Children of the Program

by Brad Cox

  “What are you guys doing? We are friends.”

  “You're no friend of ours. You are the enemy,” Max returned.

  “Are you guys out of your troubled minds? We just broke bread at the diner up the road. He dropped me off at this hotel and planned to pick me up in the morning. If I was the enemy, why didn't he just take me? Are you even his henchman?” asked Simon.

  “Dez does things the way Dez does them! It's your world that has blurred the lines of sanity,” said Max.

  “You are following the words of a lunatic on the fringe. You know that, right?” Simon directed his plight to Michelle. He paused, hoping her once-forced kiss might find curiosity in his words. “The only thing keeping that psychopath afloat are the people he's chose to surround himself with. You're all making a huge mistake and you will be judged.”

  “Save it, Nancy-boy,” said Michelle.

  Simon was pistol-whipped and tossed into the back of the familiar van. In the event their trapping went awry, the steel floor area had been prepped with a glossy plastic sheath. Celebrating the dawn of a new beginning with a fresh joint, their hormones pumped with zeal. “I'd have shot him right there, if I could,” proclaimed Max. “I can't stand the sight of his kind!” Racially-charged, Max took every opportunity to align himself with Dez's clout. He earned his stripes from Dez’s constant public sentiments, and reaped the sexual benefits of being his right-hand man. The group needed a second-in-command and Max was eager to accept his rank.

  “Let's get back,” added Michelle.

  “Viva La Revolucion!” They drove back to the ominous field, invigorated by the cool air of drawn windows and the spider and the fly nature of their game. They'd achieved their first mission directive, undetected by the long arm of the law and were prepared to sacrifice their pleading sheep upon the devil’s alter. Dez and Crystal continued performing lewd acts before their congregation of animals, while headlights illuminated their stage. The surrounding cult members watched and freely expressed their carnal desires by the beautifully burning fire. In the name of one body, they were encouraged to swap partners. Their explicit appetites were fueled by the bright van lights. Their perversion welcomed new voyeurs.

  “We've got our catch,” screamed Max.

  The crew quickly emerged from the vehicle and yanked Simon onto the hardened ground. Max kicked him in the stomach and laughed with demonic empowerment. “Squeal piggy, squeal,” cackled Michelle.

  “Dez, what is going on here?” Simon muffled through the constricting pillow case.

  “Bring him here,” Dez calmly instructed.

  Reaching his patronizing arm around Simon, Dez silently instructed his cult to follow him from the raging fire pit to a barren area just beyond the lot. The cracks in the ground were lit by the moon, while shadows of the flames danced across the desert floor. Compelled to command his mission and set a new precedent of acceptability, he debated how to handle his bravado and play. Simon was surrounded and feared Dez’s mindset.

  “I don't know what you're doing or why these people have beaten, blindfolded and brought me here, in the middle of the night, but I beg you not to do this. We're here for the same reason. These people have a right to know what's going on, if they're going to continue doing your spineless bidding,” pleaded Simon.

  “Your words of desperation fall deaf, Simon! We know who the true enemy is,” said Dez.

  “Why didn't you come for me? Why did you use your clan to do your dirty work?”

  “This clan you speak of — this is my family. I owed it to them to make sure I thought this out! The new world you came to populate is an abomination to all races, creeds and colors. It mocks humanity and the human heart. Your world attempts to destroy the very foundation of our existence, and I can't, in good conscious, allow that to happen.”

  “You are one of us, Dez. Look on the website, it's all there! Has anyone seen our website?” asked Simon.

  Wandering eyes and nervous body language spread through the camp. The cult seemed impatient and afraid of what they might hear next. The truth was, they were willingly manipulated and enjoyed the sense of freedom and power it allotted them. Whether Dez was on a mission from God or a fraud was of little consequence to what they chose to believe. Dez gave them hope and support, but moreover, filled their souls with sex, drugs and a world without boundaries. They wouldn't let it be compromised by reason.”

  “Shoot him, Dez!” pleaded Max. He handed the shiny revolver to his merciless leader, who placed it to Simon's sweating forehead. “What are you waiting for?” he demanded. The atmosphere grew thick.

