by Jeff Altabef
“I’m sorry for all the security, Mr. Cabbott, but terrorists have been very active lately. We lost an entire checkpoint last week when it was overrun by ghetto scum. We can’t be too careful.”
“I understand.” They’re stuck in a rotten place. The last gatekeepers between the wealthy few and the unwashed masses.
“You can enter,” he says.
It’s odd, but I feel like I’m entering a prison instead of a rich section of the city. It shouldn’t be that way, but things have gotten turned inside out. What did the cabbie say? “Things won’t last like this for long.”
He’s right.
Something will give, and the streets will run red, but whose blood will be spilled?
Megan shuffles out of the mess hall with the rest of the Angels from her cabin. The food has restored a small measure of her energy. The testimonials during dinner were all about the Devil and how God challenged them to turn their backs on the Dark One. The dark theme seemed clear. It wasn’t a coincidence. The message must be connected to the burning that Petal had mentioned in the apple orchard.
Petal keeps close to her side as they move outside. She switched cups with Megan and drank her punch during dinner, so Megan’s mind is mostly clear, and she feels more like her usual self.
When the Angels break away from the group to follow Frankie to their cabin, Buck stands in their way. They stop as the two talk. Frankie smiles and then Buck approaches Megan. His eyes search out hers. He wants to take her away. Petal must sense it because she grabs Megan’s hand.
Buck stops two paces from Megan. “Good news, Spring. Mother is waiting for you at the sanctuary.”
“It must be a mistake,” says Petal. “She’s only been here for a couple of days. No one talks to God so quickly.”
“Jealousy is a sin, Petal. Don’t tell me you’re jealous.” Buck steps toward Megan and Petal moves to block him.
“It must be a mistake, that’s all,” says Petal. “You should check on it.”
Buck arches his eyebrows, and he removes the electric prod from a pocket on his jumpsuit. “Is there a problem here, Petal?”
Megan nudges Petal out of the way with a small hip check. She doesn’t want to go to the sanctuary. She wants to escape with Petal, but she doesn’t want her friend to get hurt, and she’s afraid Buck will use that prod on both of them. He won’t have a choice. He can’t let an Angel challenge him so openly.
“No problem,” Megan says. “The other Angels all said I wouldn’t get to go to the sanctuary for a week at least, so this is a surprise.” Megan shoots Petal a cautionary look. She tries to tell her not to intercede with her eyes. That she doesn’t want her to get hurt. “I must be lucky.”
“Yes, you are,” says Buck. “Let’s go.” He grabs her elbow and pulls her off the path and toward the cathedral in the distance. Megan doesn’t turn around, but she feels Petal’s eyes burn her back.
“You and your friend need to be careful,” Buck says.
“Careful about what?” Megan plays it stupid. What could he know about their plans?
“I saw Petal switch cups with you at dinner. She’s messing with fire. You both are.”
Megan sneaks a sideways glance at Buck. He looks sincerely worried. He’s not using this information to hold over her or for some other hidden purpose. “Are you going to report us?”
Buck increases his pace toward the cathedral, now visible in the distance. “No, but I won’t cover for you if others notice. Frankie keeps a close eye on you.”
“Why don’t you report us?”
Buck stops. “I like your spunk. You’ve got courage. When you see Mother, don’t let her know you haven’t drunk the punch. You need to act as if you had.”
“Why are you here? You seem different. Not at all like Frankie.”
“When I finished my tour with the Army, I came back to a country that didn’t give a shit about me. All I can do is security, and this gig seemed better than most.”
Megan smirks. “So, you’re not a true believer?”
“I didn’t say that. Come on. Mother is waiting.” Buck takes crisp, long strides toward the Cathedral, making it clear their discussion is over.
Once inside, Buck walks Megan behind the altar and pauses at the door to the enclaves. “Remember what I told you.” He doesn’t wait for her to answer and steps through the automatic doors.
Megan moves inside and is greeted by Ivy, a smile on the older woman’s face. “Are you ready for the next step? Are you ready to talk to God?”
