The Apocalypse Script

by Samuel Fort

  Chapter 8 – Moros

  The name of the thirty-something man standing outside the arrival gate at Denver International Airport was Moros. Tall, lanky, and undeniably handsome, he wore a loose-fitting, pinstriped Italian silk suit with a red kerchief poking out from the left breast pocket. On his feet was a freshly polished pair of gray Forzieri shoes. His shiny auburn hair was styled in the latest “controlled chaos” fashion made popular in southern Europe and his androgynous facial features were accented with just the right amount of rouge and crimson lipstick. Black eyeliner framed his almost fluorescent silver eyes.

  Moros impatiently examined the Jaeger-LeCoultre on his wrist, but as he did so, a hunter green Porsche 918 Spyder navigated haphazardly between two stalled taxis and came to a stop in front of him. A young, red haired woman in a white jacket and sheath dress jumped out of the driver’s side and rushed towards him. She wore wire-rimmed spectacles that sported dime-sized orange lenses.

  “Mr. Moros?” she asked when she reached him.

  “Miss Fetch,” he replied in an accent the woman could not place, “you are eight minutes late.”

  “Yes sir, sorry, the traffic-” she began, but abandoned the apology when his expression warned her it was unwelcome. She changed course. “Do you have any luggage, sir?”

  “Of course not. I don’t tote used clothing around the world in plastic boxes. We’ll obtain what I need on the way to the hotel.”

  “Where would you like to go?”

  “Finshim’s, to start,” he said, naming an upscale clothing store on the city’s outskirts.

  “Sir, it’s Sunday morning, Finshim’s doesn’t open for four hours.”

  Moros said, “That is a problem that either you will fix or I will fix. Which shall it be, Miss Fetch?”

  The man’s expression was frightening. Miss Fetch, who in another reality was called Barbara Volker, tried to mask her intimidation. She failed and looked away.

  “I’ll fix it, sir,” Miss Fetch said in a tiny voice, pulling her phone from her purse. “If you’d like to have a seat in the car, I’ll make the necessary calls.”

  Moros’s expression was suddenly benevolent. “A superb answer. For the briefest moment I thought you were destined for the gallows.”

  Miss Fetch opened the passenger door of the Porsche and the man slid agilely inside and began an examination of his nails. She was tapped on the shoulder before she could punch the first button on her phone. Turning, she found herself dwarfed by a huge man in a police uniform who had positioned himself between a large “No Parking” sign and the Spyder.

  “Oh,” she said, flustered, “I’m about to move.”

  “Miss Fetch, right?” asked the man in a gravelly voice.

  Puzzled, she lowered her phone and said, “That’s right.”

  “Going to Finshim’s?”

  Miss Fetch stared up at the man, “How did you know that?”

  “Boss told me. He tells me you have a VIP in the car. I’m to escort you and make sure you don’t get delayed.” He nodded toward a police car on the other side of the road. “Give me a minute. When I get in front of you and turn on the flashers, follow behind me. I’m going to be driving fast but I think that little import of yours can probably keep up.”

  “Oh - oh, okay,” she said, but the policeman was already walking away. As she hurried back to her car, she punched a speed dial and initiated a frantic, desperate conversation with a woman on the other end. Driving fast, with a police escort, gave her ten minutes to arrange for the Finshim’s to be opened. It was impossible and she could feel her chest tightening.

  “I don’t care!” she yelled into the phone as she got behind the wheel and angrily pushed the seat belt out of the way. “Get hold of the owner or the manager or whoever and get them there. Do whatever it takes.” This last bit was pure theatrics, since the person on the other end had already hung up, but Miss Fetch wanted desperately to prove to Mr. Moros that she was trying to please him.

  The police car sounded its warning sirens, “whoop whoop whoop,” and turned on its flashers. Pedestrians obediently made way as the cruiser positioned itself in front of the Spyder and accelerated. Miss Fetch put her car into gear and followed it.

  Looking at her, Moros said, “This is your first assignment, Miss Fetch?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “What do you normally do?” he asked, though he already knew. In truth, he knew not only the woman’s profession, but also her income, medical history, personality type, sexual preferences and everything else about her. He knew that she was an assistant to a famous banker, that she had high triglycerides, that she had once had an abortion, that she proclaimed a love for alternative rock but secretly listened to 80’s pop music, and that she spent most evenings alone in her apartment browsing financial and international news sites in addition to sites dedicated to alternative medicine, fashion, and Indian cooking.

  Her most recent internet purchases included a slipcover for a couch, a wireless router, and two sex toys ordered a week apart. Apparently the first one just wasn’t getting the job done.

  “I’m an executive assistant to Gerald Powers,” she said, citing the name of the too-big-to-fail bank’s president and CEO.

  “You are young for such a position. You’re an ambitious person, are you not?”

  “Yes, sir, I am,” she said.

  “That is unfortunate,” Moros said with the slightest shake of his head.

  Miss Fetch frowned, “Pardon me, sir?”

  “You say you are ambitious, but you have already failed me twice in the space of five minutes. You arrived late at the airport, and you are begging someone else for assistance in opening the doors at Finshim’s.”

  “But you said-”

  “Listen, Miss Fetch.” The edge in the passenger’s voice made the hairs on the driver’s neck tingle. “I do not believe in a learning curve. When a person like me tells you they want something, you deliver it. If you are a good fetch, you will find that in a few short years you will be fabulously wealthy with an extraordinary number of influential friends and business contacts. You will be a god in your own pathetic little world. But if you are a bad fetch, you, your friends, and your family will be marked, and it is a mark that cannot be removed. Failure and despair will follow you all the days of your life. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes sir,” Miss Fetch said hoarsely.

  “Good. Now, if I tell you that I wish to procure clothing from an establishment that is closed, you do not call anyone begging for help. You call the owner and demand that the doors be opened, and you dictate when. If we arrive and the doors are not open, you will shatter the storefront glass with a brick, or shoot off the lock, or attack the door with an axe, or if you prefer, you will pay someone else to do those things. You will do whatever it takes to please me and you will not worry about the repercussions, because if you are with me there are no repercussions. Not for success. There are only repercussions for failure. Is that perfectly clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” the fetch said, her face hot as she beat back tears and accelerated to catch back up to the cop car. She had been so distracted by Moros’s words that she had inadvertently slowed down, allowing the distance between the Spyder and its escort to expand to five car lengths.

  “You are new,” her employer continued, “so I arranged for this police escort and my accommodations. I will go lightly on you this trip because you have no concept of what true freedom is, but this will be your only opportunity for such failures. Another mistake and I shall burn the mark into your forehead myself and dump you into an alley.”

  He watched as the woman’s face reddened and waited for her to protest, but she gave a curt nod and continued to look forward.

  “Superb. Now, shall I reveal to you why I’m in Denver?” he asked.

  Miss Fetch cleared her throat and said distractedly. “Yes, sir, if you’d like.”

  “I’m here to destroy the world.”

  The red hea
d sniffled and nodded but she didn’t actually hear the words. Her thoughts were held hostage by his threats. “Good luck, sir.”

  “Ha!” boomed Moros loudly, startling her. His laugh was as loud as a gunshot. He slapped the dash, his palm impacting it like a sledgehammer, and laughed louder, his mouth a dark gaping cavern as he turned toward Miss Fetch with wild eyes, truly amused.

  “Good luck! Ha! Yes, Miss Fetch! Good luck, indeed!”