  “The time is now for us to take our name and send heaven our messenger,” replied Dez. “We will stop those who came to create a world of genetic impurity. We will light the way and be the heartbeat of a fallen world. We are the Cadence of the Sun!”

  Dez slowly cocked the weapon. Simon's shoulders fell. Sweat poured from Dez's furled brow as he accepted full ownership and pride in disrupting the Council's plan; knowing, by their own admission, that Lords couldn't interfere with The Program!

  Free will.

  chapter 21

  The Comedown

  The dull residue of drug use made it difficult for my therapist to decipher the messages lurking in my crystal skull. Grounding from the psychological trip, caused by The Council's spiritual interference, left me sanely unsettled. I scrambled to turn the station from yesterday. For hours, I uncomfortably gripped the cliché leather couch. Her pointed questions drew demons from my tired body. When still, you could hear them surf about the sterilized green room on waves of dissonance. Each week, I entered with the sincerest hope she'd have the sense to avoid finding the root of my bipolar behavior. Fearing a misdiagnosis swore me to secrecy. Exposing my truth, without evidence, would only lead to a cocktail of pills, which I'd never awaken from. I'd become the Rip Van Winkle of The Program. To fetch her interest, I comfortably tiptoed around familial issues, sexual deviance and the hellish nightmares. None of which held a candle to what I'd seen out west or what I'd been called to do. In earnest, she wanted to help, but nothing put me face-to-face with myself like stomaching the comedown in isolation.

  With a truth, stranger than fiction, I created a variety of different musical aliases and purged my sentiments. The lyrical beds and marketing did the bulk of the talking and were saddled atop crunked rhythms, all chugging at 1,000,000 horsepower. Music gave my multiple identities a way to communicate the unbelievable things I couldn't tell my shrink. The closest I ever came to publicly revealing my soul name, evolved from a fantasy pop rock project I called Niki Thunders. Devoid of body paint, my longstanding California-based musical project, Skitzo Calypso, became a crossbow aimed directly at modern society, taking issue with the insane landscape man was expected to traverse, without ever knowing who or what lies behind the shadowy curtain separating life from death. I could empathize. Some of us were privy to the afterlife, but dismissed as lunatics or attention whores. Art built a nest for my mad mind. If only the world knew about those damn birds!

  Like mitosis, my soul fragmented, leaving shards of memories for my cautious heart to be cut upon. My thoughts were scribbled across razor sharp mirrors, coated by the dust of desert sands. I could suddenly see things from a myriad of welcoming new perspectives. I always thought the essence of man lurked behind the wheel of our fleeting bodies, or was a singular construct of personalized energy, but, it turns out, there's a tiny universe breeding inside of each of us. We are the stardust of an infinite body and immeasurably responsible to one another. We are called to create.

  The more frustrated I became with my juxtaposed realities, the more devoid of heart my music and lifestyle became. Everything seemed purposeless. The heavens had sent me on a one way trip to nowhere, without a resident lifeline. Suicide became a glamorized end, for a soul that couldn't die, nor face post-life repercussions. On several occasions, I attempted to drown my corpse in gallons of alcohol. My rock n' roll idols had found solace in a similar fate an
d I was eager to follow suit. Luckily, my chums and lovers would graciously fish me out of random bathtubs without ever uttering a damning sentiment. I was a mess, drifting far from my responsibilities to The Program. No one entered my harbors or docked on my shores. There was no risk in hurting someone, like Ash, who wasn't allowed to get close. I felt justified in the walls I built and better off alone.

  Oddly, there is something socially acceptable about smothering one's being in excess and passion. The truth is, I was just looking for an easy way out; a eulogy, sold and written as an accidental death. The criminals I did bet on were equally as psychologically affected and excessive. They were bore of devil's sweat, stood as pillars and were the true salts of the earth. We, the undersigned, were sworn to an unwritten pact, willing to go down in flames for another's heartache and eager to tempt fate for another adrenaline-fueled moment. We lusted for life, death or an exit ramp off the highway to hell. Though my cronies were a welcome distraction, I still longed for Ash and our short time together. I missed her tempered voice and bountiful grace. In a moment of weakness, I dialed, anxiously counting the ring tones.

