Mission Trip_Genesis and Exodus

by John Theo Jr.

  “Your name and position?”

  “Clarke Simmons. I'm the office manager for Spotlight News. I’ve been sitting down here because there’s no room for me upstairs.”

  “You mean sat,” Ross chimed in. “Want him out, boss?”

  Josiah raised his hand to stay Ross. “You know the real unemployment rate is over twenty-five percent, Clarke?” The man nodded. “You know religion is no longer allowed in public, yet you chose to bring that filth into my building and my company?” The employee didn't say anything. “Answer me!”

  The man stood up. He was built like a football player and towered over Josiah and the other two men. “I'm sorry you feel this way, sir.”

  “Not as sorry as you're gonna be come tomorrow, Clarkey boy,” Lewis said.

  Josiah walked over and did something uncharacteristic. He poked the man in the chest. It was rock solid. The man's youth, build, and good looks infuriated Josiah more than the Bible he held. To him the employee seemed emboldened and overconfident, or was it something else?

  “Ross?” Josiah said without turning away from Clarke.

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “If this former employee isn't out of my building in ten minutes I want you to shoot him. When the police ask why, just tell them he tried to attack me.”

  “Roger that.”

  Clarke's head slumped as he walked by everyone. “I have a few things upstairs.”

  Ross spoke into a microphone in his suit sleeve. “Roger, there's a guy going upstairs to Spotlight to pick up his things. Meet him at the elevator and escort him out of the building. His name is Clarke Simmons.”

  Ross proceeded to disinfect the table with a pocket UV light before Josiah, Lewis, and Ross sat down. Josiah took out a disinfectant wipe from his pocket to clean the finger he’d touched Clarke with. Both employees had their tablets out, ready to start taking notes.

  “Can you freakin' believe the stones on that kid?” Lewis said. “There's no jobs out there and he holds a Bible study in your building?”

  “I hate religious people,” Josiah added. “Christians are the most annoying because they generally don’t fight back. They’re a bunch of pansies.” He waved his hand as if to ward off a bad dream. “Okay, down to business.”

  Ross turned his tablet so the two men could see the screen. “Lewis and I have successfully lobbied to have a quarter-mile area around our building off limits to any commercial aircraft not our own.”

  Lobbied was such a loose term. They either paid someone off, blackmailed them, or threatened to have their families executed. “What about Bill Bradley?”

  “I have eyes on him and three of his execs from the moment they leave their building to when they come back into work the next day. As you know, their homes are almost as secure as their HQ. They travel with full security details in armored vehicles, which is SOP for most Fortune 100 execs now. Why they don’t choose to live in their buildings like us is dumb.”

  “Do you have anything new?”

  “I have contractors who’ve gained access to their home’s water, garbage, and even sewer, which gives me intel on grey and black water contents.”

  “Gross,” Lewis said. “What good will that do us?”

  “You may be a smart lawyer,” Josiah said, “but you need to start reading some of the new technology out there. The data I can harvest just from these guys' crap tells me where they’ve been, what they've had to eat, and their health situation. I might be able to predict what they’ll die from, if they live long enough for natural causes to take over.”

  “Which they won't,” Ross said.

  Josiah did not acknowledge the comment but agreed with it. “Keep at it, Ross. Data is everything. Even clumsy intel is better than none.” He stood up. “We're finished.”

  The next meeting was held in a windowless conference room of Josiah’s news media giant, Sector One. Lewis stood behind Josiah as he sat across from the five top execs. Behind them were three reporters, and down at the other end of the table stood Carolyn, who was the Chief Operating Officer.

  “Talk to me about the new regs,” Josiah said.

  Carolyn walked over to a whiteboard. Her red hair was pulled back in a tight braid, and her pale skin contrasted against the black pantsuit she wore. She touched the board and it turned into an enormous video screen. Large buttons appeared on the board. Carolyn touched one, and a large document appeared on the board.

