Vacation

by Jeremy C. Shipp

  “You don’t have much of a choice, I’m afraid.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “If you don’t send the message for me, I’m going to carry you out of here, past the point of no return.”

  “You can’t! My fingerprint catcher has recorded your identity, and if I die, the Agency and various Meek leaders will be notified that you were last person to see me alive. They won’t be happy.”

  “You’re good at planning ahead, but in this case, no amount of planning is going to help you.”

  “They’ll find you. When they do, you’ll die a very prolonged and painful death.”

  “If my message isn’t sent the Agency, I’ll have nothing left to live for.”

  “I refuse to cooperate.”

  “Then you’re going to die.” I grab him and he clutches a pillow in each hand, as if they’ll anchor him to the ground. I drag him outside. He fights me with everything he has, but that isn’t much. He’s weaker than I am, and that’s saying a lot. The farther we go from the dome, the faster his necklace beeps, and the faster my own heart clanks.

  “How could a son do this to his own father?” he says.

  “I’m not your son,” I say.

  “Five more paces and I’m dead!”

  Three more, and I stop.

  “Okay,” I say. “I was bluffing.”

  “Clearly!” he says, and drops the pillows on the sand. “I knew you didn’t have it in you to kill your own father.”

  I let him go. “You’re right. I can’t.”

  But I could force him to do my bidding.

  The use of torture has been justified in countless ways.

  “You admit it then?” he says. “That I’m your father?”

  Like I learned with the priests, when you’re in the process of doing something good for someone, you don’t have to lie.

  But sometimes, it’s the kind thing to do.

  In the Tic world, you have to choose.

  Your ideals for society absolutely won’t match with anyone else’s, but you have to make a choice between these political parties. Your view of life and the Universe absolutely won’t match with anyone else’s, but here are your choices of religion.

  This is my God. These are my politics. This is my job.

  Meet Bernard Johnson.

  But this contortion act isn’t the worst part.

  It’s when you realize, over and over again, that no one wants to know the-real-you.

  One of those times, Hillary’s legs dangle off the side of my bed. I stare at her toes as they wiggle at the carpet, as if they want to touch ground, but they can’t. They can’t because of me.

  Finally, she drops my story on the quilt. This is the last story of mine she’ll ever drop.

  She looks at me, the way you did, mom and dad, when you were shocked, but not surprised to find yourself shocked.

  “What were you on when you wrote this?” she says.

  She knows what I’m on.

  But Pax didn’t write this story.

  “It’s strange,” I say. “I know.”

  “Yeah,” she says.

  She wants me to free her from this moment.

  She wants to turn on the television.

  She’s already trying to deny and forget.

  “It’s not important,” I say. “Just something I did for fun.”

  I say this, because the Bernard Johnson in her head is more important to her than the Bernard Johnson in mine.

  She doesn’t want my deep dark secrets.

  She doesn’t want my dreams.

  She wants Bernard Johnson the fuzzy ghost, with all the details blurred away.

  So I pretend.

  I lie, because some lies are just feelings with nowhere else to go.

  Konstantin kneels on the pillow mound and cries onto my shoulder. “I’m sorry what I did to you, son,” he says. “I never meant to hurt you.”

  “I know,” I say. “And I understand. If I had children of my own and if I were the man I used to be, I’d do exactly the same thing with them as you did with me.”

  “It’s no excuse.”

  “I know, but you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. The only reason I made it through life at all is because you loved me.” I don’t, but I also want to say, “The only reason I have the capacity to sacrifice so much is because you sacrificed so much for me.”

  “Can you ever forgive me?”

  “I forgive you,” I say, and he’s not really who I want to forgive, but at this point, I’ll take what I can get.

  “Thank you.” When the oasis of his face dries up, he crawls over to a stack of monitors along the wall. “Give me your message,” he says.

  I hand him the video camera. “Tell them I have demands, and if they don’t meet them, I’ll release this tape to the world. The Tic world.”

  He stares at me for a long while. “Are you sure about this, son?”

  I send this message, and all that’s left for me is to sit and wait for my fate.

  This is my fatal decision.

  “I’m sure.”

  Either a callused hand will shake my shoulder until my eyes open, or I’ll never wake up again.

  My eyes open.

  “Hello, Bernard.” And the man removes his mask.

  I sit up and unfold a piece of paper that I cuddled with in my sleep. It reads, “Are we being listened to?”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t matter,” Jack says. “Everyone on my team is Garden. I thought this might be your doing, so I volunteered for the operation.”

  “I’m glad you did.” And I should say, “I hoped you would.”

  He sits beside me. “This is a noble thing you’re trying to do, Bernard, and I’m impressed you’ve accomplished this much. But you aren’t going to succeed. Because you can’t blackmail the Agency. Because they’ll send a team of Agents to kill you. That’s us. And even if you managed to survive, which you usually wouldn’t, they still wouldn’t give in to your demands. The tape you made of the priests’ confessions is truly damning, by George, but it won’t make any waves in the Tic world. Because the media is on the Agency’s side. The tape will be suppressed, or at least proven to be a fake.”

