Showdown in the Economy of Good and Evil

by Jarl Jensen

  But never mind crows.

  “Do you have a location picked out yet?” Evan asked.

  With dreamy eyes reflecting the waning sunlight, Nora described a foreclosed little bistro on a familiar street full of vacant storefronts. On this street, a place that most had considered a blight on the community for years, there was only one thriving business.

  “Isn’t that next door to Dollar Bread?” Evan asked with a grin.

  Nora pursed her lips and looked down at her feet. “Yes,” she admitted.

  Evan couldn’t resist the opportunity to tease. “You really do miss Muna, don’t you?”

  “Maybe a little.” When she looked up again, her expression was radiant. “I just think there’s a nice synergy there. First of all, in that neighborhood, the rent would be basically zero. Plus, it’s better to open a restaurant next to an already successful business. Ensures foot traffic, word of mouth, and more exposure prior to your opening. And I think Muna and I could do some really interesting things with his baked goods. He could continue running his operation while also making a sideline income by providing pastries and desserts at a huge markup in my restaurant.”

  She stared at him expectantly, searchingly.

  “I love it,” Evan said.

  Now she was bubbly. The last of the tension finally lifted.

  He turned and offered her his arm again. She laced her hand under his elbow, and they continued their journey alongside the corn. Dusk was beginning to settle, bringing a surprising chill to the air. It had been an unreasonably hot July. This unseasonable seventy-two-degree evening had been the impetus for their walk in the first place.

  “I’ll get Donatella to run the barn restaurant,” Nora said. “And I’m also planning on branding my new place after the Farm. I know I’m not a resident, but I still feel like one. So I want my place to celebrate this place.”

  “That makes me happy, Nora.”

  She smiled contentedly. They walked for a time, listening to the crows.

  “So tell me more about how my craft is the backbone of society,” she said.

  Evan chuckled. He gestured to the corn with his free hand and launched into a mock professorial tone. “Every society that has ever existed depended on the access and quality of its food. Every societal collapse has been preceded by drought, recession, or war. Usually, all these events are resource related. If people can’t eat, they become discontented, and discontentment can collapse entire cultures.”

  “Yeah, like I said. Reductive.”

  He might have taken offense if she hadn’t started to laugh. He loved her, he realized. Truly loved her. All at once, he wanted to tell her this, but she had already returned to the conversation.

  “How about an example, professor?”

  His intent to profess his love would have to wait. Anyway, now that he thought about saying it out loud, it made him feel incredibly anxious. She had just shared a major life decision with him. What if she didn’t feel the same way about him? Mostly to avoid falling down that emotional rabbit hole, he grabbed the first example that sprang to mind.

  “Syria is a nice recent one,” he said.

  “Nothing nice about what’s happening in Syria.”

  “Obviously. But what I mean is that people tend to think of the civil war in Syria as political. That’s become a huge part of it, of course, but it all started with a drought. The people had plenty of reasons to be tired of the regime, but it wasn’t until they didn’t have access to the food they needed that they started to act out violently.”

  “Uh-oh,” came the voice. “Someone’s singing my song.”

  Inwardly, Evan groaned, because after months of putting up with this man, his voice had become quite familiar. Larson wore a shit-eating grin as he joined them, his Nordic bodyguard following two steps behind.

  Nora’s expression went from annoyed to more annoyed as she glanced from one face to the other in greeting. “Your song? Are you referring to the violence or the crows?”

  The boisterous laugh was unusual, even for Elliot Larson. Guy was in a weirdly pleasant mood.

  “Are you high or something?” Nora asked.

  Larson’s laugh faded slowly as he wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “Only on life, my dear,” he said.

  “Are you going to make us guess, then? Because we were kind of enjoying ourselves until you showed up.”

  “Oh, I could see that. All that scintillating talk about the little skirmish in Syria.”

  “Skirmish?” Nora said, offended.

  “Do all billionaires do as much eavesdropping as you?” Evan managed to get in.

