My host cowered me with a look that told me not to try anything. I wanted to run, but to where? This tiny island and its carnivorous sea served better than any prison bars or city walls. I shook with the knowledge of my impending death until my eyes found the old man shooting me a snide brown-toothed grin.
It steadied me.
I would live my year as a god and, as I waded in to meet my doom, I knew to whom my finger would point.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Purge
WHAT HAPPENS WHEN I find a quarter on the ground? Elation at my luck? No, my mind unravels a myriad of paranoid possibilities, "Purge" is one of them. I had fun with the different personalities arguing around the table – anyone who's attended a meeting at work will relate to them.
***
“Excuse me sir, could you spare a quarter?”
Polite laughter rose and fell as Rhett moved aside a Plexiglas box big enough to hold a cat, but containing only a quarter.
“That’s exactly the point, Nick,” Rhett continued. “No one bothers picking up dimes anymore and pennies are tossed aside everyday. But a quarter laying on the sidewalk will be snatched up instantly.”
“How many sites we talkin’ about?” asked Hank.
“We've gone over this, Tex,” Nick huffed.
“Maybe I missed a meetin’ or two since I’m workin’ on somethin’, not sittin’ on my duff.”
“I'm not just sitting around. Programming is my assignment - an assignment that I’ve completed.”
“What're you implying?” Tim asked.
“Just that some people finish their work while others seem to struggle.”
“We all have a task to do, Nick. I think we’re right on target,” Rhett said. He regretted bringing Nick on the team. The guy never worked well with others, but with a few lines of programming he had obtained a key resource for the cause – thousands of quarters. Still, he wished Nick would stop goading anyone who took the bait. “Tim, please brief us on your progress.”
“Hank and I finished the formula. We’ve dubbed it Purge. Released airborne one part per billion wiped out fifty rats in a room larger than this. But airborne Purge kills at random, so we formulated a coating activated by oils on the victim's fingers. We took time developing the formula properly to target only humans.”
“Yeah, Nick,” Hank said, “remember we're doin’ this to cull humans off this planet so other species can have a chance. You want us to rush around and take out everything? Some of us have bigger worries than a few lines of code and which Coke machine to hit next.”
“Okay guys. Enough,” Rhett ordered. “Stan, you’ve planned the targets?”
Stan went to the podium.
“Well,” he said peering over his glasses, “we could go big – hit excess-filled L.A. or wasteland New York. But that's so Al-Qaeda - all show, no substance.”
“So what's your suggestion? I thought we were making a statement,” Nick criticized.
“Nick, can it,” Rhett said.
“We don't want to raise alarms,” Stan continued. “If we release these quarters in a big city the media will be alerted within an hour. No, we start in small places - towns, rural areas, little suburbs that have encroached on natural spaces. If we get those places back for Mother Nature, she'll begin to rebound. I've compiled a list.” He handed a sheet around and the same list appeared on the screen behind him. “Rhett, can you fly over all these within a week? That’s the optimal time frame. Then we’ll do a second wave of mid-sized cities.”
Rhett scanned the paper. The Cessna could handle the flights, but with the weight of the quarters and an assistant--
“I’ll need to refuel often.”
“It'll be fine,” Stan pushed up his glasses, “regional cooperatives will refuel you. I'll get you their info.”
“Sounds like you've got your end under control,” Nick eyed Tim and Hank, the project's chemists.
“Shut it, Dweeb. You know we've had the hardest component,” Tim said. “Until Rhett takes flight, Hank and I are the only ones putting ourselves at risk every day. You think working with something more deadly than Serin is fun?”
“You volunteered for it,” Nick said. “You responded to the ad just like the rest of us.”
“Oh, I feel so bad for you. You must be developing a nasty case of carpal tunnel after all that typing. Wearing a wrist support, that's right up there with daily exposure to neurotoxins.”
“I'm just saying, you made the choice.”
