Children of the Program (27 page)

chapter 38

remember?

The warm sun wrapped its life-giving arms around Maria.  Black birds would perch upon her tattered sill and marvel.  They enjoyed watching the Crystalline children, chirping sweet songs, while digesting their early morning catch.  Sipping on a coffee, she stared toward the dawn and could feel Icarus touch her face through the rays.  Though the outside air was blustery, her bedroom was engulfed in warmth.  She envisioned herself resting beneath heaven's tiny microscope, while it cooked off the stress of her trying circumstances.  Startled, her perfect morning was interrupted by the familiar voices of her spiritual roommates and a wooden breakfast tray.

              “We have reason to believe the Cadence knows you're here,” said Zane in a comforting, but concerned tone.  “We found their calling card in our mailbox.  Your name was on it,” she paused, allowing Maria to swallow the news.  “I don't know how they found you, but we can't risk staying here.”

              “We'll need to leave tonight,” added Ben.

              The whites of their eyes revealed the purity of their intentions and sincerity of their plight. Catatonic, Maria gazed around the room.  She was puzzled by the complexities of her irreversible odds.  She knew they'd been cautious in preparing their move, determined to avoid pitfalls.  Recalling their abrupt departure, her mind cycled and backpedaled through memories.  Combing through the catacombs of Icarus's last days on earth, she wept.

              “How did they find us?” Maria cried.  Though accusatory, her frustration warranted her theatrics.  “We cleaned the house and didn't leave a trace.  We scrubbed our computers, threw away our belongings, and abstained from telling our families and friends.  Have they been here, before?” she asked.

              “We had been contacted, but passed over.  Could you have been followed?” asked Ben.

              “There must be another way they found me so quickly,” said Maria.

              “It's inconsequential.  We have to leave, tonight,” said Zane.

              Maria sat up in her bed and brushed the whispers of madness from of her tangled black hair.  Ben and Zane gave her the privacy she needed.  Without a moment of debate, motherly instincts mobilized her from the comforts of fluffy sheets.  Her swollen feet crushed the splintered floor, as she charged the shower.  The water temperature seethed and the pipes squealed.  Prepared to be baptized by the coming fire, she rinsed away her insecurities with scalding water.  It beat against her back like the whips of the underworld.  Her teeth gleamed, with a crazed and refreshed ferocity.  She knew it was kill or be killed.  She was intent to emerge a superhero. 

              After peeling off the dead skin and emerging from the glass enclosed cocoon, her first foot dramatically crossed the shower threshold and touched the cottage floor.  She could hear the trumpets sound in her mind.  She reached for her cape, dried off and proceeded to comfort her screaming infants in the bedroom.  “They're not going to take you!” she said, leaning over the crib.  The babies were comforted by her presence, but continued to wail.  After caking on Zane's black eyeliner, she grabbed the children from the crib and entered the living room where Ben and Zane waited.  They were debating exit strategy, unaware of her entrance.

              “We shouldn't wait, we should go, now,” whispered Ben.

              Slowly cocking their heads they were amazed by the appearance of a living Santa Muerte.  Out of respect, they both rose to address her and lassoed her with arms.  They couldn't help but laugh at her metamorphosis, nor believe that a splash of holy water could magnify her beauty, and empower her to scatter the cobwebs of mental debris like ants.

              “Do you have any weapons?  There are going to be a lot of them,” said Maria.

              “There's a revolver in the top drawer of the bedroom dresser!  It's loaded, be careful,” said Ben.

              “How do you know there will be a lot of them?” echoed Zane, from her bedroom. 

              “Icarus was given a vision.  In the dream, the children were slaughtered by mob rule,” said Maria. 

              “Jesus,” said Zane. 

              “No, not even he could save us!” exclaimed Maria.

              “If it
was
a vision, is it predetermined or can we alter the outcome?” asked Zane.

              “I have no idea, but we're going to die trying.  You have nothing to lose — I have everything,” said Maria.

              Demanding full attention, the phone rang, stifling the room's adrenaline-induced moment.  Frozen by the possibility of who might await on the other line, they stalled to answer.  As a second ring rattled their bones, Maria lowered the babies into the crib and reached for the nearby cord.  On bended knee, she pulled the device from its wall mount and held it to her quivering earlobe.  She already knew.

              “I see you're awake, Maria.  I presume you know who this is?” asked a male voice.

