the phone continued. The room felt stuffy, like the inside of a hot balloon. Marcel would burst if he didn't get a moment alone.
He dug through a box labeled Media. Throughout the years, he remained nostalgic. When he was ten, MP3 players were the norm but he stuck with CDs. Scratched and constantly skipping songs, he never gave up touting that someday digital formatting would implode without any physical backup. Lo and behold, the apocalypse happened and the internet got a fresh start and erased everything left behind. In only a minute, he found the CD player and a pair of headphones. For Christmas, his mother made him a mixture of movie scores on a single disc. There was something about movie score, the building of a scene whether action or romance.
Just as he placed the headphones on, he could hear banging at the door and visual permission from the two men if they should open it. "Sir," the secretary's high pitched voice said from behind it. "It's very important -"
Marcel scrolled up the volume key and drowned her out with the orchestra of John Williams. Leaving the two men glancing back and forth from the door to Marcel, he squeezed between cardboard boxes and entered the restroom, where he collapsed on the door and locked it. Silence finally.
Without warm running water in the complex yet, Marcel tossed the idea of a bath. Instead he sat in the tub and closed his eyes. Brent used to do this, when he got so irate that Mom couldn't get a word in. School did that to his brother a lot, made him so peeved at the useless teachers, useless counselors, and useless principals. Maybe Marcel should train himself to fight back to all the bullies. Fear worked for Brent, so why not? Why did Marcel always back away and feel the guilt holding him from unleashing full hell on Earth? Was it that light his mother said that flowed through Marcel but struggled through Brent?
"Sir!" A robotic strong voice commanded behind the door. Only Vanderbilt would have the audacity to interrupt Marcel.
"What?" He screamed, ripping away the melody of Hans Zimmer and hurling the headphones at the wall. At least Brent would thrown them hard enough to break.
"We have her in custody. Janice."
Marcel shot up and nearly slipped on the porcelain surface. "Janice? Where!"
"Downstairs."
Floor ties had been completed in some places, but not others. Like playing a game of hopscotch, Marcel hurried through the hallway trying to reach the goal. His sister! Here? Why? How?
The last time he matched her stare, it was atop this very castle as he stood over the bloodied body of their brother. With the murdering blade in his hand. Never imagining the day would come where he'd be forgiven. Maybe she finally saw the true future, the safe future…with him.
Resorting to only wearing jeans and t-shirt because he couldn't find his box with more formidable attire, Marcel realized in the hurry to the infirmary that he'd left his flip-flops on.
White hallways lead the way to the hospital wing, nurses behind him tried to keep up and instructing him which turn to make. He eventually ended up at a room marked ADMISSION. Inside, lying face up and connected to a white bag via IV, was Janice in a white gown. There was so much white in this wing, any bacteria would practically be visible to the naked eye.
"Hey," he managed to whisper.
Janice looked up, her hair wet. He pictured what it must've been like to be a nurse bathing her. "Hey you," she said emotionless. In all these years together as adopted siblings, he'd never seen her like this, with such sunken eyes and colorless skin. One time, during a winter storm, she suffered a flu that put her in the ICU. Marcel aided her back to health and he intended to repeat history. Before he could ask, she affirmed his suspicions. "I'm dying."
Before their mother died, Marcel often wondered if the news would be easier to handle if it came unexpectedly or expectedly. Both seemed brutally equal. The idea of Janice slipping out of this world was unacceptable. "Not on my watch," Marcel shook his head.
Amused, Janice stood up and sat at the edge of the cot. "I'm okay," she told the nurse, asking for a moment alone. Looking to Marcel, he nodded affirmatively. She said once the room was empty, "Gerard told me. He told me everything. About Doomsday. He saw you, alive and well, moments before the attack. When the whole world, including me, thought you were in coma. Or worse, dead. You instructed him to tell no one. And warned him that something bad was about to happen." Marcel found himself looking about, attempting not to make eye contact. "You knew, didn't you? That the apocalypse was happening? That nukes were going to fall, lethal locusts were being freed, and a debilitating virus was about to spread. Did you know?"
Lying was a possibility, but Janice always had a knack for discovering the truth. So, Marcel answered, "Yes."
"Dad was your idol. You learned politics better than any of us. World leaders worshipped you. And you couldn't have made a phone call to stop it?"
Realizing this was the first time anyone had brought up this moment, nearly a year ago, where Marcel had made the most difficult decision. But if she had seen what Lucifer showed him, an end to humanity because of overpopulation, maybe Janice would seem so condescending. If he believed his decision had been the right one, then why did he feel a bead of guilt sweat droop from his eyebrow. "I could have stopped it."
"Why…How could the Marcel I know, do such a thing? Was it the Union? You wanted to be the Phoenix, rising from the ashes to save the world?"
His body stiff, he decided to move and relax. His father taught him during deb
ates, a slight pace helped blood flow and made you look in charge; a fast pace made you look guilty and antsy. Marcel pulled up a stool and sat across from her, noting that she didn't back away fearfully. "We were just kids when it happened, but I remembered watching the television over and over again during 9/11, when terrorism showed its ugliest face. Something drew me to it. Not the fascination with the attackers or how the buildings fell," he took a breath, giving his debate opponent time to soak in what was being said, "but of the people who survived. Hell, all the people. It didn't just change the city, it changed everyone…around the world. Citizens were kinder. Neighbors checked on neighbors. Hugs were tight. Kisses lasted forever. An energy surged from the darkness that day. You know what it was? Light. Light bleeds from tragedy and bonds humanity. Every time. Wouldn't you agree? Wouldn't you say that Light blossomed around the world after Doomsday?"
She didn't say no, she didn't say yes.
Marcel continued, "It's the real Phoenix rising from the ashes. And I allowed it to be born that day."
"Let me guess. And that Phoenix goes by the name…the Union."
"Maybe we are after the same thing, ever thought about that?" Marcel retorted.
Without asking for help, Janice stood and limped over to the wall. For fear of it being slapped away, Marcel didn't offer a hand. Surprisingly resilient, she was able to walk almost upright as she poured a cup of tap water and swallowed it.
"We can fix you," Marcel proposed.
"Funny," she said tossing away the styrofoam cup, "I came here to fix you."
Against the objections of Janice, the doctor insisted she be confined to a wheelchair until the morning when further testing could be done. Besides photo-ops at charity hospitals, Marcel had never experienced wheeling someone around. Janice kept silent as he gave her a tour of the castle. They traveled through a long corridor with a floor so waxed it looked like glass. While he explained the statues on pillars, where they from and who they represented, she stared at her reflection on the floor. What was meant to showcase the life she could have with him here came off as bragging.