Children of the Program (26 page)

              Joe finished his week's shifts, while Crystal rested and planned her move to the Big Apple.  She spent her idle time rummaging the Internet.  She scavenged for every informative droplet she could find, from the hurricane that had ravaged her tragic life.  Always fearing Dez was one step behind her, she tried to anticipate his moves.  She religiously followed the Cadence of the Sun website for updates.  The quantity of information and misinformation circulating the web, about the cult, was alarming.  At times, she felt the whole world was savvy, though, most of the truth had been tainted by debunked conspiracy theories. 

+++

Long hours alone had left Crystal battling a breeding temptation to find closure on the status of Michelle and Neco.  She couldn't risk calling the compound, but became intent on delivering a message.  One afternoon, while Joe was making deliveries, she called her old brothel.  Her former manager was a simple soul, compromised by the expectations of survival, but savvy to the movements of the local townies.  She knew she could trust his wherewithal to extract gossip. 

              “Gus, it's Crystal!  I was curious if you've seen or heard from Michelle?”

                 “I haven't.  As a matter of fact, I haven't seen anyone in a very long time.  Are you ready to get back to work?  I could really use a professional girl to show my amateur-hour-flowers how it's done!  Things are slow,” said Gus.

              “No.  I'm sorry, I can't.”

              “What in the world are you doing in Texas?”

              “How did you know?”

              “Caller ID.” 

              “If you see her, let her know I'm OK!”

              “Are you OK?”

              Crystal knew she couldn't stay in Texas much longer.  If Dez caught wind of her whereabouts, he'd find her, drag her back to the compound and have her crucifixion televised.  Her peace of mind became a war zone of firing thoughts, all triggered by a cat's curiosity.

chapter 36

homecoming

Illuminated by the lampposts and the pride of tall buildings, the blanketing fog and orange-colored Kassel skyline arched over the still city.  Rand and Isabella made modest concessions for the stork's arrival.  Like the stacking snow mounds surrounding the exterior of their makeshift shelter, they knew their magic moment was closing in.  With the full intention of ushering in a new lord of the underground, Isabella's body morphed.  Rand stared, in awe, into the local clinic's sonogram photographs.

              “Izzy it is!” whispered Rand, under his stale breath.  His body interlocked with Isabella's.  They rested beneath the dank archways of a brick bridge, cuddling for the other's heat. “He will rise from these streets and sit at the head of all tables.  I do believe that.”

              “I know you do,” said Isabella.

              “A gay father.  Who'd have thought?” Rand stopped, reflecting.  “Certainly not my father.”

              The Cadence's focus on Rand lied dormant.  Though they’d made attempts to contact his parents' house, rumors circulating about his homosexual lifestyle brought little insistence or follow-up to their doorstep.  The European sects were assured that the rat infested alleys and brash elements would handle their affairs. 

With grace, Rand and Isabella only had the unwelcoming streets to contend with, though it was the most indignant and humbling reality to befall their spiraling tragedy.  Children, born of the city, often died, were found in dumpsters or aborted in a horrific fashion.  Rand knew they needed to make uncomfortable accommodations.  He had contemplated addressing the large elephant blocking his old home's doorway, but was nervous their only lifeline would be cut short.  He couldn't imagine his parents allowing a child to starve on the unforgiving streets of Kassel, but stranger things had already happened.

              “I think we need to try to rebuild my burned bridges.  We've wrestled the elements for too long.  I don't want my arrogance to stand in the way of Izzy's health.  It's not fair.  Perhaps, my father will be open to our heterosexual union and assume I've come to
his
senses.  If their hearts beckon for reason, we may be able to dock in safe harbors — tonight!  We should try,” offered Rand.

              “Can you?” asked Isabella.

              “I don't know.”

              As the dawn of a new day arose, Isabella and Rand dusted themselves off, crawled from the trenches and begrudgingly soldiered home.  The air was as cold as their anticipated reception.  Taking a deep breath, Rand cleared his constricting throat and tapped his shaky knuckles across the old familiar wooden frame.  In tandem, an arctic gust whipped the effervescent German flag.  It masked Rand’s humble glare, as his mother slowly answered the heavy door.  Without pause, she wrapped her arms around him, and pulled him into their home.  His father's heavy and methodical footsteps pounded like cannons in his chest.  With each thud, his heart thumped a fearful retort.  It was as if a volcano was erupting in his throat and his body was trapped under ice.

