Charlie's Requiem: Democide

by Walt Browning

  “Thanks, John.” Charlie replied. She gave him a quick hug and walked John to the apartment that held the young girl’s body.

  “She’s in there, behind the bed in the guest bedroom.”

  “I’ll take it from here.” He replied.

  “Again, I can’t thank you enough!” Charlie whispered. She kissed him on the cheek, then spun on her heals, returning to the rest of her group.

  John found little Brie, her body wrapped tightly in the white, cotton sheets. Her corpse was light and he had no trouble sliding her out from behind the bed and scooping her into his arms. Her body was still remarkably flaccid, reminding John of some of his previous encounters with the dead.

  Rigor Mortis, as he recalled, was muscular stiffening due to a lack of normal sugar processing.

  Dr. Garavaglia, the Dr. G from the television show and chief medical examiner for the Orlando area, had given him an off-the-cuff lecture at the M.E.’s office one weekend on rigor mortis. In twenty seconds, she had given him the “dumbed down” version on what happens to the body when the heart stops beating and the lungs stop breathing.

  “Essentially,” she started. “Muscles use sugar to produce energy. The blood sends sugar to the muscle and the muscle uses that sugar to not only contract, but to keep the muscle fibers separated when they aren’t contracting. Once the blood stops sending sugar to the muscle, they can’t stay separated and the muscles fibers bind together, making them stiffen. That’s why they call a dead body a stiff.”

  During the impromptu lecture, she had mentioned that infants and small children, along with patients with muscle-wasting diseases like cancer, would not develop much rigor mortis because they don’t have a lot of muscle mass.

  Brie was a little girl and with no significant muscle mass, she stayed supple and easy to carry.

  John cradled her in his arms and carried her to the stairwell. She barely weighed 40 pounds; but by the time he got to the first floor door, his muscles were starting to complain.

  He hefted her onto his chest, her cotton wrapped head lolling about and settling on his neck as he pushed through the stairwell door and into the lobby. By the time he was outside, the darkness had enveloped the street in front of the building. Brie’s cold and limp form was beginning to feel a lot heavier, and the thought of a corpse’s head bouncing off his neck was a bit unnerving. The final straw was when the child’s right arm and hand dropped out of the bindings and lay against his chest.

  John cast a warry look around; and seeing no one in the area, he turned to face the building one more time. No one could see him in the dark.

  “God, forgive me for this. But I just can’t keep this up.” He mumbled.

  John dropped the corpse to the ground and re-wrapped her tightly. He threw the girl over his shoulder in an unceremonious fireman’s carry and with her weight being supported by his back and legs, he quickly retraced his steps back to the concrete lot where he had parked their vehicle just a few hours before.

  John gently placed the body in an empty parking slot a few spots down from their M-ATV. At least in the morning, if no one else finds her, John could “discover” her body and have her properly laid to rest.

  With that distasteful episode finished, Agent Drosky finally headed back to his apartment. He needed to figure out how to find Maria and who could help him do that. He didn’t know his partner Bru well enough yet to fully trust him; but so far, the kid seemed solid. Further, the building inspections that Charlie and the others had avoided may not be limited to just one day, and only serious trouble could come from discovering those three in the apartment. The crap would eventually be dumped in his lap and that couldn’t turn out well for any of them.

  With all this on his mind, John mechanically stepped into “The Tower” as the residents had started to call the 40-story apartment building, and hit his floor button. He started blankly at the numbers above the elevator door until it stopped on floor 35 where the door slid silently open. All the while John stood motionless in a hypnotic-like trance as his mind juggling all the possible scenarios that they would be facing. Every line of action, each twist and turn, had a high probability of ending up badly.

  I just don’t have enough information, he finally thought to himself, as the elevator door finally closed.

  “Well,” came a woman’s voice, “I guess I didn’t make that much of an impression on you after all!”

  John came out of his stupor and looked to his right. There stood Natasha, her hair loosened from the constricted bun she wore the day before. Her shoulder-length auburn locks flowed in waves around her head, framing it in a way that accentuated her face. The makeup monster that had applied all the heavy eye shadow and blush when he first saw her was obviously not around now, having applied just enough highlights and not too much lipstick.

  “Oh,” John stammered. “I was lost in thought. Had an interesting day in the field.”

  “Love to hear about it,” she quickly replied. “I’m heading up to the 37th floor lounge. Want to join me?”

  “Sure! But I need to clean up and grab a bite to eat. I’m just getting in.”

  “There’s food in the lounge if you don’t mind hot appetizers,” she said. “Just get out of those smelly clothes and I’ll see you in a bit.”

  Just then, the one-floor ride to John’s 36th floor ended and the door slid open.

  “See you in a few minutes!” John said.

  “I’ll be waiting!” She practically purred back.

  John drank in her outfit as the elevator door closed. She wore a thigh-length black one-piece dress that suggested a lot of curves in just the right places. She is certainly showing herself to be a pleasant surprise, he thought as he nearly sprinted down the hall to his apartment. Besides, he thought to himself, she would have access to the refugee database.