  “As you can see here, under the ever-changing Fairness Act, all news agencies must adhere to these new regulations.”

  Josiah exhaled as if to mock the play-on-words the government used to control the media. What they did was anything but fair, but he still found ways to game the system. If Sector One complied with government-approved stories, they were given carte blanche to fabricate any other stories they wanted to run. Josiah used this leverage to attack his enemies on a regular basis, and post stories which influenced and even manipulated markets to profit his investments.

  “What you see here,” Carolyn continued, “are the news stories we have the green light to report on however we want. Most are celebrities, sports, and a few current events. Below—” she pointed to a yellow highlighted group, “—are news stories we need the government to approve before we go live.” On this list were specific companies, political stories, political figures, and certain countries. “And below those are the stories we can't touch.”

  This list was long and specific. It started with political figures and moved on to items like the US Constitution, Christianity, negative views on macro evolution, vaccines, off-the-grid living, and any militia movements throughout the country. The words Jesus, God, Bible, and Christianity were also banned. Even the words freedom and liberty could only be used in certain contexts.

  “As usual,” Carolyn continued, “our hands are tied by our corrupt government. We either play ball or get audited into oblivion.”

  One of the reporters huffed as if he was disgusted. “Will we ever be able to report the truth again?”

  Carolyn raised her voice. “Got a problem with your salary, Rob?”

  The young reporter stood up straight. “No, ma'am.”

  “What is truth?” Lewis injected.

  “Truth,” Josiah added, “is whatever we tell people it is.”

  “These are the cards we’re dealt,” Carolyn said. “Figure a way to make it work and then cash your checks.

  “Any questions?” No one responded. “Dismissed.”

  Josiah walked up to the whiteboard as the employees emptied out of the room. He perused the forbidden list for a minute, then nodded to Carolyn. He liked the assertive side she showed in board meetings.

  “Josiah,” she said, “next time you fire one of my staff, please let me know. Clarke Simmons was a good employee.”

  Lewis responded from the back of the room, “There are millions of unemployed people who will kill for that job.”

  “Was I talking to you, Lewis?”

  Josiah held up his hand and Lewis stopped talking. “I’ll try to give you better warning, Carolyn, the next time I fire one of my employees.” Josiah emphasized the word my.

  Carolyn’s eyes squinted. She did this when she was mad. Her anger was as attractive as her looks. It kept him coming back for more. Josiah exited, and Lewis followed his boss back up to the executive suite where they went to their separate offices.

  Alone in his office, Josiah took a handful of vitamins and ate a protein bar. He weighed himself. The computer read 185 pounds and 4 percent body fat. By placing his hand on an imprinted mat on his desk at the computer, he checked his temperature and oxygen level.

  “Everything normal,” a husky female computer voice said.

  “Take blood,” he said.

  There was a small prick to his index finger. He removed his hand from the imprint and went over to a wet bar to wash his hands.

  Five seconds later the computer’s voice spoke again. “Everything is within normal levels.”

  With the
touch of a button to the right of the sink, the wall opened up to a small gym. Josiah changed into his handmade workout clothes, which were made to wick sweat and odor from his body. He spent the next hour working out and lifting weights. Flat screens surrounded the entire room. Only one had a mainstream network competitor to Spotlight News on. This allowed Josiah to know what propaganda was being reported that day from the fake media.

  The rest of the screens were live feeds from subcontracted underground reporters situated around the world. Executives like Josiah paid heavy fees to either hire their own private reporters or pay into a small group that had access to a shared mercenary reporter. Collecting data was everything. No successful business could operate without having real-time news feeds. The mainstream news cartels, like Spotlight, were never to be trusted.

  The screens were mostly images of war zones throughout the world with someone narrating over the screen. Most voices were filtered through computer programs. These freelance reporters were treated like terrorists by certain governments. On several occasions Josiah had watched in real-time as a reporter was assassinated.

