by Chris Ayala
"Its because of the explosions worldwide, we have to –"
"No, Marcel. It's because of you."
He pierced his lips and took a deep breath. She still wouldn't look him in the eyes. After a few seconds of reminding himself not to react the way Brent would with such a derogatory statement, he said, "I can't take responsibility for other people's actions."
"That's the problem…you can't take responsibility."
Marcel left it at that. Women loved having the last word and Janice was no different. He could feel his quest for her love failing, sinking down into the horizon just like the sun. Both hopeless and hopeful, he was running out of options besides locking into her eyes and her soul, devouring any fear of their future together.
"Where did she die?"
So many had died in recent weeks here, but she could only mean one. "Sirius Dawson died in the chambers." Maybe he could get the opportunity there to see her soul through the tunnel of the eyes and dig out that animosity. "Would you like to see it?"
"Yes."
Sliding her fingers across the plank, Janice remained mostly silent when they had entered the chambers. What looked like a table to operate on, had a vastly different purpose. On one end of the slanted discolored wood was a crank connected to a winch. Janice turned it gently, while Marcel tried to guess what was in her mind since he couldn't a glance into her gaze. Did she respect what the laws and leaderships had to accomplish in order to gain control of the populace? Or did she misunderstand it, as those liberals always did?
The vast room could room enough bunk beds for fifty prisoners, but it wasn't about housing. Instead it was about torturing. Janice moved onto three other machines, the Iron Maiden, the Brazen bull, before stopping at the simple and effective guillotine. She reached past the bloody basket on the floor, to the top of the device's blade, and then lightly touched the edge. Blood trickled from her fingers, but she didn't flinch. "Still sharp."
Perhaps bring someone, suffering a melancholy, into a place like this was a bad idea. Marcel looked at the clock, "It's almost noon. We should have lunch on the –"
"Remember the ISIS extremists?" Janice interrupted, eyeing the Judas Cradle, a ghastly device where the victim would be tied above a wooden post that entered the anus.
"We were kids then. Mom didn't let us watch the news much. She was afraid we would be wound up in the media circus."
She nodded. "I probably shouldn't have watched it, but this boy at the orphanage used to bring in those videos to watch on his cellphone. You know? The ones where they would kill people in the name of their god? I was only fourteen, not even old enough to drive yet and there I was watching brutal killings. You know what struck me the most? Not the grotesque moments of throwing men off high rises or beheading with a dull machete, but the moment before. Right before." She paused like staring at a hovering picture in the air. "Something every victim had in common was that seven seconds, I know because I counted it. Seven seconds right before they died. Seven seconds of acceptance. They're not even wide-eyed or shaking…they were so…placid." She turned, but still stared at the floor. "Is that peace? That seven seconds?"
Answering what he thought his father would, Marcel immediately said. "No."
"But…how do you know? Peace isn't simplicity, Marcel. It's acceptance. Accepting your fate. Accepting that people have unbalanced decisions which harbor good or evil intentions. Accepting that not everyone is compatible. Accepting that you cannot always control the outcome of complex situations. Accepting that people live and that people die."
Marcel strolled, hands behind his back, thinking about what she was saying. He touched the rusted wall of knives and stopped to stare at the coffin torture machine, like it would move. Meant to be hung over crowds of people and mimic the confinement of a casket, it became a symbolism of internal torture. It had been constructed to look like a cell, steel bars and a locking mechanism. But did its prisoner, presuming his death would be momentarily, experience peace? "No." He said, his back to Janice. "I can't accept that. Mom isn't dead. She's in the…gray. With Brent. And they'll be so proud of me when I accomplish what they only dreamed of. I'm sorry. But there are tough decisions that must be made and we can't just simply accept what life gives us."
"You're right," Janice said from behind, "There are tough decisions to make. And I've just made one of them."
She shoved him inside the cell and locked it.
Marcel grasped the bars and shook. The bars didn't budge. He couldn't presume the worst, that his sister purposely locked him in here, so he spoke calmly. "Janice, this isn't funny. Open it."
