by Jake Packard
“Right now Salem’s mysterious disappearance is playing out to big-time exposure, more than we dreamed about, even if he had cooperated and showed up to the interview to answer your questions. But don’t you worry, you are still right in the center of it. That’s why I’m calling. Contrary to what I know you are thinking, the word at the station is that Pellet had nothing to do with his disappearance, and supposedly that comes straight from City Hall. And speaking of the Mayor, his office has been trying to reach you all day. So what’s up with that? Please, get back to them immediately. I have a feeling this is big, and this comes from a friend as well as the producer of this show.”
Not comforted, she hit the pause button, freezing Jerry’s face in an ungainly moment, his lips and nose contorted. Maybe its time to change those recognition codes, she thought.
She stood up from her desk, walked over to the armoire, poured another glass of wine, and took a healthy draught.
Jerry taught her how to get long-term results, how a good reporter should hustle in an assertive, yet patient way. His presence added a touch of humanity to everything she did. He gave her the sense of urgency to keep her performance more real than that usual hyped up tone of voice every newscaster had who graduated from Broadcast 101. Without his help and his trust, who knows where she might be today? Jerry acted as a mentor to her in this business and still remained one of her best friends.
Forgiving him, she re-hit the pause button His face, freed to move beyond its last grotesque looking grimace, started to talk again.
“The squirrel killers are out there now, combing the city for Salem. Pellet promises results. Without any way of identifying him, they have to conduct a reverse search, canceling out the positive responses to isolate the only negative. In this growing city of over thirty-five million mostly displaced souls, that’s like looking for the last drop of clean water in the Atlantic. It is going to take a lot of time to find him. So, as your friend I suggest you have a glass of wine,” she took another healthy swallow, “relax, and have a hot bath. Most importantly, please take care of yourself. Tomorrow is another day. And, as your producer, call back the Mayor’s office as soon as you can.”
The reporter in her started to fight back through the gloom and doom. What’s up with this Mayor Storm thing? What does Pellet really know?
She hit the button and the next graphic page popped up with the picture of her mother. “Hi, honey, it’s me. Daddy and I saw the whole thing this morning and can only imagine how awful you must feel. Not to restart any old battles, but you are working with prison people on this, not exactly reliable if you know what I mean.”
“Ma, please shut up,” Maria said to the screen and took another sip of wine.
“But we have gone over all this before, so I’ll just shut up like I’m sure you want me to. I’m just calling to let you know we’re here if you want to, give us a call and talk. Who can you talk to if not your own mother? Love you, honey.” Love you, too, Mom.
Maria grew up well-heeled, descended from a long line of Caracas oil money, who got out before the Shining Path moved into the Venezuelan oil fields, just in time to avoid becoming slaughtered, mutilated and decapitated by violent communist Taoists.
With the help of her father’s money and her mother’s family connections, they succeeded in fitting into Miami, their newfound land of freedom. Just days after gaining U.S. citizenship, off on a venture out of town to buy real estate in the panhandle, they escaped the South Beach biochemical attacks.
At first it was so confusing, so many people dying in such a short, gruesome time. No terrorist group took responsibility, but Homeland Security broke it down to the Jihad operating out of Havana, attacking another international symbol of western decadence and sin. Washington retaliated. American justice reverted to the Old Testament, and in the spirit of one eye for another, several hundred thousand Cubans, whose only defense was an old and useless vaccine stored decades ago by an impoverished Castro government, died grotesque deaths from a virulent re-engineered strain of smallpox.
The Primera family ended up this time in New York with an intro letter from an uncle-in-law who had some friend. Her dad started to do well again, this time with a string of Volvo dealerships in the Tri-State area. Her mom enrolled her into the best pre-schools and Maria was on her way. But everything changed again with that dirty bomb going off on the other side of the river.
The radiation had multiple effects. Besides killing thousands, it mutated the known strains of AIDs into brand new killer cancers that spread through the air and water, unable to be contained with the known cocktails of drugs. The world moved beyond the point of simple cautionary paranoia, and became obsessed with the disease. The advanced stages of contagion in certain communities led to an enflamed social crisis all over the U.S. and the world.
An entire new class of ultrarich arose, made up of people of all countries and colors who could afford to live as germfree as possible. They quickly reverted from the Saturday night society of the casual goodnight roll in the hay, back to the one that sacrificed virginity only upon an altar. Male or female, being chaste until marriage became the absolute ideal. No one with a real life wanted any micro-organs to attack their body through their lips, skin, or genitals, passed on from close, casual, or anonymous friends.
But most people on the street never have a chance for a life like that. So the sexual behavior of the rest of society continued to mud wrestle in Gomorrah-like gooze.
The competition in the highest levels of society for untainted, healthy human product went to the extreme. People these days could not afford to make mistakes. Bags of bones could not hide anymore in hallway closets. The proliferation of the new biopods helped the “anything goes and you can reinvent yourself at anytime” mentality to go up in smoke. Using portable lasers, these world changing devices could instantly analyze and diagnose an individual’s health and blood, while cross-referencing the information against worldwide databases,
There didn’t seem like much left to believe in to instill the desire to have children, especially after those few months of acute madness. But when the jihad simmered back down to a more regional and resource-based struggle, people rediscovered that the human drive to procreate is just too strong, or at least the going through the motions part of it. Maria’s parents made sure they never had anything to worry about like that with their daughter.
