Dire Means

by Geoffrey Neil

  A new sense of shame began to take hold of him. Here he was, deep in an underground bunker controlled by serial killers who had the attention of the world. The Trail Bladers starved people to death within feet of him, yet he was an honored guest, pampered in every way. He wondered where the fodder were kept. Would Pop show him? Could he handle it? And most important, could he devise a way to free them and stop Pop from obtaining more?

  He turned on the TV and saw more coverage of the incident at his apartment building. He was exhausted. After two hours, he slipped into a light, restless sleep.

  §

  At 7:00 a.m. there was a knock on his suite’s door. Mark woke up in his clothes from the previous day, not having gotten under the covers of his big bed.

  When he answered, there stood Morana, smiling. She held a tray capped with three shiny silver plate covers. “Good morning,” she said. She motioned toward his dining room table with her chin.

  Mark stepped aside.

  “How’d you sleep?” she said as she placed the food at the head of the table.

  “Like crap.”

  Morana turned back to him, her smile faded. “Was there something wrong with the suite? Did you need something? Were you cold?”

  “No, everything is fantastic. It’s just difficult to sleep when you’ve been declared a fugitive in the only world you know.”

  “Mark, we discussed this and you agreed to our terms. If only you knew half of the things we’ve done to ensure your safety you would have slept like a baby. We are going to take care of you.”

  Mark went to the table to inspect the food. “I didn’t know all of the terms and conditions to which I was agreeing,” he said, lifting a plate cover. Fresh fruit, hot scrambled eggs, and pastries covered a platter. A smaller dish under another cover revealed three hot biscuits, jams, and jellies. The breakfast tray also had toast, orange juice, onion bagels, and a decorative carafe of steaming hot coffee. He went for the coffee first.

  “Are you saying you’ve changed your mind?” Morana asked.

  “I don’t feel like I ever made up my mind. You created circumstances that have forced me here, and now I can’t leave.”

  Morana’s shoulders drooped and she nodded. “It might seem that way at first,” she said as she served some of the food on a plate for Mark. “Pop wants to meet you in less than an hour. I’d stay for breakfast, but I have an obtainment preparation meeting now.”

  “Obtainment?”

  “Pop’s going to explain that to you. He may want you to join us. You may even lead one soon.”

  “Is an obtainment when you abduct fodder?”

  Morana smiled and said, “I’ll see you shortly, Mark.” She held the door open as she left and pointed down the hallway. “End of this hall and turn right. Pop’s office is the last door on the left. Don’t knock, just place your hand on the console outside his office; your name will be announced to him and he’ll grant you access. Don’t be late. Eight o’clock. On the nose.”

  Mark turned on the TV. He saw a photo of the gun that was used in the murder at his apartment complex. It looked familiar to him. He stopped chewing his bagel in a moment of concentration. His memory clicked. It was the same hand gun Pop had handed to him in his office a few days ago.

  §

  Mark placed his hand on the console glass and spread his fingers. It felt cold. The green light flashed from beneath. A moment later, he heard the metallic clunk of the lock on Pop’s door. The door didn’t open so Mark nudged it with two fingers. It cracked open and Pop’s voice said, “Right on time. I like that. Come have a seat, Mark.”

  Mark entered the office and saw Pop sitting at his desk. “Welcome back, my friend,” Pop said. A pen protruded from his mouth. He clenched it with his teeth like it was a cigar. He made no move to shake hands so Mark sat down in the same chair he used on his first visit. The fake, incessant fire crackled on the screen in the fireplace.

  “Your accommodations—were they comfortable?”

  “Yes, very nice,” Mark mounted his best smile and strained to hold it.

  “Breakfast—did you get enough to eat?”

  “Yes, thank you, sir.” Mark felt an odd twinge for addressing a mass murderer as sir.

  “Good manners. Excellent. That’s why I’m an award winning hero chooser.” Pop paused for Mark to oblige him with a small laugh.

  “I have a housewarming gift for you,” Pop said.

