bark you dogs of war, your hunger is sated this night
and your leashes will be yanked, unabated this night in the darkness, she turns her back to the window; his footsteps walk lonely, so weighted this night the heated whispers betray the energy between them-- though never telling who got masturbated this night he walks through the halls whispering prayers he knows; no one must learn of the thing created this night her cheeks confirm her mate's suspicions-- that his news leaves her beyond belated this night over wine and cheese, the friends gather 'round a fire-- religion and politics to be debated this night surrounded by the thunder of hand drums and feet; lost in the curves of her hips, gyrated this night after a drunken battle in the shadows of the streets, he has ensured his teeth will be degraded this night the bagpipes drone like the rain that pours outside-- they watch and cry as a friend is cremated this night she smiles back and cuts an eye away, coyly, because she knows she will end up hated this night he pretends as if he were a child, a teenager, laughing, spends his money in the local arcade this night but chris spends his early hours at a laptop keyboard, going over all the words he essayed this night harpies and minotaurs sea beasts and dryads all fade away and disappear when the waking hours are near your closet houses ghosts the shadows love to scare you just turn your nite-lite on and the bogeyman stays long gone if your worried that gremlins are hiding under your bed keep it filled with your laundry and theyll never prey upon thee for all the scary things that may scrape at your window a flashlight is another tool to frighten off the ghosts and ghouls if the shuffling in the attic is keeping you awake at night dont suffer for hours lying awake use some earplugs for peter's sake if the rainstorm brings lighting followed by angry thunder claps hiding your head under your sheets sometimes helps you get to sleep Bartholomew was on his 17th sneeze in a row.
He started to laugh. Something was going terribly wrong. He looked out the window and wiped his snot away, not even thinking to savor the view anymore. It was too much circulated air for one man to take. 16 sneezes. He wiped his nose and tried to convince his mind that sneezing was unnecessary. He looked through his microscope and watched the microbes react to pure oxygen. 14 months in this shell and he was adjusting to everything normally, except for this sub-par air supply. Sneeze. Sneeze. Sneeze. Sneeze. Sneeze. Sneeze. Sneeze. Sneeze. Sneeze. Sneeze. Sneeze. Sneeze. Sneeze. Sneeze. Sneeze. His body was so sore from these reactions. He couldn't sleep more than 15 minutes at a time. He was going crazy. If only he could walk outside. If only he could get a breath of real, clean air. If he opened the airlock, he would have to walk half of an AU to get it. Holding his breath for that long was completely impossible on several levels. 14 sneezes. He looked down at his microscope and the test failed again. He wiped his brow. It's hopeless. 342 experiments with the exact same result but he knew that there would be life----18 sneezes. Fuck it. He sat down and wrote a letter to his mother. He thanked her for everything she had ever done for him. Instead of paper, he wrote with a permanent marker on his stainless steel table. It was a good letter covered with snot and nose meat. He got up, wiped his nose and put on his clean lab coat. He managed to do it with only 10 sneezes trying to stop him. He put on his glasses and set his watch against the naked sun. He walked over to the airlock and typed in the release code. As he heard the whirring of the door, he expelled all the breath in his lungs. He prayed to get out before the sneezes would ruin everything. He opened the airlock and the de-pressurization took him by surprise. He flew out of the pod and up into the long dead sky of Mars. His view of Phobos was literally breathtaking. He knew he had about 20 seconds before the vacuum crushed his body. He cried tears of blood as he saw Deimos standing out beautifully in front of Sagittarius. That small, small world of nothing was even more pitiful than he. However, it would remain for millions of years. He was about to fling out of the atmosphere and get a great view of Earth when he sneezed. As he opened his mouth to take a breath his body collapsed and, for a split second, he thought his anger would keep him alive. He walked into the grocery store to buy a dozen eggs, a quart of milk, and a loaf of bread. It was a special evening and he planned to make dinner for his wife as they relaxed to an evening of Quantum Leap. After completing his purchase, the man waved away the sacker. “No worries, kid. I got this.” The sliding doors opened and he made his way to the car. The man was halfway across the parking lot when he was stopped by a shadow with a voice. "Hello, Jared." it said.
"Um, hi, do I know you?" asked Jared. "Yes and no. My name is Joseph Raymond Bowman. I just wanted to make sure that everything was going fine for you. How is your family? Are Martina and the kids doing well?" he asked. Jared’s spine was seized with adrenalin and fear. He took a step back and thrust his hand into his pocket, searching for the pepper spray on his key chain. Mr. Bowman was about 6 feet tall with squared shoulders. His back was to the light and Jared couldn't make out his face clearly. All he could tell was that Mr. Bowman had dark, close-cropped hair. "Jared, you don't have to fear me at this moment. What will happen to you has already been done. I just wanted to look you in the eye and tell you that you didn't deserve the past 15 years, you son of a bitch. Remember my name when your life has ended and God won't hear you. You’ll see my face soon enough." he said coldly. The strange man, Bowman, turned around and walked away in a peculiar serenity. He was whistling. Jared caught a glimpse of his face. He looked...Asian? Jared stared at his back, blankly, as he watched Bowman disappear from the glow of the Kroger shopping center and into the black of night. He was adrift in confused thoughts when a hand gripped his shoulder from behind. Jared shrieked and almost jumped out of his shoes. He fell forward and scurried a few feet away while twisting around and up to see Death chasing him...only it was a Kroger employee. "Sir...? Are you alright?" asked the pimply faced teenager. He was definitely more scared than Jared. Jared stood up and dusted himself off. "I....I.....I just lost place of my car and...I just lost my car. Thank you." The employee turned slowly, not averting his eyes from Jared. Yes, the boy was definitely spooked. Jared got up, dusted himself off, and opened his car door. He crawled inside and drove off with his mind already racing. He arrived at his house quickly and pulled up to the garage, hit his opener. The garage door didn't open. He hit the button again and two times after that with no action from the garage door. He looked at his opener, puzzled, and removed the battery cover. There weren't any batteries, which was impossible: the opener worked fine when he went to Kroger a mere 30 minutes ago. He shut off his car in the driveway and entered his home through the side door. He placed the groceries on the counter and headed through the living room. His wife, Martina, was watching the television on their sofa. She turned around to greet him. "Hello, Aking Mahal" she cooed. He kept