by Michael Okon
Wyatt pushed forward, but the large, warm hand on his shoulder slowed him down. He saw Carter’s gentle gray eyes look pointedly at the sofa, his eyebrows raised in silent question. Wyatt ungraciously threw himself onto the sagging pillows, releasing a cloud of ever-present dust.
They sat in silence, Carter relaxing back in his spot, the television droning in the background. Carter watched his stepson struggle to calm himself. It was evident he was livid, filled with fury. He saw Wyatt squeeze the piece of paper in his hand into a tight ball, crushing it. Wyatt’s foot jiggled with impatience. He had tried hard to find common ground, but, other than basketball and the new theme park, Carter had few interests to connect with the kids.
He tried to take him shooting in the desert, but Wyatt called it a mindless activity, and that was the end of that. Wyatt had a problem with the loudness of the guns. Carter would watch his stepson flinch with each shot fired.
The noise never bothered Sean, the more rascally of the two. He knew that while Sean loved the loud report of the guns, Wyatt seemed afraid of the noise. They lived in careful respect; he was aware that Wyatt was heartily disappointed that he was not going away to college in the fall. They were cramped in the old house, but it was the best they could do under the circumstances.
Frank left them no estate, even though Gracie was sure he had buckets of money. The lawyer said it was gone, eaten up by their costly divorce, and the balance given to charity. No way to treat a family, in Carter’s opinion. Hell, he gave up his bike to help get Wyatt his first car. It was a jalopy, but it had four wheels and a gas tank.
Carter eyed him from his spot, deftly changing the subject to baseball. They discussed last night’s Sidewinders game; Wyatt lost his sullenness. The kid had a great batting arm, Carter thought proudly. He wished he’d do something with it, other than the occasional sandlot game.
He pointed the remote to the old hospital-issued television bolted to the corner of the room. They had bought it at an auction when County General closed last year. They were forced to travel thirty miles for medical help until Vincent Konrad gifted the small community with a huge medical center for allowing the building of his new theme park. The new hospital was opening now, bigger and better than the one the city shut down due to budget cuts. It was creating a lot of jobs, and the theme park would be bringing in a boatload of tourists, which, in turn, infused necessary cash into the starving town.
The goddamned water had been turned off six months ago. If not for Saint Vincent buying them the rights to the San Simi pipeline, they would have pretty much had to abandon their homes.
Copper Valley was out of money, as were most small towns and even some of the larger cities in America. The police force, fire department, and paramedics were on the verge of being shut down, city hall right behind them. The vagrant population, jobless people who traveled from town to town looking for work, had tripled, bringing crime to the bucolic streets of the sleepy enclave.
Vincent’s business plan provided both housing and employment, enabling the homeless to get off the village streets. While there had been no outbreak of the virus in California, the entire country’s economy suffered as the world dealt with the pandemic that had broken out two years ago.
The virus started in East Asia, but quick thinking from the World Health Organization isolated it with containment camps. They’d had plenty of practice with the Ebola outbreaks of the last decade.
Carter shivered, thinking of those poor souls who caught the disease. There had been a few cases in the States, mostly doctors and aid workers who brought it home after going to help the victims. It spread, but the government was quick to create two big settlements to keep the infected away from the population, much like the leper colonies from ancient times. It killed the economy though. People were afraid to travel or accept goods from overseas.
Even with all that, Carter couldn’t believe what was happening to his home. The city council practically prostrated themselves with gratitude when Vincent picked the sleepy town as the spot for his park. The government even green-lit the macabre idea.
It was creepy, using victims of the plague as a tourist attraction, and it reminded him of that ghoulish exhibit called Bodies where they embalmed dead people’s remains in plastic so people could see how humans worked.
Carter’s lips tightened. Saint Vincent seemed too good to be true. He swooped in and bargained for a fresh water supply, built the fancy medical center, repaved the gutted roads, breathing life back into the dying community. Everybody loved him, except for Carter White. He watched Wyatt’s anger drain to be replaced by an interest in the show. Wyatt thought Vincent walked on water.
“Ah …,” Carter said looking back at the television set. “Your hero.” He turned the sound up. Vincent Konrad was being interviewed on the news.
Wyatt expertly tossed the crumpled paper into a metal trash can decorated with the vintage video game characters from his youth. It was a recent reject from his room. He didn’t want it up there anymore. He had thrown out most of the junk he’d taken with him from Los Angeles—kid’s stuff, action figures, his werewolf head pendant. He had other interests now.
Carter nodded with appreciation. “Nothing but net.”
Wyatt shrugged, his face downcast. “Why don’t you like Vincent Konrad? At least he’s trying to do something to help get this country out of its depression.”
Carter studied Vincent’s face on the set without answering. The doctor could be anywhere from fifty to eighty. His dun-colored hair was combed straight back from his high, white forehead. He had deep-set dark eyes, a long, thin nose, and a slash of a mouth. His narrow face looked right at the camera without any trace of warmth or humor.
Carter considered his stepson’s serious face and said, “The answer is not camouflaging the problems and making a game out of it.”
“It’s a solution. I don’t see anything else working.”