  John jumped into the bathroom and did a thorough but quick military shower. After brushing his teeth and applying deodorant, he finished his primping and jumped into his khaki pants, polo DHS shirt and a pair of his new athletic shoes.

  During his brief shower, he realized that while Natasha would have access to all the refugee information, thus helping him to locate Maria, how would he get her to look up another woman’s information without her blowing a gasket? It was blatantly obvious that she had a thing for him. It was going to take some luck and skill to pull off this miracle.

  He rapidly walked down the hall and took the stairs up to the next floor two at a time. He swung open the 37th floor door and immediately heard the sounds of laughter and raised voices coming from the lounge. It was pleasant to hear people’s voices resonating down the hallway. John couldn’t help but crack a smile when he realized they were having an apocalypse cocktail party!

  Turning into the room, John stopped and drank in the joyful scene before him. The room had once been a large conference room, but the resourceful residents had converted it into a party room. Young men and women were engaging in the ancient art of flirting and socializing. Groups of male agents clustered in small groups of three or four, heads together as if sharing a joke or secret story. All the while, the boys twisted and turned their heads to gaze at the women that were bunched in small groups of their own. John moved smoothly into the crowd, finding a makeshift bar that was dispensing mixed drinks and cold wine and beer. An iPad was leaning against the wall on a table behind the drink counter, dispensing old Jackson 5 music through some Bluetooth speakers.

  “Hey,” John yelled at the bartender, “How did you get that thing working?”

  “Had it in a safe when the lights went out,” the man replied. “Guess it acted as a Faraday cage. Just glad I had it loaded with music and a few movies.”

  John gave the man a “thumbs up” and snatched an open bottle of brew. Taking a long draw from its brown, cold neck, he emptied about half of its contents and decided
that this had to be the best tasting beer he had ever tried. The cool, amber liquid coated his throat as it settled into his gut, and a second draw was just as satisfying as the first. A few seconds later, a rush of air came rumbling back up from his stomach and a deep, satisfying belch roared forth.

  “Well, boy will be boys!” he heard from over his right shoulder.

  John spun on his heels, confronting the unknown spectator.

  Natasha stood a few feet behind him. Sipping a plastic cup of some mysterious concoction, her smile was infectious and her outfit intoxicating. She glided forward and wrapped her left arm in John’s right and pulled him into her space.

  “I must say, I am pleasantly surprised to see you.”

  “Hey,” John replied. “I said I’d be here.”

  “Yeah, guys promise a lot of things,” she shot back with a grin. “But I’m glad you’re not one of those guys.”

  “What kind of guy is that?” John asked, continuing the verbal sparring.

  “Oh, you know,” she said as she turned them toward a corner. “The kind that promises a lot and never delivers!”

  “Well,” John coyly said, “How do you know I’m not one of those guys?”

  “Well, Mr. Curiosity, a woman just knows.”

  “Oh yeah? And is that a universal female talent or just gifted to a few lucky women?”

  “Oh, we women will never tell. It’s a gender secret. Off limits to even the most endearing males. Let’s just say I have a talent for these things.”

  Just then, the music volume ramped up and the Jackson 5 song, “I Want You Back,” started to jam the room.

  “Come on, John! Let’s see those moves!” Natasha sang.

  John drained the rest of the beer and Natasha led him to the center of the room where a few other couples had started to dance. John never sought out the dance floor, but didn’t shy away from it like many men did. The two of them began their moves, quickly falling into a rhythm as the song switched to the next song on the album. “ABC” began its upbeat melody, bringing even more couples to the floor.

  “Alright!” Natasha said as the beat pulsed.

  John grinned and did his best to keep up with her. Two songs later, a slow dance tune started its strain. As “I’ll Be There” wafted over the room, Natasha wrapped her arms around John’s neck and leaned into his body. Over six inches taller, John leaned down and put his cheek against her forehead. He could feel her sigh and fold herself into his chest and arms; and right then, he knew they were going to be spending a lot more time together. He closed his eyes and gave himself permission to enjoy the moment. These times were too rare to do anything else.

  Chapter 11

  Peace comes from within. Do not seek it without.

  — Buddha

  “…John,” she whispered.

  Drosky rustled under his sheets. His eyelids, still heavy from alcohol, only registered darkness as he tried to ignore the voice.

  … “John,” the voice came a little louder.

  Drosky didn’t want to listen. He didn’t want to wake up. The party had rambled on for a time and the only thing waiting for him when he awoke was the M-ATV and its uncomfortable ride. Not uncomfortable just because of its spine-crushing suspension, but also because he was out there among so many desperate people.

  The road sucked his physical energy, sapping his muscles and straining his bones. Traversing over yards and through walls as he avoided the inevitable cluster of stalled or crashed vehicles drained him physically.

  But the part he hated the most was the mental and spiritual sledgehammer of seeing so many people suffering so greatly. Sometime last night, as he and Natasha danced and drank, it struck him that he was privileged to be housed in safety and comfort. The music, food and drink were all luxuries that America would likely not experience again for months or even years.

