Children of the Program

by Brad Cox

  “Say we open the door and make a go at it — do you really believe they'll ambush us and leave us murdered in the streets?” asked Zane. “The sun hasn't completely given up on us. We may still....”

  “That's exactly what they'll do.” interrupted Maria. “Icarus dreamed this day would come. It's not the glowing eyes of a few bloodthirsty wolves out there, it's an actual gang. If we leave, they'll pounce and tear us to shreds. I'm not sure what's stopping them from breaking down the door. As unpleasant as it sounds, we don't really have any options. I'd rather force them to come to us. We have a revolver, and a better chance at trapping them in the doorway than scurrying into the wide open. They could be on the rooftops, in cars — you name it. If we scatter, we're dead.”

  “If we stay, we die!” proclaimed Zane.

  “Right now, we have walls. It's better than being plucked off by a hot shot on the roof,” said Maria.

  Church bells clanked as the clock struck midnight. In the distance, they heard a chanting crowd approach. Startled, Maria had drifted. She knew what was coming. Their words were unintelligible, but their bravado was convicted, like the marching cadence of an army. A cracked window allowed a rush of cool air to whistle through the room. Sending shivers up Ben's spine, he clinched the barrel of his gun. Zane ran into the candlelit kitchen, scrambled through the silverware drawer and stockpiled knives. As the crowd neared, its chants cut through the hollow walls and their diction became clear.

  “There's nothing new under the sun! You've got to hold on to your guns,” barked the gang.

  The town wanted their world to remain unaffected by the conspiracy they'd been sold. It was as if the entire provincial police unit had turned a blind eye. The civilian heroes had turned into villains. Even the kindest of spirits were hypnotized by Cadence of the Sun propaganda. They behaved like zombies; slaves to the Cadence's psychological prison. The depths of the trenches, carved by fear, were dug with the hands of groupthink and distorted by malleable reason.

  “We're trapped! It's over.” Maria cried.

  “Why did you come, if you knew this would happen?” asked Zane, scared and assuming.

  “Icarus didn't remember until we arrived. Interpreting The Council's dreams isn't an exact science — you should know! He warned me. We didn't realize we'd left a trail of breadcrumbs, leading directly to your doorstep. He was trying to protect us all – his family, friends and children. It wasn't until this morning, when you brought me breakfast, that I began to piece the puzzle together.” said Maria, resigned. “I'm sorry!”

  The babies cried, awoken by a thunderous pounding on the front door; their innocent mouths pleaded for calm. The chaos only intensified with the shattering of kitchen windows. A flurry of demonic paws clawed upon the exterior walls and the door handle rattled and creaked like the bits and hooves of the doomsday horseman. “You forgot to open your package,” said a megaphoned voice. “Go ahead, enlighten us all?”

  Benjamin picked-up the box and shook it.

  “Just open it, for God's sake!” said Zane.

  Picking up a sharp kitchen knife and conscious to keep a distance from its unknown contents, Benjamin stabbed the box. As he did, an odorless and noxious gas poured from the package, placing Maria, Zane, Ben and the babies under a spell. One by one, they fell like dominoes. A trio of masked men, dressed in black and tan trench coats, stormed the home and yanked the innocent children from their cribs. Maria, Zane and Benjamin were quickly silenced by single execution-style shots to the back of the head. The cottage was scorched. Just as prophesied, the babies were sacrificed. The words 'No Freedom' were carved into their tiny brows and the incident was documented. Their bodies were later tossed into the inferno. The photographs were forwarded to Dez; a new prize to hang in his museum of hate.

  “Afire!” read a local news headline.

  The town never spoke of its horrible crimes.

  chapter 39

  the truth

  Smoking a Kretek clove cigarette and swinging a Yankee’s baseball bat, Grayson paced about his Brooklyn apartment — pondering. He adorned a cliché straw writer's fedora. It was adorned with a black raven's feather. He intent on flaunting his hipster credibility. His stained white t-shirt and blue jeans only added to the innocence resting comfortably inside the physique of a starving artist. He was constantly torn between his novel and his work.

  “Deadlines, headlines, schmedlines...” he muttered, drifting in and out of consciousness.