  1, 2, 3...

  “Ash, it's Neco.”

  “I always knew you'd call. I've missed you so much.”

  She was able to speak with a reassembled confidence, no longer bogged down by the missteps of heartache. Her divine artwork was touching people and soaring beyond the realm of earthly possibility. Leaders from various countries would stop by her legendary mansion, and allow their eyes to feast upon her self-made museum. They clamored for pieces to hang in their capitals, and often made gratuitous offers.

  “I've seen some of your paintings on Grayson's site. I knew you were good, but you're changing the world. With the mere brush of your heart and the oils of your soul, people are seeing The Beyond. I've never seen anything so beautiful, in my life, accept for...”

  “Thank you, Neco.” She blushed. She was able to pick up on my sweet gesture. “We all have gifts. Find yours before it's too late. These angelic paintings defy my own comprehension. I've been on TV shows, radio programs, featured in magazines, written about in newspapers, and stalked by the paparazzi, but I'm still at a loss for words. When you're one with your calling, you'll shock yourself and the world will notice.”

  “You deserve it!”

  “I feel fully dialed into my mission and completely unstoppable. The pay isn't half bad,” she joked, drawing focus from her success. She didn't want to tap dance across my obvious depression, nor outshine my pursuits. For whatever the reason, she still believed in me, and wanted me to find true love and purpose.

  “I hope I'm not being self-centered when I say this, but I saw a picture on the Children of the Program site, called 'Into the Art of Darkness.' It looked an awful lot like me. Dare I ask?” I could always find tiny clues, hiding in the layers of her artwork, but here, her intent wreaked of blatancy.

  “It's you! Of course it's you. You are a beautiful misguided person, Neco. I don't regret a thing and I'm not upset with you. I can't say that I didn't have the same primal urges or that I wasn't equally as out of my mind and beyond the scope of repair. You had the guts to live it. In the end, I needed my family, my studio and the stability of a Scottish home.”

  “Have you talked to anyone else?”

  “Grayson is a site editor for The Times. He's kept detailed notes and interviewed me.”

  “Me too.”

  “I spoke to Zane. Geographically speaking, she's probably the closest female connection I have.”

  “How is she?”

  “Dating. A lot of dating! She gave me a little bit of background on Benjamin's predicament.”

  “He's heartbroken, but understandably so. Their situation mirrored ours!”

  “True. I get it. By her tone, I'm not completely sure she's finding what's she's looking for.”

  “Who has? Icarus seems content to impregnate as many girls as possible.”

  “Charming!”

  “I guess he figures one of them has to be a fit. Juno's not too far from you, right?”

  “About 25 hours. Zane tells me she's getting married, so I'm sure she's on her way out.”

  We continued to playfully share the war stories and gossip of our fellow comrades and debate the ends of the universe, systematically solving all of the world's problems before cutting the line and going our separate ways.

  We’d talked at such length, I'd forgotten the fear that had kept me from picking up the phone. Her motivation, drive and impact was infectious. I wanted to make her proud and show her that I too had something special to offer; but, before I could be an agent of goodwill, the darkness would have to subside from my furious heart. It would require traveling to the bowels of the underworld, to unearth the source of my guilt and frustration.

  “3, 2, 1,” she clapped her hands. “Neco. Snap out of it,” called the therapist.

  My eyes flickered, as I realized I'd been hypnotized.

  “It sounds like you're love sick,” she added.

  With a refreshed perspective, I spent weeks injecting prophecy videos and occult literature into my constricted veins. Overexposure seemed like the best vehicle to face my demons, and touch ground zero. My anxiety was replaced with an unquenchable thirst for self-discovery. To tap the fountain of essence within, I began penning anthems for the underdog and experimenting with various genres. The songs were riddled with irony and littered with clues about The Program. I spent years rubbing pennies together, building a musical bridge over troubled waters and creating a lyrical map of my psychology. Some touted my work as megalomania and others followed the clues, knowing they'd someday find the key to Pandora's Box.

  chapter 22

  the sharper your love

  Per Ash's request, Grayson kept strict tabs on the frequency of IP address hits to the website and mapped their origins on meridian lines. He knew the group was using the site, but if patterns arouse, he was prepared to make Elisa aware. The last thing his spiritual family needed was to divide or have a sociopath on their hands. He took Magnus’s threat seriously. Playing detective was in his editorial wheelhouse.