walking towards the rooms of his children, compelled to check in on them. His son, Michael, and his daughter, Diwata, were both sleeping soundly in their beds. He went in and kissed them both while trying not to tremble. He left the children to their dreams and joined his wife on the sofa. He let out an exasperated sigh while the local news reviewed the day. "What took so long?" she asked. "There was a weirdo in the parking lot." he responded. "It's good to be home." he said. "I tell you what: let’s forget the French toast, watch a little T.V., and go to bed. You look tired." she said warmly. Jared took her hand warmly. “No way. I love having French Toast with you and Al.” he said with a smile. The news was somber. Today marked the 15th anniversary of the end of the Vietnam War, April 30th, 1975. There was a small program dedicated to the U.S. Armed Forces and a brief history of the war. It all but ruined a quiet evening of French toast with Al and Ziggy. Jared was irritated by the news broadcast which told a one-side story of The Vietnam War. The reporter characterized it as a political power struggle and a waste of American lives. Jared scoffed after almost every statement by the news anchor, that didn't look old enough to remember why Americans were sent there in the first place. "My love, don't forget that if it were not for the War you and I would not be here. Our babies would not be here. Don't forget how many lives were forever changed because of that War." she said in a loving but sure tone. Jared rolled his eyes and returned his attention to his T.V., trying to let it go. He shook his head as he tried to shake away the memories. She stood up and blocked his view of the T.V., which was replaced by her frame. The light from the T.V. pierced the sides of her nightgown and he could see the voluptuous curves of her hips. He could see the faint outline of her breasts, which confirmed that she was naked underneath. She extended her hands and said "Come, my love. Let's go to bed." Jared accompanied her and took off his shirt as they crept into their bedroom. They made love and fell asleep naked in their bed. Tomorrow was another day. --- Jared woke up to an empty bed. Martina must have gone to work already. He stretched and got up, walked to his bathroom, brushed his teeth, and flossed. He dressed in a suit for work and exited his bedroom after making the bed. He walked into the hallway, towards the kitchen and almost noticed that his umbrella holder by the front door was missing. He stopped at the entry to the kitchen and looked around. The breakfast table was gone and so were the chairs. The chandelier and the Van Gogh print were gone. He scanned the rest of the kitchen and found that dining table and refrigerator were also missing. He started to wonder if he was in a dream and pinched himself. The counters were bare and there were no pictures of his family above the range. He opened the cupboards and they were empty, as well. Jared's pulse was racing. "Martina?!" he called. No answer. "Michael!! Diwata!!" No answer. He walked into the living room. Empty. Not just empty, though-- It was as if they never lived there. There wasn't dust on the floor. There weren’t blank squares on the wall that pictures normally leave behind. It was as if the house were as new as it was empty. Jared ran to the kids rooms as his panic level heightened. He ran so fast, he didn't notice that ten years' worth of pictures weren't on the walls of the hallway. He flung open the door to Michael's bedroom. Empty. Diwata's room: empty. The house was empty except for the master bedroom and bathroom. Jared ran to his dresser and grabbed his cel phone. He speed-dialed Martina's work, hoping that there was an answer on the other end of the phone. "Hello?" said the phone - it was a man's voice. Jared was confused. "Is...isn't this Stephens and Associates?" he asked. "Is this who?" asked the man on the other end of the line. Jared squeezed his eyes shut and said "Stephens and Associates. The law firm? My wife Martina is an executive admin for Stenny Steph--." "Sir, I don't know anyone by that name." the irritated man interrupted. "I believe you have the wrong number. This is the BFI Waste Management HR department. You may want to check your number." The man hung up. Jared didn't understand what was going on. There was no way he got the number wrong. He called Martina's cel phone and it was another person who claimed he had the wrong number. He called his best friend, Max, a war buddy from 'Nam. He had known Max longer than anyone else. He and Max did a tour together, spending weeks in Viet-Cong tunnels. They killed boys, smoked cigarettes and opium, and brought Freedom to Indonesia. After a brief and confusing exchange, Jared hung up his cel phone and screamed out at the top of his lungs. This was impossible. Jared went through all of his phone numbers. All wrong--no one had ever heard of him, his wife, or his family. It was like he had never been born. He walked out onto his front lawn and looked at all the houses. He felt reality was slipping from him. In an act of desperation, he called his mother. When the phone picked up, his mother answered the phone. "MOM!!" he cried. He began babbling and crying, recanting the last evening all the way up to now; not giving her a chance to speak. "...Hello? Yes, I believe you have the wrong number. I don't have a son named Jared. My son died in the Vietnam War many years ago. I don't know who this is but if this is a joke, it isn't funny in the slightest. Please, do not ever call me again." she said curtly. The phone clicked and Jared was given the choice to either hang up or talk to a dial tone. Jared fell to his knees and pulled his hair to the point of yanking it out. He felt like his mind was breaking as he cried in the middle of his yard. The neighbors started to come out of their houses, hearing the noise. The neighbors from across the street walked over to his lawn, stopping at the sidewalk. It was Harry and Amy Struthers, fellow members of the PTA and avid racquetball players. Amy looked over to Harry with a smooth, blank face and said "This will be sufficient, don't you think?" They were both looking down at Jared. Harry nodded as he watched Jared spill tears onto the St. Augustine. Harry called Jared to look up at him. As Jared did, Harry's face started to ripple and contort. Jared recoiled. It was the most horrific thing he had ever seen. Harry's eyes started to move around his face to places they were never meant to go. Jared could hear bones breaking inside the man's face. Harry opened up is mouth wider than Jared had ever seen. Harry's tongue shuddered and clumsily toppled out of his mouth. It made a “splat” sound and writhed briefly. Harry’s teeth snapped and popped out of his mouth then tinkled upon the concrete sidewalk next to his tongue, in a pool of fresh blood. The muscles on his face writhed and twisted as if his face were floured dough that was being kneaded for baking. Jared covered his eyes, suppressing a gag reflex, unable to look any longer. He kept his eyes averted until he heard a familiar voice. "Look at me, Jared. You will look at me now." the ice cold voice said. Jared looked up and took a brief moment to focus. "Do you know who I am now, Jared?" he asked. Jared squinted briefly and then the man’s identity came upon him like a flood. It was Joseph Raymond Bowman, the mysterious man from the parking