  “I know,” I say. I know God is blind, but seeing isn’t everything.

  “You know?” he says. “Then what is this all about?”

  “The Agency and the Black Tide don’t like each other very much, right?”

  “I’d say so. There is a drug war going on. A secret drug war, because both institutions are working for allegedly allied countries.”

  “Then there must be those in the Agency who want to see the Black Tide leader dead. I don’t know his name.”

  “BC. And yes, many of us would love to see that old fucker kick the bucket, but it’s too extensive an operation to do it rogue. And the Agency would never sanction such an action. Because of the cost of resources. And because the moment BC pops off, another old fucker will be there to take his place.”

  “And if the Agency had a good enough excuse to okay the operation?”

  “They’d do it. What do you have in mind?”

  As an answer, I reach under a pillow, and force the collar around Jack’s neck. “It’ll blow up if you go too far from the dome. Or if you try to remove it.”

  “I know,” he says. “We invented them. So what’s next?” He doesn’t seem shocked or scared in the least. He’s either a great actor, or he trusts me.

  “I want to make an exchange.”

  Jack laughs. “You know, they might actually go for it. I’m pretty well liked by my coworkers.” He hands me his gun. “Point it at my head. My team will scan the dome and verify my predicament. They’ll send along the data and notify the higher-ups of my situation.”

  “Thank you.” I point the gun.

  Now all I have to do is wake Konstantin from his snoring, and tell him to send my demands, and then wait.

  But first, Jack says, “I want you to know, I wasn’t playing dumb at the hospi
tal because I was trying to test you. That’s Noh’s justification for my actions. My reason for denying everything is that I wanted to give you one last chance to reject the truth. To reenter the Tic world as a Tic, instead of a Meek. Because I know how difficult it is to be an outsider on the inside.” He closes his eyes. “On some level, I don’t want the Garden to succeed in bringing out the truth. The Tics aren’t living in a paradise by any means. Hell, the citizens are exploited and drugged and numb, but at least they believe in their society. That sort of faith is a blessing I don’t particularly want to destroy.”

  In a perfect world, everyone could safely place their trust in their leaders and teachers and families and friends.

  Maybe that’s why humans have an uncanny ability to deny and forget.

  We want so much to trust our world as-it-is that we’re willing to accept the lies.

  Even if these lies are ridiculous.

  Even if they hurt us.

  Even if they’re the sort of lies that when you learn the truth, you’re not really surprised.

  But at this moment, I’m placing my trust in myself.

  And that’s a terrifying thing.

  Because trusting yourself makes you selfish and responsible and loving.

  And these are feelings that have nowhere else to go but out.

  Part 24

  Konstantin says to stick the little bandaid transmitter anywhere, so I press the circle on my forehead. Over my third eye. I place another circle on Jack’s gun. And then, when the exchange is made at the dome doorway, I put another bandaid on BC’s back, on that spot you can’t quite scratch, even if your hands aren’t tied up.

  What all of this means is that if my heart stops beating, my bandaid will tell Jack’s necklace to explode. And the only scenario that’ll deactivate Jack’s necklace is if BC’s bandaid tells the necklace that BC’s heart has stopped beating, at about the same time that the gun’s bandaid tells the necklace that the gun was fired. So the gun has to be used to kill BC. And now, the Agents won’t attempt to kill BC themselves, because if he dies before I’m ready for him to die, Jack is dead.

  Yeah, it’s confusing as hell, I know, but this is the world I choose to live in.

  All day, I’m working out this plan, and Konstantin’s setting up the transmitters, and Jack’s laughing at us. But I don’t understand why he’s laughing until we make the exchange, and the agent pushing BC down toward my feet says, “Take good care of him for us.” He smiles at me, the knowing variety. I’m wearing Jack’s mask. I’m hidden. But it doesn’t matter. He thinks he knows me.

  The Agency may be a Tic organization, but they deal with Meeks all the time. That means, they know what the Meek are capable of. That means, giving BC to someone like me is better than killing him themselves.

  This is throwing him to the dogs.

  Worse.

  Before I hand Jack over, I say, “Do you have access to the thing you fed me before? The dream seeds?” And I’m sure that’s not what they’re called, but it doesn’t really matter.

  “I do,” he says.

  “There’s something I’d like you to do for me. It may be pointless, but—”

  “I understand.”

  And I hope that’s a yes.

  Jack flies away in a copter, and BC lies gagged on the floor. He doesn’t move, because I’m pointing Jack’s weapon at his head, though I’ve never used a gun in my life.

  At the doorway, I say, “If all goes well, I’ll be back with her soon.”

  Konstantin nods. “How exactly do you want me to kill her?”

  I tell him fast, and the words still make me sick.

  Good.

  I know my way from Konstantin’s to the Garden because of Odin, and from the Garden to the church because of Matek, and from the church to Weis’ camp because of Noh. But today, I’m the Guide, and I’m leading this man, BC, to the Gates of Heaven or Hell, and I have a feeling they’re one and the same.

  Because one person’s paradise is another person’s madness.

  Because nothing’s good or evil.

