She follows Sally through the parking lot to a door. Sally pushes a round mechanism with her bright-red acrylic fingernail.
Ding. The door slides open, and Becky follows Sally into a large elevator. Sally presses another plastic button, and the door closes. Becky is knocked off balance as the rickety elevator ascends to the fifth level. The floor sways under their feet as the lift comes to a halt.
Ding. The door slowly opens. As they exit they pass a man in a dark-blue suit clutching a black briefcase. He nods at them before stepping into the empty shaft.
Fresh paint lingers in the air as Becky follows Sally down a long, narrow hallway. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead as they pass closed doors on either side. Sally stops abruptly in front of one of the doors and fumbles with a large set of keys. She feeds one into the dark slot and swings the door open. Her plump hand flips a light switch just inside the door. “You wait here until someone retrieves you,” she says while gesturing for Becky to enter the room.
Becky hears the door slam shut and the lock latch behind her. The small room is silent. She nervously studies her surroundings. Moldy mops lean against the bare walls. Stacks of toilet paper and bottles of bleach line the shelves on either side of her. A dirty, yellow bucket half full with grey water sits on the floor. A roach scurries under the blackened bristles of a broom. A tattered copy of a pornographic magazine peeks at her from behind a box of paper towels.
She sits down and cowers low in the corner next to some dirty rags and stares up at the single light bulb that is screwed into the ceiling and casts a dim yellow glow. Are these to be her last impressions of life? she wonders. Will this dirty, little janitor’s closet in some anonymous bureaucratic office building be her last stop before Maitreyas’s followers execute her for being in their way? She closes her eyes and fights back tears. The feeling of emptiness, the cold numbness in her soul, reminds her she truly is alone.
She curls up on the dirty floor. Memories of her family fill her clouded mind. She thinks about Momma, how she hopes and prays she will discover the truth about Maitreyas. And Daddy, such a simple man! Always bright-eyed and cheery, telling his cute little jokes. And little
David, how she misses his sweet angelic face, always pestering her and asking her what she was doing. How she would do anything to have him back. . . . If she could only go back in time she would be a much better sister. How she misses them all. If they only knew she was scared and hungry, hidden away in a dirty old closet. How she wishes she could go back in time and warn everybody about
Maitreyas. . . .
* * * * *
“Good morning, miss.” A male voice awakens Becky. She forces her eyes open and sits up. She does not remember falling asleep.
A young, dark-haired W.U. guard carefully looks over his shoulder. “Shh.” He places his finger to his lips, and with his other hand he reaches deep into his khaki pants pocket. He pulls out a Danish roll wrapped in a paper napkin and a small carton of milk.
“Here,” he says.
Becky sheepishly reaches out to receive the food.
“Thank you!” She is surprised by his act of kindness, remembering she did not have dinner. She is truly grateful and knows he will get into a lot of trouble if he is caught sneaking her food.
“I’ll be back for you in five minutes,” the guard whispers before turning and relocking the door behind him.
“Thank you,” she whispers again. She hungrily consumes the sweet Danish roll. Licking the crumbs off her fingers, her head swirls as the sugar hits her system and her body releases insulin.
She tears open the small carton of milk and pours the silky white liquid down her throat. Somewhat satisfied, she wipes her wet lips with the back of her hand. She begins to feel better now as the protein balances the insulin levels in her body.
Only moments seem to pass before the door opens again and the same young guard stands before her with long chains and metal shackles in his hands. He kneels down and binds Becky’s hands and feet. He then helps her to stand and in a strong, harsh voice says, “Come with me.”
The chains around her ankles clang as she follows the guard down the long hallway to a set of large, double doors.
They pass through the double doors and enter a large room set up with tables and rows of metal chairs.
The room is filled with people, some standing while others are sitting and chatting with one another. As Becky moves into the room people stop their conversations and watch her with curiosity.
