by Sean Oliver
The desktop jingle brought her back. She was closing in on something she didn’t put much stock in, but nonetheless it seemed some explanation must be sleeping beneath the murky surface she’d been dusting. It was fucked up, weird, impossible. But it was, for the first time, something.
The cops had nothing, far as she knew. Maybe this was the reason why—they were searching the world around them. Deanna was driven to probe this lead without judgment. She sat alone in the dark, about to investigate something improbable, stupid. She felt Trisha watching her and could have broken down and bawled her eyes out right there had she made her best friend’s smile any more vivid in her mind.
Deanna had found a website earlier in the day and snapped a pic of the URL to probe further when she got home and was alone. This was her first shot at digging deeper. Cult Net Online was a site that aggregated news items on various cults, fringe religions, and societal orders throughout history. There were dozens and dozens, from all over the world. How had she never seen all these? Why would she have, really?
The Circle of Tomorrow was one entry in the long list of them. There was a lot to read, and Deanna had waited to do so when she could devote herself to it fully. Now, she sat in the dark of her living room and pulled up the page. She scrolled past Koresh and Waco, Jonestown, and even the Ku Klux Klan. She clicked on the Circle of Tomorrow. A map of Honduras opened, with a chunk of the northern border highlighted, about halfway along the coast, a few miles south of La Ceiba. Deanna hovered the mouse over it and zoomed in. The area was thick with green, with no roads or clearings visible from the image.
She exited the pop-up of the map and clicked on the “Articles” section. The first entry was the Times article she’d initially found. She passed that one and clicked the third one down, titled, No Tomorrow for the Circle. The subhead of the national magazine’s article from 1962 boasted exclusive details about “the one member who got away,” apparently a detail not known or reported for an entire year after the mass suicide.
She skimmed the magazine exclusive for details about the members. According to what she read, everyone in the cult was following this man Markus Tarkay, a US citizen with master’s degree in theology. She skipped to the details about their compound:
The vast expanse of forestation ran for acres and acres along the north of Honduras, but the tract of land actively used by the the Circle was less than one acre, with cabins ringing the perimeter of a central meeting ground. A mile of forest between Circle members and the ocean was not sufficient to keep one member’s curiosity contained, though. Across the very waters visible beyond the forest greens, this wayward member of a wayward tribe was said to have sailed away with the aid of a local fisherman.
Mexico, their destination, proved an unrealistic port across the Gulf waters. The small vessel was either blown back to Honduran shores, or discretion proved the better part of valor for the fisherman and captain of what proved to be nothing more than a worn dinghy.
So much about the unofficial charter and its journey remains unclear, because the two sailors landed in the firm grip of military officials servicing an embattled government with echoes of the coup d’état just a few years ago. Trust is not in abundance, and a pervasive paranoia accompanies disorder of the state.
The only confirmed facts that rise through the murky details are that the American beside the native fisherman, who could have concocted any story upon landing ashore or being seized by authorities, was questioned. The American revealed details about the encampment, which was actually mostly filled with Americans. Any blind eye that might have been turned by local officials was now opened.
Military officials found the location of the encampment rather quickly. In truth, they’d been in the dense forest surrounding it for some time after rumblings that what were thought to be rebel guerrillas had set up a training camp. A local farmer named Evelio Nieves tends his land about eight miles to the west of the camp. The area is so desolate, he can go weeks without seeing anyone other than his farmhands. But in the weeks prior to the Circle’s discovery, he’d gotten visitors.
“The soldiers came to ask me questions,” he says in Spanish, clasping his arthritic hands. “I told them I never saw rebels anywhere. The army would go, but then they would come back. It was like they didn’t believe me.”
Though they may not have believed him, they would have been floored to learn the expansiveness of the local operation. Tarkay relied on Nieves’s connection to the local farmers who would become members of the group and work nearby fields, growing vegetables. Nieves, in exchange for cash, would provide the camp with poultry, flour, and rice.
The question of Evelio Nievas’s truthfulness became a moot point days after his last visit, when the army happened upon the camp and its grisly display. Fifty-nine people, men and women in their twenties through fifties, each lay dead with a cup beside them or in their hands. The bodies were in a long line, all laying down, indicating they willingly took the pills that delivered them to their end. At the very end of the line lay Tarkay, revolver in hand, dead of a self-inflicted gunshot to the head. In his pocket lay six pills—each capsule containing a lethal dose of cyanide and a numbing amount of Valium when tested.
Sixty corpses in all, including Tarkay’s, were lifted to military choppers, and carted off.
Only one person managed to escape that fate, though it is not clear when they exited the camp. Also unclear is the identity of that American last known to be “recuperating” in the medical ward in a military building. Authorities cite confidentiality while “the investigation is ongoing.”