  Thrilled to accept its revolving door of human kindling, the dark underbelly of the Hallway of Sorrows flexed its living lungs and exhaled a horrid stench. Benjamin, Zane, Simon, Juno, Elisa and Magnus longed for the day The Program would reset and they'd return to the Earth's bountiful soil. They were the lucky ones. Knowing their day of judgment awaited, the damned could only pray they'd be chosen by The Lottery of Souls and spared a gruesome verdict. Icarus, Rand and Ash were far from the trappings of the underworld, leaving the writer, musician and murderer to write the final chapters of Grayson's never-ending story.

  The air wreaked of sulfur, as tears gushed like a waterfall from dehydrated bodies. Night after night, the red and white birds interrupted Grayson's slumber. He'd awake, compelled to scribe out his visions. In his dreamscapes, he would communicate with his fellow Programmers and dictate their experiences. He would ingest sleeping agents to assure no stone was left unturned. Intent to flesh out their final entries, The Programmers were able to elucidate the minutia and lost dialogs. His only conciliation in seeing their tragic state was knowing that the Crystalline were sent to provide enlightenment. He hoped the living would someday learn and be spared a similar fate.

  Starving for genuine rest, Grayson's work and diary kept him in a constant state of flux. By day, The Program's story continued to unfold. In the doldrums of night, it masqueraded about his subconscious. By morning, it had spiked his early morning cup o' coffee with anxiety. He kept his toiled-over book on a drive, locked in a safe beneath his kitchen floorboards. It was his dream to have it unearthed in his final days, or after his passing. He wasn't prepared to risk his journalistic credibility or willing to face pretentious scorn, over a tale that would easily offend the sensibilities of a sane man. Only a few blessed souls were ever made savvy to its existence.

  The website had taken a backseat. With so many dead, he feared the only beneficiaries of its existence would use it against him. He knew it wouldn't be long before Dez's girlfriend would offer him a welcome distraction from his satirical New York City solitude and his writing. The gray bird had warned him of her arrival, but he was blinded by the merit of his calling. The truth was God's work.

  Grayson made modest concessions for her arrival. Knowing her piece in the puzzle could save humanity, he accepted that her life and safety was more valuable than his book or his own. Patience forced him to wait and see where the jagged shards of reality fell. Exhausted by a long night of journalism, dreaming and cleaning, his tunneling hands and taxed mind continued to force his sanity to spiral out. The immediacy of his workload thwarted his countless attempts at a fully-rested reboot. If his heart skipped a beat, he knew he'd stop. Continuing to fade and lacking the wherewithal to interview another witness for his cover story, he was gratefully interrupted by the sound of a panicked mother.

  “Grayson, I have made a huge mistake,” said Crystal.

  “Crystal? Please tell me you didn't call Dez! I know how these female riddles go,” said Grayson.

  “No, nothing like that. I called the strip club where I used to work. I was looking for a good friend of mine. My current phone number showed up on their ID. I may have compromised my whereabouts. We can't stay in Texas, any longer.” she paused, awaiting rejection. “We are going to have to leave — now,” said Crystal.

  “Then get on the road. What are you waiting for?” asked Grayson.

  “I'm sorry to spring this on you, but he has cult followers on every street corner,” said Crystal.

  “I'm tragically aware,”
said Grayson.

  Grayson parted with any hope of his former life returning to a static calm. Crystal's fear trumped his focus. Protecting a child, likely to arrive and soil his suede living room couch, wasn't a hand he expected to be dealt. With only Neco to shoulder him, pawning off his ill-fated paternal role was no longer a romantic option. A tiny part of him welcomed the sense of purpose a selfless life would provide. He often gazed out his bay window and watched the zombified men and women being consumed by the city's pace, distracted by the complexities of societal desire and blinded from what The Council wanted for their lives. He knew these drones were already in the Hallway of Sorrows, but related to their appetite for distraction. It was the same ignorance he secretly wished to reclaim. As much as he sought the truth in a good story and depended on it for survival, he understood irreversible nature of knowing too much.