Staring at the floor still, she stood just feet away from the entrance of it. Saying nothing.
"Janice. Unlock the gate." He said slowly.
She did…nothing.
He shook the bars, harshly, the blood boiling in his veins. For such an ancient device, the steel structure still hold. His hands got cold, clammy. Fear pumped through his heart, the same fear that manifested for every prisoner in this coffin cell. Janice made no movement to his aide. She had deceived him. He growled, "After all I've done for you?"
She uttered under her breath, "This is…because of everything you've done to me."
Janice lifted her shift halfway. Duct taped around his waist, she removed a gun. A Ruger LCR Revolver. For such a small gun, it looked big in her petite, frail hands. She held it, not pointing or grasping it correctly, but inspecting it like one of the torture devices in the room.
Instead of sympathy, he wanted to spit in her face. First, Brent tried to kill him. Then Gerard. Now his loving sister. He could plead for mercy or beg that she listen to his healing words, but not this time. This time he'd do what the darkness in him wanted to do. He threatened her, through gritted teeth, "You know I can stop bullets now, right?"
Lip quivering and tears dripping down her cheeks like pedals falling from a dying rose, she said, "I know." After swallowing, she muttered, "The bullet isn't for you."
His face, scrunched and bitter, lifted. The realization of the situation made his heart race. His chest, heaving from immediate anxiety, mushed up against the cell bars. "Janice. No. Don't. Oh God. Don't."
"I won't do it here. I'm not a monster."
He grasped the bars, even tighter, and rattled them harder. "Janice! No! Don't! Please!"
She stepped backwards, her voice breaking from the sobs. "I…I'm…dying…anyways. I've been dead for a…long time…Marcel. We all have. Don't you…see? We all died with Mom. We are just ghosts…walking around aimlessly without her."
He didn't listen, using his shoulder to slam the cell door, kicking and punching, as the predecessors in this cell had done centuries ago. "Janice! Don't! Don't! I need you! Please!"
Wobbling, Janice turned towards a door in the back of the room. A measly, filthy janitor's closet. That would be her coffin. "If I can't get through to…you in this world…then I will in the next. I love…you…I really do."
Marcel screamed, "No! Don't do it! Look at me! Please! Janice!"
She walked away, opening the door to the closet room, then stopping to take a deep breath. An orgasmic breath. "There it is," she said satisfactorily, "Seven seconds. That's all I get. Oh Marcel, it feels amazing." Slowly stepping inside, she closed the door behind her.
"Janice!" He shouted. "Please!"
I'm here! The water element shouted. Let me help!
Marcel circled around, trying to figure out the water source in the room. The pipes! He quickly focused, his blood pumping so fast he might faint. A tunnel of water crashed out of the wall and grasped the cell's door. Within seconds, it froze solid. Marcel kicked and kicked the ice. "Janice! Janice!" Eventually the block of ice shattered, along with the bars of the cell. Free now, Marcel dashed across the room. He could make it. He could stop her. He could save her. There was hope. "Janice!"
The sound of a gun shot deafened his ears.
The sound of a body crashing to the floor stopped his heart.
Blo
od slipped out the bottom of the door.
His head spun. His breath slowed. His feet felt numb. His hands shook.
Before he could cry out, Marcel tumbled to the ground and everything went black.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Lately, first thing in the morning, Adam would feel a sense of purpose. Hope created by Gerard's sacrifice. Every morning, he'd walk briskly to the cafeteria, skipping steps, tell the kids to slow down in the hallways, wait until everyone exited the long queue for the breakfast buffet before grabbing a plate, and ending his morning with a warm cup of joe at a table alone. But he awoke with dread, sorrow, and despair. His knotted stomach skipped breakfast and went straight for the coffee table. He drank it with six sugars and three creams, like in college. Final semester would've been coming to an end soon.
Without bothering to get dressed, he wore a robe that one of the scouts found in a trash can. No one dared to wear it, because it smelled like rotten tangerines. Skipping the line of people for coffee at the cafeteria, he poured it black. After slumping in a chair, not acknowledging the greetings from others, he sipped his coffee and sighed. It must've been the afternoon because lunch was being served. Or maybe even dinner. He stared at the white plastic table, watching whatever was floating on the top of his drink. Could be anything, even flakes from the kitchen staff's dandruff. Adam took a long sip, before he got interrupted.
