Children of the Program

by Brad Cox

  “Wow!”

  “Diving in, I realized how easy it came. It just spider-webbed from there.”

  “Well, last night was amazing! Ben, it completely dismantled my world. I've lived such a smothered existence, this go-round. My parents were embarrassed by the shame the world cast upon Germany and the amplified moral responsibility it brought to our family. Simply, we forgot how to live. For better or worse, their parenting put a wall between me and the fallen West. It's ironic, really,” Rand continued.

  “That is the definition of irony!”

  “No lifestyle could rewrite our sordid history. I did my best to bring pride to our doorstep, daily! I thought, if they could vicariously live through my academic success, I'd earn them the respect they were missing. It was never enough.”

  “It never is.”

  “I missed my youth. I've never even been on a date. Being tasked with finding true love might prove to be more arduous than I'm prepared for.”

  “You'll be fine! Find a Fraulein, recite her some poetic World War II history and sit back and watch the magic unfold,” joked Simon.

  “I'm not even mad at you, Simon! That's hilarious.”

  “By the way, I think the 'being naked' part is now officially over,” said Simon to Ash and Neco, leaving lingering quotations and judgment in the cool air. “If you're going to continue to lay on the dirty ground in your birthday suits and pretend to sleep, you can at least make it a little more exciting for the rest of us!”

  Neco kissed Ash and said, “Let's get up!”

  “So, you're a tough girl?” Juno smiled, asking Zane.

  “Only when I have to be,” she returned, with a smile. “My father wasn't the most stable of individuals. A girl has to know how to protect herself, you know? I never really knew if he was going to be ready to kick some tail, after a hard day, or cuddle. I mean, he's Irish,” she furthered.

  Juno laughed. “What if I could teach you how to dance? You know, if you mix dance with your instinct to fight, your movements will be become fluid. You'll be unstoppable. It's the main difference between martial arts and street fighting.” She paused. “Give me your tough little hands, sweetheart!”

  They practiced in the hot morning sun, connected and learned from one another. Despite her somewhat rough upbringing, Zane always maintained a sweet and approachable demeanor. In stark contrast, stood Icarus.

  “Would you ladies mind if I joined you? I could use a few new friends!”

  Zane and Juno understood his gesture, smirked and let him have his precocious fun.

  “Go ahead,” offered Zane.

  Icarus then grabbed the girls and lifted them, like an offering to the sun.

  Juno laughed. “Then again, who needs to be able to dance or fight when you can simply pick-up everyone in the damn room?”

  “The Incredible Hulk is real,” said Grayson, making a mock headline for a future story. “Not to interrupt, but we all had a very wild night. What no one seems to be addressing is the sea of dead birds by our feet. Does anyone find it alarming? I mean, they are black, so, they obviously symbolize creation, but, I'm at a loss,” furthered Grayson.

  “I think The Council just wanted us to wake-up and remember what took place,” offered Neco. “That or this black bird is in the cosmic dog house!”

  “It's not like we can exactly forget. I think they are here to show us how many times we'll try and fail and not to underestimate The Program. Creation is a beautiful thing, but we've all been sent here to produce a child with a certain special unknown someone. It sounds simple, but it's clearly not or we wouldn't be standing in the desert and surrounded by feathered creatures that are covered in flies,” Grayson continued.

  “OK, changing lanes! If this is the last time we're all going to be together, we should have a party,” insisted Ash.

  The group immediately forgot the suggestion, as the roar of Magnus's chariot emerged in the shadowy distance. It was the most welcome and triumphant image they’d seen since The Council's light show. Elisa's dirty blond hair blew in the mild breeze. She was holding two large plastic supply bags. The motorcycle made short work of the desert and arrived, posthaste. Magnus slid his tires to aid the brakes.

  “We hope you like Dorito's, cold pizza, NoDoz and water,” said Elisa, dispersing the goods.

  “It's got to be better than blackbird," said Ash.

  “I’d say,” said Grayson, in a huff.

  “Sorry, Gray, I was just trying to lighten the mood,” said Ash. “So, getting back on the topic, what if we have a child with a special someone in the group?” asked Ash, grabbing for Neco's hand.