  Data scrolled across the bottom of every screen in a ticker format. Most of it was body counts, movement of troops within countries, and data on super bugs and biological warfare being spread. He couldn’t remember the last time there was anything close to good news. It didn’t matter. His world was insulated. The payoffs and blackmail had kept him outside the influence of the real world. He and his staff ate the healthiest food, drank the cleanest water, had access to the best medicine, and were removed from any government mandatory vaccine list. Additionally, every staff member was paid top dollar. It was the closest he could get to rabid loyalty. Regardless, he still had every computer system in his building monitored.

  As he continued to work out, images of Clarke Simmons, the young, handsome office manager, crept into his mind. He knew what the world was like outside. This guy was bound to become a long-term unemployed statistic and probably die in a violent way. Why would he risk his safety and security to throw it all away on a made-up religion? Such a young, vibrant man. It made no sense. A life wasted.

  Chapter Five

  New Sacramento 2077

  The sound of a key unlocking the door woke Kyle from sleep. He didn’t know how much time had passed and was shocked he had slept at all. An elderly man in a mismatched uniform with no insignia came in and pointed an antique rifle at him. Kyle wondered if the firearm worked, or if it was even loaded. He could overpower the man, but didn’t know where he was, where to go, or where the villagers were.

  “My orders are to bring you upstairs,” the man said in a raspy voice. He lowered the rifle and wiped his brow before he raised it back up.

  Kyle noticed the man was sweating and had bloodshot eyes that screamed for sleep. “I’m a doctor if you want me to tell me your symptoms I can—”

  The man coughed into the crook of his arm and pushed the barrel of the gun into Kyle’s chest. “Sorry doc, my orders are to bring you upstairs ASAP.”

  The soldier struggled to bring him up several flights of stairs. They reached a floor where daylight poured in through windows around the stairwell, signifying it was the top floor of the building. They walked past four large offices with the doors removed. Two soldiers sat in each of the offices. A few worked on antique computers, while others wrote items down on clipboards. All the soldiers were young, healthy looking Caucasian men. They reached the end of the hallway and the soldier opened a mahogany door and prodded Kyle inside. The door locked behind him.

  Kyle stood in an ornate room. The floors, walls, and ceilings were all polished hardwood, a rare substance and highly valued on the Atoll. There were chairs and couches made of deep brown leather. Each of the three exterior walls had large floor-to-ceiling windows covered by deep purple curtains. The light in the room came from candles lit on every conceivable flat surface. It gave the appearance of a Victorian-era library.

  It took a moment for Kyle to realize that two men about his age were also in the room. A man with dark-brown hair sat behind a cherry dining table, and the other blond male stood behind him. Both were handsome men dressed in matching navy blue military uniforms with insignia Kyle did not recognize. The seated man raised his finger and the man standing behind leaned down as if to listen.

  The man spoke with a husky voice. “Huxley, why don’t you see if our guest could use a drink?” The blond man nodded and walked past Kyle, giving him a quick, jealous look. The seated man continued, “Please have a seat Dr. Faison. I’m honored to be in the presence of a celebrated doctor from the famed Atoll.”

  “How do you know about me?” Kyle asked.

  “To you—” he pointed around him, “—this city is probably crude, but it’s far more organized and efficient than it was prior to my army taking power. Although still low-tech, we can harvest some intel jewels from time to time. Your reputation had reached our city long before your failed mission trip.”

  “I’m familiar with New America’s east coast governing body,” Kyle said, “but I always thought the west coast outlying lands were apocalyptic areas governed by nomadic gangs.”

  The man’s jaw tightened. “That all changed over a year ago when my army exited Cheyenne Mountain. My forbearers tarried in the safety of the mountain for decades until the country was exhausted with killing itself. Only after an entire generation passed away did we resurface with vehicles, weapons, and much needed medicine to help rebuild this broken world.”

  “You were better off staying in Cheyenne Mountain,” Kyle said, repeating his father’s sentiment about leaving the Atoll.

