by Brad Cox
“Give him a finch and he'll talk you a mile.” he punned and paused. “So, are you?”
“Yes, everything is fine! I'm pregnant and have to get home,” Crystal added.
With authority, the truck driver pushed his foot on the pedal and ushered her toward the sun. His lustful intentions were cold-showered by an instinctual tug on his being. He knew the highway wasn't a safe place to let her wander and was empowered by her dependency; her security came first. They traveled the road for long hours and filled the time with much-needed laughter and revelations. Succumbing to sanity, Crystal cuddled in the comforts of traditional human values. For the first time in years, she felt alive and secure. It was as if The Lords were driving, while she nervously felt her way back to reality.
As the hours passed, time no longer held its negotiable value. She was content to spend years traveling the open road with her new trucker friend and their pet narrator. About seven hours after their chance-rendezvous, they stopped at a locals' gas-and-go diner near the Texan border. He offered her a hot cup of coffee and slice of warm apple pie, in exchange for the companionship she'd provided. She swooned for real food. With lazy legs, they hopped from the cabin and hobbled under the tin roof. His long years of paving the open road with rubber warranted the staff's pause and adoration.
“Hey there, Romeo,” said a female waitress, dolled in a frilly yellow sundress and a cliché apron. Her character was hallmarked by a predictable raspy southern accent. “I see you've found yourself a lost puppy? Don't let the help see this one, ya' hear!” she garbled.
“She's just a friend, Rosey. How about two hot coffees and a slice?”
“I'd ask you if you want sugar, but I already know the answer to that question.” She winked.
Though they'd grown fond, the fluorescent lights and reality of their situation renewed their awkward palates. A world of unknowns lingered between Crystal and the trucker’s longing eyes.
“OK. How about I go first?” he offered. “I've lived in Texas my whole life. I'm gratefully divorced. I have two brilliant children, whom I rarely see and a stupid bird, content to remind me of just how dumb I sound when I open my mouth,” said the trucker.
“I don't think you sound dumb,” said Crystal.
“I appreciate that. Though, I have to say, I'm a bit more interested in your back story. I may not be the smartest guy in our modern universe, but it's not often I find a pregnant girl running up to my trailer and wanting a ride to her New York City home. I guess, I'm a bit curious, is that your residence or is it just the furthest place you can think to go?” he paused. “You don't have to...”
She debated her response, staring into her black coffee with a voided stare. “You guessed it, I'm on the run. The father of my child is a dangerous man, whom I once loved dearly. Believe it or not, this baby could change the world and that stupid white bird of yours is a little more than you give him credit for. To me, he’s a symbol. He represents synchronicity,” said Crystal.
“Petey?” asked the trucker.
“Yes, Petey! I don't have the time or energy to tell you the whole story, but I already trust you. My heart believes you were sent to intercept me. I do have a friend in New York City. He is writing a story that will someday change the world. It'll end religion and enlighten humanity. Have you ever heard of the Cadence of the Sun?” asked Crystal.
“I reckon, I have. They are an international terrorist organization.”
“It's a cult,” clarified Crystal.
“It's become a universal movement. Discontents subscribe to their nonsense. It's growing like wildfire. No one really knows where it started, or their scope, but its followers are out for blood. It has become the world's latest headline. Interviews and speculation suggest it has something to do with aliens, government testing, hybrids and a New World Order,” said the trucker.
“It's a terrible lie. I am carrying their leader's child. Its delivery will change everything, and not in the way he's preaching. Do you know anyone who can get me the rest of the way? It's important that I get to New York, safely,” said Crystal.
“I know a lot of people who might be willing to help, but I'm tempted to take you myself.”
“Do you have a computer?” asked Crystal.
“I do. Name's, Joe.”
“Crystal,” she paused. “My name is Crystal. If we can lay low, for a couple of days, it'll give me time to make arrangements with my counterpart in the city. In exchange, I'll be happy to purge my very soul. Are you confident you can afford the time off work? Are you sure you want to go gallivanting about the planet with a disturbed damsel in distress?”
