The Suicide Society

by William Brennan Knight

  “You see, Basim,” the bureaucrat said between large mouthfuls of goat’s meat, “you cannot fight these people in conventional ways. They have nuclear weapons, after all. We need volunteers to carry out the will of God. Are you with us?”

  He was told that the movement needed martyrs to attack the enemy and revel in the glory of God. The bureaucrat laughed heartily and slapped him on the back. “Your family will receive great wealth and security in your death. You will be a hero and martyr to all of our people. Your family will live in a luxury two-bedroom apartment in Hebron, and your children will be educated at a university in France when they are old enough.

  “It’s either serving the glory of God, or… this,” the Al-Hurriiya man said with a sweeping gesture toward the cardboard city. He raised his eyebrow. “In fact, Basim, it could get much worse.”

  With great reluctance, the broken Palestinian agreed to the training, and several months later, he was deemed ready to die for the glory of God by blowing up innocent civilians in Tel Aviv. Tears welled in his eyes, as he watched a group of children happily playing in a park next to the open market mercantile. It was a strange sensation to be the only one who knew they would all soon be dead.

  “….Er, I said, excuse me, can I sit here?”

  “Huh?”

  “I was wondering if I could sit next to you a moment. These shoes are very tight, and my feet hurt.”

  Basim looked directly into the eyes of a Hasidic Jew; a curled lock of hair hung from either side of his head, which was partially hidden under an odd black hat. It was a warm day, and Basim speculated that it must be stifling under that thick woolen coat.

  “Ah, I suppose so,” he said. There was fear that turning the man away might draw more attention.

  “Thank you… and shalom.” The Jew sighed deeply as he sat on the bench and placed his feet out at an angle so that only his heels rested on the pavement. He reached down to rub his sandaled feet while sighing repeatedly as he massaged.

  “You know, I have this neuroma. It’s a fibrous growth between my third and fourth toes… Feels like broken glass in there.”

  Basim looked straight ahead, trying to avoid conversation. The large clock set in the concrete tower read 12:15, which meant he was already 15 minutes overdue.

  “… very warm. My friend, you seem preoccupied, and I don’t think you heard a word I said, and here I am rambling on. My name is Shlomo Epstein, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  In spite of himself, Basim pulled his hand from his pocket and extended it. “I am sorry. I am known as Basim Al-Jabar.”

  “Ah, Palestinian?”

  “Yes,” Basim looked at Epstein cautiously.

  Epstein patted his leg reassuringly. “Do not worry my friend. I am far too old to be political. How are you today?”

  Basim contemplated the question for a long moment. “I am actually not doing very well, Shlomo.” He looked down at his shoes and spoke very quietly. “You see, I am going to die today. Many are going to die today.”

  Shlomo Epstein lifted his eyebrows for just a moment. When he spoke, it was slowly and carefully. “You have a bomb strapped to your body, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I suspected as much. I was a security agent in my younger days. Your uneasiness gives you away.”

  There was a brief but awkward silence.

  “I suppose if I ran and screamed for the police you would detonate it, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, I am afraid so. You see, the fate of my wife and children depends on the success of this mission and how many die.”

  Epstein sighed deeply. “So you have no desire to be here yourself?”

  Basim shook his head slowly, and tears again welled up in his eyes. “No, but what I want hardly matters. They have ruined my life and pushed me to this moment.”

  “There are always choices my friend.”

  “Not in this case, Epstein.” Basim paused and looked off in the distance. “Please, walk away quietly. Go home to your family and hug your grandchildren.”

  There was a significant period of quiet. Only the happy sound of the children and the chirping of the sparrows in the marketplace could be heard. Finally, Epstein turned to Al-Jabbar. “Let me take all the children away from this place. I beg you.”

  Basim regarded the question thoughtfully and shook his head. “I am afraid not. There are too many. It would raise suspicion.”

  “Please. My granddaughter is among them. Her name is Rashada. She is the one playing on the high bars, see?”