That was true. Carter frowned. Washington was deadlocked on whether these new species had rights and should be treated equally to other citizens. Either way, the world had changed drastically and wasn’t prepared to handle the new developments.
There was trouble everywhere. The world economy was being held together with duct tape. The only thing world leaders seemed to agree on was Dr. Vincent Konrad. Vincent Konrad appeared out of nowhere with a plan, and all the governments grabbed his idea with eager hands.
Carter turned back to the television. He wasn’t in the mood to argue with Wyatt about it anymore. Wyatt was smart, had gone to the best schools in Los Angeles when his parents were together. If not for the divorce, he’d probably be headed for an Ivy League school this fall.
Carter knew Wyatt had a hard time fitting in this dumpy, little town. It was a close-knit community that didn’t particularly welcome newcomers, but Gracie landed a teaching job here, and they had relocated. He admired Wyatt for never complaining. The kid had made the best of it, finding friends with a fringe group, the ones that were just a little off. He wished the boy wouldn’t back off so quickly but wasn’t quite sure how to teach him to stand up for himself.
Carter had never had kids, and becoming a father to two nearly grown boys wasn’t so easy for him either. It wasn’t like there was a handbook on this stuff, he thought, turning his attention back to the television.
The program was a weekly magazine show on a major network. Vincent Konrad was sitting opposite Joe Myers, the principal anchor of the national evening news and the host of the program. Joe Myers had a halo of white hair, with a chiseled, tan visage. His shoulders were as broad as his career. He was the captain of his ship, commanding the newsroom with the same courage and bravery as a warship. Integrity dripped from him.
“That was some offering on Wall Street today. You made history, opening at $526 per share, and closing with the bell up $83 from there.”
Dr. Vincent Konrad inclined his head. He was thin to the point of emaciation, his skin so pale, he appeared a sallow yellow.
Joe Myers continued. “You came to this country with two hundred dollars in your pocket.”
“Two hundred dollars, and a pocketful of dreams,” Vincent said with a slick smile. His voice reflected his Moldavian roots, the tiny country sandwiched in the Carpathian Mountains, where it was reported he was descended from royalty.
“Yet you transformed that into one of the largest fortunes in the world.”
“I am blessed,” Vincent said calmly with his Eastern European accent.
“Care to elaborate, Dr. Konrad?”
“Only in America can a poor, homeless boy find employment and work his way up the ladder of success.”
“A homeless boy with a Ph.D. in chemical engineering, as well as a medical degree.” Joe smiled, revealing a mouthful of white teeth.
“I had to retake my boards and start completely over when I got to America, from the ground up.”
Wyatt turned to watch his stepfather’s frown. “He’s the American dream.”
Carter made a face but didn’t reply. They turned back to the program.
“Come now, Dr. Konrad, you’ve personified the American dream,” the newscaster said.
Wyatt nodded in both agreement and satisfaction.
“I’ve merely taken the beautiful opportunities laid at my feet and worked them to my best advantage.” Vincent looked thoughtful, and then his ego took over. “Not many could do what I have done. I am relentless when I desire something. My natural gas facilities have afforded me the pursuit of my real dream, that of medical breakthroughs in the field of communicable diseases.”
“So, from communicable diseases, explain to me the leap to your theme park, which is more of an American nightmare than an American dream.”
Vincent smiled. “Just so.” He crossed his long, skinny legs, resting his thin wrist on the knob of his bony knee. “The park was a solution to the problem that came from the deep steppes of Asia. As you know, the cataclysmic explosion in central Asia released a toxic gas that began the pandemic.”
Myers faced the camera. “We still can’t explain the catastrophe that sent a shock wave that scorched the earth throughout Asia, flattening buildings and forests for hundreds of miles. The seismic wave was picked up all the way in Washington, D.C.”
Vincent smiled. “Some say it was extraterrestrials. A sonic boom, perhaps?”
Myers reflected, “It mimicked the explosion of June 1908, when something exploded high above the atmosphere over Siberia with the same strength as one thousand atomic bombs. It destroyed the tundra. Most scientists agree it was a fragment of a comet.”
Vincent shook his head. “However, no virus was recorded after that explosion, contrary to the one three years ago. Last year, the combined world governments asked all the key corporations to work on solutions to containing the … the problem.”
“You are, of course, referring to the victims who caught the virus. Everybody knows that the virus first appeared two years ago. It infected pockets of the population, spreading worldwide within four weeks, creating a pandemic that was brought under control through containment. They had isolated the victims in sectioned off campuses in the wilderness until you decided to enclose them in your theme parks. Why use plague victims?”
Vincent grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellowed teeth. “I prefer to call them zombies.”
“We don’t like to refer to them that way. The politically correct term is vitality-challenged.”
“You can call them anything you like,” Vincent said with a leer. “I like to call those flesh-eating catatonic creatures zombies.”
“That sounds a bit extreme.” Joe shook his head.
Vincent leaned forward, his face intense. Monsters were a subject he was passionate about—he spoke urgently, as if proving his point, and his voice rose. “The disease is responsible, not I. Once their minds are infected, they can no longer control the primal urge to eat. Their single-minded determination and lack of coherency make it impossible for them to be at large with the general population. They are a danger to themselves as well as everyone else. What would you have the government do? Kill them?”