“And I'm choosing to risk my life for the planet. I'm willing to be exposed to this to knock humans down a few notches and let Nature gain an even playing field. You've only risked eyestrain.”
“Now,” Rhett said before Nick made his comeback, “Stan will provide a run down of his plan. Then Tim and Hank can demo their work." Without looking Rhett sensed Nick shifting in his seat waiting to be recognized. “And afterward Nick can take us down the hall to demonstrate his skills against the vending machine.”
Stan tapped on the computer. A U.S. map with red dots scattered from coast to coast appeared on the room’s screen.
“If we hit the areas I've designated, we should take the population down by a third within a week. That's good, but for humans to return to a population the planet can support through hunting and gathering and sustainable agriculture we need to get it down by seventy percent. This will occur in the second wave on mid-sized cities I mentioned." Blue dots scattered the map alongside the red dots. “In addition, operatives in other countries will take Purge and place it on their coins. We’re coordinated to begin in one month. Humans have made a mess of Earth and we need to clean it up. Within six weeks the newly purged planet will begin renewing itself. Tim, Hank, could you explain what you've developed?”
An image of a quarter replaced the map.
“There’s your ordinary quarter,” Hank drawled. “Anyone seein’ it layin’ on the street, in a field, hell even in a cow pie, ain't gonna hesitate to pick it up--”
“That was my research,” Nick interrupted. “I put out coins and the quarters were always picked up. I did the monitoring and data collection.”
“Please, Nick,” Rhett said, “we'll get to your part.”
“As Nick brilliantly discovered, people like quarters,” Hank continued. “Tim and I worked with various neurotoxins from venoms to botulinum. We formulated one that’s stable in spore form.”
“Please explain that,” Rhett asked.
“Spores can sit around forever with all the fixin's necessary to do their job, but just waitin’ for the right conditions. Our conditions are quite specific so we don’t wipe out all the other critters. We conjured up somethin’ that’s activated only by oil on a human hand--”
“How the hell do you do that, Tex?”
“It doesn't matter for this discussion, Nick,” Rhett seethed. “What was your estimated final population, Stan?”
“Conservative models show one billion, very likely less.”
“And there's no risk of harming other species?”
“No,” Tim answered, “the oils on the human hand are very specific. Purge reacts instantly with the oil and absorbs into the body. Death by system shutdown occurs within two minutes. The brain basically stops and the body up and quits." A cartoon hand grabbed the quarter. Tiny skulls and crossbones swam from the coin into the hand. An image of a gravestone with R.I.P carved on it morphed onto the screen. “Also, Purge biodegrades back into its component molecules. After a week the quarters become harmless coins again."
Nick snorted.
“Problem?”
“You chemists always think you know what you're doing, but end up creating things like Round-up and making things worse.”
“We've analyzed this to pieces. We know what we're doin’.”
“That's what they all say.”
“A demonstration?” Rhett interrupted.
Tim took Stan’s place at the podium and removed the Plexiglas box’s lid. From under the podium he bro
ught out a white rat. It sniffed the air as Tim stroked it several times before placing it in with the quarter and quickly snapping on the lid.
“You said only human oil would work,” Nick sneered. ”That's a rat in case you didn't notice.”
“In case you didn't notice,” Hank answered, “he pet the rat first.”
“Oh, like that's enough?”
“Why don't you stick your greasy face in there and find out?” Tim snapped.
“I'm sick of this crap from you two,” Nick launched out of his seat and punched Tim staggering the chemist back a few steps.
Only Rhett and Stan noticed the rat collapse. Its chest heaved twice, then nothing.
“Guys,” Rhett shouted, “careful."
“Yeah idiot, the toxin's activated in case you didn't notice." Tim grabbed the box forcing Nick to look. As Tim jutted the chamber toward him, Nick delivered a second punch. Instead of Tim's face, Nick’s fist met the chamber, knocking it from Tim's hands. The rat and the quarter rolled onto the table.
