William barely reacted. He just stared at her inquisitively. "What are you talking about?"
There was a strange excitement in Rebecca's eyes. She pulled out her gym bags and began packing. "I was just told that my team is leaving tonight, and if I want out, now is the time."
It was paralyzing news: the kind that utilized all of William's brain in an attempt to comprehend. Rebecca tossed down the bags and knelt next to him. With all sincerity, she said: "I want you to come with me. I have two tickets. We can leave, tonight! We can begin all the things we've talked about. We can actually start our life together."
"Hang on," he said finally, trying to slow down the excitement. "What the hell is going on? What happened out there? Why do you have to leave tonight?"
Rebecca looked lost for a moment. Her eyes danced around, a shadow fell across her face. She blew a few loose strands of dyed black hair aside and said: "A lot has happened. There's really no time to explain. The team is waiting for me and they're not patient."
"You want me to leave right now—and you can't explain why?"
"I can explain!" she exclaimed. "But there really is no time. I just"—the words barely escaped—"have to leave. I can't stay here anymore. I have to go. Right now. I want you to come with me. Please, Will."
William could see the awful conflict in her eyes. He took her hands into his and said: "Rebecca, you have to tell me what the hell happened today. I understand you want to leave—we all do—but why now? Why so sudden?"
"There's no time!" she blurted out. "If you want to know then you'll have to come . . . I love you William!"
A long silence fell between them. "I love you too," he said quietly. It was the first time either had said it. William had been dying to say those words to her: to confess what he so strongly felt, to demonstrate just how much his soul yearned for her. But not like this. Not then, when time appeared to be of the essence. Not when she was giving him an ultimatum. Those three little, yet powerful, words had been withheld out of fear of their truth: that if they said it was so then it meant it was so. Iraq was no place for love. William and Rebecca agreed on that. Yet there was no question: they were in love.
William looked deep into Rebecca's eyes and saw the sadness grow.
"You're not coming," said Rebecca after realization settled.
"I just don't understand," said William in defense.
"I have to leave, Will. I thought we would leave together. You told me you would leave too."
"I know that," he said, frustrated. "But I don't understand why it's happening now."
"What's not to get?" She threw her hands up. "I can't live here anymore! This place is a nightmare! People are dying everywhere! I have to leave. There's an opportunity tonight, I have to take it."
The place was a nightmare, and growing worse with each passing day. William understood it better than she did. He lived in the thick of it. He made an internal promise to never tell her everything he saw each day. The sights and sounds were enough to make the toughest men cry. Ever since meeting Rebecca, William's apprehension for her safety haunted him day and night. He wanted her to go and be safe. All he had to do was say so. "Then I think you should go."
"Come with me!" she practically shouted. Her eyes were demanding his acceptance.
William wanted to go, to be with her back in The States, but he knew he couldn't—or better said—wouldn't. He sighed and rolled back into a sitting position with his hands draped over his knees. "I want to Rebecca. I do."
"Why don't you, then?"
"Because my work is here! You know that. My stories make up Time's covers. I have a network of informants who depend on me, who feed me information. They risk everything for me. If I leave, they'll have nothing. They depend on the money." The conflict in his heart angered his mind. "Damnit! I stayed when everyone else left. I have a foothold on the war. No one else has what I have!"
Rebecca's eyes glistened as she stared motionlessly.
William settled a moment and said: "Listen"—he kissed her hands—"I'm in love with you. I want you to be safe. I want you to leave. I won't be too far behind. This war won't last much longer. Saddam's army is done. He's hiding. The only fighting that's happening now is between the religious factions. It will settle soon and then I'm out of here." He slid his hands over her arms and kissed her lips. "I just want you to be safe."
Rebecca pulled away and wiped her eyes. "You really think this is going to be over soon? This war will be drawn out for years. Don't you know anything about these people?"
William didn't answer.
"Well I do. And let me tell you something—nothing happens quickly. The Sunnis, the Shiites, they don't easily forget. Neither will rest until the other is completely gone. If you think you'll be out of here before the end of the year, then you have a rude awakening coming." Tears made lines down her cheeks. "I'm scared for you, William. I don't think you understand what's happening here. And worse, I don't think you'll follow me."
"I'm going to be okay," he tried to assure her. "I can take care of myself. You're the one I'm worried about."
Rebecca wiped both eyes and turned away. "They're waiting for me."
"Right now? Your escorts?"
Rebecca nodded and said: "Gregory is," and then grabbed the bags.
It was a relief. William knew Hansen was rough around the edges but also knew him to be incredibly well trained and quite cool under pressure. He was the kind of guy anyone would want on his or her side—not against.
William removed Rebecca's hands from the bags and said: "I'll take them down."
Rebecca sniffled and nodded. William went into the quiet hall while Rebecca came to the door and stopped suddenly. "Wait."
"What's wrong?"
"I forgot something—my necklace."