lot. Mr. Bowman was clearly of Asian descent and had a stern, hard face on him. His eyes glittered but he had the most soulless glare that Jared had ever seen. It sent chills up his spine. Jared looked at the ground and squeezed his eyes shut. "No, I don't! What are you doing to me?!" he screamed. Jared heard a whistle and his son screamed "Daddy!" Jared's head flung around to see his wife and children running out of the front door of his house. "Martina! Kids! Oh, God! Where have you been?!" he bleated. As he got up off his knees to rush to them, but the sound of gunfire erupted and Jared instinctively fell flat on his stomach. He didn't take his eyes off his family as they started to stumble toward him. Jared saw liquid flames shooting from his peripheral that reached out and consume his wife and children. They were being burned alive by giant, hulking men wearing bizarre uniforms and wielding strange flamethrowers. They aimed the orange death at his babies. They were killing his family! Jared heard his loved ones scream gurgled noises and he could smell petroleum along with their flesh cooking. Martina reached for him as the flesh on her arms blackened. Jared’s family fell into mounds of burning meat as other uniformed giants riddled them with gunfire, finishing the job. Jared screamed and whirled around to see a sick smile on Mr. Bowman's face. Jared screamed again but under those screams, the voice of Mr. Bowman resonated: "Wake up, Jared." --- Jared's eyes opened and he was blinded by lights on the ceiling. His screaming choked slightly as he tried to get his bearings. He tried to look around but his head was fastened by something and unable to move. He was lying on a cold, metal table and the rest of his body was tied down as well. Jared heard Mr. Bowman's voice: "Jared, welcome back. As I said earlier, you didn't deserve these past 15 years. It is with great pleasure that I announce that your sentence has been reversed. The courts no longer feel that living the rest of your life in Subconscious Timeflow is acceptable. It has been a long, long 15 years, Jared." he said. Jared struggled for words but could find none. Only a moan came out. "This is perfect! Jared, you don't remember that I was originally your defense representative 15 years ago. I fought for you to be placed in a drug-induced coma for the rest of your life as punishment for your war crimes. I wanted you to die, Jared, but your family paid me well to let you sleep forever as your mind created a life for you. They paid for you to be placed in that Timeflow. What you all didn't know at the time, Jared, was that it was my family that you had killed: It was my family that you slaughtered when your platoon burned my village to the ground. It was my life that you destroyed, war criminal!" Mr. Bowman was panting, but he took a few deep breaths and composed himself. "I decided that it would be more poetic for you to sleep while I used your family's money to pay my associates to have them all killed. While you lived your life inside the dreams we created for you, your life was being slowly erased in the real world. Make no mistake, Jared, I had every intention of avenging the deaths of everyone I loved. You killed them all and you celebrated as the napalm burned them to ashes. Jared, you must pay for the lives you took." he said, sincerely. “It is time for justice to be paid in full...for my family.” Jared couldn't understand what was going on. He started to ask questions, but his mind was still trying to adjust itself. He couldn't get his bearings. "Jared, you don't remember any of this because you are so fresh from the wonderful life inside your mind. You must remember that it is not 1990 in the United States of America: It is the year 2009 and you are in The Socialist Republic of Bảo Đại, what was once America. America does not exist because the 'Joes' lost the war. I have waited 15 long years for you to live the life you wanted inside your head. For 15 years I have had to live with the sickening thought of you sleeping peacefully in this complex." Bowman said. "Last year, after the last of your family had been eliminated, I lobbied the High Court to prosecute your case. ‘New Evidence’, I insisted. When that didn’t work, I paid off judges and officiators with your family's money and was placed in charge of your care, Jared.” Bowman said proudly. “After being placed in your care, I deleted your records from the Central Data Hub. You no longer exist. But don’t fret, Jared. You will still answer for your crimes.” he said. “You are to answer for your crimes by living out your days in a Life Extruder as the Republic slowly drains and uses your life force as consumable energy. You will become a human battery and once your body has been sufficiently used, we will mount your dried husk on Hanoi Bridge--- er, Golden Gate bridge." he smiled. "Lastly, while your life's essence is leeched from you, you will watch the footage we have recorded as we killed everyone in your family. You will see your family again, Jared, but only as an observer." he said with a smirk. Mr. Bowman turned to two giant men dressed in strange uniforms - like the ones who killed his family not long ago. They were puffy, hulking beings that looked like massive pillars made of hard foam. They wore orange-colored outfits with strange insignia that was a mixture of Vietnamese and unintelligible symbols. He was able to make out the Vietnamese word for "Refuse" on one of the uniform lapels. "Take him to the Extruder, but be sure it is set to the lowest possible setting. I want this to take a while." he said. Mr. Bowman started to walk out of the room but stopped and turned at the doorway to say "I will be checking on him in 5 years and he had better be alive.” “Oh, and Jared? My name is not Joseph Ray Bowman. My name is Phong Vo. Your name is Joseph Raymond Bowman." he said, coldly, before walking out of the room. Jared screamed Mr. Vo's name over and over as the giants wheeled his metal table out of the infirmary and down the sea-green hall. He screamed as each light bulb passed over his head. His body strained and heaved against the restraints, bruising his body. His screams could be heard for almost a minute after the magnetovator closed and descended down to the Extruder Complex. Mr. Vo consumed those screams as if they were audible food and he shuddered every time he drew a breath. Mr. Vo called for another magnetovator and pressed the "up" button upon entering. When he arrived at the roof of the Ho Chi Minh Royal Containment Facility, Mr Vo walked to the ledge and stared across the Bay. Mr. Vo wept briefly, then wiped his nose and composed himself. He watched the black helicopters fly through the smog. He could smell the industrial pollution mixed with salt water. “Five years.” He chuckled to himself. “He will last at least twenty.” Mr. Vo leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He smiled. Then, Mr. Vo pulled out Joseph Raymond Bowman's army-issued pistol from his jacket, placed the barrel inside his mouth and blew his own brains out. Eliot Bakersfield got out of the cab, went to the trunk and retrieved his luggage. A well-dressed teenager with a haircut problem came up behind him and offered to take his suitcases and have them checked. Eliot felt this was the proper thing to do and he agreed. He watched his worldly possessions disappear inside. He turned back to the cab and gave his fare to the driver.