***
The cleaning lady ignored the room that evening. The “In Use” sign was still lit and she'd been yelled at more than once for disturbing meetings when she only wanted to collect the bin bags. After a week of seeing the illuminated “In Use,” she sighed and knocked on the door knowing none of these people bothered to empty their own trash. Plus, by now the carpet would be in sore need of a vacuum.
When there was no response to her knock, she opened the door. The stench forced her to drop the key as her hand flew to cover her nose and mouth. She didn't scream. After years of hospital janitorial work, the sight of dead bodies didn't faze her. While holding her breath she crossed herself, mentally recited a Hail Mary, and pocketed the quarter on the table before calling security.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Text
I'M STILL UNDECIDED whether I like "The Text" or not. It's another opening line inspired story and I had fun with tormenting the protagonist. It has its good points and bad points, but overall I think it's a fun (if that word can be used for such a dark tale) piece if you don't think too hard or try to "over read" the story. If you like it, thanks. If you hate it, well, at least it's short.
***
Not wanting to be one of “those” people yakking in the middle of the aisle, I set my phone to silent mode before entering the store. As I roam through the produce department shaking my head over Keith’s favorite wisecrack about old people never buying green bananas, my thigh tingles as the phone wiggles its signal. I pull it out and check the caller ID out of habit. Keith. Ironic, but he can wait. I stick the phone back in my pocket and a few seconds later it buzzes twice to indicate a message.
Once in my car, I flick open the phone and thumb through the menus to get to the text message.
“Body disposed. Meet @ Lotus 10pm. Paymt due ASAP.”
Very funny, Keith. Payment due. I owe him $10 for our weekly bet regarding which office female Gerald, our boss, would get rejected by this week. I guessed Sheila, his desperate secretary, but Keith gambled on the horse-faced new girl, Molly. Gerald took his chances on the new girl, got turned down in a heartbeat and Keith won the bet.
I hadn’t been to the Lotus in months and couldn’t believe Keith even knew where it was. He was a fun guy to talk to and joke with at work, but I never really thought of hanging out with him outside of work. Keith was, well, to put it bluntly, a complete nerd – thick glasses, starched checked shirt buttoned up to his chin and white socks for every occasion. The running joke, which he went along with, centered on how even with his Sicilian roots, the mob would reject someone as dorky as him.
At 9:30 p.m., I shave and dress, at least hanging out next to Keith will make me the attractive one of the duo. I still can’t believe the guy knows where the Lotus is; he doesn’t even know the name of the bar closest to his apartment. Maybe he thinks the Lotus is a Thai restaurant. I walk the few blocks from my loft to meet up with Keith who'll be looking a bit silly trying to order Pad Thai from the bartender.
Inside the Lotus, the brick red walls absorb most of the light. Still, I scan the room for Keith and for any ex-girlfriends who might be lurking in my old haunting ground. I figure Keith'll stick out like a thumb on a cat, but I can’t find him. I order a beer and glance around again. Maybe this is Keith’s idea of a joke, not the body part, but tricking me into going out on dead Sunday night.
Finally, I spot him. He's sitting in a corner booth sipping a martini looking like he owns the place. His too thick glasses still perched on his face, but the black silk button down and tousled hair make him look like any other hipster who might loiter at the club.
I slide into the booth and he chokes on his olive.
“What’re you doing here?” His eyes dart around the room.
“Got your text.”
He doesn’t even glance at me - his eyes are too busy peering into every corner of the room. “What text?”
“Meet you here at ten, payment due." Keith mutters something while shushing me like a school marm. I slap down two fives and ask, “And what’s with the body disposal? Your brother finally leave town?”
“Shut up,” Keith blurts as two men stop in front of our table. One's big, football player big, while the other looks like a living Armani ad.
“You conducting other business, Keith? Should we step aside?” the big one asks in a condescending tone.
“Or is he in on this too?” Armani accuses, “You said one third, Keith. I ain’t taking less than a third.”
“Shut up you nitwit, I’ll take care of everything. Did you find Marcus like I asked?”