The article went on to express predicable bewilderment regarding the fifty-nine grown adults of seemingly normal faculty, willingly uprooting themselves and following a singular voice to their peril. Though, the supposition existed that no one would ever march toward anything perceived as their demise. Rather, it was likely framed as something else. Death sometimes arrives with a promise.
Deanna closed the browser and launched “Glitchy.exe” from the flash drive. This story about the April 5th mass suicide, along with Trisha, her coworkers, and their common birthday, were spilled out all over Deanna’s head. She logged into the Carson Public School site by using the human resources password delivered by Glitchy, and clicked into the P.S. 21 personnel file.
She scrolled through the names again, clicking into each and double-checking the birthdates again. Nothing had changed—April 5th across the board, with varying years. She rubbed her forehead, angry and aching from the puzzle, while a pair of eyes watched her from behind in the darkness of the room.
FORTY-EIGHT
GLENDA ROGERS WAS out of bed at 2:23 a.m., unable to stand. She’d been weak here and there for the past couple of days. She just didn’t feel right and hadn’t for a little while. She had to drop into a chair earlier that day after just walking from the bathroom through the kitchen. Had she not been beside the kitchen table she would have gone right down onto the linoleum, she was that lightheaded.
She told her son about it when he got home from work, but Willie didn’t seem to think it was much of an issue.
“Ma, you’re on those meds and I bet you took ’em on an empty stomach,” he said. She might have. She couldn’t remember.
But now, in the dead of night, she was so uncomfortable it pulled her right out of sleep. She was sweating right through her nightgown. Drifting back off was impossible while her breath was this labored. The ceiling was spinning like a propeller and Glenda knew there was no way she could support her body weight on her feet, slight as she was.
The reflection of her bedroom TV bounced light off the walls around her as she slid off the side of the bed, her feet touching the cold floor. They offered no help and she went next to her knees, then flat on her belly. It was harder to breathe with her chest on the floor. She coughed dryness, drew in a tiny bit of air.
Glenda slid her forearms tight to her side and propped up her chest, fighting to even keep her head up. She advanced her
right forearm and dragged herself forward a few inches, her belly laying flat on the floor. Left forearm next, pulling herself a little further, like a paralyzed snake.
Her breathing grew more shallow with each drag of her body across the floor. Her head was just too heavy to keep raised. She laid it on the floor as she continued to pull herself toward the bedroom door. The florescent light from the kitchen spilled into the dark living room. She could see her recliner and the small end table beside it. The phone sat on top of it, standing tall in the cradle, ready for her.
Willie. Was he in the kitchen? Glenda didn’t try to call for him, as she knew she didn’t have enough breath to project anything beyond a whisper. She pulled and pulled, taking longer pauses between each attempt. She was draining herself and wasn’t sure she could even lift her arms any longer. Her last thrust had gotten her head through the doorway, just into the living room. The end table with the phone was just several feet from the doorway in which she lay.
Glenda rolled her head over, now laying on her right cheek so she could see into the kitchen, just to the left of the living room. Willie’s silhouette filled the doorway.
“Willie,” she whispered. He was standing still, just looking down at her. Could he not see her? He probably couldn’t hear her weak rattle. She stayed still and waited for him to come over and get her. She watched him.
But he did nothing. She lay waiting.
“Willie, something’s wrong,” she finally managed. “Can’t move no more.”
He said nothing. He just stood—his dark frame blocking much of the kitchen light in the doorway. He didn’t move.
“Help me,” Glenda said. Willie stayed put. She could hear only his breathing. Though she could see him, she knew her son was not in the room. “Lord help me.”
She got another arm out in front of herself and dragged her body again. He was still not helping, not moving. She swallowed hard and dragged herself a little closer. She turned her head from Willie, facing the windows to the outside. She could not bear to look at him. She was so perplexed by his treatment of her, watching his mother crawling like an animal without a shred of concern. She prayed just under her breath. She raced against the shutdown of her body, reaching beyond her son.
“Lamb of God…” she managed to get out.
“I’m going, Mama,” Willie said, matter-of-factly.
“…who takes away…”
“Going far away.”
“…the sins of the world…”
“Forever.”
“…have mercy on us.”
“Mama, I have to go away forever.” He didn’t even sound like himself.
Glenda was close. She peeled her eyes open and looked ahead of her. The legs of the table would be at arms length.
“Glory be to the Father…”
One more thrust.
“…son and Holy Spirit…”
She could touch the leg. Two fingers pressed against the bottom of it.
“…as it was in the beginning…”
Willie was quiet, listening to his mother.
“…is now, and ever shall be…”
Back and forth, the wiggling of the table leg made the phone rattle in its cradle above.
“…world without end.”
“Amen,” Willie said in unison with his mother. The phone fell to the floor in front of Glenda. She could reach it.
Willie took a step into the living room.
FORTY-NINE
CULT NET ONLINE posted an article from 1994 that listed all the members of the Circle of Tomorrow with their ages and cities of origin. The article was slim on details about the Circle—it was profiling all notorious cults in the wake of the Waco incident with the Branch Davidians. The article from a national music and entertainment magazine had a list of dozens and dozens of victims of these groups.