To say that he had trouble in the terminal was an understatement. Suffice to say that he needed to ask a lot of questions. He arrived at the gate after a rather invasive procedure performed by people who spoke poor English. It was something he wasn't used to. When combined with the fact that he had to practically undress for security guards, the issue of carry-on liquids was not even worth arguing. He was practically naked, anyway. Take the goddamned mouthwash. He had just barely finished fastening his belt when he walked by the gift shop. He was sucked inside by the sheer volume of trinkets and baubles in the front window. Christ. He didn't believe he had ever seen so many shot glasses in his life. Did that many people give a shit about Wichita? As he walked to the boarding area, he thought about how ironic it would be if he died in a crash. Seriously. If you had been in a coma for 10 years, nearly squashed to death by jet engine just to die in a plane crash, someone would surely write a cartoon about you. Eliot almost chuckled to himself. It was like he was taunting death to come finish the job. He was 16 years old when a commercial plane exploded above the small town of Great Bend. He remembered hearing the blast over his house as he watched the family TV on a Saturday morning. He was arguing with his sister over what they would watch: Captain N: The Game Master or The New Adventures of Winnie the Pooh. He had just wrestled control of the remote from her when the still screaming jet engine blasted through their roof. Eliot's sister died and he almost joined her. His body was beaten to a pulp and 40% of his body was burned by the heat of the engine. Had it not been for the employees of the train station down the street, he would have died. He was confined to a hospital bed, sleeping softly while his body repaired itself. 10 long years later, he awoke. He lost his childhood, his sister, and his mother who died of lung cancer just 3 years before. When his father saw him awake, and alive, Mr. Bakersfield crumbled to the side of the hospital bed and cried like a wounded animal. Eliot didn't know what was happening. He was a 16 year old boy in a 26 year old man's body. Mr. Bakersfield praised God, the angels, and the sweet baby Jesus almost as many times as he kissed his resurrected son. Eliot sat in his seat, 28G. It was right behind the engine and Eliot was struck with a sparkling fear. He knew lightening couldn't strike twice but he still had shivers up his spine. He was amazed at how small it was inside the passenger section of the plane and still couldn't understand how many people fit. After biting his nails for a bit and stuffing too many pieces of chewing gum, he said a silent prayer. He passed on the complimentary pillow and blanket and just stared at the engine. It was his Engine of Ruin. The Life Smasher. While this wasn't the same engine, he still hated it. He couldn't live the rest of his life unless he did this, though. The flight attendants performed their charades which were meant to explain the complicated physics of seat belt technology. He followed their lead, just in case the airline seat belts had some sort of secret. Eliot was over the glitz and newness of the future. 10 years didn't change all that much. His favorite invention was the DVD since you couldn't ruin the VHS film. However, since he didn't have his sister here to ruin the tape film, the DVD was moot. But he liked how you could instantly fast-forward anywhere. Of course, there was the iPhone. The pilot came on and told him where he was going and what time he would get there. Eliot already knew this stuff. In less than a day he would be in England, tracking down a descendant of Sir Frank Whittle. Eliot's intention was to kill Whittle's great-granddaughter. He had planned for it while reading the history if the jet engine and Whittle's biography. Once Eliot learned that Whittle still had family in Earlsdon, Coventry, England his mind became a rock that encased a diamond made of hatred. The plane taxied and headed down the runway. He chewed his gum furiously as the engines revved. The turbines whinnied and increased in volume and Eliot heard his sister screaming. He softly cried as he chewed his gum and he kept his head pointed out the window, away from the other passengers. His sister screamed all the way to England until the pilot stopped the plane. His sister had died again. Through the whole ride he only saw the ocean. The vast, endless ocean was dotted with clouds as he shot through the atmosphere. He didn't eat. He didn't drink. He didn't sleep. He simply hated the whole goddamned way. None of his lost life would ever come back no matter how hard he killed that woman...and he would kill her hard. He would kill her so hard that Sir Frank Whittle would crawl out of his grave and cry like a child on fire. Spiridon Bestemianova tapped the glass and wondered how much longer before he was a dead man. He sat in the cramped and claustrophobic tube as he descended into the depths. On the other side of the window was liquid, black death.