  “Moving on,” said Simon. “You two can find out and get back to us, OK?”

  “The union of two participants of The Program would likely overload the DNA structure of the developing fetus and ultimately result in a stillborn,” said Elisa. “I wouldn't recommend it!”

  “How do you know that?” asked Ash.

  “I guess you could say a little birdy told me,” returned Elisa.

  chapter 10

  The eyes of madness

  “Our transgressions won't be kept in the Book of Records?” thought Dez, sipping on lukewarm black coffee, in an old diner two hours from the Painted Desert, letting the last sparks of innocence fade from his cruel and affected eyes. “Well, then...”

  His demeanor was guarded toward anyone who risked making eye contact. Before settling into the worn red vinyl seat of the empty jumbo-sized motor home, parading around as a legitimate restaurant, he tested The Council’s law, by nonchalantly robbing a Pic-N-Run gas station attendant. Dusty tire tracks from of an untagged motorcycle, a bike, which appeared to have been assembled on his front lawn, with leftover automobile parts from the abandoned impound lot he called home, were the only trace of his involvement. The rules of The Program favored his plea for rebellion. His crooked mind began fastening the beginning pieces of a sinister plot to punish the universe for his losses and for the horrific time he was forced to spend in the underworld. He was determined to avenge his fallen family and friends.

  “My coffee is getting cold,” he barked. “Can you handle this job? There's nobody here, missy!” His view of human beings had been permanently altered. He could no longer see man's innocence, nor promise, only their radiating fears and physical limitations. They were nothing more than a class of worker bees, submitting to the will of an absentee god. They were the dirt beneath his dusty boots. “The Council has made a huge mistake,” he laughed, under sour breath. “I'll make this right. It's my right — my kind of right!”

  After sucking back his fifth cup of bitter Joe, he stood, crumbled his handwritten bill, tossed it in his nervous waitress's face and exited the eatery. “The only punishment is that I'll never die? Ha!”

  His bravado was a hammer upon the gavel of a new justice; one man, under lawlessness.

  Dez mounted his steel horse and galloped 300 miles east, toward a seedy strip club. The venue was mere miles from his compound lot. With a suave cool, he trolled through the flimsy saloon doors and found the afternoon-quality dancers extracting the souls of hopeless derelicts — one dollar bill at a time! Taking inventory, he imbibed a moment's calm; even chilled, Wild Turkey bourbon couldn't cool his raging heart. He gulped, in droves. His reckless mind soaked in the self-pity and mania, which only a wanted alcohol-induced psychosis could produce. If all that remained was contending with visions of dirty birds and unwelcome memories, he was content to spiral.

  The girls looked like prey to the new eyes floating in his barbaric skull. If any value was housed in their bones, they’d become pawns of primal gratification. His heart had iced. He was aroused by the thought of implanting himself into their minds, like a tapeworm. Unveiling the money from the gas station heist, he lured them toward his spinning cobweb. With wide eyes and trusting mouths, they kissed the air like hapless guppies, gobbling capitalism.

  “Would you girls like to make a lot more where this came from?” The girls were smitte
n by his attractive offer and green for his affection. “All you have to do is say the word.” They both playfully nodded, hypnotized by his tempting eyes. “I live about 10 miles down the road. Do you want to come over and maybe, cook me breakfast?” he added.

  “Who's waiting for later? Let's go, now! I'm Crystal and this is Michelle,” said an average-looking brunette dancer. Her straightened hair was decorated with purple streaks, and her soft face, masked in make-up, was a compliment to Dez's black cloak. “I don't suppose you've got any marijuana, do you?”

  “I've got everything weed-need!” he charmed.

  It was another relentlessly hot Sunday in the desert. The high humidity made Hades rise. Offering their manager a cut, the intrepid ladies followed the renegade for a presumed romp and clocked out from their remaining shift. They hopped into Crystal's old baby blue Camaro and followed the scribbled directions that the man had left upon a damp beverage napkin.