              “What gives you the nerve to come back?” asked Mr. Backer.  “Stand up straight when I'm talking to you!”

              “Dad, we didn't know where else to go.  I'm sorry if I've disappointed you with my lifestyle, but we really need you,” Rand said, leering into his father's uncompromising eyes.  “This is Isabella,” he quickly added.  Redirecting his eye contact toward his mother's softer gaze, he reached toward Isabella's stomach and risked, “This is Izzy.”

              “Oh my heavens!”  Rand's mom gasped, hugging Isabella.  She was unaffected by her slovenly appearance.  The tension dissipated, as his grouchy and stalwart father turned and removed himself from the kuche.  His mind was at odds with pride and the idea of offering his son forgiveness.  He wanted to remain angry, but a tiny light flickered through a crack in his concrete heart.  Grabbing his khaki trench coat and fedora from the coat rack, Mr. Backer returned and offered his son a beer.  A tiny lake formed in Rand's eyes, as he accepted his dad's brand of absolution.  They left Isabella and his mother to form a bond, quietly entering a delicate world littered with psychological landmines; a place reserved for the strongest of male souls.  Their hearts' were prepared to shatter like the forgotten cobblestone streets of Kassel.

              Without a word, they both walked five blocks to the local watering hole.  His father held the door, as his son modestly shuffled by.  He looked back at his father with respect and submission.  It was in that brief moment he knew his father had torn down his towering expectations, and that his unborn child had given them both a reason to try again.  They gazed into the TV set, while exchanging regrets.  In just minutes, Rand knew he'd never find himself cold and wandering homeless.  Sometimes, time was the architect of healing.

              “I only wanted the best for you – that was all!”  His lower lip rattled with honesty.

              “I know, Dad.”

              Defusing the battlefield, a nightly headline caught Rand's wandering eye.  “A newborn child is in intensive care, tonight, after a terrible fire brought a legendary Scottish painter's mansion to its knees.  The mother does not appear to have survived the blaze, though her body was never recovered,” chimed a television anchor.  Rand immediately recognized the woman's picture on the screen.  It was as if his father's offering had lost all meaning.  He was paralyzed by the revelation.

              “Are you OK, kid?” asked Mr. Backer.

              “Dad, do you remember my excursion to the States?” he said, rhetorically.  “I met that girl, Ash, in the desert!  She was an incredible artist.  It's a long story, but have you had any strange guests or calls, recently, aside from that college in Greece?”

              “It was you!  I knew it.” he laughed.  “You always know when your child is around.”

              “This is serious.  I don't want to alarm you, but I believe there is group trying to kill everyone who met in the desert.  One of the members went missing and another was pregnant and murdered.  I have to know, have any strange individuals questioned you about my whereabouts?” asked Rand.

              “A young woman and an older man came knocking.  They were looking for you, and had your picture.  We told them we kicked you out and that you were taking your chances on the street.  I just assumed it was a couple of those nut jobs you've been associating with.  I'm sorry,” said Mr. Backer.

              “Did they say who they were or what they wanted?”

              “They just left this card.” He reached into his back pocket and unearthed it from his wallet.

              “Listen to me, if they return, do not change your stance or story.  We are all in grave danger!”

              After a lion's share of brew and the aftermath of a never ending hiatus, the two men retreated to their home.  The world somehow continued to spin, during their parted time, just as it would when their weary heads rested on down pillows.  Though childbearing, the Backer’s were still more comfortable with Rand and Isabella bunking in separate rooms.  Rand had the best night's sleep he'd had in over a year. 

              “I love you, Rand,” she whispered to herself.

              As the weeks pressed on, Rand, Isabella and his parents grew closer.  The days marked by their ignorance-inspired incompatibility had passed.  The Backer home symphoniously prepared for their son's coming arrival.  Though overjoyed, Rand's body battled a constant state of exhaustion.  He attributed his weakness to the psychological impact of his wayward days.  On All Saints' Day, the moment sprung with an unexpected splash.

                “Rand, he's here!  We've got to go,” said Isabella.

              “Mom, I need you to drive Isabella to the hospital.  Dad and I will catch a cab.” 