As the minutes passed, he was more and more thankful for gutting that weakling journalist back at Butugycheg. That idiot worked like a mouse and caused hardship for everyone around him. Furthermore, he had a mouth that didn't keep his body safe. It was not only a necessity but a pleasure to spill his innards on the ground. The only part about it that Spiridon disliked was the fact that the weakling's innards were bathed in golden dust as they spilled out onto the mine floor. Blutugycheg was a gold mine at the Russian Gulag camp, Chukotka. Spiridon, or Spiro as his associates called him, was sent to Chukotka because he was a thief and a relentless murderer. He never understood why they expected him to change. He looked down at his right upper arm and looked at his tattoo: a web with a solitary spider, with it's head pointed up--towards Spiro's head. The guards of Butyrka surely knew this meant he wasn't ever going to change and that his life as a criminal would never end. Along with his spider, he had two 8-pointed stars on his torso; one on each side of his chest where his breasts met his arm. Each star standing for every year he spent behind bars. He smiled and thought back to the golden guts on the floor of Blutugycheg. The guards didn't know what to do when he killed that reporter. At Kolyma everyone knew who he was. Everyone except for the political prisoners: soft-skinned writers and philosophers who broke laws by accident or because they talked about things they shouldn't. They were less than roaches. Pigdogs. Not even worthy of soiling a knife on their throats. But the whelp refused to listen to Spiro when he told him to hurry up and move his ass. Spiro wanted to eat and if you didn't fulfill your required work quota, you didn't eat. It was too much for Spiro to even tell him to hurry up. It was beneath him. But the sorry little man had the nerve to tell him to 'back off'. He had no idea who Spiro was. The guards stared for a few moments before one of the younger guards came up from behind and took his legs from under him with the heel of his rifle. After that, they were upon him. He spent the next 4 days in a hole, exposed to the frozen tundra of Northeastern Siberia. He stayed alive by shivering to keep warm. When he wasn't shivering, he was singing. He sang of Mother Russia and the glory of his military brothers and their victory at the Battle of Stalingrad. He sang about the defense of Moscow where they turned the tides of WWII in Europe. He sometimes yelled at the guards who stood above him and professed his superiority--he killed Nazis and they killed weak, unarmed men. On the fifth day, they pulled him out of the hole and threw him on the ground in at the feet of I.L. Mitrakov, the commanding officer who oversaw the entire Chukotka camp. He was the minister of Dalstroy, the military commission who was in charge of road construction and mining operations here. Mitrakov was dressed in a newly designed "Zhukov" officer's uniform, named after the famous Soviet Defense Minister Marshall Zhukov. He wore a grey military coat, blue pants, and knee-high leather riding boots. He wore his officer's cap that was almost covered in metal leaves. Mitrakov looked down at him. "You sing of your valor, comrade, but you are a thief and a criminal. If you were wearing rank now, I would rip it from your lapels with the mouth of a snarling dog." he chided. "So, you consider yourself a patriot, comrade? Then I believe you will appreciate what we have in store for you. You will help Mother Russia claim it's rightful place as the strongest Naval force in the World. You will do so by surpassing the Swiss and American pigdogs in their feeble attempts to find the bottom of the sea. They are making a mockery of us by doing this in our ocean." he said. He told Spiro that this work was very important because the Soviets were intent on reclaiming their status as a superior Navy. They had spent the last 8 years working on submersible technology and built close to 240 "Whiskey" class submarines. "You will be verifying the claims of the Swiss and the Americans. If it is true, that the "претендент глубоко" is truly over 3,500 fathoms deep, this will be a perfect place to stage an offensive." Mitrakov said. Spiro wasn't sure what to make of this but it didn't really matter. "I am glad to see that you wear that snake tattoo on your midriff. You are right. We have you. Now and forever." he spoke as he turned and walked off. As he walked away, Mitrakov barked an order at the guards across the dirt road by the guard tower. They were escorting a group of 50 Japanese POWs, marching them towards the Blugtugychek mine. "торопитесь и получите тех собак свиньи к моему. я имею пятисоткилограммовую долю, чтобы встретиться!" he yelled. He then turned back to the guards by Spiro and said "вымойте его и питаемый. тогда Вы одеваете его и получаете ту часть дерьма на транспортном средстве!". Two weeks later, he was trapped in a metal cylinder that was slipping slowly to the bottom of the Mariana Trench. He was still smiling. This was a glorious day. He would die at the bottom of the ocean, a place where no man would ever die. He was chuckling to himself when he heard a popping sound. He struck his lighter and looked around the tube and saw a hairline crack in the glass window. Spiro couldn't see it but his face went white. He moved the lighter over to the depth-meter and it read 6,000 meters (3.7 miles). He whipped his head back to the window as he heard the sound of pressure forcing it's way against the hull of his prison. He heard the groan of metal and what sounded like a metallic twisting and scraping. He smelled salt. Sprio started sweating and breathing erratically. There wasn't anything he could do. He did what he always did when faced with impossible odds: He started singing the song of his countrymen and his fallen comrades. "The unbreakable union of free republics, Great Russia has welded forever; created by will of the peoples, long live the united, mighty Soviet Union! Be renowned, our free Fatherland, reliable stronghold of friendship of peoples! Soviet flag, people's flag let it lead from victory to victory!" He sang at the top of his lungs, trying to sing over the sounds of his impending doom. The bravado he felt vanished and was replaced by the rawest, most potent and palpable fear he had ever experienced. He extinguished his lighter and continued singing in the crushing dark. His voice grew louder, cracking from the strain of the volume and the lump in his throat. If there were anything alive that far down, it would hear his muffled voice in the depths as he careened toward his death. "Through tempests shined on us the sun of freedom, and the great Lenin lit us the way. Stalin brought us up on loyalty to the people, he inspired us to labor and to---". At 6245 meters, the window gave up and the cracks allowed pencil-sized streams of water to burst into the capsule. Within a matter of seconds, the submersible was crushed like a can of peaches under the wheel of a car and Spiridon Bestemianova broke the World Record for the deepest underwater scream. Heat ripples writhed just above the ground, agreeing with the local thermostats. The clear sky sang a wonderful song of blue with clouds as the notes, en staccato. The sun was relentless as it continued its eons old task of baking the Earth. The cicadas buzzed all over while clinging to the evergreens and oaks, making it seem like the trees were communicating in an odd Morse code.
