I shivered.Whoa. Just got really cold.I checked my watch. Eleven fifty. Lunch was in ten minutes.
→
Brian entered five minutes before lunch. We didn't talk much. No, we didn't talk at all. Just ate. Usually I would ask a question, but I didn't have anything to ask right now. I wanted to test. I wanted to catch Brian. I wanted to get out.
Brian lifted his napkin and wiped his mouth clean. Stood up.
I stood immediately.
He tilted his head. Crossed his arms and smiled. "Well then, okay."
He ran.
And I followed.
Now if I lose him, the rooms won't confuse me.
He ducked left and right. Trying to shake me.
I realized something. Brian was fast. Not just when we sprinted at the beginning, either. He had endurance. We ran for a long time. And he didn't just gut it in one direction. He still kept changing paths. Forward. Left. Right. Right again. Forward. He had the quickness to get me off his path. But I had the determination to stay on it.
Several minutes of constant running, changing directions, and more running, were starting to make things seem futile. If I ever lost him, would I be able to use my new knowledge to find him? It'd still be just as difficult.
There was something I realized. But I realized it a little too late.
I still hadn't done anything about the referee.
As Brian slammed through to the next door, my neck hit something, and my feet came out from under me. I landed on the upper part of my back. Bit my tongue hard on accident.
The referee had clotheslined me.
I tried to breathe in but I had hit the floor so hard that my breath was knocked out of me.
For the few seconds that I struggled to breathe, the referee walked slowly toward me.
I sputtered and tried to crab walk away from it.
It put its foot on my chest. "Forgot about me?" it said happily. "And after our long conversation? I'm offended."
Even in its invisibility, it was as though I could see its grin.
"Now," it grumbled, "it's time for the devil to dream again."
Dream again. That was the last thing I wanted. I didn't want anymore. I knew who I was, I didn't want to see what I'd do. "No," I breathed.
I felt it. Whatever it was. The referee always used it to put me to sleep.
I grabbed its leg. "Stop," I called out.
"Few things give me joy, Jack. But this. . ."
My vision blurred. The ceiling rotated.
I have to dream again? I have to see more?It'd be like watching a movie with my eyelids taped open. A movie about me. And the ninety-nine percent that I killed. I lost control. Beat on the ref's leg. Screamed. It was whenever I wanted it least that I fell asleep the slowest. "I don't want it!" I screamed in its direction. "Youdream! You dream and I'll walk around these rooms you beast!"
The room started to come back into focus.
The referee mumbled. As if it were actually considering it. It was mocking me. "Sorry, Jack, I'll have to pass up on that offer. But I'll let you have your dreams. They areyours, after all."
Everything spun again. Faster than before.
"You sound tired. So I'll make sure you get a nice, long rest this time. Plenty of time to dream."
"No!" It was happening. I was going to dream again. I was going to see more. More of what condemned me to hell. More of what earned me my name. I was the devil to them. I cried. In anger. In frustration. In helplessness. "I don't want them!" I shouted at the referee.
In a second everything would stop spinning. I wouldn't be able to shout anymore. I would look though the eyes of the world's own Satan.
"I don't want them!"
The room started fading.
"I don't want them. . ."
→
"I don't want them," I handed the president the files.
"What, why?" He took them back, surprised.
"We already have plenty of perspective survivors. People like Raze. Smart people. Fast people. Strong people. People willing to make the tough choice."
"And these aren't?"
"They are," I buttoned my suit jacket, "but they aren't smarter, faster, or stronger than the ones we already have. And they might not have the guts to pull the trigger."
He looked down at the files. "Okay," back up at me, "You're sure that number's enough?"
"Yes," I nodded with confidence.
"Fine," he sat down in a chair. We were in a small meeting room. Alone. "So what's going to happen to everyone else?"
"Okay, this is the plan," I put my hands in front of me. "Everyone takes the test. And you already know of the list we've rendered up. The list of people who we'll pay close attention to. People with highly desirable traits. Skills. Strength. Intelligence. And most important, efficiency."
He nodded, hand on his chin, "Yes."
I pointed to the files in the president's hand. "And no, the list does not need to be expanded. Now, after the test, we will have a certain number of people who passed." I pointed to a number on the screen behind me. "It can't exceed that number."
He narrowed his eyes and examined the number on the board.
"If it does, we'll have to make some. . . cuts."
He scratched his chin.
"Anyone who was in our list of potential survivors will automatically waive this process. Those not on the list will be categorized from most favorable to least favorable, based on characteristics we've already talked about. The most important being will."
"If they could pull the trigger or not."
"Exactly."
"And that is the most important part of this."
I lifted my eyes. "Of course."
He nodded.
"You agreed with me when I said it. The biggest poison to humanity as a race. . ."
The president folded his hands.
"Morality," I said with conviction. "It sees efficiency and pragmatism as evil." I shook my head. "Our race will die. It will die if it does not put its arbitrary laws aside and look to the needs of man as a whole and not as an individual."
We both looked back at the number.