The video answering machine beeped and the next page appeared on the screen. Maria saw the seal of the city-state, then onscreen the troll woman, Vera, blinked like a gecko.
“Miss Primera, I’m calling for Mayor Storm, but of course you know that, don’t you? I’m sorry we superseded your right to privacy and suspended your recognition codes, but of course, all within the law according to the Cities Emergency Regulations. The Mayor called a meeting with you at 7 a.m. tomorrow. I’m assuming you’re going to be there so no need to call back to confirm. And, dear, please be punctual, we’ve heard about you.”
She felt instant dislike for that unpleasant bitch. It was bad enough Maria had to listen to that surly voice, but she had to look at her too. The eyeball recognition technology utilized by the new security codes made these video answering machines insufferable.
She shut off the computer and drained the glass of wine.
* * * * *
Guitar Music
Herbie fumbled through the four police locks on the apartment door and then kicked it open. He flicked on the single light over the kitchenette, and when he banged the paper bag with the homemade tequila onto the tiny, greasy countertop, large cockroaches scattered. He took the tequila out of the bag and unscrewed the plastic bottle cap. The first odors out of the flask tickled his nostrils and immediately tinkered with the chemistry in his thirsty brain. He put the bottle to his mouth and took a huge gulp. This magical moonshine came from the best Big Apple Mexicans in his hood. Amigos he met a few years ago when he first moved in. Farther back than that, he did not like to remember.
H
e twisted his head back and forth but could not shake the music that had been resonating in his ears all day long,
He took off his leather bomber jacket and threw it on the floor, his aviator glasses followed, landing nearby. Herbie then opened the mini-fridge and caught a half-finished bottle of Corona before it could spill onto the cracked linoleum.
See, he said to himself, those old reflexes are still sharp as shit!
He poured the remaining beer down his throat, chasing the tequila down to the place where it could do the most good in the shortest amount of time. He pulled a crumpled cigarette from a twisted Lucky Strike pack lying on the counter, also impossible to get without the black market, and lit it with the gas stove. He grabbed an unopened can of Bud from the mini-fridge and kicked the door shut.
He settled on the dusty floor against the unpainted sheetrock, and for the first time in years, Herbie reached for the old guitar that Bullmoose gave him a long time ago. His fingers took over. They began moving over the strings with a mind of their own, playing the uncanny music echoing in his head all day, and repeating it, over and over. A high note sliding up the B string an octave, and then down a fifth, then up another octave, and starting all over again . . .
* * * * *
Bath Music
Maria watched the last drop of Merlot drip out of the overturned bottle into her crystal goblet. Her antique grandfather clock gonged midnight. She knew she couldn’t sleep. But she needed to relax, and the wine didn’t do the trick. Maybe that hot bath.
She put the glass down in her stainless kitchen sink and headed to the bathroom. The tub stood perched upon a pedestal of marble, ringed by sconces that suggested ancient Egypt. After she turned on the water, she poured in aromatic bath salts.
She flipped on the satellite radio always tuned to her favorite light jazz station. It played a sexy walking bass and a muted horn, dancing around an undulating back beat.
In the soft light, she examined herself in the full-length mirror, which covered one entire wall. Then she unbuttoned her silk blouse, and tossed it into the hamper in the corner made out of genuine Brazilian bamboo.
She unzipped the fly to the skirt and let it drop to the floor, revealing a white lace thong hiding between two perfect cheeks.
She removed her bra, cupping her breasts in the palms of her hands, rubbing the nipples with her thumbs. They extended and hardened.
She turned and faced the mirror, gazing at her curves from torso to waist to hips to knees, down through her rare, elegant calves to her long, delicate toes painted in French pedicure.
The tub filled with luxurious bubbles. She stepped in, the liquid warmth an instant signal to unwind. She sat down, removed her tiny panties, and dropped them upon the Costa Rican terracotta floor, splashing soap bubbles over the hand painted dots.
Her eyes closed, her nerves unwound, her mind relaxed.
She felt dreamy, unburdened. All worrisome thoughts drifted away as she listened to the radio now play a tune she thought she heard before. A hypnotic melody. A soft celestial soprano skipped up an octave, and then down a fifth, and up another, and then starting all over again, repeating, but never quite the same, mantra-like . . .
* * * * *
Squirrel Killers
The General stepped out of the doorway onto the deck of the aircraft carrier he called home. He lived on the U.S.S Brooklyn for the last fifteen years. He designed it, he named it, and he loved it. The elite of his forces also lived on the ship. They went everywhere he did.
He stared across the Hudson River to the Jersey side. The sky smoggy black, the pollution obscured any chance of seeing stars. But peaceful, quiet, and it fell to him to keep it that way.