  A small girl with shoulder length brown hair grabbed tentatively at the rolled-steel bars of the apparatus. “She looks about the same age as my daughter Kilafa; she is seven,” said Basim.

  “That is the exact age of Rashada! Please my friend, let me take the children away from this horror. Why must our sins touch their lives?”

  Basim tried to cover his tears to not attract attention. “Take you granddaughter, old man. Take her quietly, and do not look back. But take no one else.”

  Shlomo Epstein rose slowly and walked unsteadily to the playground. He reached his granddaughter, who began to cry when told they must leave early. Talking slowly and quietly, he bribed her with the promise of an ice cream. Finally, she agreed to leave.

  Two blocks away from the market, Epstein cringed as he felt the shock wave of the explosion as the ground trembled beneath him. He fell to his knees and prayed to a merciful God.

  On the other side of the market amid the smoke and burning debris, a small figure clad in a dark black suit emerged. His pale white face was hidden in a shroud that only revealed thin, scarlet lips and large, perfectly aligned pearl-white teeth.

  He smiled delightedly and rubbed his pale hands together. There was blood and shredded appendages strewn everywhere. A small girl whose body had been torn nearly in half pulled herself across the hot, broken pavement. Every lurch forward left a bright red smear in its wake. She wailed for her mother as a raw chunk of intestine broke free from the slick mess of organs, meat and liquids that slid out of her abdominal cavity.

  The pale man picked at a small chunk of splattered gore on his suit. He brought it up to his nose and breathed in deeply. A small shudder of delight ran through his body.

  “You know, there is nothing better than a front row seat to a suicide bombing in a crowded market on a bright, sunny day,” Mr. Cox said to no one in particular. “Well done, Mr. Watts…Well done indeed.”

  ***

  The room was dark, and the windows were covered with thick butcher-block paper yellowed from age. The mattress in the corner was sunken in the middle, and there were overlapping stains from nights occupied by a chronic bed wetter. There was a single chair next to a flimsy plastic table with hollow metal legs covered with used paper plates and numerous fast food wrappers. A crowded cardboard box served as a coffee table, and it sagged under the weight of two ashtrays stuffed with butts and several empty cheap vodka bottles.

  Under a dim bulb suspended from a single cord that terminated into a cracked plaster ceiling, Alan Ziminski sat in front of a 45” flat screen computer display, picking absently at a bulbous acne pustule while typing furiously at a keyboard with his other hand. A lit cigarette dangled from his mouth, and he squinted from the smoke wafting from its tip.

  He mumbled to himself as he typed, a habit born from years of isolation and solitude. For as long as he could remember, Alan had been alone. Even when others had been physically present, he always felt isolated and empty. Ridiculed as the compost with the greasy hair and bad acne, he endured years of abuse and horror by his mother and the others. He was unique in this regard. While nearly everyone felt the hurt and pain, it was only Alan who experienced the complete humiliation of being the biggest loser amongst all the losers.

  There were pranks during the day and beatings at night while his mother drank herself into a stupor as she tried to prepare for her own impending hell. This was the reward for being one of his father’s �
�favorites,” the ones he chose to spend his quality time with. It was no wonder that Alan had grown hard and calloused inside. The thick sludge of wickedness welled up from his soul.

  Somehow, he managed to educate himself in spite of the sham that served as the school system. His father even arranged for a very sophisticated internet connection that was set up in the library. Beneath the surface of a poor rural town, there was always some new high-tech system being secretly installed. They tried to hide it, but Alan was extraordinarily perceptive, and even at a young age, he knew something unusual was going on in Desolation.

  Alan was like a maestro when sitting at a computer, knowing how to massage the machine to gain the information he wanted. He was writing code at 11, designing leading edge AI programs at 15, and hacking into mainframes with his father’s encouragement at 18. He gained praise from his father when he compromised a system and stole important information, and as his computer savvy grew, the number and severity of the beatings decreased.

