Stopgap

by Liam Card

  A local father on a walk with his two young girls saw the rebels jump down from their Jeeps and prepare for battle. The father protectively tucked his offspring behind his trembling legs and suggested that the rebels go away. He suggested that this village was a peaceful one and that no one wanted any trouble.

  “Safia, we are moments away here. I need to discuss Bonyeme. Is he a killer, or are his actions merely out of survival and for the survival of his family?”

  “If he attempts to murder, I am taking his life.”

  “Right, but you’re not giving him a chance. His Thought Marker will reveal itself, because those who are forcing his hand are still alive beside him.”

  “Continue.”

  “In situations where orders to kill are given from a superior, forcing the hand of an individual fearing for their lives (or the lives of loved ones), should we not execute the individual who gives the orders first and allow those who have no interest in violence the option to lay down arms and walk away?”

  “It’s not quite there yet,” she said. “Keep going.”

  “Look, I can see Thought Markers as well, but if you look closely at Bonyeme’s Thought Marker, it seems to be underscored with the desire for peace; that under different circumstances, his Thought Marker would not exist. I suggest we continue to execute those without this underscore but allow those with it the opportunity to lay down weapons. My prediction is that once you remove the authoritative figure giving the orders for murder, the Thought Marker will disappear in Bonyeme’s case, as will others who underscore their Marker with the wish for peace.”

  For a moment her vibrations were still.

  “This amendment has further repercussions,” she said.

  “Such as …”

  “I want this updated across the board, not simply in this case. The ordering of killings or violent crimes from this moment forward are now punishable by death.”

  “If it saves the life of Bonyeme and those like him, I’m all for it.”

  “I love it, and it shall be written,” she said and sent me a second gold star — this one larger than the last, and more decorative. A star within a star, and trimmed with diamonds. From what I could tell, VVS1, D-colour, excellent cut stones. Twenty-five points apiece. “Congratulations, Colonel.”

  I sent her back a formal appraisal on the gems.

  The second amendment to the mandate, “Forced Hand,” was written in seconds and we both initialled the pages.

  The leader of the group, an older rebel with a keloid scar running northeast to southwest over one eye, walked toward the father of two. He paused briefly and drew the machete from his belt. He asked the father of two by which means he would prefer his daughters die, the gun or the blade.

  The leader held both weapons out in plain sight for the man to see.

  The father of two begged for the lives of his girls.

  “Fine,” the rebel said. “I’ll choose,” and raised the machete high.

  Then blood ran from profusely from his face.

  He coughed. Gurgled a bit. And collapsed.

  The scene stood still. In fact, if an artist were to paint an iconic image of Operation Stopgap, it would have been that exact image. The moment right before the first rebel fell. When he was still gurgling on his own blood and the machete had fallen forty-five degrees in his limp hand. The moment when his right knee had begun to buckle due to his dead weight. And the crying father of two left frozen with his hand in the air looking to protect his girls with bare flesh and bone.

  That exact moment.

  That was Safia’s Operation Stopgap to a T.

  The father looked up, speechless. He wanted to pray out loud but couldn’t make his mouth work. Couldn’t make anything work, really. He just sat up making a sound like he was choking or was parched for water.

  The second-in-command stepped forward and promptly fired bullets into the air. He followed the gunshots with a battle cry — the signal for the men to commence their own mandate of ending lives. A starter’s pistol, if you will, and off they ran, like screaming banshees, fuelled by a false sense of duty and the thrill of it all. Bonyeme wondered what he had just witnessed. He wondered if someone was listening to his prayers, and if this was a sign for him to sneak away. He wondered how many people he would have to kill before he could simply disappear without anyone noticing, never to have to kill again. The herd continued to charge ahead, machine guns and machetes drawn.

  Villagers heard the shots and battle cry.

  Mothers grabbed children.

  Husbands grabbed wives.

  Brothers grabbed sisters.

  People grabbed people.

  That same lone father, the one who had protected his two girls in the dirt, got the sense that someone was listening. That someone or something was protecting the village. On trembling legs, he slowly made his way to standing and extended an open hand — demanding that the charging rebels stop in their tracks.

  Then came a series of heavy thuds, like the sky had opened up and rained bricks on the dry earth.

  Then nothing.

  Just the sounds of birds and wind.

  That father of two, he just stood staring at the second miracle before him.

  There lay thirty-five dead rebels. And there stood Bonyeme, machine gun in hand — frozen.

  The villagers peeked out of their hiding places. White-knuckled grips on the garments of loved ones relaxed, and one by one, curious faces started to poke out, asking why their lives had been spared. Asking what had happened. Soon the entire village was standing before the dead rebels, all bleeding from the eyes, nose, and ears. All that blood feeding the thirsty cracks in the earth. The entire village gathered around the father, staring at Bonyeme.

  “It was you,” said the father. “Why did you do it? Why did you kill all of your friends?”

  “It was not me,” said Bonyeme.

  “What is your name?”

  “My name is Bonyeme. But I did not save you. This was not by the hand of man. This was something else. God, maybe.”