Megan swallows the lump that’s formed in her throat. She’s not sure what to say, but Buck nudges her foot. She has to say something, so she says simply, “Yes,” and tries to add a measure of breathless wonder into her voice for affect.
Ivy glances at Buck. “Thank you. I’ll take over from here.”
“Of course.” He shoots Megan a stern look before he turns and leaves.
“Are you nervous?” Ivy asks Megan.
Megan is nervous, completely scared out of her mind really, but she’d feel differently if she had drunk the punch. She lies and says what Ivy wants to hear. “I’m excited. I hope I’m worthy of this gift.”
That seems to satisfy Ivy because she smiles back at Megan and leads her down the hallway. At the end of the corridor, there’s a black door with “Sanctuary” in white letters at eye level.
Ivy opens the door and reveals a vast, open space with tall ceilings. It feels like a warehouse divided by five-foot tall screens that make private spaces. Megan catches a flash of yellow in the distance. An Angel who looks to be in her mid-twenties slips behind a screen.
“Welcome to the sanctuary. We have almost one hundred chapels here. We use the chapels to communicate directly with God.” Ivy points to a series of glass offices that ring the open space on the second floor like a balcony that oversees the entire operation. “My priestesses use those workstations to make sure everything functions smoothly.”
Ivy grabs Megan’s elbow and leads her inside one of the screened-in spaces. Inside is a steel tube slightly larger than a coffin. She says, “This is a chapel.”
She presses a button on the side of the tube, and the top opens on a hinge. “Inside is a gelatin-like substance. We call it God’s Tears. You’ll go inside, and it will help you talk to God. It blocks out all Earthly distractions so you can communicate with Him directly.”
Megan’s stomach twists. “We have to go in there? Why can’t we just pray or something like that?”
Ivy chuckles. “I can communicate with Him that way, but it’s taken me a lifetime of training and prayer to accomplish. This is a shortcut. He needs your help and can’t wait so long. Don’t worry. It’s safe and comfortable really. Take off your jumpsuit.”
“Why?”
“We don’t want anything between you and God. It interferes with His ability to communicate with you.”
Megan still hesitates with her hand on the zipper.
“Now isn’t the time to be shy,” Ivy says. “This is the only way for you to talk directly with Him.”
Megan glances at the offices that ring the warehouse space.
Ivy chuckles. “Don’t worry about the priestesses. They’re only doing their part.”
She can’t delay any longer, otherwise Ivy might suspect she didn’t drink any of the punch. She unzips her suit and steps out of it. The chilly air sends goosebumps across her naked body.
“Good.” Ivy unfolds a tablet from her pocket and slides her hand along the screen. The pendant around Megan’s neck vibrates.
Ivy’s breath brushes against Megan’s neck. She touches the clasp on the chain, it opens, and she removes the necklace.
Megan says, “I thought the chain couldn’t be removed.”
“Only when you talk directly to God in the chapel.” Ivy grabs a small mask from a hook on one of the screens.
“What’s that?”
Ivy points to the tube. “God’s Tears will totally surround you and support you. It automatically
adjusts to your body temperature, so you’ll be more comfortable than when you were a baby in the womb. Still, we need the mask to send you oxygen and keep your breathing clear. This mask will cover your eyes, nose, and mouth.”
Ivy slips the mask over Megan’s face and adjusts the straps so it’s secure. “It’s time now.”
A small plastic step stool with three steps leads upward into the steel tube. Megan fights hard against the impulse to run. She uses all her willpower to climb those stairs and slip into the chapel.
She sinks into the gelatin substance. She’s not sure what to expect, but a rather pleasant sensation washes over her and she shuts her eyes. The oxygen flows, and she breathes easily.
Ivy closes the cover on the tube and Megan opens her eyes.
She’s in a meadow filled with wildflowers. A warm breeze blows through her hair. The blue sky smiles at her and the golden sun caresses her face. Even without the punch, she doesn’t feel scared at all. She feels content and wonders what will happen next.