It was her late mother's necklace, the one recovered from the ashes of the house fire. William knew there was no leaving without it. He watched her turn back into the room and felt as though he was merely a spectator watching the drama unfold between the two of them: unable to interfere, redirect or alter the results. Many unexpected things had occurred over the past four months and yet it seemed none of them compared to what was happening that moment. He simply couldn't swallow the truth: Rebecca was leaving, possibly forever. Even though he felt as if he had always known her, their time together had been finite. He was certain Rebecca was his soul mate, if there was such a thing. Right from the first moment he saw her, love struck him down to his core. She later confessed that it was the same for her—never using the word love—but confessed her wild attraction to him. Rebecca, with her gorgeous green eyes, exquisite physique, incredible intelligence, and magnificent laugh, was everything William wanted in a woman. Was he really going to let her leave? Was he really not going with her?
William lugged the bags over to the stairs at the end of the hall and placed them on the ground. His inner debate tied up his ability to act. For some reason he couldn't figure out what was the right thing to do. No decision felt right nor did a decision feel wrong.
Suddenly a whistling noise became audible from outside the building.
A deafening eruption of wooden shrapnel and plaster followed.
William was tossed down the stairs and onto the landing below.
Blackness ensued.
*******
A few minutes passed before he awoke amongst the carnage that used to be the fifth floor of the Palestine Hotel. There were cries from people trapped in their rooms and shouts from others trying to get up the mangled stairs to help. William pulled himself free from the debris and staggered against the metal rail still fastened to the wall. His body burned from cuts and gashes, but was wholly intact. His head spun out of control while he tried to balance himself. What the hell just happened? He knew the cause had to be a bomb or rocket, but it happened so quickly that the aftereffect was disorienting. William always imagined he would experience a blast one day; however it was still quite surreal. His nostrils filled with the smell of s
ulfur. And then his mind was filled with horror.
"REBECCA!" he shouted.
William trudged through the carnage on the stairs and into the exposed hallway. The view was unimaginable. The destruction was focused right around where his hotel room once existed, where Rebecca was. He called out for her again but it was no use. The fire alarms in the building were echoing from every corner. William stepped over large chunks of drywall and plaster. He slid down a pile of rubble and into the gaping hole where his room once was. The smashed doorway stood independently in front of a wide-open view of the Baghdad skyline. William cried out Rebecca's name once more. There was no sign of her. It was then that he knew the truth of the situation. His heart was filled with terrible sorrow.
Rebecca Badeau: the love he never expected—the love of his life—was dead.
Long after the events of the Iraq war had passed and the names of the people and places evaporated into time and space, the world had changed once again.
CHAPTER ONE
District 9, Sector 27 – 3529 AFT
Jillian Heddington had never smelled death before. The stench of decomposition rarely, if ever, escaped into the air. The Department of Maintenance and Pristine had an impeccable track record of keeping rot under strict control: no mold could be found on public display, no dirt or rust could be found on public buildings or machines, and no dead animals were left unattended—except for today; they failed to catch whatever hidden corpse was stinking up the railway. Everyone inside took notice of the wafting stench, except for Jillian; she was too busy trying to stop her hands from trembling.
Several passengers away stood two men dressed in Ministry Security Force uniforms. They were watching her intently. Jillian had only noticed them a moment earlier but had the premonition that they'd been following her the entire time. How long, she thought. How long have they been following me? Whatever the answer was, she knew it was too long.
As the railway rocketed at two hundred feet above ground, Jillian started to slide along the support bar and toward the backdoor. She wanted to inconspicuously slide into the next car—to see if the men followed her. She took several steps and then looked out the floor-to-ceiling window in front of her. It was part of the new railway design. Floor-to-ceiling windows all along one side of the train—this way its passengers could have a clear view of the beautiful landscape before them. It was a view that Jillian barely noticed until now. But instead of feeling awe inspired, as the original designers had intended, Jillian was terrified by how high they were. She maneuvered her body around several others and reached out for the door latch. As she pulled the lever, the door hissed and folded into the sidewall, revealing a small in-between room and another door. She slipped into the room and pulled the next lever. The car before her appeared empty, which was not what Jillian was hoping for. She wanted to melt into the crowd and disappear. It wasn't ideal to be alone. Jillian looked back toward the two men before stepping into the next car and saw that they were not following. They just watched as the doors slid shut.
"Hello Jillian," said a voice from behind.
She snapped around and saw an elderly man wearing an unusual black uniform and a wide brim hat, which was extremely uncommon in those days. Hats were no longer allowed within society.
The man was casually sitting with his legs crossed on the padded bench along the wall opposite the car length window and eating a red apple. "Do we know each other?" asked Jillian.
"I don't believe we are acquainted," said the man.
Jillian struggled to figure out who he was and how he knew her name. His long face didn't look familiar. His sagging eyes were disarming and non-threatening. She glimpsed the embroidery on his uniform. It was the Ministry seal—a snake forming a circle, eating its tail. All Ministry members had them on their uniforms. But what really caught Jillian's attention was the symbol inside the circle.
"Please, have a seat," offered the man with an outstretched hand.
"I prefer to stand if you don't mind," said Jillian defensively.
"Not at all; comfort is unique to everyone. I, for instance, prefer to remain seated. I've never grown used to these trains—they are far too bumpy for my old joints. No, I prefer the smooth ride of a hovercar."
