Twisted All To Hell

by J E Moore

nightmarish flashback, Warren remembered - he was the very first one he'd seen!

  'Thunk' Ironsmith's heel struck the baseboard of the wall behind him, the wall which displayed the global offensive and defensive strike results. In essence, the devastation he had created.

  The lead Zombie's venom-filled eyes swept the tracking maps above Ironsmith. The others looked back and forth from him to the President. Ironsmith's knees shook; his cheek muscles twitched. The Zombie returned his gaze to Warren and reached out his claw-like deformed hand in a pointing manner. He made a sound, not loud and his followers became silent. "Oon ... mit." A little louder now, "Roon-smit." Louder, "Ay-roon-smit."

  The mob tried to imitate their leader's voice. Poorly, but collectively, the syllables became clear, "Ay-ron-smit."

  The leader Zombie stepped aside - away from his followers. He had a malicious grin on his face. The pack shuffled toward Warren, their faces were masks of fury and betrayal driven malice. Crazed, wild-eyed, teeth bared, " I-ron-smit. "Oh, my god, they... they know it's me!" Warren's body went numb; a warm stream trickled down between his trembling legs.

  "I-ron-smit, I-ron-smit!" they chanted.

  In last second desperation the President wondered, "If I kill their leader will they withdraw?"

  "No... no, I think not." White-knuckled, he raised his forty-five.

  The end

  I had a Dream

  Atlanta, 2124

  Christine stood silently inside the narrow confines of selection booth #7. She was nervous and for a very good reason. After all, how many things could a person steal from a public library which would cause them to be expatriated and sentenced to a lifetime of human bondage? A Black Culture prism was the only item she knew of... and that little hunk of glass was exactly what she came for!

  The computer's video display terminal glowed softly: 'Service'?

  She took a deep breath, glanced around the room, noting the sparsely occupied facility contained only non-familiar faces tonight. "Thank, God," she whispered. While thinking, "No one's here. Damn good thing too because I sure as hell can't afford to get derailed by some dumb-ass Romeo trying to hit on me. No, sir, not tonight."

  She addressed the terminal's awaiting, 'Sign on' request. Her fingers danced deftly across the touch-sensitive screen as she typed a stolen twelve digit C.I.N. (citizen's identification number) and its matching six digit pin code. "Aw right, baby. Talk to me," she silently pleaded.

  The screen answered, "Salutations, Citizen Victoria R. Cosgrove. Please make your selections starting with the Main menu. If you need help a staff member will be happy to assist you."

  She mumbled under her breath, "Screw the staff and let's get this show on the road!" She tore through the menu - her recent trepidation now being replaced by steel determination.

  "Your requested material: African cultures, Country - Matoba, Year - 2124, is now available in Study chamber 24. Embrace knowledge, Victoria."

  She touched, 'Accept'.

  "Embrace indeed, she thought as she strode toward her assigned room. "I certainly will, but not exactly the way you expect, you soul-less, electronic White cow chip."

  Motion sensor lights switched on as she entered the small, non-reflective, black-walled, audiovisual theatre. The illumination revealed a square table which could accommodate up to four reviewers - for study group presentations. Each position had its own pop-up VDT and a flush keyboard which enabled the user to communicate with the main frame computer via a fiber optic link. In the center of the table was a built-in pedestal 'player' with the Matoba prism inserted and ready for activation. She turned, pressed the door sensor to 'close' then manually slid the viewing window panel down which then outwardly displayed: Occupied, please do not disturb. Only one keyboard denoting 'operational' was lit and she took her place there. Her VDT screen displayed a new menu; she selected: Language : oral. 'Begin'.

  The lighting gradually dimmed and extinguished. The cone shaped, six inch smoke-colored triangular crystal prism was inverted with its tip pointed downward into the player. It began to glow. The flat base swirled the range of the spectrum then projected a holographic image of a human head at the viewer's shoulder level. A smiling, middle-aged African male spoke, "Salutations, Victoria. How may I be of service?" The head turned slightly from side to side awaiting her response.

  "Conversational language lesson, primary level. Begin," she ordered.

  The hovering image returned, "Hello, my name is Nebuto." Then repeated the phrase in his native language, "Nya, su bana e Nebuto."