“He’s coming right now,” the big one says and from behind him I see another man in all black coming toward us. He looks like a character from a gangster movie set in the twenties and would have fit in perfectly a few years ago when the swing craze raged anew.
Keith, who earlier gave the impression of being calm and in charge, begins to fidget with his swizzle stick in the same way he does with his pen whenever Gerald wants him to present a report at a meeting. The confusion over the situation and Keith’s attitude is more than I can handle. I grabd my beer and start to stand up. “Look, sorry I interrupted. I’ll catch you tomorrow.”
Keith, using more strength than I would have guessed his scrawny frame possessed, pushsd me back down. “Sit and keep your mouth shut. I’ll take care of this." The other two slid in. I was trapped.
“Take care of what?” I ask.
“Shut up,” he seethes. The man in black stops at the table.
“Why’re there four of you? Is this a trick, Keith?”
“No, Marcus,” Keith says, “just a misunderstanding.”
“Look, if I could just go,” I say. “I thought this table was free—“
The man hammers his fist down on the table close enough to my beer to make it tilt and slosh over the edge. Keith cups his hand over the top to steady it. I want to guzzle the pint and get the hell back home. The noise of the bar's tinny stereo system is enough to drown out the sound of the fist, but few people miss the body language of a bear about ready to strike out. The man notices people watching, straightens up and laughs. “Free, that’s a good one.”
As people go back to their flirting and drinking, he hovers back over the table.
“So Keith, we have two problems. You’ve let someone else in on this who wasn’t supposed to know. This makes me wonder if you’re a cop. Only a cop would do something so stupid as to bring another person in at the end of a deal.”
Keith bristles. “It’s already taken care of, Marcus, just like your other problem.”
“Yeah?" The guy beams a smile at Keith and he would look genuinely likeable if I didn’t have a deep instinctive urge to run as far from him as possible. “You’re good at solving my problems. Probably the best. But no money changes hands until this,” he jerks his head in my direction, “is out of my sight.”
“It’s not a problem,” Keith’s voice remains flat.
Marcus laughs again. “Exactly,” he turns to leave. “I’ll be at my table when you’re free.”
The two others move out of the booth, but I just sit there. What was Keith? The text was a joke, right?
“Drink your beer and let’s get you out of here,” he commands. I chug the pint and then scramble out of the high-backed booth that looms as if threatening to swallow me alive. Keith ushers me outside. The other two men follow.
“What’s going on?” I notice my words are slurred. That usually took a lot more than one beer, but I did drink it pretty fast.
“Just come on,” Keith tugs on me and walks me into the park across from the Lotus.
“You’re in big trouble from the boss,” Armani says.
“Boss?” My head swims. All those Sicilian jokes – was there a reason Keith never denied them, just played along? “The text wasn’t a joke, was it?” All my sibilant words slosh into themselves.
“You texted him?” the big one asks. “You knew this was supposed to be kept quiet.”
“Yeah murder usually is,” Keith snaps back.
Murder? My legs weakened under me. “I think I need to get home.”
“You’re not going home. Just take a seat here. You know you should really mind your drink in a place like that.” I can’t argue with him or fight my way back to standing as he guides me onto a secluded bench.
“Why? What are you, dude?”
“I kill people for money,” he says as if saying he collected stamps.
“No, you program the--” my mind fuzzes and I fight for the word, “typing boxes.”
“Computers,” Keith offers. “I never could give up my day job, keeps the tax man off my back, Sorry about the text, must have misdialed. Tough break, man, but business is business.”
My eyes begin to close and an image flashes of his hand cupped over my beer.
“Did you--? Why? I wouldn’t have told,” I can barely understand my own words. My tongue feels like a stone in my mouth.
“Marcus would have tracked you down and killed you anyway. His methods aren’t quick. This way is better. When people at work get the news that you died of a heroin overdose, I’ll be sure to say it must be a mistake. Don’t worry, man, I’ll stand up for you."
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