Willie sat down slowly, as though he didn't want to wake up Adam even though he wasn't asleep. Dark and swollen, his eyes looked like they had been crying all day. Vying for worst dressed in the cafeteria, he wore a white tight tank top with food stains and his hair uncombed looked like a dead animal. After swallowing back some mucus, Willie said, "Radio is saying another death reported at the Union Castle."
Without understanding how, Adam replied, "I know." He didn't just feel her missing body next to him in bed, but her missing soul. "I'm going to have her name tattooed."
"Where?"
Adam pointed to the place above his heart. That made the tear wobbling at Willie's left eyelid slide down and hit the table. After wiping his nose, he said, "The radio says Another Celest Dead. I was hoping it was Marcel Celest."
Wiping his upper lip of the leftover coffee, Adam grumbled. "It will be soon." He leaned back in his chairs and crossed his arms. "Tonight. Midnight. It's the anniversary. January 7th was the day it all ended, and now it'll be the day it all began." Trying to picture the march toward the castle became blurry, he could only see Janice and Brent, the two most important people in his life, both dead in puddles of blood. The Supreme Leader would have to pay. "Boats here yet?"
Willie nodded. "Arrived this morning. Royal called."
"Let's start transporting. I'll go with the first batch. One van per hour." He took a breath. "You getting the truck today?"
Willie's nod was so slight, he couldn't tell if it was affirmative. His unshaven face added ten years to him. Adam slammed his hand on the table so hard that Willie jumped and the people around paused mid-bite. "You need to focus. We need to focus. Understand?"
"Yeah. Don't sweat it. I'll get the device. I know where the trailer is."
Without another word, Adam stood and left the cup at the table. He wanted to collapse to the door, shield his face and weep into his palms. But it wouldn't solve anything. Janice wanted the plan to continue. A war to end the war.
Until people were ready to depart, Adam needed something to do. Getting dressed took him less than five minutes. Loose pants and a loose shirt gave him the mobility he would need. But every moment he had of complete silence, his mind went back to Janice.
Visiting Nelson wouldn't put him in a better mood. No doubt, the father was mourning his daughter. And Adam couldn't bear to see anymore tears. Checking on Gerard wouldn't help either. They weren't close and besides, his door had been closed since Janice left yesterday. He didn't even step out of his room to use the bathroom.
Adam walked down the hallway until he reached the gym. Inside, as usual, the only person working out on the rusted equipment was Bruno. Lying on the weight bench, the giant lifted the bar which must've had all the weights available connected to it. After three reps and three deep breaths, the juggernaut stood. "Friend!" He said, when he noticed Adam in the room.
"Hey, Bruno."
He stood up, towering above Adam. The two barely spoke. Ever. And they both knew so little about each other. Small talk didn't seem like an opener to either of them. He decided to get to the point. "Bruno. I need you to punch me as hard as you can."
The room got so quiet that the sound of air conditioning became deafening. Bruno squinted his eyes. "What?"
Saying it slower, Adam repeated, "I need you to…punch me…as hard as you can."
"But. Why?" he replied in that thick German accent. "Bruno love Adam."
"Love?" He scoffed, spouting out quickly. "Love is bullshit. It'll just rip your heart apart in the end. It sucks. Alright? It sucks. Everyone dies. And it fucking sucks. Would you just hit me? Hit me square on the jaw. Break bones, give me bruises, just anything to make the pain go away. Do it!"
They shared a moment of silence. He could see Bruno thinking, glancing around the gym like he had answers there. "It help. Yes? Bruno punch…Adam better? Yes?"
Adam nodded.
The brute stepped back and paused before slapping Adam lightly, the hit barely swung his head. Feeling the surge of Brent in his blood, Adam shouted. "Goddamnit! I said punch me!"