"Two weeks," the president said.
"Two weeks," I echoed. "Two weeks and the world will be cleansed."
→
I threw multiple blows at her.
But she was fast.
Raze dodged every single kick, punch, and jab I sent her way. Ducking, sidestepping, or jumping, she evaded them no matter what.
I had never seen myself fight in my dreams, much less in a way this advanced. Was I being taught again? Was Raze teaching me?
Suddenly I whipped out a gun at her. I noticed there was no magazine.
She grabbed my wrist and twisted, releasing the gun.
We stood in an awkward position for a few moments.
"Raze."
"Yeah?"
"You're hurting my arm."
"Oh yeah," she released my wrist.
I withdrew and massaged it.
"Not bad; you're doing well," she said.
"Thank you. And thank you for choosing to participate in the test."
She shrugged, "Apparently I have no choice, but based on what you had me read, I'm interested."
"Ten days," I pointed at her.
"Ten days. . . Now," Raze signaled for me to follow her, "for the part you wanted to learn."
We left the large room, travelled through a hallway, and ended up in a different large room. One with a long table. And long halls with targets at the end of them. It was a gun range. Was this all mine? Was this part of the facilities for test subjects?
"Gun time," Raze picked up two pistols. Tossed one to me.
I caught it with both hands. Sleek. Black. Cold. I examined its shape. It was familiar. The same model as my gun in the test.
"A lot of people are going to want you dead, Mr. Colson."
I laughed, "I know; I'm the one who asked you for this."
She loaded her pistol. Kept her eyes dow
n.
"I know that I can't rely on these walls to protect me."
"It will be when you least expect it," Raze shifted her eyes at me.
I crossed my arms.
"Trust me, you're not the only smart man in the world."
"Do you know something?"
"I haven't heard of any plans, but I know someone will try."
I nodded. "Okay, and that's why I want you to do this."
She nodded back. "Good. You just need to know what could be coming your way."
I narrowed my eyes and smiled. "I do. Don't worry."
She gave me a doubtful look. Set her eyes back on the gun. "Okay, first. . ."
→
Looking at a mirror. A row of doors behind me. I was in a restroom. A nice one. I could tell I was still in OTB.
My shirt was off. I touched my chest. The president entered. "Just like your father's," he said, and started washing his hands.
A birthmark. An arrow. Pointing to the right. In the mirror, to the left. It wasn't perfect, of course. But it resembled an arrow so closely, just like my father's did, that it was slightly odd. We had such a similar mark.
It was in the middle of my chest. Directly over my sternum.
I examined it. "Yeah, it is."
"The news is not being very well-received."
I leaned forward with both hands on the counter. "I know," I said, head down. "People hate bondage. And yesterday I just told the entire world that they have no choice but to comply. They're not going to necessarily like that."
He dried his hands with a paper towel. "Riots have already started."
I picked up my shirt from the counter. "And they were silenced. We knew this sort of thing would happen."
He threw the towel into a trash bin. "Maybe we shouldn't have told them two days before collection began."
"If they want to die, they can go ahead. If they want to protest, they can refer to option one." I looked at the president. "We have complete control. And for them, that test will be their only chance of survival." I put my shirt back on. "They won't all go in at once. We don't have enough test chambers for all of them. In two days, collection will start with America. We'll go North to South. As we move down, we can use unpopulated areas as spots for new test chambers. And then we will build new communities. For those who have passed."
The president stared at me through the mirror. He had a slight look of doubt in his eyes.
I turned my head to him. "I've had some crazy ideas."
He laughed, "That is definitely an understatement. Your ideas are-"
"-and they've all worked thus far, have they not?"
He tilted his head. "Yes, yes they have."
Still leaning on the counter, I looked into my own eyes through the mirror. Brown. "Then these will, too. We have the resources. It will work. You need to still be in on this."
He stood motionless.
I looked down. "Are you in on this?" I said in a loud voice.
He shifted back and forth. "Yes. Yes, sir."
I left the restroom and entered my office. Sat down and opened up a laptop. What I worked on while I sat in that room, I don't know. It's hard to tell in a dream. Numbers and letters aren't perceived clearly. No matter how much dreaming I did, it was still a dream. Cloudy. Almost an out-of-body experience.
I checked my watch. Noon. I continued working.
Not much time had seemed to pass, but when I looked back at my watch, it was three thirty.
"Mr. Colson," a voice said from the speaker phone, "a Brian Colson is at the security gate."
I closed the laptop. "Brian Colson," I repeated. "Yeah, send him in. Brian is my father."
twelve
More time than I realized must've passed. The clock showed 4:00. My dad and I had been talking for thirty minutes. And it wasn't a comfortable conversation.
My dad leaned forward. "You didn't tell meanyof this."
I shook my head. "I told you before anyone else. How could you not have known?"
"No, you showed me the raw structure of the test. And then," he reached in his coat and pulled out a newspaper.
I looked at the paper. Read the large bold letters.Jack Colson and OTB: the Second Holocaust?