Deanna was back on the website looking for anything she could tie to the human resources files. She clicked back and forth, but saw nothing in the names that was significant. She exported the names and birthdates from the HR files onto a spreadsheet. Her eyes kept closing and she was frustrated. Screw it. She could open the spreadsheet tomorrow at work and poke around some more. Her body demanded sleep.
“Sort it,” came the command from behind her chair. Deanna jumped nearly out of the chair and her blood instantly went icy. The unexpected intrusion shook her so much it didn’t even register as normal to hear Jared’s voice in the condo they shared.
“Jesus Christ,” she said, clutching her shirt at her chest. Her heart was drumming and she was chasing her breath. Her knee-jerk desire to call him a fucking asshole and lay into him for creeping around died inside her as she just tried to get her body to back normal.
He stood behind her chair, looking over her shoulder. She was wary of everyone from P.S. 21 now, and he was no exception. She could get nothing out of her mouth. She just looked up at him, his face illuminated only by the glow of the laptop screen.
“Sort the birthdays,” he said. He didn’t move; he just stared at Deanna. She was still shaken from the scare and was unsure about what was happening in this room.
“Why?” she asked.
He pointed to the computer. Deanna turned to it, clicked the top of the column, and sorted the dates in ascending order.
“Now look at your article,” Jared said. She switched over to the Cult Net magazine article listing the Circle members. She now had two lists—the article citing the members’ ages at the time of their deaths, and the P.S. 21 teachers’ birthdates. The magazine had the deceased members listed from youngest to oldest.
Jared made his way through the darkness, moved around the recliner, and sat on the floor before her. She looked down at him.
“Go ahead. You were about to do it.”
“It’s late for math.”
He didn’t react. She was still shaking, but she looked down at the birthdates and began to calculate their ages in her head. She felt Jared watching the realization blossom as she began to see that, except for her and Trisha, the various members school staff would all turn the exact same age as each of the deceased members of the Circle on their next birthday—April 5th. The ages of the teachers varied, but they all lined up with someone on the list of Circle of Tomorrow members.
“Guess I’m the only one that won’t be celebrating with you,” she said.
“And that’s why your car got rammed.” He watched her face for understanding. She bristled.
“I’m not going anywhere.” She shot his stare right back at him. He nodded. “So you best tell me what the hell is going on.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Where is Trisha?” She thought about holding that in, but it exploded out of her mouth, loudly. He wrinkled his face.
“Are you kidding me?” She stared at him, looking for any sign of deception. Had he known anything, he would have told her. She was pretty certain of that.
“I spend my days wondering what’s going to fall on my head,” she said, bringing her voice back down. “I spend my nights wondering where Trisha is, and if she needs me. I spend every second trying to figure out what my father is a part of. So if I need to spend any time wondering where you fit into this, you better tell me now.”
“I’m not like those people, Dee. I don’t know what a lot of these feelings are but I know one thing for certain—I don’t belong there, either.”
“Then why aren’t you being pushed into traffic?” She waited intently. He shrugged.
“That date,” he said. “They see me as one of them.”
“And me?”
“They have to get rid of you.”
She sat with the weight of that.
“And Trisha,” Deanna said. He nodded. How far would this go? She was starting to burn. “The wedding dress?”
He shrugged again. “You should transfer.”
“What happens then?” She wasn’t sure who was in the room with her at that point. He’d had his moments of weirdness, but she
could still feel his essence. It was Jared. But a Jared with secrets—of that she was certain.
“Something happens on April 5th,” he said. “I think.”
Deanna shook her head in frustration. She generally hated things she couldn’t understand and this was off the charts.
“How can you not know? You’re a part of that…thing—”
“I don’t know if I’m a part of anything. I try not to be around them at school and all I know about it is this feeling I started getting.”
“What feeling?”
Jared took a breath, preparing to lay it all out. Deanna was vacillating between anger and fear. She needed him to explain this and, hell or high water, he wasn’t stopping until every dark question she had was answered.
“About a year ago I started getting this strong sensation in my back, kind of like I had an Icy Hot menthol patch on. I’ve actually had this feeling throughout my whole life, here and there. Sometimes it was so light or so short I barely noticed. But last year it got strong, and it started to move. Felt like someone was pushing it up my back.”
“So?”
“Well, it would come mostly at school. When it did, I couldn’t think straight. I really couldn’t think at all. It was like I’d black out.”
“You’re having strokes.”
He thought. “I guess like that. I don’t know. But it wasn’t a stroke, because I could walk, talk, do anything. I just wasn’t thinking about it. You ever go into a room and after a few minutes you have no idea what you’re doing in there? But you are actually doing stuff in there. This feeling was making me think about just one thing—professional development workshops.”