  Larson ignored them both. “I’ve just had the greatest news from your benefactor. He thinks I’ll be better able to serve the community from a different location.”

  “You mean you’re leaving?” Nora asked, not bothering to hide her excitement.

  “More like relocating. Duty calls with my company, of course, and I’ve been living in six places at once for too long. So I’ve purchased an old villa in the city. Natalia will remain there while I return to work to put out a few fires. She will serve as my eyes and ears on our new contribution to the Farm.”

  “Which is going to be what exactly?” Evan asked. He wasn’t sure whether he was more bothered by Larson’s tone or by the revelation that Justin had apparently assigned him to a new role without consulting him. It was so unlike Justin to make unilateral decisions, even if he did own the place.

  “He’s been getting some pushback from the hospital that does intake,” Larson explained. “Thinks it’s time for new management of that operation. I happen to own a healthcare business that might—”

  “You run a healthcare business?” Nora interjected.

  He shrugged. “I own many things. And since I have the means, I don’t know why I wouldn’t dip my toes into one of the most profitable enterprises in the country.”

  Nora rolled her eyes.

  “Anyway, I have some staff I could divert to Savannah. Mental health experts and the like. I’ve offered Natalia to spearhead this operation, and I’ve agreed to fund it. Justin thinks it’s a great idea.”

  This news—particularly the part about how Justin thought it was a great idea—took Evan and Nora by such surprise that they stood silently, staring at Larson for a while.

  “I know you’re going to miss me around here,” the billionaire said obliviously. “But I’ll still be doing the good work behind the scenes, helping you create a better economy than even God could manage.”

  The comment startled Evan out of his shock. “I’m sorry, what?” he said.

  “Oh, come on, kid,” Larson said. “I’m talking about capitalism. That’s God’s whole thing.”

  “You’re off the rails,” Nora said.

  “No, seriously. I think it’s even in the Bible. Something about God redeeming his people from every tribe, tongue, and nation. I mean, if you’re going to have chosen people to redeem, doesn’t a capitalist system make the most sense? The chosen get rich. The rest, well . . .”

  Evan didn’t even know where to begin—with his offense at this whole concept or with a logical debate about how irrelevant religion was to anything they were doing on the Farm. “As you said, ‘from every tribe, tongue, and nation.’ Doesn’t that make it clear that God wasn’t looking to promote just a few lucky baboonish tycoons?”

  “Baboonish?” Elliot said, sounding genuinely offended.

  “Every tribe, tongue, and nation,” Evan repeated. “That means God is looking to choose everyone to be part of the economy.”

  Elliot deflated, shaking his head morosely.

  “Yeah, well, we’ll sure miss that positive, can-do attitude of yours around here,” Nora interjected. “Good luck with the intake program, Natalia. And don’t forget to write, El.”

  Larson ignored her. “I say all that by way of congratulating you, Evan. You understand that, right?”

  It had been an emotional few minutes, so by now, Evan had lost his appet
ite to engage. He stuck his hand out for shaking. Larson took it hesitantly.

  “Thanks for all your help, Elliot,” Evan said. “But something tells me this isn’t goodbye.”

  The billionaire showed a prodigious number of his expensive fake teeth. “I surely hope not.” He looked to Evan, then to Nora with a probing gaze. “Anyway, you two look tired. You should get straight to bed, you hear? And don’t delay.”

  With that, he strode off, a considerable bounce in his step. Natalia sashayed after him. Evan kept his eyes glued to Nora, trying to read her reaction to all this.

  “The hell’s with that guy?” she asked once they were out of earshot.

  “I gave up trying to understand a long time ago. Just glad he’s leaving.”

  “Makes two of us. Was it me, or did he seem like he was up to something?”

  A stiff wind traced through the cornfield, causing Evan to shiver. The sun had gone down by now, leaving only the purple haze of twilight.

  “I’m cold,” Nora said, inviting herself into Evan’s arms. “How about you keep me warm?”