Another light slap to the face. Bruno's hands were almost as big as Adam's head. The slap made him stumble barely, but he regained his posture. "Bruno no like this game."
"It's not a goddamn game, you Nazi bitch! Hit me!"
Bruno punched him so narrow, that Adam's head swung backwards. He saw several stars before his vision regained clarity. The giant's cheeks drooped angrily. "Not nice. No friend. Friend no say that."
It wasn't enough. Adam could still picture Janice, her long golden hair gathered on his side of the bed. He choked back saliva and spat it in Bruno's face.
After wiping the spit off his face, the brute soaked Adam in the face twice. Blood dripped down from his nose to his mouth, leaving a bitter taste. He stumbled backwards and fell to the ground. His jaw pulsated, his cheek burned, and his tooth felt loose. Adam took deep breaths, focusing on the external pain.
"Feel better?" Bruno asked, softly.
Adam nodded. "Yes. Thanks."
Still dazed and weak, he could feel Bruno lift him up to his feet. Mimicking his accent kindly, Adam said, "Adam love Bruno."
"Bruno know."
The van ride there was bumpy. Adam yanked out the toilet paper swabs he made for his nose. Less blood was a good sign. He rolled down the window and tossed them out.
In less than an hour, they had arrived at the ports. Not until the pier started to approach did Adam realize he never looked back, saying somewhat of a goodbye to the missile silo. As a kid, he used to leave one foster home and go on to the next. After a while, saying goodbye was moot. While others in the van brought whatever weapons they could think of, Adam brought nothing. How could anyone prepare for this? No one spoke during the ride. The only familiar face was Pierre, sitting in the back, his fingers skimmed over a Braille book.
"You alright?" Adam asked him.
Pierre didn't answer. He said, "When I was a little boy, my mother gave me this book. Born blind, the world was a scary place. I read when I'm scared. It helps."
Before the ports, they descended a steep hill. He could see no lights at the docks but plenty of shapes that looked like boats. "Wow they are big." He wiggled his tongue on the loose tooth and it finally broke free. Calmly, Adam rolled down the window and tossed out his molar tooth.
The van stopped and parked along the side of the road. Adam peeped out the window but saw no one outside. Did anyone even show up? Royal promised a big armada.
Everyone got out of the van. "We have to walk the rest." The driver stated.
Once they got over the hil
l, Adam had to pause for a moment. The crowd was enormous. Thousands upon thousands flooded the docks and surrounding areas. It was so quiet, it felt eerie like he was amongst a bunch of zombies. They pushed their way through, following the driver who seemed to be the only one with knowledge of the ports. Before long, they met up with a familiar face.
Royal Declan, hair tied up behind her in that dull but effective Jodie Foster look, turned. Adam's heart skipped. "Hey." It was all he could think to say after nearly three months separated from each other.
"I just gathered an army and your response is 'hey'?"
Was he supposed to offer a hug? No, too awkward. A handshake? No, even more awkward. A fistbump? Twiddling his fingers, Adam replied, "I…was just…yeah…I was getting to that. Just wanted to say hello first. Thanks…for your work and stuff."
Though a cordial greeting may have been in order, it didn't mean there was time for one. Royal scoffed. "We've done a head count. Roughly 18 thousand, give or take, since we can't get an accurate one." Something was different about her, she was more blunt, bitter than usual.
Adam's wide eyes peered over the masses. "Okay," he whispered. "I…mm…" he almost said missed you and quickly corrected himself, "I mmm…managed to get transportation for everyone at the silo. Should be done in a few hours."
Arms crossed, Royal asked, "What's with the shiner? Already started before the rest of us?"
He dabbed the side of his face wondering if Bruno's fist left a dent in it. "First of many tonight." She moved in, closest she'd ever been to him and traced her soft fingers along the names tattooed on his skin."You like them?" He asked, wondering why he would even need her approval.
She nodded, "Love them." Directly in his eyes, she gazed and said, "We are going to make those bastards pay. You understand?" Then she spun and faced Pierre. "What's with you? You look pale." She said. The Frenchman did, indeed, look white enough to faint.