The Xactilias Project

by RJ Lawrence

  Within the fog of her dreams, they all came, the dearest of her darlings, the few that were. She saw her mother, with her gray, course hair and tiny frail hands. A real woman, so somber and sweet, and still going despite so obvious her right to quit.

  She saw her father, his body younger, his smile broad, only kindness and understanding within his familiar blue eyes. No sign of vacancy or haze.

  She saw Alfred, his wild hair and shy little smiles. The smell of pipe smoke on his jacket. The tenderness of his words.

  And Nathan. She saw Nathan. And heard his voice and felt his touch. Their power enough to stymie the real world and keep her asleep forever and always, swimming freely in this bleary and harmless in-between place.

  A hard racket awoke her. Knuckles on the door.

  She sat up and waited while the sharp world crystallized around her. It was dark in the room, the night awake and full-bore.

  More knocking.

  She stood up on her cold feet and approached the door. She opened it a crack. The old man stood before her, in his hands a bowl of soup, writhing coils of steam escaping its surface.

  "Thank you," she said, as he passed it over.

  He turned without answering and descended the stairs.

  She sat on the cot and stirred the soup, chunks of unfamiliar meats and vegetables boiling up from the murky broth. She gathered a spoonful and brought it to her mouth. Something spoiled lurked within the salty brine. She chewed even so, a sourness in every bite, a growing vigor with every swallow.

  When she'd finished the bowl, she set it aside and ventured downstairs. The steps bent and sunk beneath her feet, filling the darkness with a chorus of squeaks and moans and whines. When she reached the bottom step, she saw a burst of candlelight in one far corner of the room where the old man sat near the window eating his soup.

  She held to the bottom step for a moment and then proceeded to the bathroom without looking over again. Once inside, she shut the door. She attended to her business and stood up. She opened the door and looked around. There he sat the same as before. She began walking upstairs.

  "Stop," he said.

  She stopped.

  "Please," he said.

  She crept back down and looked over. He gestured to the seat across him. She approached and sat, several minutes passing without words between them.

  "I know who you run from," he said finally. So much gravel in his old voice.

  She sat silently while he dug up solids from the broth and chewed them with a slow elderly jaw. He lifted the bowl to his mouth and sucked down the liquid. She yawned against her will, but he didn't seem to notice.

  "These people," he said. "You cannot run." He ran a sleeve across his lips until they were dry. "They find you."

  He reached over and collected a half-smoked cigar from the table. He lit the thing with a match, tangles of white smoke adrift in the space above their heads.

  "You go back in the morning."

  She rubbed her tired face.

  "I won't."

  He smoked. His eyes looked tired.

  "You have people?"

  She looked at him and he looked at her.

  "You go back."

  She bent her head and cried.

  "How do you know these people?" She whispered, as little salty tears slipped within her speaking mouth.

  He smoked his cigar and ashed in a charred little wooden bowl.

  "They built this place."

  She looked up.

  "Your bar?"

  He shook his head slowly.

  "The city."

  She leaned back in her chair and they met at the eye.

  "This whole place is theirs?" she asked.

  He crooked his head as if confused, his eyes pale enough to be blind.

  "Everything is theirs."

  The wind picked up outside, it's invisible fingers strumming the trees and aluminum rooftops like instruments, a slow whining chorus funneling through the streets.

  She firmed her mouth.

  "Not everything."

  He smoked his cigar and dumped the ashy tip in his little bowl.

  "All but death," he said. "This we still own."

  The wind whirred and moaned as it pushed its way into the voids of the world. She leaned forward and made a gesture for his cigar. He passed it over without hesitation, his expression unchanged by this and all else. She brought it to her mouth and smoked, the rush so sudden and sickeningly good. She exhaled and passed the thing back.

  "Someone should stop them."

  Now the rain came, the old window shutters clapping sharply outside, the smell of wet earth sifting in through the open window.

  "You go sleep now," he said.

  He smoked and exhaled.

  "You go at first light."

  She stood up and looked him over while he smoked.

  "Thank you."

  He nodded without looking up, his eyes fixed on the table, each one tired and cloudy and slightly flaring with every puff of his cigar. She walked away without speaking and climbed the steps. She entered the little room and shut the door. Outside, the rain dropped hard and heavy, splashing in great pools of water, where cigarette butts gathered up like little boats in the gutters along the muddy streets.

  She lie upon the cot and tried to think, but soon she was adrift again within a gentle slumber, with all her monsters locked up in little boxes and her dreams running free and unfettered, like little children in the summer breeze.

  Chapter 16

  When the morning broke, she threw her legs over the bed and stood without thinking. Outside, a rumble of activity had begun, despite the pale light and early hour. She approached the window and looked out to see people assembling along the streets to sell, beg or steal, just as they had done all the days before. She turned away and opened the door. She ventured downstairs and looked around. The place sat empty and quiet. She crossed the room and disabled the heavy locks on the front door. She pulled the thing open and the light knifed into the dark room. She turned back and gave a last look at the little bar, old and meager and aromatic with the scent of rotting wood. She stepped outside and shut the door behind her.