She forces two names into her head, Felicity Sanders and Megan Smith, but after a few seconds, they float away on a gentle breeze.
Ivy settles in a chair beside Lily. “Well doctor, how’s she doing?”
Lily points to a set of readings, “Her heart rate is a little fast, but look at her brain functions. It’s lighting up like a Christmas tree. She’s very advanced.”
Ivy smiles as she looks at the computer screen. It allows her to see and hear everything Megan does. It taps into her brain to project the images and the sounds. This program lets the subjects create their own environment. It makes the experience feel real, as if God is exactly who they expect Him to be all along. “I like the wildflowers. She’s a bit of an artist.”
“Yes, she is. Look.” Lily points to the scene as it develops around Megan. Animals appear, a stream, an orchard, butterflies. “She’s already building a complex environment. So soon. It’s remarkable. Which protocol shall we use?”
“I just want to introduce her to God. Nothing else yet. And maximize the pleasure and addictive portions of the brain.”
“That’s a lot for her to absorb on the first session,” says Lily. “It could damage her brain function.”
“Do as I say.”
The world develops more fully, and a presence walks into view. It’s Megan’s version of God, and the image surprises Ivy. Her idea of a holy presence is a young, dark-skinned woman. It reminds Ivy of one of her Angels but she can’t recall which one.
“Odd,” says Lily. “I’ve never seen one of the Angels imagine a god-like figure like that before. Most are old and male with long white hair.”
“Odd indeed,” says Ivy.
The pavement in District 3 shines like polished silver. No potholes or cracks diminish its luster and no trash swirls about. The buildings—modern glass structures, sparkle like gemstones. All the lampposts work, and the lights from restaurants and stores brighten the streets, transforming night into dusk. Shadows lurk in the nooks and crannies, but they’re nothing like the sinister ones in the ghetto. I wonder if the old-timer from the ghetto could move unseen in these parts? Probably not.
People walk the streets, but the neighborhood feels like a ghost town. Only a few residents stroll out and about and at least two bodyguards trail each one. A few paces in front of me, an aged woman, dressed in a fine purple overcoat and a pink hat, glides on a personal walker as she holds the leash of a small dog. Two bodyguards trail close behind her.
Her perfume, a heavy floral scent, follows her like a train on a long dress. She must have bathed in it the way old people sometimes do. Either they can’t smell as well as they used to, or they’ve grown so accustomed to the fragrance they drench themselves with an overwhelming amount so it registers. She strikes me as a person who likes to register.
A pristine park has an immaculate lawn, benches, and a fountain. It’s so different from Kissing Park, the two can’t reasonably be placed in the same category. An electric fence surrounds this park and a private guard blocks the gate to restrict access. Only dues-paying neighbors can enter, but it’s empty: no kids, no lovers, no old, married couples. No pigeons. No sense hanging out in the park where people don’t eat. They’d starve. All in all, I prefer my version of Kissing Park when we were young. Everyone and anyone could use it.
A few vehicles zip past me on the street. They’re all secure, black SUVs built to military specifications. Bulletproof glass. Reinforced panels. Run flat tires. It looks like District 3 is preparing for an invasion, but in reality, they’re living through a siege. They might not know it, but those walls they’re building, those armed checkpoints, are keeping them in as much as they’re keeping others out.
It’s been a few months since I’ve been in one of the posh districts, and this one strikes me as more desperate than those in New York City. But maybe that’s a function of time and space. Small, granular changes can become major sandstorms if ignored long enough. That’s how the country got in this mess. The divide between rich and poor inched wider until it caved the ground out from the middle class and created a yawning chasm. Inevitable political changes followed the economic ones, which only made the chasm wider.
Fancy restaurants and shops take up much of the street level. Most of the shops are closed. The restaurants are open but not crowded. It’s early, so diners might stroll in later, but I doubt it. These people don’t feel safe to go out any more. They have private chefs to cook for them. Most of the bodyguards gather by the doors in unorganized knots, vaping and leaning against buildings, wasting time. A few check me out as I walk past them, but they see a kindred soul in me. The smart ones know by my posture, by my stride, that I’m one of them.
