by B C Woodruff
THE WANDERING WORLD:
AND OTHER STORIES
B C WOODRUFF
|
IAN MORGENHEIM
THE TOWER
Revision Twelve
Jelly Beans
Simpleton
Out of Sources
THE PROGRAM
What Wasn’t Said The Days
THE SPAN
The Wandering World
THE FALL
A Girl and Her Golem
THE □□□
What Were We Expecting?
NOVELLA
Modern Philosophy
Copyright © 2019 by B C Woodruff
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ISBN-10: 0995170207
ISBN-13: 978-0995170209
For those who know us.
REVISION TWELVE
“George Orwell was pretty close when he wrote perhaps his most recognized piece of work, Nineteen Eighty-Four, back in 1948. He just didn’t know it. We call this type of cultural or social contamination a ‘runoff’ or a bleed and it’s fairly well-documented, though there’s no easy explanation for why it happens or why it only happens to certain people.”
“We can trace the modern day Revisionists back to the time before the library of Alexandria burned. People back then had it a lot easier, let me tell you. They didn’t have to contend with modern technology and a global society where information travels from one side of the planet to a thousand places across with a single click. But that’s all part of the job, I suppose.”
Martin cleared his throat and went on:
“As I was saying. George Orwell had it pretty close. “When I’m tasked with explaining to newcomers what it is we do, and specifically what it is we did to them to prepare the way, I always present them with the same ‘comfort package’ consisting of the following items:
“One – A copy of Nineteen Eighty-Four with freshly-bound commentary written by my predecessor. He loved the classics. He hated Harry Potter, though that really just sets him apart from most people these days. A true contrarian that one, always obsessed with taking notes and documenting the world. It’s such a shame – as per protocol, everything I gave him but that flimsy and faded book was thoroughly Edited.
“You’re wondering what I mean when I use that word in this context, I’m sure, but that will come later.
“I offer my recruits a copy of that dystopian classic to remind them that no matter how clear the clues might be, in fiction or fact, the untrained mind is apt to ignore them. We are Forgotten by design.
“The book does contain its fair share of rambling – if not wholly incoherent – notes in the margins, but they are simply meant to marinate the ego before we scour it clean with the flames of insight. “Hmmm. Perhaps that was a poor choice of words, given the situation.
“For the sake of brevity, allow me to tell you what you already know, Detective. You’ve discovered that no matter how far you reach out or what level of government you connect with that the bodies that have led us here, well, they simply... do not exist.
“These people have never had a bank account. They have never had a relation. Never had kids. Never went to the park on Sun- days. Never ate a lunch or paid a bill. One, who I knew quite well, was never born to parents and rewarded with the gift of life and the name Raymond Winters. His sister never had a younger brother who she once kicked off a swing set in their backyard at age four. This event didn’t result in a hairline fracture to his wrist that went unnoticed. And that, in turn, certainly didn’t cause him so much pain in the years that followed.
“According to all extant documentation and most loving memory, this man never existed. Anyone who would have remembered him is gone, except for a few of us in the Ministry.
“That’s right. Good ol’ Eric Arthur Blair came pretty close – even got the wording right on that part and more than a few others.
“Two – I give them a bundle of paper with five coloured pens to write out their questions. Now, we don’t call it Newspeak and I won’t bore you with the grammatical particulars. It doesn’t really matter. What you’ll like to know is that it’s a very colourful script. It involves using specific hues to help emphasize certain concepts that conventional orthography can’t. Replacing adjectives, notably, and illuminating the emotional spectrum through the visual. “It was developed simply because of a question one of our esteemed leaders posed: ‘Are we blind to colour? No? Well, why do we write as though we are?’
“I ask them to keep the questions simple so that I can answer them simply. I don’t like complicating matters. “Why” is a simple question, perhaps the simplest there is, and even that takes skill and precision to answer.
“Three – I give them a ticket up to a cottage in Vermont. They’re expected to spend a week there by themselves without the bother of outside distractions. We always send them in late fall just as the first snowfall is fast approaching. This, and number four, are pretty much standard. Unlike many of my counterparts, however, I provide detailed directions to ensure they aren’t lost along the long stretches of dirt road that you have to follow to find the spot.
“Four - I give them a backpack with some simple supplies like food and candles. I wrap a bottle of alcohol, usually whiskey, in a slim blanket to fight off the cold and a note that asks them to drink it only if they need to.
“Everyone pretty much finds the need to. “It’s a lot to take in. “With these supplies in hand we ship them up to their – well, initiation isn’t altogether the right word. It’s also not entirely the wrong one. Then we pick them up at the end of the week. Most people recover in some form or another. They have questions, but most are ready to hear what we have to say. Some are still in a state of shock and we baby them a bit. And once – well, once that I’m aware of – we found a man hanging in the second floor stairwell.
“We don’t leave rope there anymore. “I had a good feeling about the last one I sent, but, as you can imagine... I guess that feeling was a little misplaced, right?”