              Their car was too modest for their lot, but the hospital was close.  Rushing from the bustling home, Isabella eased into the reclining passenger's seat.  The cold snowy air whirled with cinematic tension, as Mrs. Backer attempted to start the stubborn vehicle.  Sputtering a few exhaust coughs, the Volkswagen's dependable engine turned.  They plowed toward the Krankenhaus.

              “Son, if you want to grab a quick shower, I will call our ride.  We have 15 minutes,” offered Mr. Backer. 

              “Perfect!  Thanks, Dad.”

              Those were the last words Rand ever spoke.

              After shutting off the running shower, exhausting the walls of his home and pleading for Rand's reciprocating voice, his panicked father motored toward the hospital.  He expected to find him bedside.  Rushing through the lobby with flush cheeks, Mr. Backer looked up Isabella's room and bulldozed through the staff.  His level of disbelief overwhelmed his ability to reason.

              “Where is Rand?” asked Mrs. Backer.

              “I don't know.  He went to take a shower and never emerged,” said Mr. Backer.

              “Do you think he got scared and scampered off?” asked Mrs. Backer.

              “I do.  But, I thought he'd have come to his senses, by now, and would have already arrived.”

              Their anxiety was interrupted by the vision of a gorgeous child resting upon Isabella's chest.  His piercing indigo eyes caught Mr. Backer's heart.  Rand's disappearance was suddenly an afterthought.  In the presence of such beauty, his excuse would fall upon deaf ears.  Isabella was resign to Rand’s abdication.  She focused on nursing their infant and tending to the Biblical birth pains she'd endured for heaven's promise.

chapter 37

the road

Polishing off five bottles of celebratory champagne, he sat ogling his tired computer screens, reading and scrolling through horrifying reports of innocent children who'd been targeted and their tread upon innocent families.  For hours, Michelle and I waited, dissolving into the background.  As much as I wanted to take the corkscrew and stab Dez through the forehead, prudence suggested the alcohol would run its course and do my bidding.  Michelle and I had plenty of time to imagine being lost in the shadows of a post-apocalyptic world, left battling the wandering ghosts — robbed of enlightenment.

              “It's time we made our move,” I whispered.  “If he awakes, distract him with sex.”

              “Easy for you to say,” said Michelle.

              Our deliverance rested with fate.  Tension mounted as Michelle reached for the tightly fastened key ring, clasped to his waistline.  The tiny hands of my watch strangled time.  Dez fidgeted, but his floating mind, drowning in spirits, was consumed by a nightmare.  His incoherent somniloquy was reassuring.  Unhooking freedom, we tiptoed from the underground and emerged into tomorrow.  We were graced. 

              Stars illuminated the forgotten New Mexican sky.  The air was cool, crisp and welcoming.  Our sanity seemed to rest just beyond the untouchable line on the horizon.  Tickling my senses, I could feel the grass tufts beneath my nervous boots brushing away the pins and needles of our long sit.  Gleeful words danced from my flapping tongue, stirring an audience of yipping coyotes.

The sandy floor we trampled no longer wreaked of survivalism and madness.  We hitchhiked west, distancing ourselves from the vacant and suspect van.  A young driver, willingly escorted us toward the Pacific.  He was charting a familiar course, from Indiana, to the perverted promised land of rock stardom.  Conscious of our anonymity, little revelation passed between our adrenaline pumping hearts.  Surfing through the static for proof of western civilization, our lack of discourse left our driver's nerves on end.

              I appeased his need to fill the dead air, by rattling off canned answers.  Making a significant leap of faith, Michelle remained stewing in mounting questions.  Flutters of her fear danced about the cabin.  After a short nap, in an abandoned Winslow, Arizona truck stop, we arrived in Barstow, California.  With sunburned forearms and glassy eyes, we emerged from the vehicle and reconnected with God and country.  Our new cowboy friend stopped and filled the belly of his beast.  Sitting dehydrated on the lip of the truck's bed, sipping a Coke, Michelle licked the end of a rolled joint that she had plucked from behind Dez's greasy ear.  She sparked, inhaled and released a sigh of grateful confusion, before breaking her long silence.

              “Where is Crystal?” she asked.

              “It's a long story, but she's out to save the world, if you can believe it,” I said.

              “I wasn't about to die in the compound, but what are you talking about?” asked Michelle.