  “Do you plan to kill us now?”

  “No,” said Bonyeme. “No, I do not want to kill anybody. I just want to go home. I just want to see my family.”

  “Why did God spare you?” asked the father of two.

  “I believe he heard my prayers and saw the true nature of my heart. I believe he chose to me spread the word, which I intend to do if you will let me go peacefully.”

  The villagers agreed.

  Bonyeme dropped the machine gun, climbed into one of the Jeeps, and drove off in a cloud of dust.

  The locals conversed and then began to pray. Two things were clear in their estimation: that father of two was a hero, and Bonyeme was the son of God.

  • • •

  Safia’s form was swollen with pride. She vibrated with such happiness that the locals thought God was talking back to them, as if to say, “You’re welcome.”

  “I am saying you’re welcome to them. They just don’t know it’s me.”

  “Does that make you God?”

  “Maybe it does,” she said.

  In the Post-Death Line, I had lived the life of the top Elvis impersonator in Las Vegas. The physical resemblance and performance similarity was nothing short of astounding. I sent her a clip of “Don’t Be Cruel” from one of my sold-out shows at the Luxor Hotel.

  “Or maybe you’re just putting on one hell of a show,” I said.

  “Maybe I am. But I’ll tell you this: I’ve never been so happy. Not in my life or in any of the lives I lived in the Line. This is the pinnacle of my existence, and because of that, I do feel godly.”

  “Old Testament God, maybe. The angry one.” Well, she found that hilarious. She sent me back a clip of a wispy-haired, obese American man literally laughing himself to death after telling a joke at a dinner par
ty. The man was wearing a plastic lobster bib that read “Frank Family Lobsterfest.” I’ll admit, his laughter at the beginning was truly hilarious. However, the end of the clip was terribly dark. This was Safia, after all. Not exactly equal parts light and dark.

  “I didn’t think my line was that funny,” I said. “It was a bit passive-aggressive.”

  “Firstly, do not ever compare what I’m doing to any form of organized religion. Secondly, if we are not playing God, we are playing hero, and I am fine to wear that title.”

  “Are we playing hero?”

  “If this were a novel, wouldn’t I be the hero?” she said, and sent me all of the epic novels I had ever read where the hero saves the innocent via the slaying of villains and monsters.

  “That’s me, Luke,” she said. “I am the slayer of monsters. I thought you loved those stories?”

  “I do love those stories.”

  “Then this should be a dream come true, because you are slaying monsters with me!” she said. I sent her a video clip of my grand-father telling me to be careful what you wish for.

  By that time new Thought Markers of soon-to-be criminal behavior had reached Code Red status, and I had new execution coordinates for Safia.

  She sent me a clip of a pit bull licking its chops.

  Then she left.

  • • •

  Within the first thousand executions, two more situations were presented that required no amendment to the mandate but provided cause for pause. Southeast of Moscow, where the Moskva and Oka rivers converge, rests the city of Kolomna. A Thought Marker called me to an apartment building in this ancient meeting place, where I hovered over a woman named Malvina Pravdin. Malvina was kneeling by the side of the tub as her six-year-old daughter, Yana, played with a plastic boat and rubber animals. Yana was attempting to pack as many animals on the boat as possible, but the boat always tipped over. Not all could fit. Yana’s biggest issue was choosing which animals would make it onto the boat.

  Malvina’s biggest issue was that Carla had taken over her brain and was in control of her bodily functions. Moreover, Carla was only moments away from drowning Malvina’s daughter, Yana. You see, Carla was nothing but resentful of Yana. Little Yana was held responsible for many things. For ruining Carla’s first and second marriages. For ruining her flat tummy and for the scar on it where the doctors cut her open and made a Russian doll out of her. She blamed little Yana for the stretch marks on her breasts and the matching set on her hips. For the emergence of the kinked and wiry grey hairs that now populated her once gorgeous head of hair. For the wrinkles in her forehead and the bags under her eyes. For killing her free time and ability to find another man.

  That’s the way she saw it, anyway.

  Yana: the cancer. A cancer that needed removal.

  In turn, Malvina despised Carla, and passionately so. But Carla was far stronger than Malvina, and when she took over, Malvina ran like a scared little girl and cowered in the recesses of her own mind. She found a dark corner in a fold of brain, went fetal, and shivered. Sometimes, when Carla was in control, she would leave Yana in the house and go out drinking. Sometimes Carla would return with a man, and Malvina would be left to clean up the mess the next morning and suffer the hangover. Sometimes Carla would leave work early, claiming to be sick, score pills or powder, and forget to pick up Yana from school. Malvina would be the one to explain what happened to the teachers and school administration. Carla would forget to cook dinner, and Yana would go hungry those nights. Carla wouldn’t cook breakfast or pack a lunch for Yana, and Yana wouldn’t learn much at school those days. Carla would puke all over the bathroom or kitchen, and Malvina would clean it up.

  Malvina was a professional Carla cleaner-upper.