“Time is all I have. Besides, I could use a little excitement in my life. Do you have any family?” asked Joe.
“My father was an alcoholic and my mother died before we met. This is her,” she added, opening her locket. “I used to sit around gazing into my father's old pictures, trying to piece together her memory. It was my only means of learning how to accept myself. She was a renegade – a total badass,” said Crystal.
“It doesn't sound like the apple fell too far from the tree,” said Joe.
“Here's your pie!”
+++
After a long talk, they retired their check and headed to his country home. Joe comfortably resided in a predictably small cottage, just off the woods in Plainview, north of Lubbock. When day broke, Crystal awoke, dazed and confused. She was startled by her new surroundings. Reclaiming her bearings, she scrolled through her mental to-do list and whispered, 'Connect with the Programmers,' under her sour morning breath. She allowed Petey and Joe to rest, privately investigating the whereabouts of his promised computer.
Beneath scattered newspaper debris, Crystal unearthed an old Compaq monitor resting atop a messy desk. The surface was littered with ashes, cigarette butts and Budweiser labels. After toggling and toying with the sticky keys, she opened the Children of the Program website. Defragmenting her memories and backtracking through her conversation with Neco, she validated her password and entered. Within the site lied the unpalatable answers to her stillborn questions. Every black and white detail, projecting in living color. She scrolled and marveled through the remaining names and archived news blurbs.
A rush of spiritual energy connected her with the forgotten universe; a place Dez had desperately tried to blot from existence. Its coding read like a cosmic Playbill, and she was standing center stage. The more she consumed, the more her horror-filled memories haunted her conscious. Baptized by clarity, she was forced to take ownership of her malice involvement and the impact the cult had had on The Program. 'How would the world have been different if Juno or Simon lived?' she wondered and reeled. Though Dez's picture was missing, his information, name and general whereabouts were deliberately left on full display. She couldn't believe his depths.
“Good morning, sunshine!” chirped Petey.
“I see you've found my magic picture box,” furthered Joe. “I hope that's all.”
“Yes, I hope you don't mind. Once you've had a chance to wake-up and digest your morning cup o' Joe, I want you to take a look at this. I'll fill in the blanks.” Crystal said with a renewed, but anxious spirit. “I need to make a phone call.”
“Be my guest! But, try to keep the conversation short. Bills!” exclaimed Joe.
Pushing her way through the rickety screen door, she settled into a properly placed patio rocking chair. A cool breeze brushed her hair to the side. It offered her a heavenly calm, while her nervous fingers tap-danced atop the old portable telephone keypad. Mounting rings tested her patience, but finally submitted to her heart's flutter.
“Is this Grayson Miller?”
“Yes, of course it is. This is a private line. Who is this?”
“This may be the most important call you ever receive,” said Crystal.
“Again, who is this?” asked Grayson.
“My name is Crystal Lynn Holmes. I am carrying Dez's child.”
“Wait, what?” asked Grayson
.
“Neco told me everything. I don't have a lot of time to get into the specifics, but I believe I may be carrying a divine fetus. The Lord's have visited my dreams. The urgency in protecting this baby is crucial to humanity,” she furthered.
“It's mission critical, for all of us. Where's Neco?” asked Grayson.
“Neco is in serious danger. I took my first opportunity, and ran. I'm currently holed up in a trucker's home in Texas. He is willing to escort me to New York City. Neco said you could help. It seems, everyone in the States is dead or unreachable, except for you,” says Crystal.
“How do I...” started Grayson.
“You're just going to have to trust me. I could have never found you without the password, right?” she asked.
“Right,” he paused, still shaking off the shock. Before allowing the call to go static, Grayson left her a rendezvous address. Her surprise call and candor left him with a warm rush of blood painted across his otherwise pasty face. He'd never had a female roommate, nor been forced into a paternal calling.