  Christine touched, 'Pause' then 'Documentation'. She needed to test that all the prism's comm paths and features were operating properly. An 8xl0" hard copy inscribing the same verbalize slid out of a slit in the player base toward her. She inspected the English/Matoban translation then fed it into a 'discard' slot where it would be shredded and recycled. There was another critical feature she had to check and stroked, 'Question'. The head gazed at her with a pleased, expectant expression. "Which race is subservient and its origin?" she queried.

  "Caucasian, North America," then "Wy-tee, Nor Ammaca," in Matoban.

  "Excellent. White Americans are the slaves of the Matoba" she said to herself then ran a few more minor command tests. Satisfied, she pressed 'Pause' again and glanced at her wrist watch; it read 06:50 pm. "Good, I have ten minutes to spare." Christine switched off the holographic projection leaving the prism in its 'ready mode' and exited the room while being careful to secure the door behind her. She walked back to the selector booth area where there were a lot of people moving about so she wouldn't be noticed. She stopped at the adjacent water fountain, leaned over for a drink and cast an eye at the West entrance security guard's desk. An older man who resembled the spitting image of Franklin D. Roosevelt sat right where he should be. She then took a seat at an open study table in order to retain her line of sight to the guard. She pretended to read a magazine she had brought in her purse. Soon, right on schedule, the guard leaned down and retrieved a lunch pail which he had tucked under his desk earlier. He sorted-out a few items then rose with two containers in hand - he was stepping away for a few minutes to heat his dinner. "Thank goodness, the man's a creature of habit," she sighed in relief.

  Christine immediately returned to her assigned room. Once inside she leaned over the table, popped the prism out of the player, covered it with insulating bubble wrap and placed it in her handbag. She peeked out, exited, closed the door and walked toward the West Entrance at a good pace but not so fast as to draw attention. She gave a quick check down the hallway which led to the employee lounge where the guard was heating his food in a microwave. "Still clear. So far, so good," she surmised. "They won't notice the prism is missing until tomorrow morning after they review the computer's overnight inventory."

  The entrance's automatic glass doors slid open; a young man was entering from the far side. Christine, the thief on her way out, was only twenty feet from making a clean getaway when an alarm sounded. 'Clang! Clang!' The doors began to close on the incoming visitor. The right siding panel struck his shoulder. He instinctively grabbed the door edge then blocked it from closing further with his foot. "Hey, what's going on here?" he exclaimed.

  "Oh, no!" she thought. "The prism must have a theft detection sticker on it!" She quickly scooted in next to him and said, "Thanks. It must be a malfunction." They both wiggled and squeezed through the wedged opening. 'Clap' the doors slammed together.

  With eyes wide with concern for not being at his post, the guard huffed around the corner. The young fellow stood inside the entranceway with his hands on his hips, listening to the alarm bell. "Hold it right there!" the guard ordered.

  "What for?" blustered the bewildered youngster. He extended his open palms in a defensive manner meaning, 'I don't have anything. I'm coming in.' He then thumbed toward Christine fleeing down the outside marbled stairs. "She's the one in a hurry to leave."

  The guard peered through the glass, "Oh, crap." He hustled to his desk, threw th
e alarm cut-off switch to stop the ringing then punched the button to reset the door sensor control. He rushed outside just in time to observe Christine jump into a private airmobile. It rose thirty feet into the air then silently sped away into the twilight. He didn't have enough time to get off a safe laser shot.

  "What's the rush?" asked Jerome the airmobile driver wearing his Negro League, Atlanta Braves baseball uniform.

  "An alarm sounded as I was leaving. The prism must have a detection sticker on it. Another second more and I would have been trapped inside!"

  "Wow! Dat be close," he marveled. "I didn't know the library had anything 'bugged'... must be sumpin' new!"

  "Must be, Jerome," she concurred while unwrapping the pilfered booty and inspecting it. "I found it." She showed him a small, round detector glued near the apex then proceeded to scrape it off with her fingernail file. She tossed the tracking label out the window. "White devils."

  "Careful who you say dat around, no place be safe," he warned. "The Whites will report you to the Purification Bureau and you knows what'll happen den."

  "Yes. They'll run a DNA test and discover I'm really a Black. My built-in cover will be blown."

  "Right on," he continued. "They'll perma-dye your lily white skin to 'true black' and put you in one of dem desert labor colonies. You be