  The streets were loud with the clamor of strange languages and motor scooters, which buzzed and beeped as they made their way amid the congestion. She followed the covered wood walkway a short distance and then stepped out into the street, where a small white sun bathed everything in a growing heat. Out in the open, people moved about in a whir of confused patterns, their bodies trading sweat as they brushed against one another. She pushed into the mob, doing her best to navigate through all the elbows and shoulders, which clacked hard against her body, leaving little unseen injuries that might take on blue and purple complexions in the hours to come.

  At last, she emerged from the writhing mass of bodies and stepped onto the walkway opposite the one from which she'd come. This path led directly to the hotel and she walked it with steady, deliberate steps, despite the loathing within her mind. Soon, she stood before the front of the building, where people came and went through a revolving glass door that spun amid a bright, gold frame. She waited for the door to settle and stepped inside, making her way into the interior, where bellboys carted luggage for important looking people dressed in important looking clothes.

  "Ms. Foley."

  Claire turned sharply to see Demetri sitting in the lobby on a white chair, his legs crossed, the day's newspaper in hand. In the chair next to him sat Romero, his face discolored and heavily bandaged, his eyes aflame with hate. Demetri motioned her over with a finger. She approached.

  "Are you alright?" Demetri asked.

  She nodded.

  "Good."

  He scratched his chin and folded his newspaper. He stood up and Romero did the same.

  "Shall we?"

  He held his hand out toward the door. She nodded and all three crossed the lobby. Outside, a big black car waited, its windows tinted, the rear doors already ajar. They left the hotel and Dem
etri guided her into the vehicle with a gentle hand. She took a place within the vast leather interior and waited, while the two men settled in beside her, their thick legs pressing tightly against her hips.

  At Demetri's instruction, the car pulled out into traffic and made its way through the streets, where it pushed past everything from smart cars to limousines to mules, mopeds, rickshaws and nearly every other form of primitive transportation. They rode the way in silence, save for the dry squeal from Romero's broken nose, which whistled with every breath, like a ripe tea kettle ready to burst. Every now and again, Claire felt the weight of the man's heavy stare, but she kept her face pointed forward just the same.

  After a short time, they rumbled out of the urban sprawl and into the countryside, where vast fields of tall grass swayed in the hot, flowing breeze. As the roads evolved from concrete to gravel to mud, the car began to struggle for traction, and after threatening to dive into the ditches several times, it finally came to a stop at the order of Demetri.

  "Please remain seated," he told Claire, as he opened the door and exited.

  When he was gone, she slid away from Romero and pressed herself against the door. She peered out the window, while Romero watched her through wide, bulging eyes.

  "I'm going to kill you," he said.

  She kept her eyes fixed on the outside world, where three green military trucks approached from the edge of the horizon.

  "Do you hear me?" Romero asked. "I'm going to slit your throat open."

  Claire said nothing.

  "Look at me." He snatched her wrist and squeezed.

  The door opened and Romero turned her loose.

  "Please exit the vehicle," Demetri said. "Both of you."

  Claire swallowed hard and stepped outside.

  "Wait here," Demetri said, as he walked to the other side of the vehicle. He took Romero by the arm and led him several feet away. Claire watched as he spoke into the Romero's ear, his gestures giving no hint to what he might be saying or how he might be saying it. She turned and looked toward the trucks, which steadily increased in size as they motored forward. The wind kicked up and she brushed the hair from her face. She started to cry.

  "Now, now," Demetri said as he approached. "Don't worry. You're completely safe."

  He handed her a handkerchief, while Romero watched them from afar.

  "Please," he said. "Take it."

  She accepted the handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

  "Breathe easy," he said. "We mean you no harm."

  At last, the trucks arrived and stopped before them. She watched as soldiers poured out and stood at attention. Demetri motioned Romero over and he approached with some obvious reticence.

  "Where are you taking me?" Claire asked.

  "Back to the facility, of course," Demetri said. "Where else?"

  He nodded to one of the soldiers, who gathered Claire's arm and led her to the rear of one of the trucks. He guided her up a set of metal steps and placed her on a small bench, which ran along the insides of the canvas walls. The soldier started to sit on the opposite bench, but Demetri appeared and shooed him away.

  "I'll ride with her," he said.

  The soldier nodded and jumped out the back. Demetri climbed aboard and approached the cab. He pounded his fist against the metal and the truck crawled forward. He sat in the opposite bench, his hands folded neatly across his lap, hers clenched into a ball upon her own. He withdrew a small notepad from his jacket pocket and began writing, his penmanship careful and slow, as if he crafted every word in flawless calligraphy. She stared blankly into his face as he worked, her head bobbing with the beat of the tires, which throbbed hard and often against the stony road beneath.

  He set the pad down beside him and rolled up his sleeves. He looked at her.

  "Are you comfortable?"

  She sat silently, her eyes steady and unflinching.

  “I’m afraid I have some troubling news.”

  She stared at his face.

  "Your mother and father have passed," he said. "He several weeks ago, she not long after."

  He watched as she choked back tears.