              Shaking and crying for The Council's mercy, Maria rolled over and pushed herself into the corner of the wall.   Her new-found strength was quickly exhumed by the reality of their situation.  Faint noises were returned through the receiver.  Her words were replaced by heavy breathing, wheezing and gags. 

              “We've been watching!  If you leave the home, you're dead.”  The disguised voice cut the line.

              “What did they say?” asked Ben.

              “They said, 'If we leave, we're dead,'” cried Maria.

              Ben somberly seated himself at a nearby table and Zane knelt, comforting Maria.  No one uttered a word.  Blank stares did the talking.  Hoping to part the clouds of the coming storm, their fogging minds were desperate for a bright idea.  Flashes of terror paralyzed them.  External noises faded to the furthest parts of their conscious minds.  The clock's movement was amplified by the silence.  They were trapped like rats, mere feet from the doorway.

              “It was a receipt,” offered Maria.  “There were airline receipts in the apartment trashcan.  That's how they knew I was here.  When your phone rang, time stood still.  Every moment of our last days in Greece became vivid.  I remembered crumbling the papers and tossing them into the wastebasket.  I didn't actually think they'd come and route through our trash.  Shortsighted, I know.”

              “Don't blame yourself, Maria!  They were following us, too,” said Zane.

              A rapt at the door disrupted their sentimental dialog. 

              “Nobody move,” said Ben, prepping the firearm.  “Be as still as church mice.”  He slowly reached for the door.  The phone rang.  In an anxious fury, he answered. “What do you want from us, you son of a bitch,” he fired.  His voice was hoarse and hand perspired, while settling the metal doorknob.  “We've got infant children in here.”

              “You're not going to shoot the mailman, are you?” said the sinister voice.

              Peering through the tiny peephole, Benjamin watched a jovial mailman skipping from the archway.  Cautiously opening the door, he surveyed the premises, and noticed a package resting inches from his combat boots.  He nudged the box into the panicked room and quickly locked the door. 

              “What does it say?” ask Zane.

              “It doesn't say anything,” said Ben.

              “Please, be careful,” said Maria.

              Fearful of what lurked within, Ben left the ominous package at rest, while the tired sun set.  With the long day slowly passing, Ben, Zane and Maria knew their eyes would soon shutter, and feared what evils awaited in the still of the night.  Maria distracted her mind with maternal responsibilities, while Ben and Zane debated their options. 

“Say we open the door and make a go at it — do you really believe they'll ambush us and leave us murdered in the streets?” asked Zane.  “The sun hasn't completely given up on us.  We may still....”

              “That's exactly what they'll do.” interrupted Maria.  “Icarus dreamed this day would come.  It's not the glowing eyes of a few bloodthirsty wolves out there, it's an actual gang.  If we leave, they'll pounce and tear us to shreds.  I'm not sure what's stopping them from breaking down the door.  As unpleasant as it sounds, we don't really have any options.  I'd rather force them to come to us.  We have a revolver, and a better chance at trapping them in the doorway than scurrying into the wide open.  They could be on the rooftops, in cars — you name it.  If we scatter, we're dead.”

              “If we stay, we die!” proclaimed Zane.

              “Right now, we have walls.  It's better than being plucked off by a hot shot on the roof,” said Maria.

              Church bells clanked as the clock struck midnight.  In the distance, they heard a chanting crowd approach.  Startled, Maria had drifted.  She knew what was coming.  Their words were unintelligible, but their bravado was convicted, like the marching cadence of an army.  A cracked window allowed a rush of cool air to whistle through the room.  Sending shivers up Ben's spine, he clinched the barrel of his gun.  Zane ran into the candlelit kitchen, scrambled through the silverware drawer and stockpiled knives.  As the crowd neared, its chants cut through the hollow walls and their diction became clear.

              “There's nothing new under the sun!  You've got to hold on to your guns,” barked the gang.

              The town wanted their world to remain unaffected by the conspiracy they'd been sold.  It was as if the entire provincial police unit had turned a blind eye.  The civilian heroes had turned into villains.  Even the kindest of spirits were hypnotized by Cadence of the Sun propaganda.  They behaved like zombies; slaves to the Cadence's psychological prison.  The depths of the trenches, carved by fear, were dug with the hands of groupthink and distorted by malleable reason.

              “We're trapped!  It's over.” Maria cried.

              “Why did you come, if you knew this would happen?” asked Zane, scared and assuming.