  The man laughed. “You seem to have echoed my daily thoughts, my dear doctor.”

  “How’d you do it?” Kyle asked. “How did you take over part of a continent? And how do you keep it?”

  “Easy. This side of the country was out of energy, out of weapons, had no medicine and food. Most of which my army supplied. As for how we keep it, that’s a different story.”

  The second man, Huxley, entered back into the room. He slammed a glass filled with water down in front of Kyle and resumed his position behind the seated man. “Charles, it’s about to start.”

  The man named Charles stood up, at least six foot five, and motioned for Kyle to follow them over to one of the windows. “Come here, doctor.”

  Kyle walked over to join the two men at the window. Huxley fell in behind Kyle, in a clear defensive position in case Kyle made a move for Charles. Outside, the bright sun drew attention to wrecked buildings that at one time were bustling places of commerce. Only a handful of structures seemed to be intact, with activity shown by laundry hanging out windows.

  Charles pointed to a window to their right. “We’d have a better view over there, but this is the only ballistic rated window in the room. Huxley would have a heart attack if I stepped in front of any of the others.” He placed a hand on Kyle’s shoulder. It felt cold, as if it were lifeless. With his other hand, he pointed below. “You asked how I keep order.”

  A monocular appeared in front of Kyle’s face from the man known as Huxley. Kyle accepted the optic and focused below. It took him a second to lock in on a moving mass. Thousands of people gathered around what appeared to be a raised cement stage. Standing on the platform were four men and two women lined up against a stone wall with their arms bound together. Three guards stepped onto the stage with machine guns. Without pausing they opened fire on the six people who crumpled to the stage a moment later. From this distance Kyle could not tell if the crowds were cheering or not. He didn’t care. He handed the optic back to Huxley and went back to the table to sit down.

  “Barbaric,” Kyle huffed.

  “To you,” Charles said, quietly resuming his seat at the table. “But it’s the only way to keep order.”

  Kyle whispered a prayer under his breath.

  “What was that?”

  “A prayer for those you just murdered.”

  “To God?”


  “Nonsense,” Huxley said. “Utter nonsense.”

  “Yes,” Kyle said, “to God. There is a passage that comes to mind.”

  “Let me hear this passage,” Charles said. Huxley put his hand on Charles shoulder, and the leader placed his hand on top of it as if to reassure him that what he was about to hear would not bother him.

  Kyle said, “It’s from the book of Job. 'Behold, I cry out of wrong, but I am not heard: I cry aloud, but there is no judgment.'“

  “Interesting,” Charles said.

  “Idiotic,” Huxley added.

  Charles kept his hand on Huxley’s, but it was clear by Huxley’s pained expression that Charles was squeezing it tightly. “Hux, we are the ones using candles for lighting, while this man’s Christian underwater city has technology light-years beyond what the United States had at the height of its power. Idiotic is not paying attention to reality, my friend.”

  He released Huxley’s hand. The blond man rubbed his limb and refocused a look of wounded pride at Kyle.

  “What horrific thing did those people do to deserve execution?” Kyle asked.

  “Those people were caught out after a curfew I had imposed for all last week. A minor infraction, but that can metastasize quickly. If I am to rebuild this world, I need order.” Charles paused and lifted Kyle’s rucksack onto the table from the floor. “And to do that, I need technology and weapons.” Huxley dumped the rucksack contents onto the table and separated the data pad and various medical devices to one side. Charles pointed to the complicated pieces. “And I need a man to help usher in that new age of technology.”

  Kyle could see how the man in front of him commanded fear, but he didn’t feel fear in his presence. There was something going on in his conversation with the enigmatic leader. Charles was probing for intel, but he wanted something else as well. Maybe he couldn’t say in front of Huxley?

  “Answer when he speaks to you!” Huxley shouted. He spoke to Charles, “Give me an hour with this guy and you’ll know everything we need.”