  Updating the site's coding from his work computer wasn't always an option. Between demanding shifts at The Times, he'd slip into local coffee shops to fraternize with the staff and update the Children of the Program page. It was the only access he had to any semblance of a social life. Affording a place in New York City came with excessive financial commitments, which didn't allow for a lavish night life, an abundance of free time, or even an operating budget for his own Internet services. It also meant he could easily miss crucial events in the lives of the chosen ones.

  Grayson's defense mechanism for dealing with The Program seemed to be textbook avoidance behavior. He made his work his obsession and assumed the full journalistic credo. He’d often forget The Program existed, or that he'd been called upon, until after a 15 hour beat had come to pass. It's not that he was actively avoiding or disinterested in love, he was just transfixed with their story. To Grayson, falling in love and having a baby would jeopardize his self-imposed responsibility to the world.

  +++

  “Elisa?” Grayson was eager to let her know he'd received her plight.

  “I swear to God,” Elisa said. She was nervous the unfamiliar voice was Magnus. Filtering unknown numbers and toll free exchanges and using the time differential to her advantage, she was typically able to discern whether the call was coming from the devil himself, a telemarketer or might actually be worth answering.

  “Wait! It's Grayson. Ash filled me in.”

  Her mind uncoiled. “I'm sorry! You don't understand. Then again, maybe you do.” Elisa nervously played with the cord on her neon telephone, ready to purge the volcano of emotions burning in her heart.

  “I just wanted to give you a quick call and tell you that I'm tracking an unusually high amount of IP address hits from various computers in the Chicago area. I know various members are using the site more frequently tha
n others, but this seemed a little excessive, and validates your recent concerns. As an experiment, this morning, I briefly took your picture down. The site tracker went crazy with hits from Illinois.”

  “I'm not surprised! I've told him to stop contacting me. I've thought about getting a restraining order, but I really don't know if that would make much of a difference. My gut says he'd continue to stalk me, one way or another.”

  “I'm going to try and call him. He might be willing to open up to me, but I wanted to make you aware.”

  “Thanks!”

  “Is there anything else going on? By the way, thanks for the picture. I've been working on plotting our pictures and locations on a site map.”

  “I've been dating this guy from work. It seems to be getting pretty serious, but I'm not sure that's newsworthy! It's a step in the right direction.”

  “Definitely. Not everything that goes on the site is newsworthy, but that doesn't mean it's not a part of our story. The devil's in the details and I'm out to raise the beast. I hope to someday share our story with the world. But, for now, if you think it'll escalate his insanity, I'll leave it off.”

  “I think it may also make him realize the door has shut-for good! Post it.”

  +++

  Elisa knew love could be just as dangerous as it was nurturing. Forty-five hundred miles away, a long flowing white wedding dress poured over the ancient grounds of Sardinia. Lush flowers and a small guest list came out to celebrate the marriage of Juno and her fiancé, as a brisk warm sea breeze gusted off of the Mediterranean. The beauty was a reflection of her soul, as she radiated before the stars in heaven. She playfully waltzed down the aisle to meet her soldier prince, accepting his hand in marriage, without ever uttering a word. A lavish after-party followed, before they consummated their love. The island had never known the likes of Juno. It was as if an angel was sent from heaven to amuse humanity with the simplicity of a healthy heart, body and mind. She loved everyone, setting the stage for reciprocation. She understood The Program, its parameters and how to make love without assuming or abusing it. Prepared to leave the earthly world with her final beautiful offering, she kissed her husband deeply. Never leaving their adoring sexual mindset, they crashed into the hotel bedroom. It was passion, fueled by a cosmic romance. She insisted her child be conceived on that premise. For days, they made love before the heavens. Gasping for breath, his soul entered her body and connected. Her body was unchained by his love, like Andromeda. They swapped minds, intertwined bodies and allowed time to bestow its heavenly gift.