              “Icarus didn't remember until we arrived.  Interpreting The Council's dreams isn't an exact science — you should know!  He warned me.  We didn't realize we'd left a trail of breadcrumbs, leading directly to your doorstep.  He was trying to protect us all – his family, friends and children.  It wasn't until this morning, when you brought me breakfast, that I began to piece the puzzle together.” said Maria, resigned.  “I'm sorry!”

              The babies cried, awoken by a thunderous pounding on the front door; their innocent mouths pleaded for calm.  The chaos only intensified with the shattering of kitchen windows.  A flurry of demonic paws clawed upon the exterior walls and the door handle rattled and creaked like the bits and hooves of the doomsday horseman.  “You forgot to open your package,” said a megaphoned voice.  “Go ahead, enlighten us all?”

              Benjamin picked-up the box and shook it. 

              “Just open it, for God's sake!” said Zane.

              Picking up a sharp kitchen knife and conscious to keep a distance from its unknown contents, Benjamin stabbed the box.  As he did, an odorless and noxious gas poured from the package, placing Maria, Zane, Ben and the babies under a spell.  One by one, they fell like dominoes.  A trio of masked men, dressed in black and tan trench coats, stormed the home and yanked the innocent children from their cribs.  Maria, Zane and Benjamin were quickly silenced by single execution-style shots to the back of the head.  The cottage was scorched.  Just as prophesied, the babies were sacrificed.  The words 'No Freedom' were carved into their tiny brows and the incident was documented.  Their bodies were later tossed into the inferno.  The photographs were forwarded to Dez; a new prize to hang in his museum of hate.

              “Afire!” read a local news headline.

              The town never spoke of its horrible crimes.

chapter 39

the truth

Smoking a Kretek clove cigarette and swinging a Yankee’s baseball bat, Grayson paced about his Brooklyn apartment — pondering.  He adorned a cliché straw writer's fedora.  It was adorned with a black raven's feather.  He intent on flaunting his hipster credibility.  His stained white t-shirt and blue jeans only added to the innocence resting comfortably inside the physique of a starving artist.  He was constantly torn between his novel and his work. 

              “Deadlines, headlines, schmedlines...” he muttered, drifting in and out of consciousness.

              Thrilled to accept its revolving door of human kindling, the dark underbelly of the Hallway of Sorrows flexed its living lungs and exhaled a horrid stench.  Benjamin, Zane, Simon, Juno, Elisa and Magnus longed for the day The Program would reset and they'd return to the Earth's bountiful soil.  They were the lucky ones.  Knowing their day of judgment awaited, the damned could only pray they'd be chosen by The Lottery of Souls and spared a gruesome verdict.  Icarus, Rand and Ash were far from the trappings of the underworld, leaving the writer, musician and murderer to write the final chapters of Grayson's never-ending story.

              The air wreaked of sulfur, as tears gushed like a waterfall from dehydrated bodies.  Night after night, the red and white birds interrupted Grayson's slumber.  He'd awake, compelled to scribe out his visions.  In his dreamscapes, he would communicate with his fellow Programmers and dictate their experiences.  He would ingest sleeping agents to assure no stone was left unturned.  Intent to flesh out their final entries, The Programmers were able to elucidate the minutia and lost dialogs.  His only conciliation in seeing their tragic state was knowing that the Crystalline were sent to provide enlightenment.  He hoped the living would someday learn and be spared a similar fate.

              Starving for genuine rest, Grayson's work and diary kept him in a constant state of flux.  By day, The Program's story continued to unfold.  In the doldrums of night, it masqueraded about his subconscious.  By morning, it had spiked his early morning cup o' coffee with anxiety.  He kept his toiled-over book on a drive, locked in a safe beneath his kitchen floorboards.  It was his dream to have it unearthed in his final days, or after his passing.  He wasn't prepared to risk his journalistic credibility or willing to face pretentious scorn, over a tale that would easily offend the sensibilities of a sane man.  Only a few blessed souls were ever made savvy to its existence.

              The website had taken a backseat.  With so many dead, he feared the only beneficiaries of its existence would use it against him.   He knew it wouldn't be long before Dez's girlfriend would offer him a welcome distraction from his satirical New York City solitude and his writing.  The gray bird had warned him of her arrival, but he was blinded by the merit of his calling.  The truth was God's work. 