  Sadly, on this particular evening, Carla was determined to remove the cancer from her life. Cancer that was deep in the process of loading rubber animals on a plastic boat that invariably dumped over time and time again.

  Carla had decided to get into the tub and pin the little girl underwater. Strangling leaves marks, and she needed to do her best to make it look like an accidental drowning. After Yana was gone, Carla planned to get a frying pan and give little Yana a ding on the back of the head to make it seem as though she had slipped in the tub, lights-out, and the rest you already know.

  Meanwhile, Malvina was watching these plans take shape from that tiny recess, that dark fold in the brain. Chained there. Wailing in agony for Carla to stop.

  Two thought projections — one brain.

  Two distinct people — one body.

  I called Safia, and she arrived, promptly.

  I asked how she was doing, and she sent me the image of a Samurai warrior covered in the hot, dripping red of battle.

  Fair enough.

  “We may have an issue here,” I said and uploaded to her the situation at hand.

  “I see no issue,” she said.

  “We haven’t discussed the mentally ill,” I said. “These people are sick. Malvina here is sick. She needs help.”

  “I see a clear Thought Marker, Luke. That woman is about to drown that little girl. Might I suggest that the little girl needs help?”

  “It’s Carla’s Thought Marker. Not Malvina’s.”

  “This is not a rehabilitation program, Luke. We are in the business of protecting the innocent. Malvina may be ill, yes. However, her daughter is about to be murdered if we do nothing.”

  “By Carla’s hand.”

  “By a hand that shares their mutual DNA. While I agree that this isn’t necessarily Malvina’s fault, there is a clear Thought Marker, and a life will be saved. The cost of that is a life taken. This will always be the case, regardless of mental illness or not. Are we clear on this issue?”

  “It still seems grey.”

  “Put differently, I ask you this: Who would you prefer dies in this situation? Because someone has to die in order for the other to live.”

  “Yana can’t die.”

  “I am in agreement, and we have our answer for this particular case, and all cases like it going forward.”

  “I suppose we do.”

  “I see no reason to update the mandate. Do you?

  “I don’t. No,” I said.

  Carla stood and looked down at Yana in the tub. The crime was moments away. Carla smiled at Yana, and Malvina screamed for Yana to run, but sound doesn’t travel well from the recesses of the mind. Yana saw the smile on her mother’s face.

  She smiled back and mentioned how much she loved to see her mother smile. The smile didn’t last long. Safia did her thing, and that smile drooped, and Malvina and Carla’s shared face bled from the eyes, ears, and nose. They both free-fell to the floor, where Malvina’s head cracked open, and out spilled Carla onto the tile and grout.

  Yana screamed.

  The rubber animals sank to the bottom of their ocean, and the plastic boat bobbed up and down in the storm of waves. Sure, the child was scarred for life, but she was alive. I felt as though we had done a good thing there. Safia sent me a clip of a pat on the back. I sent her the image of a bottle of vodka and a wedding-style invitation card with the suggestion that we share it.

  “The only think I get drunk on is saving lives,” she said, and off she went.

  • • •

  Another unique situation was the case of the jumper at the Millau Viaduct in France — the tallest vehicular bridge in the world. When I found Lucien Leroy, he had long since pulled his car over and sat balancing on the long horizontal guardrail looking down into the valley. His mind was an electrical storm of images and sound bites, video clips, and newspaper articles surrounding the major collision he had been involved in.

  The one in which he had become infamous.

  The one where he’d been blind drunk, staggered from the bar to his car, and then wiped out two teenagers coming home from a movie. The movie they were
coming home from was about a drunk driver who copes with wiping out two teenagers coming home from a movie.

  Frozen inside Lucien’s mind was the front page of a French newspaper that roughly translated to: Tragedy Marries Irony. Then flashed an Internet article that read: Lucien or Lucifer? It Is for You to Decide. The cartoon artist in this case had certainly given her all with respect to the featured caricature. Tail and horns. Cloven hoof. The whole nine yards. It was a terrific work of art. Then a newscast showing Lucien’s face as the anchor spoke about the tragic accident. Then another.

  Then another.

  Then another.

  Lucien sat there balancing on the guardrail. He imagined his lapse in judgment would define him for the rest of his life. He imagined running away to Thailand and checking into a disgusting Bangkok hotel. The kind where rats board for free. The kind where insects might feed on feces or something that was once human and was forgotten about. He imagined the front desk clerk looking at his identification and pointing his index finger. “It’s you. You’re the drunk monster who killed those two kids coming home from a movie about a drunk monster who kills two kids coming home from a movie. Isn’t it! It’s you!” And then he called more people over to point fingers at him.

  Lucien imagined confronting his mother in the nursing home and what she might say to him. The look in her eyes. The realization that her own life would now be solely defined as the mother whose son was the drunk monster. He imagined her writing a memoir: Mother of the Most Hated Man in France for a Period in Time. How could he stand before her? Her pointing finger was longer than any other in the world. It had the ability to breach Lucien’s ribcage and skewer his heart.

  No, Lucien couldn’t see his mother ever again.

  That was for sure.