  Coming upon an old rusty black mailbox, they arrived. The driveway looked like a long dirt road to a serial killer's bordello. Tall weeds barricaded their vision from any trace of a permanent residence. There was a warranted reason for pause. Though the long summer sun had hours to shine before it would sink below the skyline, they preferred to submit to his wiles and get out, before losing daylight. Slinking from the beat-up car, the girls adjusted their heels and approached the trailer. At war with the air and himself, a silhouette kicked, punched and screamed, before pausing to address them.

  “You made it!” he said, kindly. “Even a den of snakes needs its charms,” he thought.

  “You didn't exactly make it easy! I could barely decipher your directions through the whiskey stains on this-here napkin, Picasso!” sassed Michelle.

  “No matter, you made it! How about those drugs?” he smiled. “Are either of you thirsty?”

  He didn't care.

  Entering the dilapidated trailer, they were offended by the wafting filth and copious debris. Old rusty cans of Coors Light, bags of McDonald's and a Native America dreamcatcher, shaped from woman’s lingerie, were a few of its tells — a trail of clues was pointing directly toward their questionable decision-making!

  “Do you need a maid or did you actually have something else in mind?” asked Crystal.

  “Just try and make yourselves comfortable, I'll roll us a joint!”

  An old sheet of white blotter acid lay restlessly dormant in Dez's cluttered paraphernalia drawer. It creaked, as his diabolical claws opened Pandora's Box and dropped two tiny hits of funny paper into their cheap beers. He popped on the rusty caps and reemerged with the promised offerings. His steady eye was sure to keep his drink separate.

  “Here we go ladies; a couple o' drinks and a joint!” he smiled.

  In mere minutes, the thirsty women began pawing Dez. They panted like wild bitches in heat. Their senses were amplified by the trip and their inhibitions were a forgotten reality. Dez knew they were slipping under his warped rhetoric, and their fogging minds were ripe for the picking. Pushed their starry-eyed lust back, he cooled his primal urges. He understood Father Time's limitations, and cut to the chase.

  “You're not here for that,” he insisted. “I'll give you the money, though!”

  He reached into his pocket and handed them 200 reasons to follow him down the rabbit hole.

  “I'm confused, sweetheart,” pleaded Crystal.

  “This is some powerful grass! Am I hearing you?” Michelle added, adjusting her tank top.

  “Yes. I get lonely out here, needed to vent and miss the company of a woman! I find you both beautiful, but you're worth a lot more than what you're selling yourself for on that worthless stage,” he manipulatively spun and paced. “This world has fallen. Our government knows it! They use our dependency on money to keep us distracted with long work hours. Our taxes are skyrocketing, the value of our currency is depleting, and the cost of commodities is escalating faster than we've ever seen!” The girls glazed. Their eyes sparkled like rhinestones. His spoon-fed enlightenment into the abyss they called pupils. “The more we work, the more we'll cope. Being sedated keeps us from pursuing the truth,” he scoffed, ironically leveraging his point. “It's a vicious cycle. If you don't believe me, look around! You sell your bodies to provide money for yourselves, or your children, and you're willing to risk life and limb to do so!”

  Crystal was magnetized and sold by the ranting man.

  “Are you sure you don't want a little, you know?” she asked, reaching for his tense leg.

  “No, respect yourselves! I've already given you the money. I just want your company.”

  “No problem, soldier,” said Crystal.

  “You can see, I don't have a lot,” said Dez.

  “We'll stay,” agreed Michelle.

  Minutes turned into hours and an unmistakable bond formed. They trusted Dez. Being native to the frequent UFO sightings of Roswell, New Mexico added legitimacy to his plight. Without a moment's hesitation, he unraveled a detailed account of his trip to the Painted Desert and used mismanaged government cover-up stories and alien conspiracy theory to fodder his guise. Like an auctioneer, his captivating tempo never wavered and his volume smoothly glided from a whisper to a shout. His vivid descriptions, passion and their heightened affect made it so.