              The gas pump clicked, before I could respond.

              “We really should hit the old dusty trail,” interrupted Billy, our driver.

              “I think we'll find our way home from here, Kid,” I joked.  “It's only another 2 hours.”

              “Are you sure?” he asked.

              “I am.  We have a lot to talk about.  Here are a few dollars for your troubles.”

              “No problem.  Thanks for the company!”

              “You could have chopped us up into bits and left us in the desert.  So, thank
you
,” I said.

              The driver laughed, tipped his Stetson and road off into a desert heat haze.  I spent hours bridging the gap in Michelle's taxed mind.  Though sounding as nonsensical as Dez's drivel, my explanations, like the rushing waters of a broken damn, had a cleansing virtue.  Despite his influence, I was granted an unexplainable peace, knowing she was no longer a threat and I would soon corner her trust.  Idling in the gas station parking lot, we ran dangerously low on the fumes of sanity.  It was time to reunite with The Programmers.

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              Screaming out curses, Dez awoke.  He was drunk and disoriented.  For a moment, his hungover pride refused to accept accountability for avoidable missteps.  Though disillusioned, he refused to believe his key ring was no longer attached to his belt loop.  He purged enough rage, to rattle the tormented souls of the underworld.  For the first time in recent memory, he was alone, with no one strung-out or tied to the end of his short leash.  The foregone conclusion of his erratic and poorly executed revolution forced him to the surface, intent on seeking retribution against the cult members he'd trusted most.  After a final red-eyed glance into the surveillance cameras, he exited the compound, headed west and stormed the club where it once began. 

              “Where are they, Gus?”  He beelined past the cum-stained pool tables, toward the back office.

              “Where are who?” asked Gus.

              Dez grabbed him by the collar and violently forced his pumpkin-shaped head into an oak desk.  Blood sprung like a fountain and splattered across the office floor.  With mocking remorse, Dez reached for a beverage napkin and handed it to him.  “Clean yourself up!”  Sex-deprived and hungry patrons ignored the ruckus, continuing to imbibe lust from a topless tap.  “These people don't care about you.  I did.  Let's try this, again, where are Crystal and Michelle?”

              “I haven't seen them.  Crystal did call, asking for Michelle.  I have her number jotted down.”

              “Give it to me.” Dez reached for a piece of the greasy receipt tape tacked on a bulletin board, reading 'Crystal.'  Arrogantly patting him on the damp cheek, he analyzed the merits of the scribbled message, stuffed it into his back pocket and readjusted Gus's once-slicked hairline.  “That wasn't so hard, was it?” he asked, kicking the saloon doors and exiting the vagrant's club.  “I'll be back,” he yelled from the dusty parking lot.  His cold words echoed through Gus's shaken psyche.

              “Unless she's on the move, she's in Texas,” Gus shouted.  “She seemed a bit shocked when I asked her what she was doing there,” he nervously continued, hoping to win Dez’s trust and quash any future attacks.

              In an attempt to triangulate Crystal's location, to a town or city, Dez returned to the bunker and launched an investigation.  He rallied the Texan Cadence, while monitoring traffic anomalies to his site.  Noticing a flux of hits, he mapped her coordinates with pushpins, delivered his initiatives and seethed.  He was determined to slay their coming child.

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              After our brief stay in Barstow, Michelle and I felt our way to Los Angeles, California.  The smoldering hot summer air burned off our distressed energies.  We bunked in a bungalow with friends. Allowing a few restless nights to pass, and our lagging souls to departmentalize the recent changes, we reconnected with The Programmers.

              “We're out,” I said.

              “I'm so happy you're alive.  I heard from Crystal.  She thought you might be in trouble or dead,” said Grayson, in elation.  “She's coming to New York City.  I can't believe you did it!  This is going to be one hell of a story.  If your clever strategy comes to fruition, its surrealism wreaks of fiction.”

              “We're not out of the woods, yet!  He's going to hunt us down, like hapless dogs.  His reach is international.  The man has a god complex, and has amassed enough followers to warrant his megalomania.  Being so close to Elisa's execution is troubling enough.  I'm paranoid to even walk the streets of L.A.  It's only been 48 hours, but our faces are probably plastered all over the Cadence website,” I said.

              “If it helps you rest, they're not,” said Grayson.