Martin paused. He’d done just about everything he could to expose the secrets he was taught to guard till his death. That people could be erased, made to toil in shadow for the greater good. Well, as far as he could see it, death wasn’t too far away and it wouldn’t make much difference if one person knew the truth at the end of the day. If they were even prepared to accept it as such.
“I’m more than a little confused.” Across from Martin Schwartz sat Detective Benjamin Anabath. He adjusted his posture and stretched his back against the worn leather of the interrogation room seat.
Benjamin squinted at the man and crossed his arms, determined to understand but finding himself lost in a tangled web of questions that struggled – and failed – to coalesce properly. The detective’s left hand came up, stroked his strong jawline, and fell back into place. There was a scar there only partially covered by a five o’clock shadow that seemed to thicken even as they sat in
the cold interrogation room in Charlotte, Vermont.
Martin knew the look. It wasn’t only confusion. It was a growing anger borne from ignorance. Itself, begot from a desire to believe and a refusal to do so.
“Where did I lose you?” Martin asked, crossing his legs. “Pretty much at the beginning. I’ve never read this ‘Eric Arthur Blair’ you mentioned.”
“Hmm, I suppose that makes sense.” Martin smiled and nodded. “I guess I could go into greater detail if you like. I know it pretty much by heart.”
Benjamin shook his head. “No. I don’t care about your little club, I just want to know what happened on the night of the twelfth.” He tapped his pen against a fresh sheet of paper that was embossed with the impatient scrawls of a heavy-handed colleague. Even from his position, Martin could see a few faint words attempting to make themselves known. Words like murderer and alibi.
“Can you be specific?” Martin asked, trying to find anything the two of them had in common. “As you’ve seen, quite a lot has happened.”
“I want to know why you were found walking out of an inferno that could have burned down the east side of Milford. I want to know why there was a body buried out back. I want to know why you seem so fucking relaxed about the whole ordeal. I want to know, if you’d kindly admit to it, why you did it. If you don’t feel like sharing, well... I always find a way.”
“I did mention Alexandria, didn’t I?” Martin smiled helpfully. This only inflamed the anger of the middle-aged man with dark black eyes and thick, short hair.
“Who was she?” “Really? Hmm. Not much of a history buff, are you?” “Wouldn’t peg myself as one, no. I’m more of what happened on the twelfth sort of guy. You follow me?”
“What about that movie back in, what was it, 2004? I think Oliver Stone directed that one. Bloody terrible and all that, but all the same. Wait.” He put a bandaged hand to his head and concentrated. “Hold on. Almost got it. Ah! Yes. Colin Farrell – he was our King of Macedonia in that version.” He smiled and looked up. “Terrible movie, but...”
The detective’s look had not changed. “Let me guess – you’re not much of a movie guy, either?” “The twelfth.” “Right. The twelfth. Well, as I was saying, sometimes we have a bit of a hard time when people are first brought into our... you called it a club and I have no problem with that... and this new fellow, Thomas Bridgeman, fit into that category with qualifications to spare. I got a call from him just three days after he’d arrived at our ‘resort getaway’ in Charlotte. He was frantic. Said that someone was after him. Said that when he arrived at the house, he felt as if someone was watching him. All very dramatic, this guy. It’s why I liked him. He had a way with words. Poor man claimed that his first night at the cabin, he spotted someone wandering outside his bedroom. Only, when he went out to look there weren’t even snow prints. Now, I took him as being a little bit put off because of the reading material I’d given him, but as it turned out, he never got around to opening it. Lazy brat he turned out to be.” Benjamin scribbled and whispered, “Yes, Thomas Bridgeman. Go on.”
“So, I told him I’d go up and make sure everything was alright. Entirely against protocol, I hope you understand, but I had a feeling that there was something odd about the whole situation. Suffice it to say that the drive up was tense.”
“And you found the body some time after you arrived?” “Correct.” “And you brought it back to Milford. Tampering with a crime scene.”
“Yes. It was not standard procedure, but I had my reasons.” Benjamin’s eyes widened – finally, something approaching a confession. “Let’s say for just a moment that you’re telling the truth, and that bringing Bridgeman back is all you did. Do you have anyone who can collaborate your story? Someone you were with at the time of the murder? We found no records of any- one matching his description. No one has claimed him missing. But we asked around the neighbourhood, and turned up an old rental agreement...” He looked over the paper. “Thomas S. Bridge- man. Lists his address as Apartment 102 in Valleyfield Tower on Rikards Street. But when we investigated, we found that no one had lived there for months. Where was he from, really?”
Martin’s eyebrow went up. “Benjamin, all except two of the people I’ve known for the best years of my life were swallowed up by the fire you’ve just accused me of causing.” He paused. “So no, I don’t have anyone that will, and I think the word you wanted was corroborate, my story. I’ll also add that Thomas Bridgeman was born in a small town in northern Vermont. Actually in a small community in a maple orchard near the border. I doubt that will help you any, though.” He sighed. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Go ahead.” The detective shrugged and Martin pulled out a Violent Belle branded cigarette from his pocket.