The guard motions Becky to sit in the empty chair in the back row next to a full-figured, black woman. As she sits on the cold chair she notices the woman and the four men sitting on the other side of her are also shackled and wearing the same orange prison clothes as she wears. She quickly realizes this place is a courtroom.
“Hi! I’m Lo-raine.” The black lady smiles warmly at Becky, her ink black hair cut short to her head.
“Hi.” She smiles back. “I’m Becky.”
“They jus’ took a break,” Lorraine whispers. “They in the middle of a case. A guy named Brock is on trial.”
“Brock Summers?” Becky’s eyebrows lift high. “The WNN news reporter?” Her mind quickly flashes back to when she had met Brock in the train boxcar.
“Yes. That him al-right. They a-rested him for distri-buting hate litter-ture.”
Becky’s heart stirs. Her eyes search the room for any sign of Brock, but she is quickly disappointed when she doesn’t find him.
She notices only a few empty chairs are left as the courtroom continues to fill up with people.
Sitting comfortably on a black leather chair behind an oblong table in the front of the room, Becky observes a gentleman of advanced years. Deep lines furrow his face, and his long black robe drags on the table as he scratches the white patch of hair on his head. He peers through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on top of his puffy red nose, and he fumbles over some papers. He must be the judge.
Behind him a large oil painting of a pyramid, framed in Coa wood, hangs on the wall. A blue-and-white World Union flag stands at attention next to the oil painting.
Becky notices a thin, young man in blue jeans moving quickly through the narrow aisles of chairs toward her. His red, freckled face clashes with his pink shirt.
“Hi!” He smiles as he hangs his thumbs under the thick black camera strap that drapes heavily around his neck. “Are you Rebekah Silver?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Bob Brown. I’m here with the North American Times. May I ask you a few questions?”
“I. . .I guess so.”
“Rebekah. . .how does it make you feel knowing you may be executed?”
“What?” The question stuns her.
“NO TALKING TO THE PRISONERS!” a W.U. guard barks angrily from his post at the doorway, “OR I WILL PLACE YOU UNDER ARREST!” The courtroom falls silent, and all eyes turn toward Becky and the reporter.
Red-faced, Bob Brown salutes the guard with his right hand. “I beg your pardon, sir.” He backs away to an empty chair in the front row.
Slowly conversations start back up. Becky bites her fingernails and jiggles one knee up and down as tension builds inside her. She wonders where Brock is and what is going to happen next.
“Quiet, please! Please be quiet. Please take your seats,” a court officer says loudly.
The judge tips his chair back and crosses his arms as he looks over the courtroom.
The room becomes quiet.
A strawberry-blond court reporter sits at a small table, her fingers resting on the keyboard ready to transcribe the proceedings.
All heads turn toward the entryway. Becky holds her breath. A W.U. guard escorts Brock Summers, in a short-sleeve orange cotton jumpsuit, through the large double doors, his hands and feet bound together.
Despite his gaunt appearance Becky thinks he looks much better than he did the last time she saw him in the boxcar. His eyes are no longer swollen, the bruises on his face have healed, and the stubbl
e on his face has grown into a thick brown beard. He looks quite handsome.
The guard maintains a tight grip on Brock’s arm as they walk down the middle aisle.
Becky’s stomach flutters as they near her.
As Brock passes, he glances in her direction. Instantly his eyes light up as he recognizes Becky. His lips break into a smile, and he winks.
Becky’s eyes twinkle as she grins back at Brock. A feeling of peace sweeps over her.
The W.U. guard directs Brock in front to an empty chair placed next to the oblong table facing the people.
“All rise,” commands the court clerk.
Sounds of rustling noises fill the room as everyone stands to their feet.
“For the record,” the court clerk continues as the court reporter begins tapping on the keyboard of the stenotype machine, “the honorable Judge William Davis presides over case #BLS239029, the World Union vs. Brock Lee Summers. The defendant Brock Lee Summers is back on the stand. The court is now in session.”
“You may sit down,” the judge says as he straightens a pile of papers in front of him.