I wonder which side they’ll take when a revolution starts. Will they defend their rich patrons, or will they side with their own? It’s a hard call. Most hate those they call boss. I can see them turning on their masters, but only if they think the other side can win.
A few Homeland SUVs, filled with heavily armed agents, roll past me. Neither Homeland nor the regular police bother to patrol the district on foot. They leave that work to the private police hired by the residents. Homeland is here to respond to “terrorists,” an ever-increasing category filled with those who can’t abide with the status quo any longer. The word has practically lost all meaning and is now used to describe anyone who disagrees with the Originalists.
Luckily, my walking tour of District 3 is a brief one. Otherworldly Experience is only a few blocks from the checkpoint. I turn right down a main drag and see life ahead of me. A gaggle of four young men strut down the street. Six bodyguards trail them and two lead the way. An inefficient formation. With that many guards, a few should flank them, but their protectors are going through the motions. Either they’re not worried about threats or they don’t care. I’m betting on the latter.
A half-dozen SUVs are parked in front of the virtual reality shop, which is brightly lit. It stands out in the otherwise sedate neighborhood. An old-fashioned, blue, neon sign reads “Otherworldly Experiences.”
I’ve got to be smart. I need a lead, an address. Megan’s a smart, tough young woman, but these Farm people are well organized and funded. They’ll know how to break a girl like Megan. They’d have lots of practice doing it, so she can’t hold out for long.
Otherworldly stretches for an entire city block. Two guards, armed with M18s, flank the entrance to the store. The four young men stroll past them without hesitation, and the guards don’t bother questioning them. They’ll treat me differently.
The bodyguards go inside a different door. One that’s not lit. That door, the one for bodyguards, is manned only by a single armed guard. A waiting area. An option for me.
I’m not sure which door to use when I spot another armed sentry, who guards a plain-looking door at the end of the street. I meander toward him. Above that entrance is The Farm’s symbol blazed in gold. A wooden sign below it reads, “Total Otherworldly Extreme, a Private Club.” Bingo.
The guard is in his early forties and heavyset. His body borders that murky area where fat and muscle merge. Back in the day, people called that hard fat. He’s wearing all black with body armor and a baseball cap with Otherworldly Security in white block lettering.
His sharp eyes assess me as I approach. His legs tense as he drops the assault rifle to chest height and speaks in a low grumble. He sounds how I imagine a grizzly bear would sound, if it could speak.
“I think you’re lost, friend. The main door is back that way.” He nudges the barrel of his gun toward the lit entrance. “This is for private clients only.”
I lift my hands out to my side to put him at ease. “I’m looking for the private club. My employer would like to join.”
“So would I, but it doesn’t work like that, friend. Only those with appointments get in, and the main office vets them carefully. He’ll have to contact them and set it up.”
I can take this guard out. It won’t be easy. He’s a mountain and he holds the gun steady at my chest with an easy confidence, which means he’s used it, or one like it, before. I’d need a quick diversion to move his eyes off me and then I’d chop him in the throat. I’d have to get my weight behind it to crush his larynx. I couldn’t take any chances that he’d be able to shake it off.
Reaching for the Smith and Wesson would take too much time but disabling him won’t get me what I want. Even after I incapacitate him, I’d still have a problem getting in the club. The steel door behind him is undoubtedly locked from the inside and no one’s likely to just let me wander inside while the big man is on the ground. A video camera will record the entire incident. Armed guards will flood the area in less than a minute.
Brute force isn’t going to work, so I smile and try a different angle. “I just do what my boss tells me. He wants me to check out the place first. If I don’t, he’ll fire me. He’s that type.”
The big guy shrugs. “I know that type, but there’s not much I can do for you, friend. Tell him it’s great. They don’t have a problem attracting the richest this town has to offer. I’ve never heard any complaints.”