  “The real sorrow lived in the ironic truth that our greatest gift was being born into ignorance,” he typed. Smoke rose from behind his computer monitor. A singed index finger reminded him he'd forgotten to ash, and he might just be human after all. His mind stumbled over the juxtaposition of his calling and his recent epiphany about bliss. With his own pen, he realized he was taking responsibility for a future world's misery. It would be the curse of his unpublished memoirs.

  With each somber keystroke, he typed, “I often wonder if these words will do more harm than...” he paused. His night had been spent writing an editorial piece on 'The Dangers of Leaking vs. Protecting Classified Information in a Digital Age.' Still toggling between his headline story and the Children of the Program book, he couldn't bring himself to type the final word of either. He surmised, immediate access to information can endanger the very freedoms a powerful country is sworn to uphold. The final word, hidden in plain sight, left the finality of his sentences lingering in quixotic debate. “Good was created by its beneficiary,” he mumbled under his breath.

  A peaceful wind blew through his aging pearly white curtains. Just beyond the window, he saw a dove perched on the reaching limbs. With the branches tickling of window screens, it was clear that the tree insisted on catching Grayson’s attention. The bird sang a beautiful song, and lured him back into the dream he tirelessly fought.

  “Grayson, Grayson, Grayson,” called crazed voices.

  The gray bird guided him back through the Hallway of Sorrows. His eyes welled. His friends' bodies gasped for the moisture his tears could provide their parched tongues. He informed them of The Program's status, his desperation, and asked for their guidance.

  “Tell Neco, the world needs a hero! It needs to believe in the impossible,” said Simon.

  “You've written our story. Remind the world of how powerful love can be,” begged Juno.

  His eyes flooded with emotions and memories. He had scribed their obituaries and taken detailed accounts, but never stopped to feel the longing of their hearts. In those moments, he relived the horrors of their final days. Being a journalist had taught him to disconnect himself from the words and to remain unbiased and unaffected. He realized the same methodology had left its footprint in his novel and that he needed to tell the whole story.

  “Do not allow your mind to control your heart,” screamed Magnus, longing for absolution.

  “Nothing is certain. Free will is The Council's greatest gift and man's jagged little pill to swallow,” cried Elisa.

  Startled, Grayson awoke and looked at the clock. It was the witching hour. He lifted his fatigued forehead from the desk and realized he'd forgotten to finish his headline story for the New York Times. Heating a pot of burnt coffee, he sat before his computer screen, and took inventory of his lost time. He was surprised to find that all but one word of his account had been typed. With convicted hands and a chilled spine, he scrolled down and typed...

  “Good.”

  chapter 40

  East

  Joe's truck rattled the gravel. Camouflaged by the shadows of tall trees, he pulled into his winding driveway and prepared to nest. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot from the long trucking relays, but his tired heart was rejuvenated to find Crystal staring out of his paltry kitchen window. He longed for the day he'd have a stable woman to greet him; a girl he could call his own and would long for his return. Pushing the rickety screen door to the side, he teased the brass door knob. He was met halfway with her turn. He slunk across the threshold, too tired to smile. An exuberant Petey battled for a theater view of his best friend. As if knotted by the bonds of marriage, Crystal and Joe embraced. Forgetting the brevity of their odd relationship, he briefly paused to digest her threatened reality. He was reassured by the arsenal of fire power, lying dormant in his shed. His instincts longed to protect his woman, but therein lied his unconquerable obstacle. They were friends.

  Crystal was anxious to reveal her news, but knew it was best to not interfere with the rhythm of his cycle. As if scripted, he would secure his tattered leather jacket on the coat rack, dismount from his compensating boots and sneer into the bathroom mirror, before addressing the household. He breezed passed her and ruffled Petey's arching white feathers. Petey's eyes widened and his beak remained half-cocked, enjoying a healthy dosage of love and affection. Interrupting the calm, the stove let out an exasperated whistle. It was Crystal's cue to clue him in. Preparing a fresh pot of tea seemed like a soothing antidote for her folly and would serve its purpose in the coming hours.

  “We have to leave, tonight!” Crystal insisted, pouring Joe the first cup.

  “I'm not done with my shifts,” he said, sipping, attempting modest eye contact.