Aggressively trying to piece together his work stories, Grayson vigorously logged every detail of their conversation. The slithering path that The Program traveled always took precedence. The general public, awaiting their next clickbait headline, were at the mercy of his scattered focus. Plagued by deadlines, he'd never had so many unresolved questions trumped by an unattainable resolve. Ironically, his entire existence was dedicated to documenting and understanding other peoples' lives, while he deliberately ignored the vast questions lurking in his own life.
“New York City! New York City!” crowed Petey. He strutted across the eggshell covered kitchen counter, while Crystal delivered the promised eulogy of her abandoned past. From time to time, Petey repeated recognizable words to feel involved in the excitement of the conversation. He loved his new friend.
“Do you think we should bring Petey with us?” asked Crystal.
“I'd love to, but I think it's probably best if he stays. We don't know what arrangements we'll need to make or where he'll be welcome. He loves the road, but I don't want to put your host in an uncomfortable situation with his landlord and I really don't feel comfortable leaving him caged on the New York City streets. He'd hate that,” said Joe.
“New York City! New York City!” he repeated.
“It sounds to me like he'd love to come with us, but, you're probably right,” said Crystal.
Joe finished his week's shifts, while Crystal rested and planned her move to the Big Apple. She spent her idle time rummaging the Internet. She scavenged for every informative droplet she could find, from the hurricane that had ravaged her tragic life. Always fearing Dez was one step behind her, she tried to anticipate his moves. She religiously followed the Cadence of the Sun website for updates. The quantity of information and misinformation circulating the web, about the cult, was alarming. At times, she felt the whole world was savvy, though, most of the truth had been tainted by debunked conspiracy theories.
+++
Long hours alone had left Crystal battling a breeding temptation to find closure on the status of Michelle and Neco. She couldn't risk calling the compound, but became intent on delivering a message. One afternoon, while Joe was making deliveries, she called her old brothel. Her former manager was a simple soul, compromised by the expectations of survival, but savvy to the movements of the local townies. She knew she could trust his wherewithal to extract gossip.
“Gus, it's Crystal! I was curious if you've seen or heard from Michelle?”
“I haven't. As a matter of fact, I haven't seen anyone in a very long time. Are you ready to get back to work? I could really use a professional girl to show my amateur-hour-flowers how it's done! Things are slow,” said Gus.
“No. I'm sorry, I can't.”
“What in the world are you doing in Texas?”
“How did you know?”
“Caller ID.”
“If you see her, let her know I'm OK!”
“Are you OK?”
Crystal knew she couldn't stay in Texas much longer. If Dez caught wind of her whereabouts, he'd find her, drag her back to the compound and have her crucifixion televised. Her peace of mind became a war zone of firing thoughts, all triggered by a cat's curiosity.
chapter 36
homecoming
Illuminated by the lampposts and the pride of tall buildings, the blanketing fog and orange-colored Kassel skyline arched over the still city. Rand and Isabella made modest concessions for the stork's arrival. Like the stacking snow mounds surrounding the exterior of their makeshift shelter, they knew their magic moment was closing in. With the full intention of ushering in a new lord of the underground, Isabella's body morphed. Rand stared, in awe, into the local clinic's sonogram photographs.
“Izzy it is!” whispered Rand, under his stale breath. His body interlocked with Isabella's. They rested beneath the dank archways of a brick bridge, cuddling for the other's heat. “He will rise from these streets and sit at the head of all tables. I do believe that.”
“I know you do,” said Isabella.
“A gay father. Who'd have thought?” Rand stopped, reflecting. “Certainly not my father.”
The Cadence's focus on Rand lied dormant. Though they’d made attempts to contact his parents' house, rumors circulating about his homosexual lifestyle brought little insistence or follow-up to their doorstep. The European sects were assured that the rat infested alleys and brash elements would handle their affairs.