  Evan smiled as she looked up at him. Then she grabbed him by the shirt front and pulled him into the field between two rows of corn. She kissed him with passion and abandon, her hands finding the small of his back. Evan could not recall ever enjoying anything quite so much. They could have done this forever and it would have been just fine with him.

  “Hey, Children of the Corn,” came the voice. “We can see you, you know.”

  This voice was less familiar. It belonged to a woman, but Evan couldn’t quite place it.

  “God, can’t a girl get a moment?” Nora grumbled just loudly enough for Evan to hear.

  “Tell me about it,” the woman replied.

  Evan stepped out of the corn ahead of Nora, trying not to look too flustered as their second bit of unexpected company approached. He could only make out the unexpected company’s outline at first, but then the ultrablonde hair gave it away.

  “Connie,” he said, sounding less enthusiastic than he probably should have intended. She looked disheveled, he noticed, her hair out of sorts and her lipstick askew. She’d always been so put-together on TV, so this came as a bit of a surprise.

  “And you must be Evan White,” she said. Her smile was hungry and judgmental. It softened when Nora appeared out of the corn. “Which makes you Nora Pastor. I’ve heard such nice things about you both.”

  Since she hadn’t offered a handshake, Evan wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. Plus, given the general I-just-had-sex-in-a-cornfield look about her, he decided it was probably best not to touch her hands anyway. Who knew where they had been? So he folded them together in front of himself at first before Nora slid in next to him and provided him an outlet. He threw his arm around her gratefully.

  “You said, ‘We can see you,’” he pointed out.

  “Justin often speaks of your crack memory, yes.”

  Evan huffed. “No, I mean, who’s the we? I only see you.”

  “Oh, Justin’s around here somewhere,” she said, looking back disinterestedly.

  On cue, Justin emerged from another row of corn. He also looked disheveled, his hair wild and his shirt buttoned unevenly.

  “Looks like we stumbled upon a bit of a lover’s lane,” Nora quipped.

  Neither Connie nor Justin bothered responding to the accusation that they had been making it in the corn.

  “Saw Elliot just now,” Evan said, bailing them out of the awkwardness. “He seems excited.”

  Justin was happy to grab this lifeline out of the sex awkwardness. “Yeah, I figure he’ll be better positioned to help us with money and expertise than with . . . whatever the hell he’s been doing here.”

  “Oh, he’s been doing a bit of everything,” Evan said.

  “And nothing,” Nora said.

  “That is kind of his way,” Justin agreed. “Always has been.”

  “Anyway, he seemed excited,” Evan repeated.

  His mind raced for something interesting to say to or ask of Connie, whom he had seen plenty of on TV and heard plenty of through the heated one-sided phone calls Justin often had with her but had never actually met in person. But every time he came close to something interesting, his mind would leap back to a question about her boss. What was it really like in the White House right now? Was it as chaotic as it seemed? Or did Trump actually have some kind of wily, three-dimensional chess situation going on?

  “Congratulations on your victory,” he heard himself saying instead.

  Connie sighed.

  The four of them stood staring at anything but each other for a while, the awkward tension having returned in force. In these situations, Evan often counted on Justin or Nora to speak, but neither of them had anything to say either.

  “So . . . ,” he said, swinging his arms, “guess we should head on down the trail.” He hated everything about what he had just said.

  Nora stifled laughter as they said their goodbyes and parted ways. They had only gotten about twenty paces apart before she broke into a belly laugh. Evan would have shushed her if he wasn’t so busy being in love with her.

  So that was when he told her. That was when he told Nora Pastor that he loved her.

  She looked taken aback by it—not necessarily accepting, but not exactly rejecting, either. And he could see her trying it on in her mind for a while, rolling it around and examining the idea. His heart pounded as he waited for her to reply. But then, just as she drew a breath, a strange, alien sound came from overhead. It started in the distance but came alarmingly close at a startling speed.