  “Extraterrestrials are being born. They are conceiving with human beings. The government not only knows about it -- they're part of it.” Dez pleaded. “It's happening — it's been happening. These alien hybrids have brilliant azure eyes. They are trying to wipe-out our human DNA-forever! This mass extinction is called The Program.”

  Delusions and exhaustion had built a dam between Dez and his sanity. Knowing their high would soon wear off and to avoid their sobering morning suspicions, he challenged them to a race with the setting sun.

  “What time is it?” asked Michelle.

  “I don't want you gals getting lost. You should probably jet!”

  As weeks passed, Crystal and Dez became closer than he'd planned. He used their connection to lure other derelicts and to sell Michelle. They were transfixed by his sincerity, insight and drive. His manipulations were delivered with an undetectable bias and littered with palpable half-truths. His credibility was never challenged. The drugs lassoed his missteps.

  Dez made anything possible.

  chapter 11

  visions of the gray bird (than)

  Just as the red bird visited, so did the gray.

  Elisa lay on her plush bed reading “The Illustrated Brief History of Time” by Stephen Hawking. Though enamored by his genius on the complex subject matter, the detailed pages were slow turners and time burners. Her eyes flickered with the incandescent lights overhead, as nearby thunderstorm rolled in and threatened her progress. The bedroom fixtures cast towering shadows in her bedroom, like a Scooby Doo cartoon. Hypnotized by the rhythm, she fell faster than the count between the lightning flashes and heaven's roar.

  She lucidly awoke in a cold and sterile white room. Checkered tile floors oozed an alternating red and pink pattern. The surrounding walls were covered in the hieroglyphics of man's genetic coding. Taking center stage, an old white bird cage rested atop a rickety oak nightstand. She could see the room slowly turning in on itself. Perching within the cage, a gleeful black raven, the bird of life, whistled Amazing Grace. It remained tranquil, confident faith would deliver its savior. As she ventured toward the calling cage, crimson quicksand corroded the porcelain floor and swallowed her longing footsteps. Startled, a misfired synapse stole her attention and caused her rattling thigh bones to be consumed in a gooey menstrual muck. The once peaceful raven panicked, realizing the limitations of hope.

  Tiny feathers flew, while it cawed for release; her increasing heartbeat, the reaper. It was then, the ominous gray bird, Than, glided into the shrinking room. It pecked, squawked and flapped its enlarging wingspan upon the quaking cage doors, rattling them ajar. The black bird shot from the mutating room like a hell-lit cannon. Comfortably, the gray bird took its wan
ted position on the prison swing.

  The cage door dramatically fastened. Than stared into Elisa's nervous eyes.

  “Two chosen souls cannot produce a Crystalline,” it warned. “Creation demands ignorance.”

  Her voice, gone, on the wings of Isis.

  “Get out!”

  The gray bird burst into ashes. Embers tickled the insides of her dream-stricken eyelids. Trembling, she awoke with irritated eyes. Her leg muscles throbbed; her cramps, acute. Elisa wasn't the only lass visited by death's scorn.

  +++

  Stumbling home, from a reckless night on the streets of Dublin, Zane sneaked through her rickety bedroom window and passed out on her welcoming twin bed. Her forehead caught a rusty nail and profusely bled on her favorite He-Man comforter. In fleeting coherence, she prayed her unpredictable father was riddled with a similar overindulgent fate, unaware of her clumsy entrance.

  Vodka murdered her clarity.

  Without warning, Zane entered REM. Her heavy body plummeted toward a deep and familiar cavern of fiery entities. A brimstone shore offered a hell-side view of the beaten and damned. Their mouths reached for a heavenly hook of solace. They screamed for absolution, drifting in waves of eternal discontent. Lucky souls would cease to rejuvenate and rise like phoenixes; their singed bodies morphing into gray birds. Watching the fortunate elevate and reenter the physical world, her curious eyes followed a gray bird to its duty. The presence of the bird was undetectable. Humanity was too distracted by routine. It perched on peoples' shoulders and sang the swan song of their earthly days, often falling on deaf ears. After whistling seven sad goodbyes, it led Zane to an old pond where the brilliant sun cast its new day onto still waters.