Just past the entrance gate, insects were dancing on top of the pond. They played chicken with the catfish. Every once in a while, a splash would signal the loss of yet another pesky mosquito. Visible from the pond, the small and lonely white house at the top of the hill could be seen. A giant blooming Wisteria snaked its way up the far side of the house. Its tall finger-wide vines stretched all over the top of the tin-roofed porch and up the antiquated television antenna. When walking up to the iron gate, that was the only access to the house, you could hear the ominous buzz of bees as they frantically raced to get to each and every sweet flower before sunset. The smell of the Wisteria was almost overpowering. Up close, the Wisteria vine covered half of the porch and had grown over almost half the small, 3 bedroom house. The wisteria was nearly as impressive as the giant Red Cedars and Sweet Gum trees that grew around the property. Standing on the front porch, the house looked easily over 150 years old. It was made of wood and was balanced on top of antique cinder blocks which hadn't been made, or seen, in 50 years. The entrance was a screen door---another anachronism---that was as much a gateway into the past as it was an entry into the home. On one side of the porch, away from the bees, a pile of split firewood was stacked for whenever warmth was needed. Now, in the heat of a Texas July afternoon, they were quickly overlooked. Underneath the din of cicadas, pond splashes, rustling trees and the occasional cry of a hawk, the humming of a diesel-powered engine could be heard in the distance. It grew louder and was quickly accompanied by thumps and snaps as the Earth was forced to accept its passing. A vintage vehicle, a car with internal combustion, muscled its way up the nearly 160 year-old dirt road. The road was lined with a mix of apple and lemon trees, not to mention the occasional cherry blossom for color. It was a Jeep: a very old American light truck that was built for driving on uneven terrain, during a time when people didn't have the ability to ignore the Earth as they drove. This vehicle was a double-antique: diesel powered internal combustion made by an American car company who had gone out of business decades ago. Americans didn't even make cars any more. The Jeep slowed to a halt and the driver's side door opened. The driver got out and stretched a bit, then walked over to the iron gate to allow the Jeep through. He walked the gate open and fastened one side to a nearby post, keeping it ajar. The man was tall and in his late 40's. He was slightly overweight but looked active and despite his age, had a full head of dark brown hair. He was wearing sunglasses and sported a goatee. He slid back into the driver's seat and guided the Jeep closer to the house, past the gate. After stopping, he got out and the rear-passenger door opened right after his. It was a woman who looked not too much younger than the sunglassed man. She also stretched and let out a lilting yawn. Her hair was hidden by a baseball cap and her eyes also covered by sunglasses. She was thin and appeared slightly athletic. She surveyed her surroundings and looked to be taking it all in. The man walked over to the tailgate of the Jeep and opened it. He pulled out a collapsed servochair and pressed a clearly marked red button, then sat the folded chair on the ground by the car. The servochair was a newer model, capable of opening itself. He grinned while shaking his head back and forth as it continued to unfold itself. After it beeped that it was done, he opened a control panel on the armrest and tapped a couple of buttons. A whirring sound started and the servochair began to hover inches off the grass. He grabbed the single handle on the back and brought it over the the front passenger side of the car. He opened the door and gently helped an older woman out, almost lifting her from the car and into the servochair. She was elderly, easily 70 to 80 years old. She had gray hair with brown streaks that was pulled back into a ponytail that was on the high portion on the back of her head. She moved like any elderly woman would: slowly, with a touch of frailty. However, her movements betrayed a begrudging acceptance of her age. She adjusted herself and got comfortable and said thank you to the man with the sunglasses. "Alex, would you be a dear and get my umbrella and my condenser-fan?" she asked. Alex obliged and rummaged through the car, emerging with the umbrella and a hand-sized device. He opened the umbrella and gave it to her then he shook the condenser-fan briskly. He clicked the button and handed it to the old woman. She held it up to her face and the small, tubelike contraption blew refreshing cold air at her face. "Thank you, Alex." she said. "You're welcome, Ma." he replied. He turned to the woman and said "Twila, do you still have the key?". She nodded and went up to the front door, processing the scene before her. "Alex..." said the old woman. "Yes, Ma." he replied. "Go turn on all the air conditioners. It's going to be hot in there. Also, would you help me inside? I need to get some rest. You and Twila can look around here today. We'll go digging tomorrow." she said. "No problem, Ma." he said. He guided her servochair up the steps and into the house, behind his sister. The next day, the sun was back and doing his job well. All three of them were on the porch looking across the field and talking about the past. Ma, or Isabella as the other old people called her, told them of her childhood summers spent at this house; the family reunions, summer trips, and her parent's getaways. Twila listened intently with an almost childlike trance, fixated on every word. Alex was looking over a walking stick that his grandfather, Christopher, had whittled many years ago. "This took a lot of work, Mom. How long did this take?" he asked. "I don't know, really. Your grandfather started it when I was a baby, just after the turn of the century. He was a Boy Scout, you know." she said. "Your grandfather used to do all sorts of stuff with walking sticks, and knots, and campfires." she said. "Campfires?" Twila asked. "Yes. Your grandpa Christopher would build a big ol' fire and start it with just a pocket knife and some lint." she chuckled as she said it. "Your gramma Taunya often told me about one of the first times Daddy came here. He started a campfire during a rainstorm and it blazed all through the afternoon...even as the rain came down in sheets! It amazed your great-granpa Paul. Momma said he would bring it up almost every time they were up here." she laughed a a hearty elderly laugh and tapped her knee slightly. Twila stared at the charred Earth right in front of the house, smiling. "Mom, when do you want to go dig? It's already 2pm and we won't have much daylight the later we go." Alex warned. "Your right, baby. Go grab the tools and let's get movin'" she responded. Isabella led them to a giant Sweet Gum tree in the middle of a 35 acre field. This field was almost one-third the size of the 150-acre property. Alex was taken aback at how