“Of course not,” Myers said, placating him. “Keeping them isolated has kept the spread of the disease under control. Don’t you think it’s a risky exposure?”
“Nonsense. No one enters my zombie suburb without protective gear. My labs are working on a cure, dear man.” Vincent inclined his saturnine head graciously. “I intend to see the eradication of the virus within five years.”
“That is if it doesn’t spread. You’ll lose a great portion of your theme park, Dr. Konrad.”
“I think we have enough to keep people entertained. With my discovery of werewolves in the Everglades—”
“That was a big story,” Joe said. “Broken by KNAB news, our own Hector Milpas first reported that story two years ago.”
“I was searching for Bigfoot. I do enjoy oddities.” He laughed. “I produced a documentary, and, while we were shooting, the film crew happened upon a huge colony of werewolves. It seems they had been there forever.”
“An amazing discovery. It earned you the Darwin Discovery Prize.”
“Exactly!” Vincent clapped his hands, sitting up straight. “What an honor.”
“And the vampires?”
“Everybody knows the vamps have been around us for years,” Vincent sniffed. “It was natural to enclose them in a theme park to keep them safe. They are virtually extinct.”
“Why not let them just die out? I mean, how many are there left?” Joe raised a white eyebrow in disbelief.
“Eighty-six or so, that we know of, and they are all living in my theme parks. We can’t let them disappear.”
“Sounds like you have a mission.”
Vincent nodded gravely. “We have a duty to keep them safe.”
“Why?” Joe asked.
“To study, of course. So we understand what makes them crave blood.”
Joe sighed. “I think, Doctor, that you invite risk by perpetuating their unholy lifestyle.”
“Your government has enlisted my help.”
“I thought you had been naturalized a U.S. citizen.”
“I am a citizen of the world. I intend to grab the problems deviling our times …,” he made a fist, his face a snarl, “and squeeze them into submission. With answers, of course,” he added.
“So simple, yet so profound.”
“I know!” Vincent agreed.
“It does feel a bit like exploitation.” Joe was troubled.
Vincent held up his hand, using his fingers to make a point. “Number one, the creatures are contained. Number two, I’ve created a use for their skills; they were languishing in those prisons.”
“Containment camps,” Joe insisted.
“They were prisons, and these people—”
“People?” Joe said shocked.
“So then, Joe,” Vincent said, “define people. What makes a human, human?”
Joe sat back in silence, studying his notes, dumbfounded.
“These people are being punished for being different. It’s morally wrong to kill them. They are victims, not villains. They do what they are driven to do to survive, nothing more. There is no diabolical plan. They exist, we exist—we must learn to live together. We need to unite the world and come up with simple answers that will deal with these social issues in the same way. What we do in this country must be uniform with every other nation on earth. We need conformity to keep the world safe. In my parks, they are taken care of, and, more importantly, they are safe and happy.”
“Safe?”
“Yes, safe from us. We are just as much a plague to them as they are to us.”
Joe Myers leaned closer, his face set. “But is it safe for us?”
Vincent sat back, his face beaming. “Of course. I have everything under control, regulated.”
“Nothing is foolproof.”
“Let me assure you, Joe,” Vincent laughed condescendingly. “I have put together
an excellent team not only to run my parks but to control the inhabitants. Monsterland will be a gateway to the future for many different world issues, leading the way to solutions.”
“Those are mighty big aspirations,” Joe muttered.
The room went silent, Vincent’s eyes blazed with an inner fire, his lips thinned, and he replied softly, “I think I am up to the task.”
“Seven parks on six continents, all opening on the same day. Those are some big shoes.”
“We cannot be selfish here. China, Australia, Brazil, France, South Africa, and Egypt have agreed to host the parks. The plague is a world problem, and we are determined to band together to overcome its insidious encroachment. While werewolves are indigenous to North America, the last of the vampires can be found in all countries. The problems they bring affect us all globally. Monsterland will save the planet, and Copper Valley is ground zero in the States for the parks. How we handle the different species will determine how the world moves forward in the coming decades.”
“All right, then.” Joe sighed. “If you could sum up your parks in one statement, what would you say?”
The camera centered on Vincent’s face. He took a deep breath, looked straight into the lens, and stated, “Monsterland is dedicated to the nightmares that have created this world. They have kept us frozen in fear and unable to move forward as a society. Only when we are no longer afraid do we truly begin to live.”
“I can’t take it anymore,” Carter said in disgust as he turned off the TV. “That guy’s a parasite.”
“What are you talking about?” Wyatt demanded. “The nation had just about shut down. He single-handedly revitalized the country. Monsterland will reignite the economy. It will save the world.”
“Yeah, he’s a real humanitarian,” Carter said.
“What do you have against Monsterland?” Wyatt asked.
Carter didn’t answer him; he ruffled Wyatt’s head affectionately. Wyatt pulled away.
“Never mind that. Let’s talk about something really important. What happened with Sean?”
Wyatt struggled for a moment and then began. “Yeah, Sean. He’s the monster.”