  Natasha and he had clicked. But after a fitful night of sleep, Drosky recognized that he didn’t feel grateful, but guilty. There were so many things about the situation that didn’t sit well with him, and yet, here he was, sitting on top of the only air-conditioned apartment building for God knows how many hundreds of miles, with a budding hang-over.

  “… John,” the voice softly said once again.

  Drosky struggled to remember the end of last evening’s revelry. Natasha had been more than friendly, but the end of the evening was foggy. The voice next to him was soft and feminine. John struggled to remember what happened when they decided to exit the raucous event.

  He remembered dancing to The Jackson Five, and then some old school arena rock bands came on. REO Speedwagon got the things pumped some more, then Styx and Journey played. He remembered slow dancing with Natasha to Steve Perry singing “Open Arms,” and then he couldn’t remember anything after that.

  Oh Great! Drosky thought. I’ve really messed this up. She’s spent the night with me and I don’t even remember.

  “…John,” the voice quietly said.

  How should I handle this? Drosky thought. I don’t remember bringing her back here. I don’t remember a thing. I never do this. I hardly even know her.

  “…John,” he heard again.

  She sounds so young, John thought. I just want to go back to sleep and forget this ever happened.

  John squeezed his eyes, willing himself to get some sleep, but the bliss of more slumber wouldn’t take hold. He felt movement next to him and a small, gentle touch as she put her arm out and placed her hand on his left shoulder.

  The hand felt cold.

  It felt stiff and without life.

  Sleeping on his right side, his back to his unwanted bedroom guest, John slowly reached over to push the girl’s hand off of him.

  His fingers searched for her flesh, expecting Natasha to react. But he didn’t find the woman’s hand. He touched something, a hand or claw that didn’t seem right. The fingers were too small and the flesh too taught and cool to the touch.

  John jumped. He spun around and faced the other side of the bed. The dim, green glow of his alarm clock illuminated the area. A small form lay there, covered with a sheet, a tiny arm extending out from the swirl of white cotton that lay next to him.

  With a trembling hand, John slowly began to peel away the sheet, first exposing flowing locks of hair nested in the pillow. As he exposed the small figure, he stopped, suddenly realizing that she hadn’t moved.

  “Oh my God!” he said out loud, as it dawned on him that Natasha wasn’t moving. He stopped pulling the sheets and stared at the tiny bundle that lay next to him. Searching for movement, even the rise and fall of her chest, Drosky recognized that she wasn’t breathing.

  What happened last night? He thought, struggling to remember anything about his last few hours. What did I do?

  Drosky began to sweat. His heart pounding in his chest, he felt short of breath. Then, he began to hyperventilate as he thought the worst had happened. The form lay motionless and John knew he had to look, had to see what he had done.

  But how to do this? He thought to himself. He started to gently pull the sheets further off, but froze, his fear outweighing his need to know. He struggled once again to find memories that refused to surface. The terror of what he may have done kept him from looking further. His body began to shake. His need to know faded.

  The murky, silent room entombed him in a blanket of fear. It was as if the air itself was solidifying around him, encasing him in a plaster cast that would forever freeze him in time. He was paralyzed with the thought that she was dead.

  Finally, John knew that it had to be done. He had to know what had happened. He reached over to the top of the sheet, quietly grasping the upper folds of the cotton cover. He tried to slowly remove it, but was again locked in place.

  Like a Band-Aid, he thought. Here we go, One, Two, Three…


  John tore the covers off the body, exposing the corpse to John’s guilty eyes.

  BRIE!

  Her once gentle skin was browned and rough like old leather. Her hollow, dilated eyes stared accusingly at him as she turned her head and opened her mouth, rotting teeth falling to the pillow.

  “… John!”

  Drosky bolted upright, his clammy skin clinging to the soaked sheets of his bed. His chest heaved as he tried to calm his nerves and slow his heart.

  What a nightmare! He thought as he began to grasp at reality, and make sense of the last few minutes.

  John quickly searched the other side of the bed, gratefully finding it empty. Flashes of last night’s party finally wormed their way through the alcohol-induced veil that plagued his conscious mind. Six beers and several fruity concoctions had all conspired to leave him with both a growing headache and a foggy memory.

  After another minute of lying in the dark, John checked his bedside clock and noted that he had another hour before the alarm went off. He tossed the sheets off, letting the sweat evaporate in the cool conditioned air.

  But sleep didn’t come. The thoughts of yesterday kept plaguing his soul. After some reflection, he realized he was having a form of survivor’s guilt. Drinking, eating and dancing while millions suffered didn’t sit well with him. The nightmare was an expression of his subconscious, Brie’s body and accusing stare reminding him of his privileged life.

  Giving up on any further sleep, he went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. Throwing down four Advil, he stared at himself; and looking deep within, he didn’t like what he saw. There was no rationalizing the unfairness of the situation; and the only way he would be able to live with himself was to follow through on finding Maria de la Hoya, assessing the refugee camps and deciding whether he could continue to be an instrument of the state. Whether his service was good, or evil, would be determined by what he saw when he found her.