  When he interfaced with the Cray T3E-1350 supercomputer, Alan came close to achieving some measure of happiness. He wasn’t certain how his father had secured time on such a rare and powerful machine, but Alan felt a love and kinship with the Cray like nothing he had ever felt for a human being. He had total access to the main processor as well. No poor man’s version of clusters, this was the real deal. Thousands of petabytes of storage and processing power made this the most powerful computational device on the face of the planet.

  Alan simultaneously checked his Cayman Islands bank account and confirmed the latest deposit of $100,000. He smiled and puffed on the cigarette as he exited the bank’s source code and then moved rapidly into a reporting bureau and began to subtly alter the credit history of his next victim. In the corner of the screen, he watched the Cray furiously compute the recently inputted data. It would take a while due to the complexity of the base program and the effects of the data parameters. Rest assured, some poor sod would awaken to find his finances in complete shambles; a black cloud that would follow him for years or perhaps a lifetime.

  There was a startling ring from a cell phone that caused Alan’s smile to fade as his sweat glands opened spontaneously. It was a secure line that was only used by an individual he knew as Xavier Watts, who was an intermediary between Ziminski and his father. He only called when there was an issue, and issues were usually a very bad thing.

  Alan nervously picked up the phone. He pulled absently at a facial boil until it burst, and he rubbed the slimy pus between his fingers until it dried into a sticky paste.

  “Hello,” he said in a cracking voice.

  “Alan, we have a problem.” Watts spoke in a low monotone.

  “What? What problem, Mr. Watts?”

  “It’s another rogue who has left the blissful existence of our fair organization.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Sarah Johansen. Apparently she has lost her way.”

  “Has my father asked about me?”

  “Alan, we’ve had this discussion before. There is no point going down that road yet again.”

  There was a pause. “Why does he hate me? What do I have to do to prove myself? I’ve done everything he’s asked. I hate him, and I hate New York City!” Alan slammed his fists into the keyboard.

  “Alan, get hold of yourself. Focus, you must focus.”

  Ziminski closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. It took several seconds, but he regained his composure. “What was her last known location and time?”

  “Joahnsen was seen at about 2:30 p.m. yesterday leaving the laundry building. We don’t know how she left or why. She knows she would die in the desert on foot, so someone must have helped her.”

  Alan typed furiously at the keyboard accessing several levels of internet infrastructure and hacking into all the service companies that conducted regular business with the town of Desolation. It took several minutes, but he soon had a preliminary report.

  “There were four deliveries into Desolation yesterday. I would bet serious money on the fact that she left on one of those trucks. I'll trace the manifests and find out what trucks and drivers had those routes.”

  “Good Alan, very good. This is important. The Benefactor feels it is very important.”

  The words washed over Alan like warm bath salts. Any time he could find himself creating favor with his father, it was cause for satisfaction. He slid back in his rolling chair.

  “I might have to come back to Desolation you know.” He ran his hand over his pockmarked face.

  “Sure Alan, but first things first. Run down these leads and find out who accommodated her departure. Contact the Western region sector chief and make sure she is found and detained. Also, I need the NSA reports I asked for yesterday. We have to maintain our positive momentum. Meeting our goals is very important to the Benefactor.”

  Alan grabbed his hair and pulled. “Ok, ok, I guess I’ll have them tomorrow.”

  “As to that other matter; has it been resolved?” Watts’ monotone never wavered throughout the conversation.

  “Yes, I have another target located. She is in a city about two hours outside of Los Angeles called Moreno Valley, living under the name of Dorothy Crispen. I have the exact address in fact. I dispatched a Conduit to the area two days ago, and he reported in today. The event should happen tonight.” Alan cackled shrilly. “Man, I really fucked this woman up good. Credit report, property taxes, lawsuit, I gave her the whole nine yards.”

  “Good. But remember, we have to meet quota. I expect no less than 250 conversions next week. This is very important.”