the field just stretched on the further you walked. Everywhere you looked, you saw grass and trees then more grass and more trees. There was no way he could have done this himself, even with a map. They arrived at the tree; Isabella's servochair slowed to a halt. Alex, whose tools were carried by a small servocart, was stopped right behind her. Twila was behind them both and was scanning the field around them, keeping an eye out for wild hogs. Isabella warned them that the wild hogs were not friendly and, if provoked, could kill a grown man. Twila carried a Gauss rifle that fired magnetically propelled ball bearings at ultra-high speeds, just in case. "Alex, you will need to dig down about 2 feet. You're looking for a white cylinder that's three feet long by 8 inches wide." Isabella said. "OK, Ma." he replied. After a few hours of digging around the base of the tree, Alex reached down and unearthed a large sealed tube. He wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand and breathed hard. "What is this made of?" Alex huffed as he crouched by the hole. His mother told him that it was called PVC piping material. It was used in situations where piping was used for liquids or if the pipe would be exposed to the elements. PVC never rusted or rotted. "Wow. I hadn't seen this before. "It's like Liquid Steel just...or it's predecessor." he said looking over the whole tube. Twila walked over to look with Alex. She didn't seem as interested as he was. "Maybe we should open it." she said with a smirk. Alex opened the seal with a multiknife. He started to take out the contents one by one. Isabella looked on while holding her compressor-fan close to her face. Her shade umbrella was attached to her servochair and kept her thin flesh away from the heat of the sun. She pointed to the first thing Alex brought out. "There--that's got to be photo album. Oh dear, give it to me." she said with her hand outstretched. Alex rose from his crouching position, walked over and handed her the magazine-sized book. It was rolled up so that it could fit in the tube. Alex unrolled it as he walked over to her. She opened it up and scanned through the first two pages then drew in a sudden gasp of breath and covered her mouth with a trembling hand. She swallowed hard as she looked at the page and she continued. She showed her children the pictures: "This is a picture of your grandparents before they were married. This is atop a hill in Austin called Mount Bonnell. Where the artillery tower stands at Fort Perry. Here is another one of them the day they were married.....and this one is right....this one was the day I was born." she brought the book close to her face. "I haven't seen these pictures in 50 years. I thought they were lost." She showed Alex and Twila as she turned, pointing out people they may not have met or known. She flipped the pages more. There were pictures of Isabella at all of her birthday parties up to 18 years old, Christmases, Family reunions, the day her parents renewed their vows, Isabella's graduation from high school, college, and the Army. It was all there up to Isabella's wedding. Every major family event was in there. Isabella cried softly and held the album against her chest. For a moment she sat as still as a stump. Finally, she dried her eyes and said: "OK, Alex, what else is in there?" He reached in and pulled out a disassembled Mosberg 12-gauge shotgun with a small tube of 40 shells. Then, he pulled out 3 paperback books that were tied together. The Firefox survival manual, The Boy Scout Handbook, and a book titled "Basic Ballroom Dances in 3 Hours". Alex's brow furrowed. He thumbed through the book like post-it note animations. There was a slip of paper in it that read: "Izzy--give this book to your husband if he can't dance. You'll thank me for it----Mom." read Alex. He looked at his mother with a puzzled expression. "It's a joke." she said. "Your grandfather was good at a lot of things but dancing was not one of them." she chuckled. "Too bad we came 30 years too late." she continued, sullenly. Alex continued and turned over the tube. A bundle of fabric fell out followed by a small device. Twila said "Hey, hand me that fabric." Alex picked it up and when he did, he gave the fabric a double-take when he lifted it. He said "This isn't fabric, it's too heavy." Twila took the fabric and shared in his confusion. She began to unravel it and at the center of the bundle was a bottle of Jim Beam, Black Label. "That is a tribute to your great-grandfather." said Isabella. "A long time ago, he had buried some money with a machine gun and a bottle of Jack Daniels on this property. It looks like they are starting a tradition." she said. The other trinket was a small black jewelry box. Twila picked that up too. She opened it and stared, not saying anything. Her brow contorted. She reached into the box and withdrew a small, thumb sized thing. It looked like it was made of brushed steel, except for a small white button on the center of one side. Twila pressed the button and an even smaller, metal piece jutted out like a switchblade. It had a peculiar shape like a key but not quite a key. "I know what that is. That's a pen drive. It's a miniature portable hard drive. Wow. It looks like its USB 3.5, too." he said. "This is the last of it. Let's go back to the porch and check this out. My computer might be able to use it." They returned to the house and plugged the drive in his computer. There were several folders and sub-folders. These folders contained Christopher and Taunya's lives: There were folders of journals, poetry, their favorite music--all playable. They found all of the music that Christopher made when he was younger, a library of everyday photos--almost 20 years worth---digitized and saved as image files so they would last forever. There were newspaper scans, concert ticket scans, recipes, digitized books, audio books, and even digital home movies of anything you could imagine. One of the folders was titled "Please watch". Alex clicked in the folder and there was one movie with a number for a title that appeared to be a date: '10 2026'. He double clicked the movie and it was Christopher and Taunya, smiling. They started talking about the contents of the drive and continued. Isabella, Twila, and Alex huddled around the computer and spent the rest of the afternoon watching and listening to Christopher and Taunya talk about their lives, their hopes, their dreams, and their fears. They talked about their greatest moments and disappointments and what they hoped the future had in store for them. On that blistering summer day in East Texas, for Izzy and her family, the word priceless lost it's meaning forever. Peering through the mini-blinds, the unmarked car could be seen under a broken street lamp. The shadow of night offered very little but the late 90's Crown Victoria with dark tint and an unassuming shit ugly brown paint job. The neon liquor store signs behind the car offered an appreciated view of two silhouetted figures in the front seat. The soft glow of a lit cigarette betrayed the only visible activity.
