by J.P Jackson
After a shower, shit and shave, Taylor tied his boots, buttoned up his jeans then threw on his only red shirt. He entered the cafeteria, collected a plastic tray from a stacked pile and waited in line behind businessmen and banker types. The kitchen was well staffed with a diverse group wearing civilian clothing under their aprons.
There were at least 50 people seated at the long dinner tables, including all 25 orphans, washed, clothed, and eating whatever their hearts desired.
Large screens occupied each wall of the cafeteria, showing muted footage of the outside world. Criminals ran amok in burning cities across every continent, yet millions still clung to their families as the end loomed large in the sky. Perched over each screen was a countdown clock reading just under 3 hours. Taylor looked for it but saw no sense of urgency, just an air of hopelessness both up there and down here. Perhaps the idea of being saved by one drunk Scot and his time machine was just too much to swallow.
“No fight left in the world,” he said to himself.
Taylor couldn't remember the last time he ate, but his grumbling stomach did it's best to remind him. He stuffed a hotdog into his mouth, scooped a helping of scrambled eggs onto his tray then joined Donald, Sylvia, and their sons at a table.
"Hey," he said, squeezing in between his nephews.
"Get off!" groaned Lucas, as his Uncle Ham dipped the end of his hotdog into the boy's ice-cream.
Taylor bit into his dog and winked at Donald across from him. Lanza sat alone at the next table, forlorn and mesmerized by an uneaten piece of buttered toast in his hand. Taylor left him to his lunch and faraway thoughts.
"They'll let anyone down here," Sylvia grumbled, her narrow eyes burning a hole through Taylor's forehead. "I still can't believe they gave all these others a spot,” she whispered, glancing sideways at the hard working staff. “Criminals too I'd wager. So much for class privilege."
Taylor met her inky eyes with a bulging cheek full of food. "You wanna know the difference between you and them?"
Sylvia shook her head but Taylor told her anyway. "These people have something to contribute. They all have skills, be it making eggs or cleaning up after you."
Donald's curly hair was dishevelled and he hadn't made a dent in his macaroni. Like Lanza, his mind seemed adrift. Taylor clicked his fingers in front of his brother's face to snap him out of it.
"Don? What's wrong boy?”
Donald's eyes remained on the ticking clock. "I just...don't believe it's real. We can watch the comet destroy our homes. I wonder if popcorn will be on the menu." He hesitated a moment, before squinting at his brother. "There's a lot of sick people down here, Ham. Psychopaths."
"Kids," Sylvia exclaimed, clanging a fork against her plate. "Go get some more ice-cream. You can have whatever you like to eat today."
Cameron and Lucas didn't have to be told twice, and the moment they left the table, Sylvia aimed her vitriol at her husband.
"I told you not to talk about the situation with the boys around, they're too young to understand! And those “psychopaths” you refer to Donald are the men saving our lives, you joined the group then you do nothing but whine about it. Grow a backbone, why don't -" Sylvia bit her tongue to control her temper.
"The kids know what's going on," Taylor argued on behalf of his brother. "Bloody TVs on in the corner. Young doesn't mean stupid."
"My children...are none of your business."
Suddenly, Sylvia squeaked her chair back as she stood for the arriving president and her entourage. General Wertz accompanied Cox to the front of the food line. With all but Taylor standing, Cox waved at her sycophants but appeared more interested in the platters of food. "I am absolutely ravenous! General, be a dear and fetch me a tray."
Her camera crew, stylist, and joint chiefs were sent to the back of the line while the president selected from the menu.
"Excuse me?" asked Donald, raising his hand. "Excuse me? Madam President?”.
Sylvia tugged at Donald's shirt but he remained standing, and even raised his voice for attention. "Madam President!"
Cox turned impatiently. “You can make a formal appointment with my secretary.”.
"My name is Donald Taylor," he added with respect. "This won't take a moment."
Cox rolled her eyes as if put out of place. "Well then? Out with it!"
Donald kept his hand raised when addressing his Commander-in-chief. "Madam President, a lot of us here need help and advice. We have questions. We're...scared."
"Madam President," Wertz muttered in her ear, "you don't have to answer any questions."
"That's fine," she whispered back, still facing Donald. "What can I do for you citizen? Don't you have everything you need? You have sanctuary, food and water for the rest of your lives. Haven't we provided you with enough already?"
"You have," Donald answered, his voice meek. "It's just...we would like to know what's next? Is there anything we can do to help the people above? Our colleagues and friends? Our fellow Americans."
The crowd murmured in agreement, causing Cox to raise her arms and smile. "You are here because you are all important to the Corporation! The citizens above still have a chance! We haven't given up on them yet!”
Donald lowered his head and wrung his fingers together. "Madam President, it is times like these when we need our leaders most." He cleared his throat, placed his right hand over his heart and begged everyone to join him in the national anthem. Kitchen staff and inspired diners nodded back. Taylor meanwhile finished his eggs.
"Will you do us the honour, Madam President?"
“Absolutely,” she returned without hesitation, raising her chin with poise and professionalism. Placing her palm over her chest, Cox frowned during an awkwardly long pause.
"Oh say can you see,” Wertz hissed at her.
Cox bobbled her head and took it from there. “By the moons great white light..."
She paused again, trying to recall the words she mimed so perfectly at last year's Super Bowl. "What so proudly we are...as we hailed the twilight shinning. Whose broad stripes and light stars..."
She stuttered, then stopped altogether. Her audience was a gallery of blank expressions and hanging mouths. It was left to Taylor to show his appreciation. Throwing down his fork, his sarcastic applause was painfully slow, and achingly obvious.
"Oh my," Cox exhaled, rubbing her forehead. "What a migraine. Citizens, if you'll excuse me, I don't feel so hungry after all."
Cox hurried out of the cafeteria. Her entourage made to follow when Wertz ordered them back. Tapping a finger against his temple, the general was receiving instruction from an unknown source. Good news judging by his smile.
“Taylor! Lanza!”
The pair faced the general with arching eyebrows.
"Follow me!"