As the people sit back in their seats, they focus their attention to the front of the room where Brock sits in a small grey chair.
A man stands and approaches Brock. He is a tall, thin, distinguished-looking man with a commanding presence. His thick dark hair hangs limply over his ears.
“Brock. . .before we went to break”—he straightens the vest of his perfectly tailored, brown Piero Lombardi suit—“we were about to conclude the evidence that linked you to the hate literature you have been distributing.”
He turns to the table and picks up a clear plastic bag containing a small piece of white paper.
“Brock, didn’t you testify earlier that you bought a computer and printer with your credit card on June 14?”
The prosecutor holds up the clear bag for all to see. Becky recognizes the small chit as a credit card receipt.
“Yes, sir, I did.”
The prosecutor sets the evidence down on the table and picks up another, larger bag.
“For the record, please enter exhibit K.” He holds the clear plastic bag up for everyone to see. A white piece of paper headlined “Wake Up, America!” is plastered in black ink.
“This piece of paper defaming the government of the World Union has a secret ID code on it. When held up to a special light it reveals the ID that matches the printer it was printed on.” He sets the bag down on the table and picks up another.
“Please enter exhibit L.
“As you can see”—he holds up the bag—“this contains an enlarged photocopy of the code imprinted on the original paper. The ID was traced back to the printer you had purchased on June 14. As demonstrated in exhibits C and D your computer was confirmed to also have hate material on it.”
Becky leans in closer, trying to follow the man’s rambling monologue.
A look of uneasiness crosses Brock’s face.
“You know, Brock, owning and/or distributing hate propaganda against the World Union is against the law and is punishable by death, and the evidence brought before this court is piled a mile high against you!”
He stops, and his dark hazel eyes look
sympathetically down at Brock.
“It would be such a waste for a talented young reporter such as you to throw his life away for such hateful and ridiculous lies. I don’t want to see you die, the judge does not want to see you die, and Lord Maitreyas does not want to see you die. Brock, do you want to die”?
“No.” Brock shakes his head. “I. . .I don’t want to die.”25
“Then let Lord Maitreyas—the Christ—spare your life, Brock.” The prosecutor bends his knees and squats down next to Brock’s chair. He speaks softly into his ear. “All you have to do is believe in him and take his mark as a symbol of your loyalty!”
The room is quiet. No one moves except the prosecutor who stands back to his feet. Becky feels her breathing stop as she waits to hear Brock’s response.
Perspiration builds on Brock’s temple. He blindly stares down at the frayed green carpet searching his mind for an answer. He tries to compose himself as his shackled hand wipes away a tear that has escaped his watery eye. His shoulders shake, and his face contorts with agony.
Becky wrings her hands in her lap. She thinks of the talk they had had in the boxcar, how strong and determined Brock had been despite his wounds and everything he had lost.
A loud voice from the middle of the room breaks the tension. “You fool! Take the mark, or they’ll kill you!”
Brock fights back tears and the urge to sob uncontrollably.
A war is brewing over his soul in the depths of his head.
Be strong, Brock. A firm but soothing voice appeals to his mind. Jesus is counting on you.
You fool, Brock! All you have to do is take the mark! If you don’t. . .THEY WILL KILL YOU! The devilish taunt rings in his head followed by evil laughter.
Brock perspires from anxiety.
Save yourself, you fool. . .just take the mark! Besides, what has ‘your’ Jesus done for you anyway?
Brock! Be strong! Jesus loves you so much that he sacrificed himself for you so that after death you will have eternal life with him. Please, Brock! Don’t deny Jesus, or he will deny you in front of the heavenly Father. . . .
Where was your Jesus when you were a child, Brock, when your good-for-nothing father drank and drove your deranged mother to suicide? Then you were sent to live with that Bible-thumping lunatic aunt of yours! A sound of demonic snickering echoes in his ears. Where was he then when you needed him the most, and where is he now?