  “What house?”

  “Your new home. The suite you stayed in and everything in it is your property. And we’ve arranged a gift in honor of your move.”

  “You’ve done enough for me. I couldn’t accept—”

  “Bring it!” Pop hollered. He pointed to the opposite side of his office. A door that Mark thought led to a closet opened, and in walked Raphael rolling an upright hand truck with a hooded person strapped to it. Orange canvas straps bound the person every eight inches from the ankles to the neck and the person made no struggle. Raphael lifted the hand truck to vertical, putting the person in a standing position and then stepped away.

  Pop stepped nearer and circled the captive a few times. He turned to Mark and said, “Whenever we have the power to right a wrong we have an obligation to do so. Do you agree?”

  Mark nodded and Pop seemed pleased. The adrenaline rush Mark felt from what he saw before him made him take a deep breath. Was this one of Pop’s victims that would be executed right here? If Pop had read Mark correctly, then he should know that Mark would not stand by to watch murder without attempting to stop it.

  Pop reached out, grasped a fistful of the black cloth that hooded the captive and said, “Mark, I think you’ll find our gift most therapeutic.” He yanked the hood off and Mark’s mouth fell open in surprise. Strapped to the dolly was Ty, the skinny gas-money con.

  A ball gag stretched his mouth, and Ty’s wide eyes darted around the room to Raphael, Pop, and then stopped on Mark. He stared at Mark for a moment and then uttered two unintelligible words through the ball gag. The first word may have been “oh,” but the second Mark couldn’t guess. Whatever he said, Pop found it funny and chuckled as he rested his hand on Ty’s shoulder as if he were an old friend.

  “Recognize this…this—thing, Mark?” Pop cocked his head as he examined Ty all the way down to his bare feet.

  “I…I believe so,” Mark said.

  Ty stared back at Pop as if he had never seen him. Pop walked to his desk and picked up a folder. He opened it, licked his finger, and pinched apart some of the pages as he turned them. He walked back to Ty, pointed to Mark, and said, “Do you know who this man is?”

  Ty shook his head.

  “Hmmm,” Pop said. He tapped his index finger against lips and began pacing in front of Ty. “I wonder what we might do to excite your memory.” Ty’s eyes were wild with fear and locked onto Pop as he passed back and forth in front of him. Pop pulled out a photograph and held it up one foot from Ty’s face. “Have you ever visited this service station?” As Pop continued to hold up the photo for Ty to examine, he turned to Mark and smiled. Mark didn’t respond.

  “Perhaps this will jog your memory,” Pop said. He produced a new photo, held it closer to Ty’s face. He returned it to the folder and then pulled another photo—and then another. After eight photos, Pop closed the folder, went to Mark, and handed it to him. Mark opened it and saw that the photos were the ones Mark had taken inside his ransacked apartment on the day of the burglary. He was at first perplexed as to how Pop had the photos. Then Mark remembered that he had forgotten his phone at the apartment and he hadn’t removed the photos of the burglary from it. If the Trail Bladers staged a murder at his home, then they had no-doubt combed it for anything that could be useful to their cause. They probably now had more documentation and knowledge of Mark’s life than he himself did.

  Pop fixed his eyes on Ty, pointed to Mark, and said, “I don’t imagine many Santa Monica residents offer you a ride to the gas station and then offer to buy you some gasoline.”


  Ty studied Mark and a twinge of recollection appeared on his face. He uttered a three-syllable grunt that Mark couldn’t understand. Raphael bit his lip to avoid laughing.

  “I know you are sorry,” Pop said, understanding the babble that squeezed out from under Ty’s gag. “Bad timing can ruin your business of thievery, just as it can ruin the sincerity of an apology.”

  Ty shook his head hard and grunted some more, but Pop waved him off and turned to Mark.