  Because even an unborn child can kill someone he’s destined to love.

  And now, I’m going to kill again.

  And this walk is worse than my time in the nightmare forest. BC trembles because of me. He vomits because of me. He cries because of me.

  I know this is what Noh must feel like all the time.

  And I know there’s something worse than being in hell.

  It’s creating one.

  After I tie BC to a tree, I use the Garden shovel that I hid in the forest.

  This could be a grave, or a place for seeds to fall, and trees to grow.

  This could even be symbol for the hole in my heart.

  All I know for sure is that this isn’t buried treasure, despite the fact that after I cover the hole with the tarp from my pack, and cover that with a thin layer of forest floor, I mark the spot with an X.

  If I were still a Tic, I’d probably try to justify myself right about now. Tell myself I’m doing the right thing for the right reasons. Tell myself BC’s ghost won’t haunt me, because Tics don’t believe in ghosts.

  But the truth is, I want to be haunted.

  I want the nightmares.

  This is a trauma I deserve.

  I enter Weis’ camp with both hands in my pockets, like the boy you used to know, mom and dad.

  “Take me to Weis,” I tell the soldier who approaches first.

  He nods and takes me to the Torture Room.

  Here, Weis sits on a crate, with his hair like a black tent around him. A cocoon. And I know whatever he’s doing in there, he’s been that way since he enclosed himself, because when you focus on darkness, your expression never changes.

  “Sergeant Weis,” the soldiers says.

  A wooden leg—Amina’s leg—pokes out from the darkness. Then two hands sweep the hair aside, like the curtains of a stage.

  But Weis isn’t acting. His tears are real.

  “Leave us,” Weis tells the soldier, and stands.

  The soldier obeys.

  “Mr. Johnson,” Weis says, approaching, wiping his face.

  “Call me Bernard,” I say.

  “Very well. Bernard.” He stops close enough that he could punch me. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “I need your help.”

  “So does my country. Unless your proposal stipulates some sort of aid to my people, I’d suggest you leave now.”

  “I have BC.” I take a step back. “The Black Tide Leader BC.”

  “Forgive my skepticism, but you’re full of shit.”

  I pull the video camera out of my left pocket. “Watch it,” I say. “It’s footage of him and me, together.”

  He takes the camera, and tucks Amina’s wooden leg under his arm, so he can play the footage. He watches with wide eyes. “Where is he?”

  “Nearby,” I say. “Hidden.” Buried.

  “I could torture you and acquire his location.”

  “You promised you wouldn’t torture anyone in the Garden until we changed locations.”

  “Nice try, but I only promised to stay away from the Garden stronghold itself. I said nothing about Garden operatives.”

  I sigh. So it has to come to this. I say, “If I fire the gun that I’m holding in my pocket, and BC doesn’t die at roughly the same time, an Agent’s head is going to explode, and with the signal I’m transmitting they’ll know exactly where to find me. And they’ll find you too. I have a feeling they’ll punish all of us.”

  “Congratulations,” Weis says. “You won’t be tortured today. Not by me, anyway. What are your terms?”

  “There are many. But first, I want to make an exchange.”

  “Who is it that you want?”

  It’s worse than he’ll expect. “Your daughter.”

  Through the lens of the video camera, I watch Weis as he smashes BC with Amina’s leg.

  And I’m not a Tourist.

  I’m not a justified
voyeur.

  I’m part of this world.

  The truth is, I’ve changed, the way few Tics ever change. When you’re a Tic, you don’t change your mind. You don’t learn. You suffer through your infallibility, because to do otherwise would be an admission that you don’t know what you don’t know.

  And when someone changes, you’re forced to realize how little you knew them in the first place.

  And sometimes, that person you didn’t know is yourself.

  “Tell us the truth,” Weis says, and smacks him again, with the bottom of his daughter’s foot. “She wants the truth.”

  So BC admits to everything.

  Everything he knows that the citizens of his country don’t.

  The drugs, the Meek, the Vacation program.

  The people he killed, the people he didn’t.

  The affair with his secretary.

  The kite he stole as a kid.

  I turn off the camera.

  “That’s enough,” I say.

  Weis nods and takes Jack’s gun and shoots BC in the face. He then sits on the crate, and cradles the leg in his arms. All of the puncture wounds in the wood are now bleeding with BC’s blood. He smiles a little, but it’s a variety I don’t know.

  I wonder if revenge really makes him feel any better.

  I don’t ask.

  Konstantin kills her, in his special way.

  I peel the bandaid off my third eye and I watch her die, over and over again.

  I don’t have to.

  I don’t want to.

  I need to.

  And I’ve always needed to.

  Everyone else, they’ll look at this, at the pain and the death, and they’ll only see pain and death.

  They won’t see what I see.

  They won’t see her for who she really is.

  They won’t even see that I’m standing beside her, invisible, telling her that I love her.

  They won’t see any of this.

  Because, sometimes, what people think is a poison, is actually magic.

  Part 25

  Noh lies on her tomb, shivering, and you’d be surprised how different you can look after a week of starvation. Or a week of contemplating death. Which is the lesser of two evils, I think you know.