Brock could almost hear his father’s cruel voice slurring vile obscenities at him and his mother after a long night of drinking. Terrifying images of his helpless mother, black-and-blue marks on her swollen face from his brutal beating, flashes in his mind. He feels searing pain as he relives the moment she placed the barrel of a pistol to her head and blew her brains out while he and his baby sister, Sarah, looked on.
“We’re waiting, Mr. Summers.” The prosecutor taps his foot impatiently.
The battle in Brock’s mind rages on.
Don’t take the mark, Brock, or you will spend eternity in hell!
You fool! What are you waiting for? Everybody else is doing it, and they all seem to be fine.
Brock looks up at the faces in the crowd before him. He slowly bends over and lets out a long, agonized wail that fills the room. Becky cringes at the sound and fights the urge to cry with him. She can see he is in such mental distress.
“We all know your pain, Brock,” the prosecutor says. “I know the pain and confusion in your heart right now. Everyone in this room has felt the pain you feel.”
He walks over and gently places his right hand on the back of Brock’s shoulder. “Maitreyas is here, Brock. Maitreyas doesn’t ask for your devotion in return for a vague promise of comfort in the next life. We all have found comfort with Maitreyas right here, right now, in this life. And Maitreyas offers that same promise to you, Brock.” He strokes the back of Brock’s head like a father comforting his wayward boy. He catches the judge’s glare and quickly removes his hand from Brock’s head.
He continues. “Maitreyas has brought order to our world. He’s ending our wars and feeding our hungry. He is real, and he is here. The evil forces in our universe know it, Brock. That’s why they are trying to use you to poison all the good he has done. We cannot let them, or you, do that, Brock.”
He straightens his jacket and tie then speaks loudly and officiously. “That’s why you get only this one chance, Brock.” For the first time Becky notices anger in the prosecutor’s voice. “Accept Maitreyas as your lord and savior. Take his mark. Or be put to death.”
Becky leans forward, straining her ears. The room is quiet, and all eyes are on Brock. The silence stretches into what seems like long minutes.
“Mr. Summers, we’re waiting.” The judge snorts as if clearing his nose. “
For the record, what is your decision?”
Trembling, Brock squeezes his eyes shut. Becky sees him mouth the words, “Please forgive me, God.”
Then, speaking like a scolded child, he whimpers, “I will take the mark.”
Becky gasps. “What?” Her body feels as if it has just impacted in a head-on car collision.
“Oh, no!” Lorraine blurts out loud, shaking her head back and forth. “He jus’ sole his soul to the devil.”
The room erupts into applause. The prosecutor claps his hands together; a proud smile crosses his face as he shoots a conspicuous wink to his dark-haired assistant.
Shocked, Becky stares blankly at Brock.
“Order!” the judge yells, banging his gavel. “Order now!”
The room falls silent.
“Brock. . .does this mean you will renounce your faith and accept Lord Maitreyas as your lord and Christ?” The judge’s unruly grey eyebrows are visible over the edge of his glasses.
“I will,” he replies somberly, not taking his eyes from the floor.
Another burst of applause fills the room. There is a stabbing pain underneath Becky’s ribs. It feels like someone has reached a bare hand into her chest and is pulling out her heart. She closes her eyes and tries to block the sounds of cheering. She can’t understand how Brock can do this. He seemed so strong in his faith when they met in the boxcar. She remembers how they talked for hours and how smart he was quoting Bibles verses. How could Brock renounce Jesus just like that?
“Praise Lord Maitreyas!” says one person in a jovial voice.
“Welcome, Brother Brock!” shouts another.
“Order!” The judge bangs the black gavel hard on the table. It is apparent his patience is running thin. The crowd sits quiet and straight like school children reprimanded by a stern headmaster.
The judge hands Brock’s file to the bailiff. “Take Mr. Summers outside to the statue so he may bow down and worship the image of Christ Lord Maitreyas. Then release his shackles and set up an appointment with his probation officer for the implantation of his World Union approved microchip. I want to see Mr. Summers back here in my court in ninety days!”
Scars Page 14