"I thought we had dealt with the media," I said under my breath.
"You told me nothing about this!" he pushed his finger down on the headline. "Why on earth could this help in bettering mankind?"
I clenched my fists. Bit my lip.
"Well, Jack?" he said firmly.
I looked down.
"Jack!" he yelled, leaning forward.
I put my hands on the edge of the desk. Looked forward. I saw the birthmark on my father's wrist. "You still have it. . ."
His eyebrows sank. He looked at the mark. "Yeah. I. . . I was going to get it removed, but. . . I like it."
I squeezed the desk. "Yeah. I do, too."
He rubbed it with his thumb.
We both took a deep breath.
"You want my answer?" I said.
He raised his eyebrows. "Yes, Jack. I do."
"This test. It will rid of those who hold us back. And it will reward those who can make difficult decisions. Decisions that will preserve their own lives, which in turn preserve mankind."
He took his hand off his wrist.
"Our race has forgotten the purpose of natural selection. We literally waste millions of dollars on sustaining the people with problems, and what for?" I put my hand up. "They still die like the rest of us."
My dad squinted. He couldn't believe it. I was his son, eloquently speaking in order to justify murder. I could see disappointment. Guilt. He fell back in his chair, shaking his head, eyes distraught. "No. . ."
"We are letting the clear-minded individuals survive, in order that our race can sustain without the threat of morality."
He put his hand on his head. "Morality? The point is morality?" He lifted his head. "Why would all this be to get rid of-"
"-'You can't let personal feelings get in the way of your goals,'" I shot at him.
His face fell.
"Wouldn't that be the same in regards to this? For the survival of man?"
"Morals don't murder," my dad squinted.
I crossed my arms. Shook my head.
We sat in silence for several long moments.
He gripped the desk. Leaned in. "This isn't about morality to you, in the end."
I raised my eyebrows.
We both had goosebumps.
"It's about revenge," he tilted his head.
I shook mine.
"College. Work. . . Did anything. . ."
"What are you talking about-"
"You never did tell me, Jack." He rubbed his forehead. "Things happened in college, didn't they?"
I looked down. Held my breath.
He exhaled. "I should have done something about it." His voice began to shake. "I. . . I'm-"
"Don't apologize for what has only led to success," I cut in.
My dad leaned forward. "So is that what's happening? Now you want to get back at everyone who ever looked down on you?"
"No," I said firmly.
"Are you sure? You've never wanted to put someone in his place? At school? At work?"
I stood up.
My father sat completely still. But his eyes followed me.
I took off my jacket. Placed it on the chair. "You know that I've always loved learning."
He inhaled slowly. We were both so still. As if the dream had paused. But I knew it hadn't, because our tension made us shake. I perceived that I was shaking out of zeal. My father, shaking from sorrow. Sorrow for the son he'd raised. Sorrow that his own child had grown up to become this. That all the knowledge he'd gained in life was for nothing but the death of millions of people.
"I've always loved learning," I said again. "And one of the most important things science has taught me, is the survival of the fittest."
My father slid his jaw to the side. It seemed he was biting his tongue
. I could tell that he wanted to say a million things to me, but he was giving me the chance to explain. I knew he wanted to convince me against all this. I knew he still loved me. But he wouldn't let that keep him from standing against me. From trying to stop me.
"And the fittest, I've found," I unbuttoned my shirt sleeves. Rolled the sleeves up, "is not necessarily the strongest."
My father shook his head.
"I was never stronger." I looked down at myself, arms angled outward.
He shifted his lower jaw back and forth. Grinding his teeth.
"I was never bigger."
My father didn't look the same that day. There was no doubt, he had a face of disappointment. But more than that. He wasn't just sad. It was thekind of disappointment that I saw. The kind that one would get if he'd built a skyscraper, only to see it torn down immediately afterward. Amazing work put to ruin. My father saw that in me. And I don't blame him.
"But, even though I wasn't stronger, I always came out on top."
"Jack, what does this-"
"-I came out on top, because I had a stronger will. Not necessarily a stronger body. But a stronger will. I had the will to survive, and succeed, doing whatever it took. For me to do whatever it took, I had to put aside the conceptions of right and wrong. Didn't I?"
His chest moved in and out. His large breaths were the only sound he made.
"This test is clear in its purpose, whether you think so or not."
"But is the purpose right?"
I snapped my fingers. "There you go again! Is it right? I'm facilitating the goal of man to be united. Survival of the fittest. No restraints or prohibitive conscience. No society-engineered fluff. True man, true results. The best that mankind can be. Where everyone sees his own life as most important, the best live, and then better generations will come from them. So, is it right? Scientifically speaking, it's the most right thing in the world."
He pushed himself and his chair back. Stood up quickly. "Science?" he said firmly.
I took a step back. "Yes."
He pointed to his chest. "Science was my job ten times longer than it's been yours." His finger came down on the table surface. "And never once. . . did it justify. . .killinganother man!"
The wordmanechoed through the large office.
Jack in the Box Page 11