  “Since researching your victimization was difficult without a police report, we tried a more direct approach to get your car, your money, your keys, your credit cards, and all your belongings that this worm used for his own personal profit,” Pop said with increasing volume for Ty’s benefit. “But unfortunately, those items are unrecoverable.” He turned and nodded to Raphael who stepped to the back of the dolly and tilted Ty back in preparation to roll him out of the room.

  “Mark, would you like to spend some private time with this thing for a frank exchange of views?” Pop asked.

  Mark felt sorry for Ty, despite the memory of being robbed by this thief. Although the pain over the gas station incident was still fresh and still stung, Mark shook his head—certain that Pop had already evoked enough terror in Ty to suffice for payback. “No, it looks like he’s learned his lesson,” Mark said.

  “Benevolent to his core,” Pop said, pointing to Mark while he glared at Ty. He signaled Raphael who held the cloth hood above Ty’s head. Before he put the hood on, Pop stepped in front of Ty and made a sawing gesture at his neck with a wide grin on his face.

  Ty bucked under the bindings and his head shook from side to side in a long muffled scream.

  A chill shot up Mark’s spine and he stood. “Wait, you don’t need to—”

  “Shhh,” Pop said. Raphael yanked the hood down over Ty’s head.

  Ty thrashed under the tight hug of his straps, groaning, wheezing, and banging his head on the back of the dolly.

  Raphael wheeled Ty out the same door through which they had entered.

  Pop sat at his desk. After the door closed, he said, “We aren’t going to behead him; it’s too messy. Besides, violence makes me uneasy so I avoid it.”

  Mark’s pulse raced—his face full of disbelief.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “How can you say you aren’t violent if you…you…”

  “How can I say I’m not violent if I possess fodder that will soon die? Is that what you mean to say?”

  Mark nodded. He noticed that Pop had used neither the word kill nor murder.

  “You will soon see that we treat our fodder with the utmost care. The victims of the fodder, our impoverished and ill brothers and sisters, should be so lucky to have the same consideration. Our brothers and sisters are kicked, spat upon, and dragged from public places.” Pop’s face was contorted in anger.

  “But you kill them,” Mark said, deciding not to mince words.

  “We don’t kill them any more than public ignorance kills our brothers and sisters on the street. Fodder die from similar neglect.”

  A beep sounded from Pop’s pocket and he pulled out his PDA and held it up to his face, widening his eyes to see it. After he tapped the screen a few times, he put it back into his pocket.

  “What’s going to happen to Ty?” Mark asked.

  Pop considered Mark’s question—choosing his words carefully. “As much as we’d love to set him free, we can’t. We—”

  “Will he die here?” Mark interrupted.

  “Not in this room,” Pop laughed. “Raphael and Teddy are pros. Thanks to our cutting-edge mechanical technology, their work is quick and complete. You might say that they’re going to ‘liquidate his assets’.”

  Mark cringed and said, “Please don’t kill anyone on my behalf.”

  “Mark Denny, you amaze me still! Not to worry—his blood won’t be on your hands. The demise of that hoodlum is a practical decision for us. We simply can’t have him exist.”

  Pop opened his office door and sent Mark back to his suite, promising an exciting excursion later.

  §

  After an hour during which Mark failed to relax in his suite, he heard a knock at the door. A moment later it clicked open and Morana came in.

  “I have permission from Pop to take you on our next obtainment,” she said.

  “I’d rather not leave the Nest—being a fugitive and all.”

  “You won’t be seen in public. You are going to have to trust us.”

  Mark realized that his value to Pop was linked to his usefulness. He had the esteem of the Trail Bladers, but didn’t know how long that would last—especially if he refused to participate in their activities. Any freeloader’s welcome would wear thin—even if he was a hero.

  “Fine,” he said.

  “We’re going to a Deedlog briefing in a few minutes. I think that seeing some of the Deedlog of fodder will help you better reconcile our mission in your mind.”

  “Deedlog?”