  "According to the report we received, your father died of a lung infection due to aspiration of food. Your mother suffered a heart attack several weeks later."

  She began to cry, her tears running fast and free despite all efforts to the otherwise. Demetri leaned forward and propped his forearms against his thighs.

  "I'm very sorry for your loss."

  He waited while she gathered herself. He looked into her wet, glittering eyes.

  "You know," he said. "I like you. I actually do."

  He scratched his ear.

  "I don't blame you. This thing you did. I don't blame you for it. He was a pervert. A dangerous man. He was not fit to lead our project. I always knew this."

  He waited for a response, but she said nothing. He leaned over and reached into a cooler that sat on the ground between them. His hand fished through the melted ice and collected a bottle of clean, cold water. He held it in front of her.

  "If I pour this for you, will you drink it?"

  She did not speak.

  "Alright."

  He opened the bottle and drank from it. Then he tossed it back inside the cooler and shut the top.

  "I don't care about this," he said, as he leaned forward again. "I don't care about Betancur. I don't care what you did to him or what he did to you." He pointed a thick finger at the center of her face. "What's important is that you return to your work. That is all that matters."

  She shook her head slowly.

  "I won't."

  Demetri flexed his jaw.

  "You will."

  She cracked her knuckles.

  "You can't coerce me. I don't care about myself anymore."

  He smiled and put his hands together.

  "I don't have to coerce you. I only have to convince you."

  He stood and moved toward the cab of the truck, his feet surfing the floor as he carefully negotiated the vehicle's shifting momentum. He pounded his fist against the metal and the truck slowly came to a stop.

  Claire heard a door open and the sound of boots crushing gravel. Demetri moved to the rear of the truck and a soldier came around the corner to take his place.

  "When we arrive at the facility, you'll spend two weeks in the upper level so you can recuperate," he said on his way out. "Then you'll return to your duties."

  With that, he disappeared, leaving Claire and the soldier alone to ride all the savage hours that lay afore.

  Chapter 17

  Over the next two weeks, she roamed the first level alone, except for the staff and another faceless soldier who tailed her every move. She thought they must manufacture these men, their faces mum, expressions clone like, never the same one twice, except for this particular individual who always seemed to linger some 50 yards behind.

  Up in the top level, time went quickly, the wounds on her face growing fainter with every passing day. In the mornings, she would pass Gretchen, who sat at her desk wearing a polite little smile, the shape and contours always the same, as if she kept her face on a hanger in a closet at night and glued it on when the morning came.

  Despite her best efforts, Claire very much enjoyed the food, and then sun in the courtyard and the birds that circled aimlessly above. But at night, the quiet gave rise to troubling thoughts; and after a while, she knew nothing else to occupy her mind but the research she had said she would not do.

  In that place, answers seemed to come without effort, each one like a living thing that wanted out from her brain and into the world. Out into a world, where they would do indiscriminate harm or good, without intentions and with no feeling. And all these revelations conjured excitement and pride within her, and then an inevitable shame.

  After ten days, she drank a bottle of wine and smashed apart the mirror in her room, taking up a piece of glass and running the edge against the flesh of her wrist. But she lacked whatever it was that allowed
for such things, and this made her feel helpless and even more ashamed.

  On the morning of the tenth day, Gretchen buzzed her room.

  "Ms. Foley, please visit the courtyard. You have a visitor."

  She dressed and applied her makeup before the sad reflection of a girl she once knew. She left the room and made her way past Gretchen, the soldier tight on her trail, as she made her way down the curved hall, around the empty cafeteria and up the stairs. Small and steep were the steps on these stairs, which ascended up, up and up, before finally spilling out into a concrete deck that overlooked the courtyard. She approached the metal rails and placed her hands on top. The air was warm and sweet and she filled her lungs greedily as if she might not get another chance.

  "Claire."

  She looked down to see Alfred smiling up at her.

  Without speaking, she fled her perch, shoes clicking the concrete stairs as she scrambled toward him, eyes wet with tears. The old man held a book in his hands, and this he dropped to the ground as he opened his arms to receive her. They embraced with a thud, his glasses bent crooked, hat knocked to the dirt. She wept and he shushed her and they held one another for as long as they needed.

  "I thought I'd never see you again," she said, as they took a seat on a bench.

  Birds clamored about in the treetops above as he held her hand.

  "I was worried of that as well."

  She wiped her eyes.

  "Are you ok?" She asked.

  "Yes. I'm fine. How are you?"

  She shook her head and looked around. The soldier stood atop the concrete deck watching them through a set of pointy eyes.

  "Terrible. I've seen terrible things."

  He frowned.

  "I'm so sorry, my dear. I fear we may be in store for more."

  She looked at him, tears welling.

  "I don't know what to do, Alfred."

  He looked up at the soldier.

  "I don't know that we have many options, I'm afraid."

  He let go her hand and acquired his pipe from his jacket pocket. He glanced at her for a moment, and she gave her blessing with a nod. He loaded it up with tobacco and set it afire, the familiar smell erupting up and around her. An unexpected comfort.