“Bad habit, I know, but it helps with the stress.” Martin’s hands came up and Benjamin noted how they were shaking now under the bandages. He was nervous. This was what he was hoping for.
He looked at the red spots dotting the white. The bastard had deserved it, hadn’t he? He’d been burned rather badly there, and on his back.
“All of this happened on the tenth, correct? Leading up to the fire that started late at night on the eleventh?”
“Yes, sir.” “What happened between the tenth and the twelfth, Martin? And what did you need that body for?” The detective avoided the smoke being blown in his direction.
“Well, we checked over his timeline and did what we do with anyone who leaves our organization – whether by choice or by... incident. We performed a brief forensic analysis, interred the body on the estate, edited his life, and moved on.”
“Edited?” “I’d normally refer back to the book, but your severe lack of cultural knowledge is making these explanations take a lot longer than I would like them to. I will make do with the time I have.” He cleared his throat. “My people are the reason you’ve only found a single document that suggests Bridgeman ever existed. Our numbers may be few, but our connections run deep. Databases, city archives – nothing is beyond us.”
Delusions of grandeur? Benjamin wondered. “I see.”
“I returned back to the campus – the manor at 243 River Rock Drive – and went back to work on finding new candidates. We used to get forty or fifty a year when I was a boy, but people have other interests these days. YouTube and the Internet and designer drugs. Maybe it’s our name. Maybe we’re too good at our jobs. I don’t know.” He sighed. “The volunteers we do attract aren’t always... shall we say worthwhile. Thomas had been a good find, and we were just as interested as anyone else in discovering who had committed that heinous crime. Yet it had appeared, by all accounts, to be an isolated incident. A stranger in the forest. We were blind to the possibility that the entire organization – not just a single facility – had been compromised. That Bridgeman’s death was a warning shot.”
“Are you saying this was premeditated murder then, Martin?” “All of them, yes. Bridgeman and the rest.”
“Just making a note.” Benjamin wrote it down with a sarcastic question mark.
“Do as you like, it won’t really make a difference. The people who were on the other side of this are far and gone by now.”
“You’ll leave that for us to decide, alright?” He was trying to sound sincere. He didn’t. Martin folded his arms. “As you like.” The smoke rolled over his shoulder. “I’m just trying to save you time.”
“Go on.” “When they breached the perimeter of the campus, we were completely unprepared. The shadows had not failed us in decades, and we had grown complacent. The third watch, all seven of them, died without tripping an alarm. And these were professionals, detective, a far cry from initiates like Bridgeman. By the dawn we’d lost the entire campus and only three of us were still breathing. If we managed to kill any of the attackers, I imagine you’ll find that whatever ‘evidence’ there might have been has probably already vanished. If you found any to begin with.” He yawned. “I bet they got the information on where to find us from poor Thomas
before they killed him.” He teared up a bit but maintained his strength.
“Such interesting stories you weave. You almost sound convincing.” He leaned in. “Is that your story, then? You were attacked and you made it out of... 243 River Rock Drive just because you were lucky?”
“Not lucky. They let me go. They let the three of us go. It was meant to be five. At least that was how it was done in the old days. I don’t think any of us truly believed their Order was still active.” Martin finished his cigarette. “I collapsed into the fresh snow and was picked up by some paramedic. I woke up here. Alone. I’m assuming.”
“Yes. Very suspicious, these situations of yours, Martin.” “I imagine you had a tip-off that I was the one who caused the fire?”
“Could be. I’m not at liberty to say.” Detective Anabath smiled; the man was getting red in the face, and he was getting close to the answer he wanted. He just needed to apply a little more pressure. “Are you about ready to start telling the truth now? Let’s go back and start with the basics, shall we?”
“If that’s what you want. Not much time left now. Should have asked earlier.”
“Sure, sure.” He moved the pencil away as if it were a fly buzzing around his head. “You gave the name Martin Schwartz when you woke up.”
“I did.” Martin said. “Well, our records show no one by that name living at the place that burned down on 243 River Rock Drive. We’ve accounted for fifty-three of the fifty-three we picked up. Nothing about you, Mr. Schwartz. Care to elaborate? Or are you going to pretend that these people went back and”– he looked at his notes –“Edited you too?”
Martin’s eyes went wide. “53 lies, detective. We are Forgotten; you shouldn’t have found anything. Dig deeper. So many Edits at once... the Order must have–” Martin coughed, and his face flushed a deep red. No, not red. Purple. Benjamin was quick to catch on to what he was seeing. The man was choking. Choking on whatever had been in the cigarette. He reflected as he vaulted over the table that it had smelled a little odd. He’d assumed it was a menthol or some other flavoured brand. The man wheezed as Benjamin’s fists came down and pounded on the door to the interrogation room.