  Click. The phone went dead signaling Watts’ abrupt departure. Alan hated the lack of respect he got from his father’s underlings. Who did Watts think he was anyway? Maybe he would like his credit report tweaked a bit. Alan spit on the phone, and then spit again three more times. Finally, he rose and went to the cabinet and extracted a new bottle of vodka. He would drink first, play a few hours of Medieval Kingdom and then get back to ruining more lives.

  Chapter Five

  Zach couldn’t remember when he had slept so poorly or felt such anxiety. Maybe the first night after he and Carol separated, but perhaps not even then. After several days, the confirmation of Helena Bostwick’s death still weighed heavily on him, and the chilling phone call with the surviving Bostwick sister continued to play endlessly in his mind.

  He yawned, stretched and stumbled into the bathroom. Avoiding the mirror and the tired reflection he knew would be looking back, he lathered up and pulled the cold razor over his thick stubble.

  The last few sleepless nights had left him feeling helpless and impotent in the face of something that was obviously far more significant than he originally suspected. The visions were no novelty. Instead, it appeared they were freakish and deadly. Despite his timid nature and instinct to avoid potential danger, he felt compelled to explore their origin and meaning.

  The journey could not wait; there might be lives at stake. He was going to leave Albuquerque, and there was only one person he felt should know. Hesitantly, Zach picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Hello?” The familiar voice on the other end of the line still had the ability to melt his heart a bit.

  “Hi, Carol.”

  There was a short pause that almost felt like annoyance. “Hello, Zach. What’s up?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Working a lot, I guess. So, how have you been?”

  “I’m doing… better. I’m spending a lot of time in therapy working on myself. But I assume you didn’t call to check on my well-being.”

  “I just wanted to… Jarad tells me you’re seeing someone.” Zach slapped his forehead. He had done it again. Attacking with all the subtly of a rhino in a crystal glass shop.

  There was nothing but the sound of breathing for several seconds. “I knew it. Jarad Anston still has a big mouth. You just couldn’t wait to get into it could you? When will you stop stalking me?”

  “Look, I’m sorry, that wasn’
t what why I called. It’s good that you’ve been able to move on. I’m happy for you, really.”

  “Yeah, thanks, I’m sure you are. Zach, I’m kind of running late for work. Do you need to talk to Mandy because I’ve got to go?”

  “No, it’s ok. I just wanted to let you know that I’m going away for a while. Tell Mandy for me. I’ll call her when I get back.”

  She sighed. “Going away where? For how long?”

  “I’m not sure. There’s something I need to do, and I don’t know how long it will take.”

  “Zach, what’s this about? You know what the therapist said about your passive aggressiveness. Are you trying to punish me for dating?”

  “No, it’s not about that. Can you ever accept that not everything is about you?”

  Almost imperceptibly, Carol chuckled. “Ok, Zach. I have to go to work now. Good luck on your trip. Please stay in touch with your daughter.”

  “I will.”

  “And Zach?”

  “Yes.”

  “It won’t work this time. No matter what you do to yourself, I know I’m not responsible. I won’t let you to ruin my life.”

  “Yeah, fine Carol. I guess the life ruining only goes one way.”

  As he hung up the phone, Zach’s eyes welled with tears. Why did he love this woman so deeply when she only brought him misery and sorrow? How could a mad, dysfunctional, co-dependent relationship somehow last seven years? They both must have drawn something from it, but as time went on, the reservoir of emotional fulfillment had grown foul and polluted.

  Zach turned away from the distraction of his ex-wife as the recollection of the recent vision pushed its way back into the forefront of his conscious mind. Any hope of unraveling the mystery had to start in Illinois, the origin of the only real clue he had. He decided to book a flight to Chicago as soon as possible.

  Hopefully, Helena Bostwick’s sister would be more helpful if he came in person and proved to her that he wasn’t a lawyer or an insurance agent. Perhaps the vibe would be stronger and more revealing if he visited the actual room where Helena had ended her life. Intrigue and mystery was uncomfortable for the typical accountant, but Zach was no longer dealing in the world of general ledgers and tax returns. This was off the map, and he was bound to stumble as he tried to make sense of the bizarre twist his life had taken.