              Grayson made modest concessions for her arrival.  Knowing her piece in the puzzle could save humanity, he accepted that her life and safety was more valuable than his book or his own.  Patience forced him to wait and see where the jagged shards of reality fell.  Exhausted by a long night of journalism, dreaming and cleaning, his tunneling hands and taxed mind continued to force his sanity to spiral out.  The immediacy of his workload thwarted his countless attempts at a fully-rested reboot.  If his heart skipped a beat, he knew he'd stop.  Continuing to fade and lacking the wherewithal to interview another witness for his cover story, he was gratefully interrupted by the sound of a panicked mother.   

              “Grayson, I have made a huge mistake,” said Crystal.

              “Crystal?  Please tell me you didn't call Dez!  I know how these female riddles go,” said Grayson.

              “No, nothing like that.  I called the strip club where I used to work.  I was looking for a good friend of mine.  My current phone number showed up on their ID.  I may have compromised my whereabouts.  We can't stay in Texas, any longer.” she paused, awaiting rejection.  “We are going to have to leave — now,” said Crystal.

              “Then get on the road.  What are you waiting for?” asked Grayson.

              “I'm sorry to spring this on you, but he has cult followers on every street corner,” said Crystal.

              “I'm tragically aware,” said Grayson.

              Grayson parted with any hope of his former life returning to a static calm.  Crystal's fear trumped his focus.  Protecting a child, likely to arrive and soil his suede living room couch, wasn't a hand he expected to be dealt.  With only Neco to shoulder him, pawning off his ill-fated paternal role was no longer a romantic option.  A tiny part of him welcomed the sense of purpose a selfless life would provide.  He often gazed out his bay window and watched the zombified men and women being consumed by the city's pace, distracted by the complexities of societal desire and blinded from what The Council wanted for their lives.  He knew these drones were already in the Hallway of Sorrows, but related to their appetite for distraction.  It was the same ignorance he secretly wished to reclaim.  As much as he sought the truth in a good story and depended on it for survival, he understood irreversible nature of knowing too much.

              “The real sorrow lived in the ironic truth that our greatest gift was being born into ignorance,” he typed.  Smoke rose from behind his computer monitor.  A singed index finger reminded him he'd forgotten to ash, and he might just be human after all.  His mind stumbled over the juxtaposition of his calling and his recent epiphany about bliss.  With his own pen, he realized he was taking responsibility for a future world's misery.  It would be the curse of his unpublished memoirs.

              With each somber keystroke, he typed, “I often wonder if these words will do more harm than...” he paused.  His night had been spent writing an editorial piece on 'The Dangers of Leaking vs. Protecting Classified Information in a Digital Age.'  Still toggling between his headline story and the Children of the Program book, he couldn't bring himself to type the final word of either.  He surmised, immediate access to information can endanger the very freedoms a powerful country is sworn to uphold.  The final word, hidden in plain sight, left the finality of his sentences lingering in quixotic debate.  “Good was created by its beneficiary,” he mumbled under his breath.

              A peaceful wind blew through his aging pearly white curtains.  Just beyond the window, he saw a dove perched on the reaching limbs.   With the branches tickling of window screens, it was clear that the tree insisted on catching Grayson’s attention.  The bird sang a beautiful song, and lured him back into the dream he tirelessly fought.

              “Grayson, Grayson, Grayson,” called crazed voices.

              The gray bird guided him back through the Hallway of Sorrows.  His eyes welled. His friends' bodies gasped for the moisture his tears could provide their parched tongues.  He informed them of The Program's status, his desperation, and asked for their guidance.

              “Tell Neco, the world needs a hero!  It needs to
believe
in the impossible,” said Simon.

              “You've written our story.  Remind the world of how powerful love can be,” begged Juno.

              His eyes flooded with emotions and memories.  He had scribed their obituaries and taken detailed accounts, but never stopped to feel the longing of their hearts.  In those moments, he relived the horrors of their final days.  Being a journalist had taught him to disconnect himself from the words and to remain unbiased and unaffected.  He realized the same methodology had left its footprint in his novel and that he needed to tell the whole story. 

              “Do not allow your mind to control your heart,” screamed Magnus, longing for absolution.

              “Nothing is certain.   Free will is The Council's greatest gift and man's jagged little pill to swallow,” cried Elisa.

              Startled, Grayson awoke and looked at the clock.  It was the witching hour.  He lifted his fatigued forehead from the desk and realized he'd forgotten to finish his headline story for the New York Times.  Heating a pot of burnt coffee, he sat before his computer screen, and took inventory of his lost time.  He was surprised to find that all but one word of his account had been typed.  With convicted hands and a chilled spine, he scrolled down and typed...

“Good.”