  “I made a mistake. We may be hunted, if we stay,” she paused.

  “We are hours from where I picked you up. What kind of timetable are we talking?”

  “It depends. We may have hours, days or weeks. It's not worth our lives to find out.”

  “I...”

  Pulling a chair for him, she controlled the cadence of their conversation with her deliberately submissive gestures, before revealing her missteps. Though his heavy eyes radiated like a nuclear meltdown, his commitment to her survival remained paramount and his lofty prayers for female companionship had been answered. He wasn't prepared to leave her side, despite the audacity of her claims. He owed God his gratitude.

  “We can bring, Petey?” she offered.

  “Like I said, it's best he stays,” insisted Joe.

  After a long hot shower and a home cooked meal, they loaded the diesel. Restless, Crystal fidgeted through his cluttered glove box, unearthing maps, condoms and pornographic magazines. It was of no consequence. He knew the way. The road was his veins and his body was the trampled ground beneath. Slowly, he turned the key of hope. Once the tractor engine sounded and the wheels began to spin, her obsessive fear diminished — eased by the trailing headlights disappearing from the rear view mirror. Relieved, they laughed and played road games, hoping to forget about the 23 hour drive ahead of them. Crystal wondered if the road was her safest bet. There was an undeniable freedom in never settling. It reminded her of the Cadence of the Sun — without the abuse.

  “Why did you choose the road?” asked Crystal.

  “When you don't have a home, the road chooses you,” Joe offered, like a wise old cowboy.

  “Sometimes, I wonder if there's hope for people lost without a trace. Maybe the vagabonds are happier staying off the radar, foraging from the land or simply crash landing their martyrdom into sky-scraping buildings. How else do you get God's attention?” Crystal paused, reflecting on her self-destructive club days. “We're like fallen angels. We’re born to lose.”

  “People have all kinds of ways of dealing with their pain. Some self-medicate, others isolate themselves and others, knowingly or not, try to understand it, by hurting a world they feel has rejected them. You've embodied pain. Maybe it's time for someone to deal with you,” Joe offered, pleading his case for love.

  She liked the sound of his candor. No one had ever put her first. At times, the resurrection of he
r lost innocence would remind her of her stillborn youth. With his kind words, their joyful hearts harmoniously pulsed in tandem. As if heaven was listening, stars showered before the windshield. They danced in the iris of her eyes, as she tallied her wishes. Though thick lines rested upon her perplexed brow, her heavy blue eyes were calmed by his selfless words. His presence allowed her to rest and forget the mission. Her conscious, honeycombed by guilt, would someday have to learn how to swallow her sins and build a new life in New York City. After hours on the road, battling harsh elements, they stopped in Knoxville, Tennessee and sought refuge in an inconspicuous hotel.

  “Grayson, we'll be there tomorrow,” said Crystal, calling from parking lot payphone.

  “I knew it wouldn't be long. I will leave a key under my door mat. You're welcome to come in and make yourself at home. I apologize for my stark conditions. If you knew the prices out here, you'd understand that a modest living in New York is as close to godliness as you'll ever know. There is food!” Grayson said.

  “Seriously, I can't thank you enough! Have you heard from Neco?” asked Crystal.

  “Yes! They escaped,” said Grayson.

  “They?” asked Crystal.

  “Yes, he's with a girl named Michelle. They're staying with a few of his friends in Los Angeles. I think he's trying to figure out their next move and how they can help us. Keep me looped, if anything changes. I'm so happy to hear you're safe and near. One more thing, don't let the Big Apple take a bite out of you! It's bigger than you think,” offered Grayson.

  “I think you've dealt with enough crazy people! New York should feel like home,” joked Joe, overhearing their conversation.

  After a long night's rest in queen beds, they awoke and forced down stale complimentary donuts with burned hotel coffee. By instinct, they fiddled through the brochures and stalled. The time had come. It was their last day on the road and wreaked of a long-lived farewell. Joe knew he couldn't live holed-up with Grayson, forever, without outstaying his welcome and losing his job. His heart sank to the bottom of his aggravated stomach. Battling carbohydrates, his mood dropped. He welled up and forced back the tears of another heavenly tease.