With grace, Rand and Isabella only had the unwelcoming streets to contend with, though it was the most indignant and humbling reality to befall their spiraling tragedy. Children, born of the city, often died, were found in dumpsters or aborted in a horrific fashion. Rand knew they needed to make uncomfortable accommodations. He had contemplated addressing the large elephant blocking his old home's doorway, but was nervous their only lifeline would be cut short. He couldn't imagine his parents allowing a child to starve on the unforgiving streets of Kassel, but stranger things had already happened.
“I think we need to try to rebuild my burned bridges. We've wrestled the elements for too long. I don't want my arrogance to stand in the way of Izzy's health. It's not fair. Perhaps, my father will be open to our heterosexual union and assume I've come to his senses. If their hearts beckon for reason, we may be able to dock in safe harbors — tonight! We should try,” offered Rand.
“Can you?” asked Isabella.
“I don't know.”
As the dawn of a new day arose, Isabella and Rand dusted themselves off, crawled from the trenches and begrudgingly soldiered home. The air was as cold as their anticipated reception. Taking a deep breath, Rand cleared his constricting throat and tapped his shaky knuckles across the old familiar wooden frame. In tandem, an arctic gust whipped the effervescent German flag. It masked Rand’s humble glare, as his mother slowly answered the heavy door. Without pause, she wrapped her arms around him, and pulled him into their home. His father's heavy and methodical footsteps pounded like cannons in his chest. With each thud, his heart thumped a fearful retort. It was as if a volcano was erupting in his throat and his body was trapped under ice.
“What gives you the nerve to come back?” asked Mr. Backer. “Stand up straight when I'm talking to you!”
“Dad, we didn't know where else to go. I'm sorry if I've disappointed you with my lifestyle, but we really need you,” Rand said, leering into his father's uncompromising eyes. “This is Isabella,” he quickly added. Redirecting his eye contact toward his mother's softer gaze, he reached toward Isabella's stomach and risked, “This is Izzy.”
“Oh my heavens!” Rand's mom gasped, hugging Isabella. She was unaffected by her slovenly appearance. The tension dissipated, as his grouchy and stalwart father turned and removed himself from the kuche. His mind was at odds with pride and the idea of offering his son forgiveness. He wanted to remain angry, but a tiny light flickered through a crack in his concrete heart. Grabbing his khaki trench c
oat and fedora from the coat rack, Mr. Backer returned and offered his son a beer. A tiny lake formed in Rand's eyes, as he accepted his dad's brand of absolution. They left Isabella and his mother to form a bond, quietly entering a delicate world littered with psychological landmines; a place reserved for the strongest of male souls. Their hearts' were prepared to shatter like the forgotten cobblestone streets of Kassel.
Without a word, they both walked five blocks to the local watering hole. His father held the door, as his son modestly shuffled by. He looked back at his father with respect and submission. It was in that brief moment he knew his father had torn down his towering expectations, and that his unborn child had given them both a reason to try again. They gazed into the TV set, while exchanging regrets. In just minutes, Rand knew he'd never find himself cold and wandering homeless. Sometimes, time was the architect of healing.
“I only wanted the best for you – that was all!” His lower lip rattled with honesty.
“I know, Dad.”
Defusing the battlefield, a nightly headline caught Rand's wandering eye. “A newborn child is in intensive care, tonight, after a terrible fire brought a legendary Scottish painter's mansion to its knees. The mother does not appear to have survived the blaze, though her body was never recovered,” chimed a television anchor. Rand immediately recognized the woman's picture on the screen. It was as if his father's offering had lost all meaning. He was paralyzed by the revelation.
“Are you OK, kid?” asked Mr. Backer.
“Dad, do you remember my excursion to the States?” he said, rhetorically. “I met that girl, Ash, in the desert! She was an incredible artist. It's a long story, but have you had any strange guests or calls, recently, aside from that college in Greece?”
“It was you! I knew it.” he laughed. “You always know when your child is around.”
“This is serious. I don't want to alarm you, but I believe there is group trying to kill everyone who met in the desert. One of the members went missing and another was pregnant and murdered. I have to know, have any strange individuals questioned you about my whereabouts?” asked Rand.