"I've never had the pleasure of riding in one," confessed Jillian.
"Ah, well, many have not, but I can assure you that if you ever have the opportunity, you will be spoiled until the end of your days. The ride is so much easier on the body."
Jillian looked at the man's long lean frame and had a hard time imagining that he needed the comforts of a smooth ride in order to save his aching joints. No, this man looked like he could handle himself quite well. She saw his oversized hands gripped around the red apple resting on his lap and had no trouble visualizing their crushing strength.
"My manners," he said suddenly, "excuse me. My name is Jonas and I am the—"
"Chief of the Ministry Security Force," blurted Jillian.
"Yes, so you do know me."
Her eyes went back to his embroidery. "Yes, I suppose I do," she said with a shaky voice.
"Good," he said energetically. "We have much to discuss."
"We do?"
Jonas's eyes hardened for a split second and then eased as he began to chuckle. "Of course we do. We barely know each other. Now that we are acquaintances I would like us to become friends."
"You want to be friends?"
He laughed again. "Well don't you?"
She didn't know how to respond. Her body trembled with fright. "Yeah, I guess so. Yes, I would like to be friends."
"Well good! We can start by getting to know each other a little better."
Jillian hesitated before speaking. "Okay. What would you like to know?"
"Thank you for the invitation. There is much I would like to know—starting with your occupation."
"My occupation?" she said in shaky words.
"Yes, your place of employment."
"Well . . . I work for Cognitive Services." She pointed to the Ministry seal on her uniform, "I'm a caretaker."
"A caretaker? Wonderful. You must be a very kind person to have been placed into that position. Yes, your compassion score must have been exceptional."
"I did score high in that area of the Cognitive Examination."
"Clearly. Now tell me, how many different patients—excuse me—guests do you care for?"
Jillian was surprised to hear the question. Surely he knew the answer. "One. All caretakers have only one guest under their supervision. It's how we guarantee the quality care needed."
"Interesting," he said. "And who, if you don't mind telling, is your primary guest?"
Jillian was afraid he would ask that question. "Actually, sir, I do mind. We are not at liberty to reveal the names of any guest currently or previously residing at Cognitive Services."
"Oh . . . dear pardon me," he said insincerely. "Please excuse my rude inquiry. It's just that I find caretakers absolutely fascinating. How one can find so much compassion for the mentally challenged is far beyond my capacity of understanding. As you may have already figured, I didn't test high in the compassion category. I guess it's my lack of that quality that made me so suited for my current occupation as the Security Chief."
"Surely the Security Chief has to have some level of compassion," protested Jillian.
"I can assure you dear that I am . . . how should I say it . . . cognitively challenged in that category." He then laughed at his joke and took another bite from his apple. "No, compassion is nothing more to me than a fairy-tale land is to a small child. I'm fascinated by its magic all the while knowing that there is no way I could possibly feel it."
"Everyone feels compassion, sir."
Jonas sighed and shook his head. "Compassion is . . . compassion is for people like you." He then took another bite. "Take your anonymous patient, for instance. I imagine that if he, or she, were in your sole care for the duration of your career that it would be hard for you to disconnect.
I imagine that a person you have watched over for say . . . nine years . . . might become something like family."
Jillian had been working for Cognitive Services for nine years. She was certain it was no coincidence. "Connecting and disconnecting is part of the job. When you are with your guest it is imperative to ‘connect' with him or her. It is also imperative to ‘disconnect' when you are away."
"And you can do that? You, a person with such admirable compassion, can disconnect when you are no longer working?"
"I'll admit that it's hard, but yes, I disconnect."
Jonas examined the apple core before he crossed his hands over it. "So you're telling me, then, that if your patient . . . I mean ‘guest' . . . asked you to do something for him, or her, outside of work, you would have no problem telling him, or her, no?"
The question made her blood go cold. He knows. The whole time she had hoped that all of it was a crazy coincidence, that all of it was for nothing but honest conversation.
"Jillian?" he said, his face had grown concerned.
"No," replied Jillian, lying. "I would tell him, or her, no."
Jonas stared at her for a long hard while before speaking again. "Good. The Minister expects that kind of self-restraint from his staff. I imagine compassion is good when the person knows how to restrain it. He wouldn't want a member of his staff to allow their compassion to control their actions. To allow it to make decisions for them that may be deemed—ill-advised."
"No," said Jillian hesitantly, "I imagine not."
Jonas nodded and then curiously began to look around and out the window. "One more question, if you don't mind."
"Just one more?" asked Jillian nervously.
Jonas smiled. "We're becoming friends . . . aren't we?"
Jillian didn't respond.
Jonas gave a mock expression. "What are we doing here?"
Jillian didn't understand. "Excuse me?"
"What are we doing here?" He then gestured around the car and then out the window. "What are we doing here?"
"I don't follow."
Jonas cleared his throat before speaking next. "Well, I was under the impression that Sector 27 – Cognitive Services employees lived in District 18."
The Sinner King: Book of Fire Page 2