  “Research, including footage of fodder behavior leading to their obtainment. I think it will help you,” she said as she picked up the remote control from the coffee table. She aimed it and brought up an index of names on the big television screen. Mark recognized the first one on the list—Mendalsen. Morana selected it and a new menu appeared that included Background, Instances, Waypoints, and Footage. She highlighted Background and pressed a button. Personal data about Keith Mendalsen appeared. Place of birth, elementary school, high school, college, social security number, his last five places of residence, his banking information with account numbers, his medical records, addresses of all local family members—even his driving record splashed onto the screen. After scrolling to the bottom of the screen, an option said See Wife.

  “How do you get this information?” Mark asked, his eyes locked onto the screen.

  “You’ll eventually know the process intimately. For now, let’s just say our business is the acquisition of data, and we are proficient.” Morana looked at Mark as if the answer should have been obvious.

  “You gather this private data from the paper you—we are paid to destroy?”

  “Not in all cases, but if doing so serves a higher cause then we are in a position and under an obligation to serve that higher cause,” Morana said. “Watch more before you form your opinion.” She returned to the main menu and selected Footage. Three dates showed on the screen: August 12, August 17, and August 29. Morana selected the first date.

  The video clip began and the bumpy footage steadied a bit, but still dipped in the rhythm of footsteps. “Keith Mendalsen did not know he was being filmed by hidden camera,” Morana said. “This enabled us to capture his true character—repeatedly.”

  The person with the hidden camera approached Keith Mendalsen as he walked with another man who also wore a suit. They were crossing the courtyard of the ALCO building. Audio crackled on and then smoothed with the sound of traffic in the background.

  “Spare any change for food today, sirs?”

  Keith turned to the camera person. “I got a spare ass kicking if you don’t back off, bum,” Keith replied, raising his hand for the other man to swat in a high five. But the other man did not. Instead he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out some change.

  “Geez, Keith, give ‘em some change and they’ll leave you alone.” He handed the cameraperson some of the change he had picked out from his open hand, keeping most of the quarters.

  “You reward them for begging and they’ll never leave,” Keith said, checking his watch.

  “That’s bullshit and you know it,” Keith’s friend said. “These guys don’t want to be out here—do you?” he turned his head toward the camera for agreement. The camera nodded.

  “Thank you, sir,” the voice behind the camera said.

  “Lucky my friend here has no sense,” Keith said to the camera. “If me and you were alone out here all you’d be getting from me is an ass whippin’.”

  The camera backed
away from the men as Keith nodded, saying, “Yeah, that’s right.”

  The screen faded to black and then returned to the main menu where Morana selected August 17.

  On the next clip, Keith appeared again, this time walking down a sidewalk, the ALCO building visible behind him. “Why don’t you give me some money, you scum?” he said. The cameraperson apologized and stopped moving, frozen on Keith as he looked over both shoulders to see who might be watching. He stepped toward the camera, his face reddened, and he shoved the cameraperson backward into something. The screen tilted and blinked, then went sideways against the ground for a moment before it steadied and turned to a light pole that had broken the fall. It refocused on Keith who was walking away with his middle finger displayed over his shoulder. Then the footage faded to black and the main menu reappeared.

  “The cruelty of some people is unbelievable,” Mark said. He had seen people publicly shun the homeless, but he had never seen an assault from a first-person point of view, and the intensity of the encounter affected him so much his palms were sweaty.

  “Pop looks for a pattern of cruelty—consistency over time—plus video footage of cruelty that validates our cause. Keith Mendalsen gave us both,” Morana said. She tossed the remote control on the table and turned to Mark. “Fodder candidates are not those who show passive indifference to those in need—although our mission cures them as well. Our best fodder candidates are proactive in their cruelty. They batter our brothers and sisters either physically or emotionally and, unfortunately, they are not only easy to find, but easy to record.”

  “How many times did you record Keith?”

  “We have footage of seven incidents. Three are in his official Deedlog archive.”

  “How long ago did you begin recording him?”

  “Four months. We had over sixty fodder candidates selected before the first one, Keith, was obtained.”

  “Do you have this type of footage on all of them?”