  “What is that?” she asked, ducking behind Evan as if he could possibly protect her from the unholy whirring coming from all directions above them.

  “I have no idea,” Evan said. An icy sort of dread rose into his throat.

  Then it buzzed him, close enough that Evan could finally catch a fleeting glimpse. It was a small, remote-controlled drone, and it wasn’t alone. It sounded like there were dozens of them, out there buzzing the field.

  Dylan Elan Powers The Diagnosis

  The human mind creates the illusion of sanity. The ability to understand and function in society is a precise architecture that has taken evolution billions of years to perfect. Insanity means that the mind cannot function nor understand society. It seems that labeling people as insane after planning and executing a horrific act of violence is quite frankly completely off target.

  —Justin Wolfe

  What if I’m not ready to be a monster?

  What if my shrink is right? I’m defective?

  What if I’m not capable of the kind of evil necessary to make my mark in this world?

  I could try to ignore this feeling. Could try to go back and rebuild the diner. Could try to get my GED and go to community college or something. But then I just become my father, one way or another. Then I just become an average loser.

  I could delay the problem. I’m only eighteen. Lots of people drift around for a while. No parents in my life. Little money left over from the insurance. Could just walk away from the diner and move to Florida or something. Start a new life.

  No. The world’s no less evil in Florida. The problem would only follow me. I’d still be presented with the same choice: either be weak and try to make a good life in an evil world, or show that evil world my value, my meaning, my purpose. But what if I’m not strong enough?

  I could get help for the problem. Counselor was useless. Lawyer was useless. All three shrinks are totally fucking useless. Help doesn’t lead to anything new. They all just tell me to put my head down and work. Get more help. Seek love. But all I do is hate.

  My shrinks tell me I have ADHD. Borderline autistic supposedly (although how to explain my intellect?). Dysphoric mania. All manner of anxiety disorders. OCD. Narcissism. Body dysmorphia. Psychosis. PTSD, supposedly from maiming that kid or maybe from watching Dad hit Mom and me for all those years. They even have me on meds for restless leg syndrome to fight
my crippling insomnia.

  You hear all that shit and you have to believe the shrinks think you’re crazy. But I couldn’t possibly be crazy because crazy isn’t functional. My mind works. I see clearly. I understand life in ways a crazy person can’t.

  The truth? Those acronyms are meaningless. They’re all just labels—fancy words and false diagnoses that get the shrinks paid. They get to label me, put me in a box, and collect the state’s money for doing it. Well, these labels don’t change the way I perceive the clear message I’m getting from the universe. They don’t change my purpose. I’m not crazy. I see.

  Last visit to the shrink, I heard the word “schizophrenic.” But that ain’t me, I told him. It’s these meds they have me on. He insisted that the meds couldn’t be to blame. That I needed more therapy and different dosing. That I needed to find a creative outlet, seek positive relationships, or work on building a legacy.

  Positive relationships? I laughed about that one.

  And here’s my creative outlet. This journal. Someday they’ll call it a manifesto.

  And here’s my legacy: I’m going off these fucking meds. They’re the only thing holding me back from the strength I need to do what must be done.

  Chapter 17 Crying Foul

  Debt based on housing builds bigger homes for people with money and nothing for people without money.

  —Justin Wolfe

  Evan really just kind of wanted to curl up in his room and cry. It had been that kind of day. He had spent most of the week trying to figure out what the deal was with those drones. No one else had seen them—Justin and Connie inclusive—so he wrestled for a while with the idea that he and Nora had just imagined it all.

  Of course that was a silly idea. Those drones had been real. Evan just couldn’t seem to keep his mind from drifting into illogical notions. The anxiety had him all tied up in knots.

  “Can I get you anything else, boss?” Valence stood in the doorway, holding a sweaty Gatorade in both hands like he had come to present the Holy Grail itself.

  “No thank you,” Evan managed. He flopped onto his stomach in bed, burying his face in his pillow. “Just let me know if anyone finally figures anything out about the drones.”