But he could still hear the muezzin’s plaintive air, halfway around the planet and over twenty years ago. It called the faithful to their afternoon prayers. He could still see the wild-eyed men in black robes gathered by the bullet-ridden mosque, submitting themselves to their intractable version of Allah. On their knees, weapons at hand, they made ardent pray for their own martyrdom in battle against the infidel. They raised their fists and guns in defiance towards the low flying drones taking live video of the scene.
A few miles away, nervous soldiers under Pellet’s first command watched on their monitors, awaiting the next attack. From behind heavy fortified earthworks, his Marines could do nothing as their captured comrades hung from crosses erected in the squeamish blackness the night before. Now, crucified in the broiling midday sun, their horrific screams rebounded off the sand, echoing in with the enemy’s prayers across the bloody desert.
No surprise to the General that the Middle East started it all. The Arabs and Jews fought each other ever since the creation of Israel. The ongoing mistrust and endless intifada grew more genocidal everyday until the inevitable. Of course, that first weapon of mass destruction led to greater retaliation.
Maybe it could have ended there, had the people who wielded power had any of the right stuff. But the world had no true leaders anymore, and according to Pellet, hadn’t had any for the longest time. In the East, the wave of extremist Muslim fundamentalism had replaced any sense of reason, and in the West, the unremitting force of hollow capitalism and progressive globalism had lowered the bar to allow an elected class of ego-crazed billionaires and under qualified TV stars to govern the democracies. The impotence of the current presidents, prime ministers, dictators, and kings infuriated the General.
“Sir. Your car is here, sir.” The marine shouted from the deck.
The General climbed down the steel staircase to the main deck, walked over the gangplank and into the bulletproof BMW limo. The Marine sergeant in charge of his personal detail shut the door behind the General with a crisp flick of his wrist. The vehicle u-turned and headed off the dock.
The responsibilities of command suited him, the General thought, as his limo crept into the dark city landscape. And, if he had the power, after Hezbollah launched the first attack into Haifa he would have nuked every Arab capital city into radioactive rubble. Instead the jerks who ran the world thought they could talk about it.
The Jersey City dirty bomb did the world a favor, according to General Pellet. It took out all the world’s leaders in one televised moment at the height of their pomp and heraldry.
Payback became law; hate begat hate, and millions died. When the jihad ran out of nukes, and the mortally wounded democracies ran out of money, the multi-corporations took the power. Pellet’s lords and masters now had it all, as well as full control of the goods and services people needed to survive.
That happened a long time ago. But, the General remembered the sounds, the feel of the heat, and the destruction of battle all too well. His perceptions about life forged themselves in the fire of those tours of duty. Nothing had changed about warfare since the beginning of recorded history, except the technology. The bestiality remained at biblical proportions. As far as he was concerned, he endured because of one simple truth, he had the bigger and better guns. He would be left standing to write the next chapter in the story of humanity.
The limo turned south on Ninth Avenue and turned into the alley next to the Academy. Pellet looked at the time on his phone. Late. Good.
That’s how he explained it to the hopefuls who volunteered for his Marines. Certain types of Americans, often the poor and disenfranchised, thronged towards military life. The regimentation, the team, the army of one. And now so many men and women had nothing better to live for, so they flocked in lemming-like droves to the enlistment offices, choosing to work for the only company that seemed to wield any real power. In a world filled with daily violence and imminent war, Pellet’s army guaranteed that they get three square meals a day, shelter, and most importantly, purpose. They could defend themselves, and they looked out for one another.
However, the elite First Army had to turn most of the volunteers away. It only had room for the best. Pellet operated his boot camp to weed out those deserving lucky ones. He planned their training to rip
them apart from their individual identities, in order to form an unstoppable team, a killing machine, capable of fighting a foe brought up from birth to die in combat.
And tonight it all started for the latest round hopefuls.
The limo pulled up to a dingy looking doorway in the alley. His guard jumped out of the front seat and scanned the darkness on the ground and on the rooftops with his night vision goggles for any bad actors. Then the driver got out and knocked on the door. It opened and the General scurried inside.
In the dimly lit hallway he took off his overcoat and handed it to a waiting soldier. Pellet loved delivering opening-day speeches to inspire the new recruits. He made them wait for him in the overheated auditorium for hours, but he still took his time. He looked into a mirror on the wall. In the glass he saw the kid who came from where these rookies now come. He rose through all the pain, hardships, and obstacles in his way to become a man of great power and position. He knew they wanted to work for that man who could promise them strength and security. By the end of the speech he knew each one would also willingly die for that man on which every eye in the room would be glued.
Pleased with himself, he strode unannounced from the back of the house down the center aisle. The bored murmur of restless young people fell into a hush across the room when they saw him enter. By the time he climbed the stairs to the stage, and stepped into the single spotlight trained upon the podium, he had captivated them all.
“There are three types of people in this world,” Pellet always began this speech. “The way we find out who they are and what they are made of can be found in the spontaneous reactions they reveal when presented sudden and surprising stimuli.”