"Fucking amateurs." A knock at the door abruptly ended Mr. Farmington’s surveillance. His head whipped around towards the door then he glanced, briefly, at his still sleeping wife and baby girl. His heart was racing and he tasted a sour taste in the back of his mouth. In the dimly lit room, Mr. Farmington was dressed for a day on the beach: caribbean print button up shirt, khaki shorts, and flip-flops. He wasn’t an overly tall man, about 6 feet, and was roughly 40 pounds overweight. He pulled up his shorts a bit and walked over to the door while rubbing his bald head with his trembling hands. "Who is it?" He asked in a gruff and hurried voice. The door answers, "F.B.I., Mr. Farmington. Open the door, please." He opened the door to see two men in the process of pulling out I.D. cards from their bland suits which matched wonderfully with their bland faces. "Agents Kowalski and Drayben, sir. Is everything O.K.?" "Is that supposed to be a trick question? I...sorry, guys, I don’t mean to be shitty. We’re all fine." He calmed himself down as he spoke. "You can do me a favor: move your eyes off that corner. Ray Charles could spot them, for Christ sake." "I’ll get them moving." Farmington didn’t know if the man who spoke was supposed to be Kowalski or Drayben but it really didn’t matter all that much. "Is there anything else you need? We won’t be by for another 2 hours, then the next detail will take over." Farmington scratched at his month-old beard. "Well, I don’t appreciate being stuck in a hotel right off a major highway and, right across the highway is a cemetery. I’ve been here before...you really could have done a better job finding a place." He replied. "Sorry, Sir." It was the guy on the left again. "Our orders were to place you in Poughkeepsie overnight. We made this choice as a matter of convenience for mobility and safety. We have a medical center and a hospital within 1.5 miles, as well as the Sky Acres Airport, roughly 10 miles east of here, where we’ll be flying out in two days. We apologize for the lack of empathy regarding our temporary location but, as you can understand, our sworn duty is to protect you. Not to keep you warm and cozy." Farmington thanked them again and shut the door while he inhaled deeply, trying to calm his nerves. He heard some radio scrabble and, as he peered through the blinds again, saw the unmarked car pull out and drive off. Farmington lowered his head and closed his eyes, going over the past 3 and a half tumultuous years of his life. Not too long ago, Mr. Christopher Farmington went by the name Christopher Dawson. He had just recently been a witness in a trial against the Mexican crime family, La Tercera. Because of his testimony, and in exchange for it, he had become a state's witness under protection. This motel was just a brief stop on the road to the rest of his family's life. He had come to know La Tercera through a business associate he met while working in his daytime job at Whole Grocery, where he was a buyer and distributor of imported goods. In the spring of 2005, he was at a company mixer where the buyers and the grocers they buy from got to mingle and talk shop away from the office; a typical event held once a year. While he was there he was introduced to a man named Miguel Trevino, who imported agave nectar from Hidalgo, Mexico--just south of San Luis Potosi. Miguel was in his late 30’s and slightly balding. He was built heavily, though his thick physique was more sturdy than muscular, and looked like he came from a job that required a lot of labor. Miguel carried himself like an impeccable business man and spoke English well despite a heavy Latin accent. When he sipped his beer, the foam was caught in his mustache and required a handkerchief for clean up. Miguel had an impressive mustache, so thick it almost hid his mouth from view. While Miguel didn’t have an aggressive demeanor, he carried himself with a level of confidence not typically seen in food importers. He and Christopher began talking and quickly discovered each other’s love for the game of baseball. Over the next few months, they did business with agave nectar and other local sundries and also made "gentlemen’s wagers" on American baseball games. At the next year's mixer they discussed sweeteners, dried meats, and whether Barry Bonds deserved the asterisk. While debating "what happened in the past stays in the past", Miguel pulled Christopher aside and asked him if he was interested in a business proposition that could make him a lot of money. It would require some time invested outside of work and would require the utmost discretion because of the earning potential--Miguel didn’t want to have "too many hands in the cupboard". When Christopher asked him exactly what he was shipping, Miguel was elusive but offered to fly him down to Hidalgo to witness his operation personally. Christopher thought it over and, after discussing it with his wife, decided to take the trip. While in Mexico, Christopher was given a tour of Miguel's facility. It was a small crew, only 15 men. They worked in a small warehouse on an isolated farm in what appeared to be a packing facility. After a brief tour that really offered no information as to what the actual product was, Christopher pressed Miguel to what was going to make him so much money. "It’s very simple, primo. However, I need some...cómo decirlo...ahhh...assurances from you." he said. "This is a very..umm...ahh, sensitive operation. My employers have no problem paying men who work hard and work well. However, because of the nature of our...business, we need to be assured that you won’t become too greedy or sell us out to other, mmm...parties." This is an operation that we call "el nivel del suelo", what you would call a ground level opportunity. You get in early and you make lots of dinero. But I cannot be more clear: we want your trust and loyalty to our...brand. But, most importantly, you will know only certain aspects of the operation. We only need you to import and ship our products. No other information really is necessary for you. Just ship. Can you extend this to us, primo?" Christopher took this in an thought for what seemed like ten minutes. Right as he was about to say "yes", Miguel said: "I am prepared to make you a gesture of goodwill---an up-front cash payment just so that you understand that I am serious and that quiero sólo hacer negocios con usted--only I do business with you. Do you understand?" Christopher left Hidalgo with his head swimming. As Miguel promised, Christopher received a cash payment of 25,000 dollars in exchange for helping him run his distribution business and to keep what he learned of the business to himself. When he arrived at Draughon-Miller Airport, north of Austin, he realized that he had just become involved in something way bigger than agave sweeteners and dried meats. Instead of flying into Austin-Bergstrom airport on a 747, he arrived at a private airport on a private, 4 person plane...along with a suitcase of cash. Still, with no idea what he was helping to distribute. Thinking back on it now, he couldn’t believe how easy it was to become involved in a human smuggling operation for the sole purpose of slavery, prostitution, and extortion. Even now, while staring at his Birkenstock flip-flops, he couldn’t believe he was in the middle of New York State running from a crime syndicate who hunted down and killed people for business. He felt naked and powerless, depending on a few paid suits to watch his back. Despite all the information he gave and all the men he helped put behind bars, the word "regret" never sounded so hollow and insignificant as it did now. He spent the rest of the night chewing his lip and praying; never taking his eyes off of his wife and his baby girl. air raid sirens sound
tv's broadcast destruction austin starts to smoke voices are screaming fists are banging at your door struggle to stay calm taste adrenalin the screams are liquefying hope is not a choice bloody hands streak glass smoke turns the day into night the sirens: silent tvs air white noise hear industrial collapse uncontrollable chaos and carnage undead monsters eat the life blood is everywhere broken bodies lurch this is the end of the world death is not a choice earthen hands reach out better to run than to pray the buried dead rise the streets are all blocked corpses shamble towards you run for your damned life your friends are all dead your neighbor wants to eat you undeath is a curse as you run you weep the city you knew: destroyed your whole life is gone the dead reach for you teeth gnash, arms stretch, fingers grab smell liquid iron all it takes is one fight to get out of your shirt screams tickle dead ears arterial gush your final menstruation dead teeth stained with life warm blood = your cold death gurgle while screaming for help hands tear life from limb eyes turn white, opaque blackened blood plops at your feet lurch onward, hungry |
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